Going Home

The light that fell upon her face was only of pale luminescence, diminished in intensity by the ceaseless procession of rain, but sufficiently focused to reveal the melancholy that ought not to have been found upon the face of one so young. Even the rosy hue that normally resided upon her soft cheeks was oppressed by this brooding sentiment, diverting attention instead toward a profound anxiety visible through the windows of her soul. Here the former resolution had faded, the virtues of its intent loosing clarity amidst the insurgent doubt.

“This is the place,” Michael said as he pulled the old Chevrolet to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He focussed his gaze upon the house that would reveal the answers his friend sought and was pleasantly surprised to find a well maintained home. An open perimeter invited passage along a stone pathway to an arched wooden door. The beautifully designed double-storey home elicited respect for its owners, however, his eyes had not been conditioned through years of hard experience to see beyond the obvious. He imagined that if it had been his life journey that had led him here seeking fulfilment that apprehension might have painted the walls a darker shade of grey, presented the path as a deeply creviced and hazardous one of indeterminate length, and weighted the door unnaturally with the promise of a devastating truth. As he turned to the woman whose feet the path were destined to tread, he realised that the imagined perspective would have been so distorted that disproving it a reality would be a task not easily met.

Although he had listened attentively to her story, affording it the levels of compassion and concerned understanding that it deserved, he knew that he could not truly empathise with her. At times an irrepressible guilt shadowed their earnest conversations, forcing him to confront the fortunate and easy life with which he had been blessed. The great discrepancies of the world seemed to be highlighted then: between justice and injustice, insouciance and struggle, frivolity and earnestness, happiness and sorrow, light and dark. Rationally he argued that the extreme on which he spent most of his time spoke nothing of his character, yet his more assertive emotional voice wondered of the interconnected impact that his leisurely existence might have had. For the moment he fought such unfounded sentiments, and deeming it unwise to comfort her through speech, reached across and held her hand in his.

Touch is the simplest but so often the most effective way of expressing support, the humanity of the gesture capable of reaching any deeply imbedded fear and subduing it. As time passed and a measure of resolve could once more be measured on her thoughts, the young lady lifted her face from the gloomy depths of the car and chose to embrace the kindly aura that emanated from her friend. A smile, reflective of her timid nature, showed a deep appreciation for a friendship that extended well beyond its necessary duties.

“I couldn’t imagine doing this with anybody else.” Her words warmed him by affirming the unique bonds that they shared. He was one of the few people who knew of the emptiness that had tormented her life and which had brought her to this spot to find the one possible means to remove it.

“Just say when, Jesse,” Michael said, supporting his words by squeezing the hand that still lay clasped in his own. Her eyes drifted past his and found the dreaded location. Through the intimacy of their contact he could feel the tremor that ran through her body. The shock wave had its epicentre in the bleakest of future possibility, the foresight of which was made possible through the warning actions of the past.

If tragedy had ever been known to stalk its victims, it had taken extensive delight in making Jesse’s formative years as desolate as the human will could endure. Born to a mother with no understanding of child rearing, having lost her father even before she could lay eyes on him, and with no family who possessed any form of moral conscience, life became synonymous with struggle. Her mother had managed to lay down the essentials by clinging to transient boyfriends, a dependency paid for in human dignity. The Jesse he knew would have been lost had these injustices persisted, but at the threshold of her endurance the world intervened to change her life forever.

At the age of eleven, Jesse had been forcibly extricated from that abusive environment, departing to the sound of a furore that would haunt her forever. Those rushed and panicked glimpses of her mother, driven by mania, were the last that she would ever see of her alive. Four years later, after having been passed through various foster homes, her estranged mother overdosed on heroin and died.

For a while afterwards life treated Jesse kindly, giving her a family that genuinely cared for her, but she was aware that tragedy was always looking for an opportunity to get reacquainted. A confrontation with the past, contained within the meagre items bequeathed to her by her mother and arriving sometime after her death, strengthened these negative sentiments. In particular, a single letter had piqued her curiosity while simultaneously filling her with a dreaded foreboding. The aged message appealed to her fears that she might ignore it, but spoke more boldly to a deep yearning desire. This will thrust her forward along a path that had its end at a door, now only several steps away. There, in those unknown confines, waited the father she never knew she had.

Michael wanted to believe that the tremor passing through her had merely been a response to the adverse weather conditions, which power had started to penetrate the idle car. A brief nod on Jesse’s part confirmed a progression toward the end. They left the vehicle, and huddling together beneath the shelter of a fortuitously cheery umbrella, began the final walk toward revelation.

He could only be impressed by her determination, evident in her solid footing and unwavering pace despite the elements that opposed her - and the more powerful portentous thoughts that would have weighed upon each command governing her step. Even with history against her, she was still able to hope that a twenty year old void might be filled.

As they came to stand before the wooden door, both travellers heard its whispered warnings of the desolation that lay beyond. Given time, imagination would have had them in cautious retreat, so Jesse boldly reached out and announced their arrival. The jingling of keys sounded the last call for withdrawal before the handle declined and the concealer of secrets withdrew from before them.

A young girl’s face emerged to regard them uncertainly. “Can I help you?” she softly enquired, fortifying her stance behind the door.

Michael waited, allowing Jesse the opportunity to explain their peculiar arrival. He suspected that it was the sight of the teenager instead of the old man that had shattered her composure. Acting quickly, Michael took the initiative. “Hello, is Mr Kirsten in? We would like to speak to him rather urgently.”

“What do you want to see him about?”

The question confirmed that they did indeed have the right house. One way or another, the night would yield all of its secrets. “Please tell him it concerns a woman by the name of Amanda Swart.”

She regarded them sceptically, but nevertheless turned to face the mysterious depths of her home. “Dad, there’s some people to see you. Do you know Amanda Swart?” she hollered.

The implications met them both with its full weight. Compelled by a need for stable comportment, the revelation teased a modest look of astonishment from Jesse’s face. The thought of having a sibling was a completely new one and would have fought fiercely for a place in an already crowded head. Before they could look upon the girl again in this new light, she had disappeared.

Heavier footsteps once more focussed their attentions. It was noticeable that they proceeded at pace, drawn inexorably by the power of a name not mentioned in two decades. When they fell silent, a man in his early fifties stood wearily before them. Below the greying hair, blue eyes that held the same depth and soulful character as Jesse’s looked out upon them.

“Can I help you?” the unrevealing words were the same as those previously offered by his daughter.

This time, Jesse found strength well up inside of her. “We are sorry to disturb you, Mr Kirsten. But we thought we might be able to talk to you about Amanda Swart?”

The earnest depiction of his face evinced the words of the letter she had been left. “How do you know Amanda?”

Michael had hoped that their dramatic declaration would come only after they had entered the house and perhaps shared a warming drink together. Presented before an invitation had been given afforded cowardice the opportunity to rear its ugly head. Closing the door would be all too tempting.

“I’m her daughter.” The words should have elicited some form of emotion, yet they proved powerless upon him. Fearing complete rejection, she explained the reason for her visit in a way that could leave no doubt. “I believe that you are my father.” She removed her mother’s letter from her bag and handed it to the bemused man.

Emotions surged across the face that Jesse had only just come to know, but which would have been so familiar to her: a spark of anger that was given no time to flame because of a dousing sorrow; the gravity of regret and shame that pulled downward upon his features; and the calm of hope, of being given the chance to make amends for a vast absence.

“I didn’t know,” he uttered, looking down at the paper that he held in his shaking hands. He had not been told about her, had never been given the chance to be to her what a father was supposed to be.

When he found courage to look at Jesse, it was through a film of water that had flowed from a newly formed emotional rift. Nevertheless, he projected intent that fell peaceably upon her, and which promised to satisfy the hope she cherished.

As they stepped out of the cold night into the warmth of the house, Michael knew that his friend was finally home.

The Circle

It is said that in the moment before death an entire lifetime can flash before the eyes, a bittersweet sentiment that I had always thought held truth only for the soul suffering the tragic end. Maybe it was because I felt her to be my strength and my very motivation for life that I came to be so affected, forced to confront memories from times long since passed but which had sculpted my life and led me to this destined point.

Except each past image seemed to point towards a different ending, a happier one in a distant and fulfilled future. I felt this to be true, so much so that I could perceive the wrongness in the very marrow of my bones. Her hand fell limp in my own, signalling a silent passing that in no way cried out against the injustices committed. For a long time I just sat there, unwilling to believe the evident reality and admit that in an instant governed by universal chaos my life had irrevocably changed. It was only the nudging of nursing staff that revived a sense of consciousness in my being and which forced my reckoning with a surging flood of emotions.

A sudden compulsion to retch, to expunge myself of all the misgivings of the past few hours, sent me rushing from the room. I struggled through a sea of hospital staff before I entered the outside corridor and nearly crashed into the gurney.

The burnt body being transported instantly brought to mind the tragic details of the afternoon’s event. The cause of the explosion at the laboratory was unknown, but given the nature of the research being conducted, many believed it to be an unfortunate accident. This unidentifiable man had been the only other casualty. An aura emanated from the charred remains of his flesh that impacted against my thoughts and gave rise to an irrational horror. Even as I backed away from the terrible sight, I felt the dead man somehow speak to me, and I, in turn, gave a muted response with a cry of torment that lodged in my throat.

I had to find solitude, an isolation in which I could piece together thoughts that desperately needed assembling. Hours passed before opportunity was given for this yearning desire to be fulfilled. Seeking refuge, I opened the door of my house and stepped inside.

For the briefest of moments I felt certain that all I had just endured and the present perception of my eyes were merely machinations of my strained subconscious, a nightmare beyond the scope of anything I had previously experienced. The idea, however, was simply a hope born out of an inconsolable despair.

I stepped over the fallen magazines and toppled items that lay strewn across the floor with a weightlessness upon my feet that lent support to my faded hope. Again, my marrow quaked within me. Instinctively I knew that the battered condition of my home was not a consequence of the prevalent acts of housebreaking, but that somehow it was linked to my wife’s untimely demise.

Sarah had always been the consummate professional, conducting her research with the utmost respect for safety protocols. Without the idea of an accident in which to seek shelter, an even harder truth had to be faced. It was highly probable that Sarah had been murdered.

My epiphany was validated by a sudden rushing of feet. From the periphery of my vision I perceived a hurried movement that was quickly followed by a sharp pain to the side of my head. An arc of searing white brilliance filled my vision before fading out completely.

The golden rays of the morning sun filtered in through the foyer window and laid a warm greeting upon the side of my face. I had been unconscious the whole night, surprisingly untouched since the assault. As I raised my body up in a manner not too dissimilar from a drunkard after a hard session at the bar, I re-inspected the damage done to my property.

I knew well that Sarah had been conducting forms of highly sensitive research for the government. Given her expertise as a quantum physicist, I felt confident that her work involved experimentation with the subatomic. For two years Sarah had done a very good job of hiding the truth from me, a remarkable feat considering my reputation as an investigative journalist. Yet I had noticed that in the past two months, when a nearing of success should have provided cause for enthusiasm, that a mild trepidation had come upon her. In this anxious state she let her guard down, and provided confirmation of my suspicions.

Guided by this rejuvenated perspective, I hastened my approach toward the master bedroom. The hollow leg of the bed stood untouched amongst all the mayhem that surrounded it, and had guarded well the small silver key contained within its depths. As I lifted the object in my hand I could almost feel it thrum with the prospect of resolution.

During my drive to the bank I rehearsed many lines of how I would gain access to the vault and the specific safe therein, only to discover on my arrival that the safe had been purchased in my name. I got the impression that the sinister plot was far greater than I had initially anticipated and that I was merely a pawn doing exactly as was required of me.

Eighteen hours after Sarah’s death I found myself sitting alone in a small room, a titanium safe resting on a table directly in front of me. I held the key with no immediate inclination to open the safe, being uncharacteristically hesitant to confront the frightening secrets inside. The possibility that Sarah’s death had been but a prelude and that the object within my reach was the authentic Pandora’s box cautioned my actions.

I had only to think of Sarah and believe that she had preordained my present situation to know that I needed to open this safe. Thus encouraged, I allowed the key to slip into its purposed slot and perform its made function. With sweaty palms, I lifted the cover.

The sight which greeted me left me temporarily devoid of all thought. I saw a pool of glistening liquid metal that was tossed about by imperceptible winds so that waves ran along its entire surface. It was vaguely transparent so that I could perceive shape and depth that was impossibly contained within the limited confines of the metal structure. Fear of the unknown would have compelled my shutting the lid had not an impossible sound travelled to my ears.

“I thought you would never come.” Her voice touched the nape of my neck so that all my hairs stood on end. An upbringing in the church which I thought I had long since abandoned reasserted its presence with thoughts of the divine afterlife. I could not help but wonder whether this was a window to that alternate plane of existence, a means by which I could reunite with my departed wife. Further words shook me from this dumbfounded state. “Lock the door, Sam. You were probably followed.”

The short time that I had spent together with Sarah had taught me to value her wisdom. I was certainly not going to ignore it now, especially if spoken from the lips of an angel. I bolted up from my position and proceeded to the door. A single latch secured it in place but would not hold against any sustained attack.

As I returned my attention to the strange phenomenon, I noticed that the silvery liquid had expanded beyond its initial restrictions. Like a thin sheet of fabric it stretched out to form a disk, the density of it thinning so that I could more clearly see the shapes of objects beyond its domain. Unbelievably, I saw the silhouetted outline of Sarah’s shape. Her gesticulations urged me forward, tempting me to put faith in this magical display and take the plunge. Yet I needed no such encouragement, for I would gladly have braved any danger to once more be by her side.

I stepped up onto the table and edged my way to the periphery of the mysterious surface. Even as I did so, I could hear the dull crash of a body against the door. I had stupidly led my assailants straight to what they sought, and had in the process expended any further use for my being alive. With little choice in the matter, I allowed my foot to pass through the fabric. A coldness pierced through the material of my shoe and fell upon my flesh as the liquid enveloped it like water. Satisfied, at least, that I was not going to be ripped to pieces by this restless sheet, I shifted my weight and passed through the unknown.

I came to be standing on a glass-like plate in the centre of a circular room. Sarah waited in front of me, sensing my incredulity and responding with a warm smile that beamed from her face. “Are you an angel?” I stupidly asked.

A familiar laugh escaped her lips, as she chose to answer by stepping forward and taking my hand in hers. “I’m sorry I had to do it like this. Time travel was the only way I could get you in without arousing suspicion.”

My eyes drifted once more to the electronic devices which presented various forms of esoteric data, and again to the untouched beauty of my wife. Miraculously, I found myself at a point in time before the explosion. My heart raced with sudden possibility. I could still save her! I could still get her out!

“We must go now,” I said, tightening my grip on her hand and trying to lead her away. “This place is going to blow.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be long gone by then.” I saw in her eyes a kind of whimsical demeanour, an intent that was focussed solely on attaining some blissful purpose. “You should see the future, Sam. It’s beyond anything I ever could have imagined.”

“Come with me, Sarah.” I tried once more, desperate not to let this second chance slip through my fingers. “I will not relive the anguish of once more holding your dead body in my arms.”

With these words the colour rapidly drained away from her face. A whisper, barely audible, escaped her lips. “No, that can’t be. How could they know?”

“Know what, Sarah?”

Without answering, she moved to the booth and set her attention upon one of the control panels. As she punched in a sequence of commands, the glass plates on which I had arrived began to split apart. “We must leave now. If they have discovered that I erased all the research-”

The electricity failed, casting the room into semi-darkness. Only the shifting liquid that had been exposed beneath the floor provided a dim source of light. By this pale glow I saw the defeated lines upon Sarah’s face, and knew unequivocally that all her hope was lost.

“There is no escaping fate,” she sighed, collapsing onto the floor. “You must leave now, Sam. You’re innocent of all of this.”

“We should both leave,” I pleaded, still not understanding her wanton sacrifice. “There is hope yet.”

She shook her head, finally burying her face in her hands. I had to pry them apart to once more stare into her glistening eyes. “I thought we might escape the blast. They cannot be allowed to use this technology. I had no idea of their evil intent…”

Her voice trailed off, but I understood all that I needed to. There had been only two deaths in the explosion. Somehow, in this strange circle along which I had travelled, I had come exactly to the point at which I was supposed to be. Acceptant of this, I sat down beside my wife and folded my arms around her, waiting patiently for the appointed time when the explosion would set things right.