One (9 page)

What we leave behind

The overcast from earlier had disappeared. I wondered if the clouds had left me as well. With nothing inside the church but troublesome memories it was time to select another destination. I wanted to check on the fire that was burning toward Christine’s home. I turned back onto North Avenue before heading west toward Wells Street. Just before leaving, I turned back and looked toward my apartment.

My thoughts returned to my standing on the ledge of the balcony unable to jump from it. I wondered if I was unable to find any answers or reason for this world would I have the courage to return and release myself from it. If my imprisonment in this empty box was to teach me that a world of one was not a world to behold then I had learned my lesson, but I knew it was not that simple. Exploration of my memories was not just my mind struggling against insanity, but a clue to this awful mystery.

Unendingly pointless my eyes scanned each window I passed hoping that there was something I missed. I stopped at the intersection of North Avenue and Wells Street, the fire had spread quicker than I realized. Watching my neighborhood burn to the ground was just a prelude to what would eventually fall upon a world devoid of life.

An image appeared in my mind, it was from Ashley’s room. The letter jacket her boyfriend gave her. Lincoln Park High School, she chose that school because of him. My father was set to send her to the same school I went to but it was my mother who convinced him to change his mind. Reasons for her attendance there were not important, during orientation the staff gave a history of the school including the knowledge that a bomb shelter was built in its basement.

Secondary to a church a school specifically one built to house people in an emergency would be an obvious choice to find shelter. I headed west toward Halsted Street when I realized there was a hole in my investigations theory. If only the city was evacuated then it would be reasonable to assume that an attack or some form of devastation was imminent. If that were the case then why would people remain behind even within a bomb shelter? Of course there are well documented cased of people refusing to leave their homes during a natural disaster, but would that apply to an entire city?

Recalculations would need to wait. I reached Halsted Street and found there was another accident. However, this one was different from the one on Clark Street. I left my bike behind and headed toward the intersection. A public transportation bus had crashed into a police cruiser. There were several vehicles that had crashed into one another or onto the sidewalk. These accidents were consistent with my theory that the vehicles were allowed to roll uncontrolled and unmanned. The accident between the bus and the cruiser was different.

I approached the cruiser, it looked to have been traveling west bound on North Avenue. The impact was to the driver’s side door. Either the cruiser had the right of way and the bus blew through the light or the cruiser, perhaps responding to an emergency, drove through the intersection and was struck by the bus.

Almost wrapped around a lamppost the shattered glass of the cruiser crackled beneath my feet. The bus sat almost in the center of the intersection, there was no one inside. My attention was fully on the driver’s side door and window. I stepped before the cruiser. I confirmed what I thought I had seen from the intersection, something I had not found at any of the other accidents: it was blood.

Undeniably, this accident occurred before the event. I leaned into the broken driver’s side window when a sharp pain on my forehead staggered me. I fell backwards onto my backside, my hands slammed atop the shard covered asphalt. The pain on my forehead faded replaced with the pain from my hand.

Nothing serious, it was just a few minor cuts. It was a shadow cast from the lamppost onto the driver’s seat; that and the force the officer inside would have struck the glass with. Clearly if he did not die on impact, then he would have died shortly after if not taken to a hospital. Fragments of skin were on the few remaining shards in the window.

He had lost a lot of blood. Still wet, it flowed down the driver’s side door forming a small puddle on the ground. I returned to my feet, I instinctively looked around for any sign of a rescue vehicle. I pondered if it was possible that he was rescued moments before the event or another possibility was that he was somehow able to exit the vehicle and make his way to help. The only problem was the lack of a blood trail or a trail of any kind.

The police radio, I carefully reaching into the car and grabbed hold of the receiver, which sat on top of the center console next to the computer. The engine was off, but the keys were still in the ignition, a single blinking square icon on the squad car’s computer confirmed that power was still being provided.

“
Hello? Is anyone out there? My name is Timothy Hayden. I am at the corner of Halsted Street and North Avenue. There’s been an accident. There may be an officer hurt.”

What I was saying was pointless. With each passing minute I came closer to believing that everyone had disappeared in the blink of an eye. Acting as if this was a normal situation, calling for help like they would actually respond was foolish and yet I continued.

“
Please… anyone, if anyone is out there… I’m…”

In a dream one often finds themselves in a situation where there is something important to be said. Like running to escape your nightmare and the process is hampered by your sub consciousness or your fears or both. Running in quicksand, it is not just an analogy for the inability to escape, but the mind’s failure to allow you to properly communicate.

Often at the most critical time to speak within a dream you cannot form the words. On the tip of your tongue like a child standing at the edge of a diving board for the first time, you are frozen and cannot continue. Standing there holding the receiver in my hand listening to my own words I could not continue. There was nothing to say, I released the receiver and watched it as it fell from my hand slamming against the door.

I stared into the car, my ears did not listen for a response, I knew there would be none. The shadow cast into the car retreated, a shimmer from below caught my eye. I couldn’t reach the floor of the driver’s side without breaking the last of the glass from the window. With the glass removed I was able to reach down and grab the object. I recognized what it was immediately.

I pulled it from atop the floor mat, I held the officers M911 service pistol in the palm of my hand. It brought with it two feelings. The first was a sense of safety. My uncle taught me to shoot a handgun when I turned eighteen. Neither my father nor mother protested because of his military service and record. He taught me to respect a weapon and that it was the person holding it who was the most dangerous. He died in his sleep the next year and I had not touched a weapon since.

Plausible theories aside the fact was that I did not know who could be out here. Protecting myself had to become a priority no matter how alone I felt. There were not facts available to tell me that there wasn’t someone or something out there that could cause me harm, this lead into the second feeling.

This world could be dying with me inside it. Unlike the balcony, this weapon could provide me with release if the time was ever to come. While the will to live was still strong it wasn’t just about creating my own ending if I could not discover one. If I was ultimately alone then there was the possibility I could become trapped or injured to where I would not be able to go any further. The ability to explore and continue is one of the few things remaining. If that were to be taken from me then I would have no choice but to bring everything to an end.

I confirmed the gun was loaded and the safety was on so I returned to my bike. I headed north on Halsted Street and soon I arrived at Armitage Avenue. I turned west and could see Lincoln Park High School in the distance.

The large walkway leading to the school was always crowded with students whenever I would come to pick up Ashley or go to some event at her school. The three story building with its four massive stone columns and red and white sandstone gave it a look more akin to an Ivy League university building. Square patches of green grass protected by black iron fences scarcely littered with small trees led to a large open park that stretched out for several blocks.

I walked toward the front door; there was no sign that anyone had made their way to the school. Unlike most area’s I had witnessed there were no items were left behind on the ground. The closer I got to the school the less I thought about the present. A twisting in my stomach reminded me of the last time I walked there. I came to a dead stop, a gust of cold air blew through me and I felt a need to turn around me. Just in front of the walkway parked on the street I saw it.

Mercedes E320, white, my father always wanted one. The day we went to the dealership his face glowed like mine did when he bought me my motorcycle. I believed that was why he agreed to get it for me. He knew it was a dream I had and having fulfilled one of his, he wanted to fulfill one of mine.

I just stood there staring at the car looking inside its windows. A half smile, which began to grow on my face upon seeing the car faded. What I was seeing was not real and worse it was a time I did not want to remember.

Disconnection

“
Tim, you forget something in the car?” My father asked.

Hearing my father’s voice did not bring me joy. I was no longer in that empty world of the present, but the hollow world of the past, the one I wanted to leave behind. He stood there just in front of the school entrance. Looking at him I knew he could see in my eyes that I did not want to be there.

“
No, I…I’m done with high school. I just rather not be here.”

He was not going to let that stand, not anymore. Seeing him walk toward me I just wanted to run back toward the car, but even if I had done that I would not have escaped.

“
I doubt that is what’s bothering you. What’s wrong Tim?”

Unlike many people who feign interest in people’s problems my father wanted to know what was on the minds of his children good or bad. The Lincoln Park senior class would be graduating three days later, but up until then most of the seniors would still be attending classes.

“
Jonathan transferred here. I don’t want to run into him.”

“
After your fight…?”

Just because a parent cares, enough to ask you about your life, your friends and your troubles does not mean a child will openly talk about them. My father unlike my mother was very good at getting us to talk out our feelings without asking many questions and without appearing to be prying.

“
Our fight…”

I felt the frustration well up inside me. Turning around I wanted to return to the car more than ever and yet I wanted my father to understand that what happened between Jonathan and me was not my fault and was something that could have been easily remedied, only if…

“
It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t even care; it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t make him leave.”

“
Then tell me, what was it that made him leave?”

The reasons people disconnect from each other often seems incredibly stupid when explained to an outside party. Why would two family members who love each other stop talking for years over a baking recipe? I would laugh at something like that with Jonathan blaming it on their inability to use their reason. There is always a solution and it can be found if you think it through, especially if done together and yet knowing all that I allowed it to happen.

“
There’s nothing to tell. It’s…stupid.”

A lie on two counts, there was something to tell and I wanted to tell it and it was not stupid, it was an all too common problem that separates those who will from those who will not.

“
Stupid or not, why don’t you tell me anyway?”

Looking back toward him there was no doubt he knew me. Most parents never really know their children, but with my father it was different. He knew what to say to get me to talk and he knew that I needed this, to explain out loud not just to him, but to myself.

“
He knew high school would be different. I told him how things would be, that we couldn’t be kids anymore, not if we wanted to make something of ourselves, but he just couldn’t understand that.”

“
What was he doing?”

That was the question, what. Our school was just like Lincoln Park or any other high school. It had its social groups, its clubs and associations, but it also had direct lines of contact to the leaders of the next generation. From the children of billionaires to foreign dignitaries to legacies, it was not just about fitting in it was about getting ahead and laying your foundation for the future. All Jonathan had to do was follow my lead.

“
He was holding me back. I told him that I hated to play the game, but it has to be played to get ahead. Dad you know that better than anyone else I know. You fought working for Mr. Davalos for so many years and had to put up with all kinds of crap, but you did it so you could reach your goals, reach the top. All I wanted was the same thing, to keep moving forward, to advance. I learned how to play their game. I learned how to adapt, he didn’t. I don’t know what he thought he was doing.”

My father looked at me as if he had done something wrong. It felt like forever until he finally said something.