R³ Page 2

  “You know what you have to do,” she says into my ear.

  I nod, not knowing what she’s talking about. Suddenly my entire body contracts, jerking my jaw open as a violent gasp scrapes out of my dry throat.

  Sweat pours profusely from every pore as my eyes are forced wide open, and all I see is her; Nina, glowing on top of me as everything around us slowly disappears into pure, bright white. Nina.

  Nina.

  Nina.

  Nina.

  We travel. Somewhere.

  We lie on a meadow amidst the tall grass. I feel like I’ve been there before although I have no recollection of my surroundings. The warmth feels good on my skin, sun-kissed with a golden tint. It brings out pleasant memories – memories of what? I’m not sure. I get lost in Nina’s eyes once again. The gentle breeze plays with her fiery hair.

  “I’ve met you before.”

  She smiles. “You saved me.”

  From what? I really can’t remember.

  Then the world pushes me away, as if I were falling down a deep, deep well. Nina’s face grows smaller and smaller, becoming but a dim light at the end of the tunnel. It all happens so fast, before I know it I’m pushing out of the well, back into the world, except our bodies have switched. Inside Nina’s body, through her kaleidoscopic eyes, I am staring at my gaunt self. Short, buzzed hair just because it’s low-maintenance. Old faded shirt. There is nothing unsettling about staring at my own face, except the familiarity of it seems to be alien. I know it is me laying across from myself, yet my eyes seem distant and estranged.

  “I’ve met you before,” my other self says to me.

  As quick as it started, I sink back into the well and back out, and find myself staring into Nina’s color-shifting eyes. Tears stream down her cheeks and I tell her: “We are all born to ***.”

  What did I say?

  Laughter.

  I’m giggling and spinning endlessly. Am I flying? I hear my mother’s laughter. She holds my arms as we both spin and spin and spin, flying thanks to the grip of her hands. One slip and I could go tumbling down the hill and crack my neck. Her short, red, curly hair bounces as we fly. It’s a dream-like moment. I think it’s a memory but is it really real? I can’t be a day over five.

  The sun flares behind her, causing me to close my eyes momentarily. Her laughter changes. It’s not as deep. It’s more melodic. The fiery red hair tousles wildly around Nina’s face as she keeps on spinning with me. Both flying endlessly. Nina and I.

  “My sweet, sweet John…”

  Such joy.

  Had I ever known such joy?

  The pink liquid pours out of the blue bottle onto a spoon—R³. My mother moves it around playfully, mimicking a plane; all the while I sit on my high, baby chair. Her elongated eye shadow resembles that of an Egyptian queen.

  “Open wide! Open up, sweet bug. It’s time to dream!”

  I do.

  My mother, Rose Hammond, has just turned 60. She spins joyously on the spot in the middle of an intersection. Her eyes closed, as a huge smile adorns her face. The wind pesters her old, frazzled, red hair and colorful mumu, as her spinning cycle goes on and on.

  Somewhere else. A different dream.

  The beautiful, elongated, metallic object cuts through the colorful, space-like, geometric environment. Lights pulse.

  Lights pulse.

  Lights pulse.

  Chapter 2.5: I should’ve brought something to read.

  I SHOULD’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING TO READ

  The lack of windows and the fact that he’s been inside at least three different elevators, all going down for what seemed an eternity, makes the young man with rosy cheeks think he has to be close enough to the center of the Earth to feel it’s core warmth, or way past it, border lining the crust at the opposite end of the globe. Before him, the hallway stretches, long and narrow.

  He wishes he’d counted his every step, but it is too late to start now. Maybe on the way back, if that is even an option. At the moment, he can only stare at the back of the two men that lead the way. One is particularly clean-shaven, obsessively immaculate. Perhaps he’s just gotten a haircut, the young man thinks. The other is shorter and pudgier, and smells like Brussels sprouts—wiry black hair crawls all the way down his fat neck.

  The young man with the rosy cheeks checks his wristwatch, as he follows behind silently, no questions asked. It is early morning, yet it feels like past midnight.

  Never has he been so far down into the belly of the corporation. Most of the basic working-bee laboring is done upstairs—upstairs meaning ground level and above—where most of the labs and product testing facilities are; but not below the ground. Everyone knows below the ground means RESTRICTED and CLASSIFIED. Aside from it being general knowledge, there have been at least forty warning signs since starting his eternal descent.

  Company has been weeding off through every rank, but even with a shortened staff, there’s no reason why a simple lab technician would have enough pizzazz or clout to breathe that same processed and filtered air as the sworn-under-secrecy-scientists, without facing an immediate governmental death sentence. He certainly doesn’t know why he’s there, but death seems less of an option with every increasing step. Maybe I’m getting promoted? The young man with rosy cheeks thinks. Very improbable, he realizes right away. In the end, he is a nobody; just one more working ant in a very large ant farm. They walk past a faded calendar showcasing cats with hats. The date shows it to be about twenty years prior to the Year Of The Now. The man with rosy cheeks has no idea what the future will bring.

  After several left turns and right turns in this white maze, they finally arrive to a single, metallic looking door. The smelly, pudgy man retrieves a silvery card and swipes it across a sensor with his sausage fingers. The heavy door slides open with a high-pitched hiss.

  Their footsteps echo on the icy tiles as they fade into obscurity. It’s impossible to get an idea of the room’s dimensions, as the darkness seems to extend to infinity. Judging by their in sync echoing footsteps, it is certainly quite large. Temperature drops at least thirty degrees upon entry. Their breath hangs in mid air, undisturbed.

  At the center—or what can be assumed to be the center, about twenty feet away from the only door—rests a massive sphere, approximately fifteen feet in diameter. Elephantine tubes protrude from its base, like a mutant octopus, or a creature that has planted deep roots into the machinery. There is a singular door on its rough metallic surface. Whatever it is, it’s being very carefully contained, perhaps too carefully. A single symbol resembling a hieroglyph crowns the entrance: Pi, the mathematical constant.

  Converted into bitmap, somewhere in that infinite string of digits is a pixel-perfect representation of both the first thing you saw on this planet, and the last thing you’ll witness before your last exhale. All moments, cardinal and routine, will occur between those two points. All contained in the ratio of a circumference and a diameter. Even the young man knows that.

  What are they keeping inside? he thinks.

  He’s asked to sit on a chair and keep his eyes glued on a monitor.

  He’s given a stopwatch, a clipboard, and a walkie-talkie device.

  “Call us if anything changes,” says the fat one pointing at the LCD screen. “Lunch will be brought to you. Your shift will end in four hours. Only then can you use the restroom. You must not, under any circumstance, leave this room. Do I make myself clear?”

  The young man with rosy cheeks nods.

  Without anything else to add, both men in lab coats turn on their heels and click-clack their way out of the cavernous room, the white door hissing behind them. Suddenly alone, the young man feels the abrupt density of silence crush his soul into smithereens.

  Anxiety takes over. He looks around; the sphere looms in front of him.

  I should have brought something to read, he thinks. Curious, he leaves the safety of his chair, and peers into the round window on the sphere’s only door. Frost obstructs his v
ision. The interior is white – very white. In fact, the outside is mostly illuminated by the stream of whiteness that escapes through the small window, cutting through the devouring darkness like a blade.

  This is now his new home, at least for the next four hours. He drops back onto the chair, taking in the enormity of his uncharted surroundings. Whatever is in there, it’s not only hidden, but also secured miles deep into the earth. And now I’m sitting next to it, he thinks.

  I should’ve brought something to read.

  Chapter 3: How does one grasp such nonsensical reality?

  How does one grasp such nonsensical reality?

  A sledgehammer keeps banging into my skull repeatedly. Again and again. But it isn’t a sledgehammer. It’s my front door. I wrap both my hands around my head as I spring up, the bed sheets tangling around my leg. The pain only seems to intensify. The throbbing has a life of its own, as if a grand piano had just been dropped on my head. This is unlike any hangover I have ever felt. Not even close to the combination of all of them, all at once.

  My bed is empty. Nina isn’t there.

  I take a step forward but instantly gravitate back onto the mattress. The entire world seems to tilt around me, like a ship being tossed back and forth, caught in a storm deep at sea. The banging continues.

  I try again, one cautious step at a time, holding onto the wall, hoping it doesn’t slide off leaving me off balance. The living room is a mess. That’s normal. Chaos is normal. The banging on my door is normal.

  It rattles. I wonder if one day it will truly burst out of its hinges.

  Not today. I walk back into the bedroom closing the door behind me. I can’t deal with this today. Maybe another day, maybe not, but not today, of all days. Not with tectonic plates orchestrating earthquakes in my brain.

  Not-too-dey.

  As I sink back into my old cot excuse for a bed, the banging stops. Thank fucking god. The lids over my eyes sink shut slowly. Peace… When the faint sound of jingling keys cut through the momentary silence.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  My feet yank me off the cot instantly. I crawl across the wall, racing towards the front door as my apartment gets tossed back and forth by invisible waves. I’m not even ten feet away when the front door swings open.

  Oh no…

  I push myself against the wall, hoping it somehow absorbs me, encasing me with protection. But it doesn’t. Fuck you, wall.

  In come the dirty old military boots, the corduroy pants, the faded Hawaiian shirt, the bony elongated fingers securing the set of jingly keys back onto the worn out leather belt. His beady, psychopathic eyes, hiding behind his stringy hair, scan through the room.

  Isaac is unlike any other building manager. I’ve never particularly gotten along with any, but he is far beyond the “getting-along” point. The way he looks at me with those possum-like eyes, always hunting, sniffing, waiting for the day he slits my throat and eats my flesh raw, licking down the bones. This may be that day. His eyes lock on my pitiful self.

  “You fucking shit!” His crippling figure towers over me, as my body holds onto the wall for dear life, afraid to fall off. “Want to get evicted? Is that what you want?”

  “I have your money, Isaac.”

  “Shit you do. Where?”

  “Just—stop yelling. Calm down.”

  “Wassa-matter-wit-chu?” He’s missing his front bottom teeth, which makes hissing rather unavoidable. “Are you drunk?”

  “Just—hold on. I have to go get it…”

  “Get it? From where? No more bullshit, Hammond! I’m tired of bullshit. Of shit. Of all your shit. I’ll have your ass on the street by morning.”

  “Just—” I slowly turn, crawling my way back into the bedroom, kissing the wall, thanking it for still being there.

  I dig through a few half-empty drawers. A few socks, shirts and rubber bands here and there. I find a wallet: empty. Piggy bank: empty. Glass jar: a few quarters. There’s a dollar in my back pocket.

  Shit.

  I let the wall guide me back into the living room, but it soon stops, telling me something is wrong. And the wall is right.

  Isaac is frozen, his back turned and his eyes glued to the coffee table in the middle of the room. The R³ bottle, the pharmaceutical bottles, an old syringe—a buffet of drugs spread all over like butter on toast.

  It’s over.

  From behind, Isaac slowly reaches towards his waistcoat: a gun? He has a gun. Cold sweat trickles down my neck and down my spine. It has to be a gun. My eyes dart around the room, looking for something…

  There’s no time. Isaac turns briskly with his hand wrapped around a black object, but the hammer finds its way into my shaky hand before he fully faces me. Lovingly hugged between my fingers, the hammer swings hastily, cutting through the air, finally landing on Isaac’s fragile skull.

  Crack.

  The hammer slips out of my hand and lands on the floor with a soft thud. The object on Isaac’s hand—a phone—slips out of his fingers.

  “You’re fucked, Hammond. Fu-fff—.” Confusion spreads all over Isaac’s face as blood gushes out from the side of his head. He collapses on his knees and then drops on his side. He doesn’t move.

  Isaac’s phone emits a faint dial tone, followed by a click. “911—how may I direct your call?”

  I look around in a panic, not knowing what to do. I snatch the phone and hang up. As if hoping Isaac would suddenly spring back to life, I watch him closely. But he doesn’t.

  I can feel my blood slowly traveling away from every capillary in my face. The cold sweat takes over. What have I done?

  Riiing-riiiing!! The phone erupts. Isaac’s phone? No, my phone. Somewhere. Where is it? Digging under cushions and blankets, which I doubt are mine, I find my phone. Propelled by an inexplicable force, I answer it.

  Shit.

  It’s a female voice, a desperate voice. Nina’s voice.

  “John, do not open the door. You hear me? Do not open the door.” She hangs up before I can put two words together in an attempt to unravel the unsound nature of my current situation.

  Footsteps echo up the stairs. Panicking, I instinctively follow Nina’s advice—why do I trust her?—and bolt the door shut. I press my ear against it. The footsteps fade away, traveling down the hallway. I let out a relieved sigh as blood pools around Isaac’s coconut head.

  Suddenly two soft knocks freeze every vein in my body. The hairs on my neck slowly rise. I lean on the door and feel the vibrations through the wood. Two more knocks. I hold my breath as the blood on the floor spreads, wrapping around my feet, inching toward the door, seconds away from seeping under.

  The stranger’s cell phone erupts outside. It’s an unusual jingle, but there’s an eerie familiarity to it. I’ve heard it before. The stranger doesn’t pick up, but walks away. The jingle fades out with every step until I can no longer hear it. I press my ear against the door. Silence. I check on the pooling blood, but I have to look twice. There must be something wrong. There must be some kind of error, some kind of mistake. How does one grasp such nonsensical reality?

  I knock a few chairs out of the way, clearing as much room as possible, exposing every little nook to the light. But it’s no use. It’s time to accept the facts. Like the incident, it’s time to accept the unquestionable. The blood is gone. And so is the body.

  Vanished.

  All of it. Gone, leaving no trace behind. Confusion trickles through my skull, clouding my brain. The pounding intensifies, only worsening as I smack my head in an attempt to reawaken. But it’s pointless. No matter how many times I slap, or repeatedly close and open my eyes, the new reality doesn’t change. Where’s the reset button?

  I’m left with nothing.

  No blood. No hammer. No Isaac.

  Nothing.

  If there’s anything more terrifying than dealing with a bloody problem, it’s the thought of dealing with nothingness and the void it entails.

  And at this exact moment, the nothing
ness is staring me right in the face.

  Chapter 4: Russian Dolls.

  Russian Dolls.

  My eyes are red with irritation from the water splashing, but I can’t stop. Not now, not until I wake up. Splash more water. Wake the hell up. The reflection on the mirror looks hazy. Not sure if it’s my face or the dirty mirror.

  Since weak splashes aren’t cutting it, I jump into the shower and let the water douse me entirely, realizing seconds later I’m still fully dressed.

  Slapping myself doesn’t seem to do much either, but the fact that I’m shivering gives me some sort of relief – at least I’m still alive. On second thought, that may not be much of a relief, considering.

  “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

  Wake up! Nina’s voice. Somewhere.

  Oxygen fills my lungs violently as I sit up, gasping for air. It burns. I look around; everything seems to be where I left it. The buffet of drugs… the empty R³ bottle. No blood. No Isaac.

  My eyes scan the living room, but my ears have some trouble adjusting. Everything sounds muffled and decibels lower, as if I were underwater. My lips are parched. There’s a half-empty water bottle buried under me on the couch. I chug it instantly. Gradually my ears recalibrate and soon enough the white noise lifts like a translucent veil, leaving nothing else but the ringing phone.

  It rings over and over again.

  How long has it been ringing for? Was it ringing while I slept?

  “Hello?” That one word hurts on its way out.

  “John! Where have you been, my man?” Bill’s overly-optimistic tone brings a sense of relief to my present situation. Maybe all is back to normal.

  “I’ve been here.”

  “Been calling you for three days straight. Thought you died on me, man.”