written by T.J. Phoenix
No,
I'm not leaving, just trying, for him. To break the cycle. But he won't
let me get to the door. An instant
later, like clockwork, the apartment door bursts open. It doesn't matter what variation I tried this
time. Lights dim, different room. It's
always the same. They find us, him. Again River falls silent to the floor his
blond hair moving around his face, slowly, swirling upward. I've seen him die so many times before. I know what comes next. So I watch, captive
to his pain and the knowledge of what waits for me. I want to die too. The only fear left is the fear of
breaking. But I look for a change,
something that breaks the cycle. Some
way to get back to something approaching sanity.
"All
I have is the truth." I said moments earlier.
"God,
you sound pretentious." he said, gripping my wrists.
"Don't
you think I know how I sound," I was yelling. Anything, just anything to
throw him. "It doesn't change the way things are."
"You're
gonna drown, Sarah," he was reaching toward my face. The pain was breaking him. He must know, I thought. I should just tell him. But how do you tell your mate of eleven years
that we've had this same argument twelve times before, and that twelve times
before you've watched him die. Maybe I
should have spoken. The instant I was
back in our apartment. But the relief at seeing him, even for those few minutes
and the fear of what lies ahead, it cripples me. I just want to be with him. In his arms an instant longer.
"You
can't keep holding on," he said. "I see it in your eyes, in the
changes in your face. We have to get
out. If this is what it's done to you, we have to get out."
"And
be like them," I snapped, "one
of the oblivious mindless."
"
Are they really so different than you and I," he said. He was trying to
pull me close again.
"No,
not so different, not even less, really," I said. "My ego hasn't gone that far. It's just... I understand it. Yes, it's tearing me apart. The constant chest pains. The migraine that
never abaits. But it's no good believing
I can be any other way. There has to be a point-".
"Yes,"
he said sighing, "a hundred times
we've been through this before. There
has to be a point at which you do not turn back. Just move foreward. Foreward into whatever hell life propells
you. I don't have to like it. I don't have to accept your leaving."
My
thoughts were fogging over. I felt that familiar aching. Time had run out.
Spilling over into the uncontrollable.
"Where are we, River?" I
asked.
"Lost-". It was the last
thing he said.
I don't know for sure why it happens that
every time I die I get brought back. But
here I am, never enough time to free him, or explain what is really going on. Just really, only long enough to reach toward
him. I must go foreward. Into today, yeasterday, and look for
something to end this.
I
am blindfolded and drug from the apartment. The first time I fought. The
first time I struggled, I wanted to die. But then I didn't expect this.
Now I am silent, as so many times before. To them it is the first. Maybe someone some where has some sense that
there is a loop, revolving like a record needle in a single groove. If they do though, they're not confronting
me. Not on that anyway. Is time the
eternal torturer? I'm beginning to
wonder. The tears fall silently. I know what will come next. How do I fight them though? I told River the truth was all I had left.
But it isn't just the truth.
Soon
I will be in the room again. It is my only fear, and I must be strong. To die only, please, do not let me be broken.
If I break I know it is ended. It is the
only certainty I have. A woman with red
hair who has a scar running the length of her right check, her preferred method
is electric shock and exaustion. Once i
lasted three days before I died. The
other two are men. One black man, one
white man; but the same temprament in both.
They're
afraid of us. Afraid of what we want to
undo. Why? There is no sanity to what they defend. No reason beyond greed. Don't they see the end so fast upon us. That is if this moment ever breaks free and
passes.
I
will stand the questions. They want to
know the others. Locations. Names. Possible strike plans.
"When
did it begin?" the black man in the gray-blue suit asked me once. "Off the record." He crossed the room and turned off the
examination lights. I sat there, wet with sweat, tears and my own urine. This
man wanted to know when I began caring about my world. As if it had been some sudden manifestation
that could be explained away in a single instant. When did it begin. So I closed my eyes and tried to still the
shaking.
"You're
asking me about my activism, I suppose."
"Yes,
If you will call it that."
"I
was driving home with our children. We
lived in northern
"And
yet what?"
"It
never surfaced on television or in the papers. When I would share what I'd learned with people they'd all stare at me
disbelieving. Like it was some sort of
imagined shock. That I was just trying
to get their attention. I wish I had
been."
"The
program, what about what?"
"The
man talked about how
"And
you blamed humans."
"Why
do you ask these things?"
He
just sat there with his arms folded, smiling.
"You
tricked me, you don't want to know. It's probably all right in front of you in
my files."
"Truth,
dear girl, is a matter of perspective. To you, you see death, all I see is a changing planet. One that will evolve and continue without
some creatures. But will continue
none-the-less."
I
dropped my head and tried to steady my mind. The migraine pounded through my temples. No rest. No place to hide.
"Tell
me one thing Sarah. Tell me one thing I
don't already know and you can go home. Just one thing, but it has to be important."
I
just shook my head.
"We've
made too much of a difference. I'm not
important. Your time is ending. We both know that. You'll call me a terrorist, because I bombed
your factories, destroyed you roads, but I don't care. We may not go foreward from here but we're
not going back. There is no way."
"They're going to be
caught."
"They don't even matter
now. It isn't back page. None of it. People are waking up."...
The
van stops. We are there. What this time, my mind wonders. What variation of the pattern will we play
out. They pull me backwards from the car and then it
happens. The change, a single
change. The cloth slips from my
eyes. I'm standing on a rainy street
corner. My hands cuffed behind me. The moon shines down through prismed rain. The street, the corner. A piece
to take back. Twenty-seventh and
Irving. Please let me remember. There is a way back. just let me get back one more time. Let me free him from death.
They
curse and shuffle violently to replace the cloth.
"I knew you once," I tell
the tall bearded man with black hair. But it was before the beard, wasn't
it."
"It doesn't matter,"
another one says softly. "She's not leaving."
I struggle to break their hold.
"Please
shoot me," I cry, half-strangled.
I wake in the room. Not enough, I sigh, I'm here again. But I
remember, I remember who I am, and I pray it's enough. My eyes slowly adjust to my surroundings.
"Where
are the others," I ask the black man in the gray-blue suit. "The redhead with the scar and the man
in brown."
"There
are no others today, only me."
"Do
you know."
"Know
what?"
"Our
past. The one that begins now. The one that has yet to happen but happens again
and again."
"What
are you talking about."
"Long
ago you said if I told you anything new, anything of importance, you'd let me
go. So I'm telling you."
"What
does any of this change. I keep waking up in today. There is never a tomorrow
and always your face. Your pale, lined, tired face. I know what I am. I know who I represent. I'm not mad."
"No,
and niether am I. But it's you who
tortures and kills. All you have to do is stop. Stop and we're ended."
"I
can't stop it. Don't you think I've thought of that. Just cancel one order. Because you're right, you don't matter. But
when this day ends, when I go to sleep I wake with you on your way here. Every time. I've even killed myself once but it doesn't change anything. Right back
here."
"Resolution?"
"Now
who's the torturer?"
"Wrong.
Because you would have gone foreward, if you broke me. If I told you what you
really needed to know, this would have ended. But you won't stop, not
now."
"Yes,
Sarah, I will. But answer me something. Are the people you protect worth the cycle. Because I must admit to some
admiration. I have commited all atrosity I could imagine and you never
broke."
"I
broke before I came here. Each time your
hoods shot my love. Each time I watched him fall. Never able to save him. Never able to warn him. You asked one time what started this for me,
and I told you. Well it was his love
that moved me to continue. His
strength."
He
uncuffs my hands. Standing at the door he orders his men off. I can not stand.
The gunshot would in my leg still bleeds slowly. My head is light, as thoughts
turn in blurs of sound and memory.
"Anything
else?"
"Your
gun."
"Will
I see you again."
"No.
This ends things."
"Tell
me why, not that I have any right to know."
"Because
you take, all of you, your fears of change and you wield them as a weapon of
almost unbreakable force. You will cut and sear the hand that would have been
extended in hope and friendship-- out of that fear. I could not become like you. Even if it meant my own death. If enough
bodies block the way, maybe you'll start using your vision. Maybe..."
This
is the first time I face this, at my own hands. If it goes the way I hope I must move fast. Two minutes, no more.
Thank
you, God. I'm in the apartment. He's arguing, in mid-sentence. I walk away.
Toward the kitchen. Searching. Something, some way, but what?
"Talk
to me Sarah?" He says, standing in the entryway to our small kitchen.
I
turn to face him. The diningroom lights shine behind him, illuminating the
darkened kitchen.
"I'm
tired of the death," I say. "I need you. I need you alive."
"I'm
right here."
I
leap at him, grabbing, clawing, just trying to hold on.
"Be
alive with me," I scream. "Please, River!"
We
back against the table, kissing passionately. Falling into one another.
"This
moment is enough," I reach behind him. Pushing my weight against him,
against the table. The vase, my present to him seven years ago. It shatters
across his head as he falls to the floor.
Moments
later the door flies open. I take the bullets this time. Falling across
him. I will die. Not in this instant,
but soon. My blood flows across him,
sheltering his unconscious body. This is
my last goodbye. No returns.
"Close
that door and call it in," the bearded man yells. "We've got a
code."
Two
minutes, maybe. I don't know. Everything is fading. The doors. Steven, Ellen and several of the others.
Here. Protect him as I leave. Please.
I
wake, briefly. Ellen is by my side.
"We
were late," she says, tears streaming down her face.
I
strain to see where River is, moving on the couch with Steven at his side.
"No,"
I answer.
There is no more, I am close to death. It is enough.