BUILDING BLOCKS
by
Kevin Domenic
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PUBLISHED BY:
Kevin Domenic on Smashwords
Building Blocks
Copyright © 2011 by Kevin Domenic
Cover Art: Crimsanity Creations
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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BUILDING BLOCKS
Foreword
Whoever said, "Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you," was a liar.
Taken by themselves, the numerous incidents of my grade school career which shaped me into the person I am today seem a tad trifle. However, when clumped together, they make up the troubled and lonely childhood that would forge much of my current personality. Through the years I've learned to understand and accept the things that happened to me, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a bit of residual pain lurking about in the deep recesses of my heart.
This book is a work of fiction based on events that I've endured during the course of my life. I've shared these stories in hopes that those struggling through hardships of their own might feel uplifted knowing that their pain is not without purpose, their efforts are not in vain, and their voices do not go unheard. God works all things together for His greater purpose, and only when we learn to look past the pain can we hope to see the positive outcome that our struggles yield.
Many of the events in this book actually happened to me. Many did not. But I know that these things happen to people of all ages every single day. If you are one of those people, I hope this story will help you to understand why God allows bad things to happen in this world. And if you're blessed enough to have never faced such battles, then I hope this book will give you a better understanding of those who have.
You can't climb a ladder without starting at the bottom. The phrase may be cliché, but it is true. In all aspects of life, one can't grow flowers without first burying seeds in the dirt.
This book is dedicated to my mother and father, the wonderful parents with whom I was blessed. Thank you for being my parents, for loving and supporting me, and for never giving up your faith in me. I love you.
And to the Lord Jesus Christ, my eternal pillar of strength, my light in the darkness, who had mercy on my soul when I didn't deserve it, and who refused to give up on me when I gave up on myself: Thank you Lord for giving me the strength, determination, and willpower to carry on fighting for what's right. Thank you for the courage to stand against persecution and tell the world of the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the Hero of Heroes. And thank you for teaching me the valuable lessons that have brought healing to the scars of my past. I pray that You'll help each of us to place Your will before our own every single day so that we might finally learn what real happiness is all about.
Introduction
"If this keeps up, I'm going to blow my brains out."
It wasn't until I actually said those words that I realized I'd hit rock bottom. I didn't just say them. I meant them. My mind was already working out how I would do it. Dad's old handgun was still in my closet. Before he died, there were times that I worried he might come home in a drunken rage and turn the thing on me. It wouldn't have been too out of character for him, but given our history, I can't say I would've blamed him, either.
Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I don't know how or why you've come across this journal. But if my shrink's predictions are any indication, the tales that follow will probably sound like the rambling delusions of a madman. And maybe that description will be accurate. Maybe not. For now, I can merely speculate.
Regardless, I'm a bit leery of this new treatment. According to my doctor, scientists have cracked the secrets of time travel. Go ahead and read that again. Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too. It's got to be a scam of some kind, right? I mean, I know technology has progressed a lot over the past fifty years. Glass-screened televisions were replaced by interactive holograms, and ground-based cars finally gave way to the aeromobile. Even the military's standard assortment of assault rifles and body armor have been tossed aside in favor of invisibility cloaks and science-fiction style laser weapons.
But time travel? Come on, that's got to be a hoax.
That's what I believed, anyway, until I called my health insurance company. Get this—they agreed to cover the expenses. It's nearly impossible to get any kind of money out of an insurance company. I can't imagine they'd agree to cover a procedure that isn't authentic, tested, and reliable. I wonder how much it would cost me without health insurance. Ugh, just thinking about it makes me angry. But that's another topic for another time.
Anyway, the first of these time-travel sessions is scheduled for Monday morning. I suppose some people would jump at the chance to go back and relive their childhood experiences. Not me. I'm dreading it. Doc believes that doing this will help me come to terms with the painful memories that have scarred me so deeply as well as give me a better understanding of my role in God's plan.
God's plan. Yeah. I once believed all that stuff the pastors said on television about how God only wanted the best for His children and that we were not put here to suffer but to prosper. Faith in Jesus Christ was something I'd clung to when I was younger because He was all I had. I used to wake up early on Sunday mornings to listen to Fred Hoskins speak about Jesus, and I'd pray so hard that something would change in Mom and Dad so that they'd one day be completely different people. I wanted them to be normal parents. I wanted them to stop fighting all the time. I wanted my mother to quit drinking. I wanted Dad to stop yelling at us and just love us. And for years, I prayed and prayed for it to happen. Pastor Hoskins used to say that miracles happened every day. So I figured that eventually one would have to happen in my house. One day I would have the family I'd always wanted.
It never happened, of course. I don't really know why. I probably didn't deserve it for one reason or another. Whatever the case, as I got older, I lost faith in God's protection. It felt like I was holding up a shield that wasn't there. And even though I still believe He exists, I've learned to stop expecting Him to help me when I struggle. I was destined to be on my own, and I've tried to cope with that.
Then again, I guess the fact that I'm in therapy means I haven't coped as well as I'd hoped. I guess I'll find out Monday.
Anyway, Doc suggested that I write in this journal after each session to try to sort out my feelings about the things I see and hear. It doesn't matter if they make sense when I write them, he says. In time, he believes they will. I have doubts about that, of course. I know what happened in my life. I vividly remember the events that left me so jaded and bitter about the world around me and the society that plagues it. Everything from my first fight to Mom's death lurks within my memory and torments me each and every waking hour of the day. If I could've forgotten such images, if there was a way to abandon all memory of the pain, I'd have done it long ago. I don't know what Doc hopes to prove. But I guess there's no harm in finding out.
After all, Dad's gun will still be there when it's all over.
My name is Herbert. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does.
Sunday
Tomorrow's the big day. But I decided that it might be a good idea to write down exactly how I feel about the state of my life as it is today. That way, if this treatment does make some kind of difference, I can look back at this entry and see the changes within myself.
So how did I go from an innocent baby brought into a world of infinite possibilities to the cynical, frustrated, pessimistic, angry, and depressed wretch of a person that I am today?
Think back to your school days. Do you remember the kid in the back of the classroom? That quiet one who was different from everyone else? Maybe he didn't dress the same as most kids. Maybe he had a different haircut or liked different music. Perhaps he came from a poor family and his clothes were often dirty. You picked on him for being different. It was no big deal; everyone else did it. You giggled at him and called him names. You knocked his books off his desk and pretended it was an accident. You shot spit-wads at him. You excluded him from games at recess. It was funny to you, and that's all that really mattered.
Remember that kid?
That was me.
And I still haven't gotten over it.
Don't get me wrong. I understand that, to an extent, children simply don't know any better. They don't understand the deep psychological effects that their teasing can have on another child.
But by the end of sixth grade, I sure knew. And I had heard and seen enough of my fellow students' reprimands and punishments to know. I had expected such juvenile abuse to minimize as we were taught the differences between right and wrong.
Nope. Got worse. Much, much worse.
And school wasn't my only problem. At times, it was the least of my problems. As I indicated earlier, my parents weren't exactly model citizens. When Mom was sober, her patience with me was thinner than Dad's vocabulary. Or hair. Or resume, for that matter. Take your pick. Anyway, she openly admitted that she regretted having me. She thought having a child would help her relationship with Dad. Something about having responsibilities that were more important than their "petty" problems.
But Dad never wanted me. He was a man who never grew past age eighteen in maturity. He drank, he partied, and he didn't come home for weeks at a time. He beat Mom frequently—often right in front of me. He never laid a hand on me, though. Sometimes he'd befriend me long enough to let me believe we might be able to form some kind of a relationship. We went hunting and fishing a couple of times. But then he'd turn on me just as quickly, screaming obscenities before grabbing a couple of beers and racing off in his pickup truck.
Mom was the one who administered my beatings. I learned to accept it, for the most part. I'd just clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait for it to end. It certainly motivated me to be obedient and well-behaved around her. But I never understood any of it. I thought families were supposed to love and support each other. They were supposed to encourage you. To help you learn and grow. Grandpa loved me, I know, but I only got to see him a handful of times out of the year, and he died when I was ten years old. For the most part, my day-to-day life was devoid of love and affection. There was none of it in my household. No support. The only conclusion I could come to was that the typical picture of a loving family was nothing more than a fairytale. It didn't really exist.
Then I saw Pastor Hoskins on the holovision one morning when I was twelve. I had seen his show on and off growing up, but I'd never really paid much attention to it. He was talking about God's commandments regarding families that day. Husbands and wives, according to God, were supposed to love each other! Children were expected to honor their parents—something I surely hadn't been doing, given how they treated me.
I started watching Pastor Hoskins more routinely after that. I wanted to know more. Over the next few weeks, I learned that God had sent His son Jesus to pay the penalty for our sins because He loved us so much. He didn't need to, and humanity certainly didn't deserve it.
That was the kind of love I wanted!
The only thing I needed to do to receive this love was accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Our sins must be paid for, Pastor Hoskins said. There would be no justice, otherwise. The God of Israel is a just God, and He declares that the wages of sin is death. So that's why Jesus died on the cross as a sacrificial lamb. Christ suffered through death to pay the price for our sins so that we wouldn't have to. All we need to do to be saved from judgment is say a prayer accepting Jesus' sacrifice as payment for our sins and believe in Him as our Lord and Savior. So that's what I did.
I know a lot of people don't believe in God. I can understand to an extent. Believing requires faith, and faith is in short supply these days. But I simply cannot believe that our cycle of birth-life-death is some sort of random or accidental occurrence. I've done a lot of research on the subject over the course of my life, seeking evidence both for and against the existence of God and the legitimacy of the Bible, and I've found no conclusive proof either way. I guess I should've expected as much given that the Bible clearly illustrates that a relationship with Jesus Christ is based on faith. But I would've thought that I'd find some kind of hard evidence against the Bible's claims. Granted, I'm no scientist, but the evidence they call "proof" is riddled with words such as "probably" and "suggests" and "assume." None of these words can be used when presenting solid evidence as fact. I could go much deeper, but that's not what this journal is supposed to be about. And the shortcomings of science aren't the only reason I believe.
The other part of it is hard to explain. See, when a person gives their life to Christ, their faith is justified with knowledge. I know that doesn't mean anything to someone who doesn't believe, and I don't expect to convince anyone with it. But when you honestly and truly give your life to God, He fills you with His spirit—the Holy Spirit—which in turn gives you the comforting assurance that your faith is not in vain. You just . . . know.
Once I was armed with the knowledge that God loved me, I went back into the world. Jesus said the greatest commandment for us to follow is that we must love each other. Like many other new Christians, I believed that following His instructions would bring me everything I needed and wanted in my life. If I was showing the love of Christ to others, they would in turn be kind and loving to me.
Clearly, I had not yet come across the part about being persecuted, abused, and ostracized for following Christ.
Classmates were even more harsh when they found out that I was a Christian. It was just another thing about me that made me different. I tried befriending people who had previously abused me. I tried befriending those I had previously abused. I did everything I could to set a good example for others to follow.
I'm not trying to give you a false impression. I was no saint, and I didn't think of myself as one. I was simply trying to improve myself, watch my words, and love people in spite of their actions. After all, that's what I wanted them to do for me.
But by the time I graduated middle school, it was clear that no amount of "killing with kindness" was going to get me anywhere. Fed up with the juvenile attitudes of my schoolmates and abandoning all hope of any sort of relationship with my parents, I decided I would give everyone exactly what they wanted.
I would blend in with the shadows. I would stay out of everyone's way. I would stop trying to make friends. I would not speak unless spoken to. I'd stop trying to interact with the world. Society wanted no part of me, and I wanted no part of society. I would be the loner that I was destined to be.
It didn't help. High school brought four more years of torment. Despite my attempts to stay out of everyone's targeting scopes, I was still a magnet for abuse. The jocks mocked me with ruthless persistence, never missing an opportunity to deepen the scars. Ambushes, stolen property, shredded school work, locker room embarrassment; it felt like it would never end. I'm sure we'll address some of these incidents in the days to come, but it would be impossible to relive them all.
I tried attending a teenage youth group at a local church. That was a disaster. I really thought a group of people calling themselves Christians would've been more accepting, loving, and above all else, humble. What I found was something entirely different. These kids were the same type of arrogant and obnoxious teens that filled my school. The only difference is that they seemed to think that being Christian made them saints above the rest of the world. And that, of course, gave them the right to look down their noses at everyone else. My opinion of church members soured quickly. Clearly, these people had not read a thing about the humility and love that Jesus had taught.
In junior year, my first and only girlfriend did more than break my heart. She shattered the last remaining sliver of faith I had in the human race. For the first time, suicide finally entered my mind.
After all, I'd done so much for God but He'd done nothing in return. Grandpa was long gone; there wasn't a soul on earth who loved me. No one would've missed me. No one would've noticed.
But I couldn't do it. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't succeed. The last thing I needed was to be unwanted, unloved, and paralyzed or disabled in some other way. Besides, I felt like killing myself would've been like saying I didn't think God was doing a good enough job of taking care of me.
Mom died during my senior year of high school. I really don't want to go over the details here, but let's just say that no one should ever have to witness the things I saw that day. Besides, if this time-travel thing is for real, I'm sure Doc will make me relive the whole horrific event at some point.
Five years later, while I was working a job at the local grocery store, I got a call informing me that Dad had died of a massive heart attack. I hung up the phone and went back to work. I'd grown so cold to the world around me that I didn't even care. Not very Christian-like, I know. After settling Dad's affairs, I moved into a studio apartment a few blocks away. And that's how I've spent the last five years of my life.
I just don't understand people. I've tried; Lord knows how I've tried. I've read my Bible and prayed to God for understanding. I've gone to work telling myself to look for the good in people, to give them the benefit of the doubt, to love them despite their short-comings, to give of myself to others as Christ gave to us. But every time I try to see good in people, they show me their worst sides. After twenty years of working in the retail industry, I can safely say that the majority of the people in this country are selfish, conceited, uptight, unloving, and unforgiving parasites. The only thing they seem to care about is what they can get, how little they have to give up for it, and how much they are worshiped throughout the whole process. Every day I try to love people.
But every day I grow to hate them more.
And so, after a particularly bad day at work a few years ago, I really needed to talk to someone. I felt like I was on the verge of insanity. I got into my aeromobile, unsure of where I was going or what I was trying to find. I knew I wanted to die. I wanted out. I was sick of trying to push forward with this life. I was tired of trying to be a part of society. I cried out to God, tears streaming from my eyes. Through blurred vision, I caught a glimpse of a sign for a Christian psychiatric care center as I turned a corner. Inside, I told them I needed help and I needed it bad. I was crying like a baby, begging for someone to fix me. That's when Doc came out of his office to investigate the commotion.
I've been going to him weekly ever since. He somehow thinks that I could make major progress in overcoming my issues if I can find a way to understand and make peace with the events of my past.
And that's where this time-travel treatment comes in. It is supposed to give me a new perspective on the events that have left such deep emotional scars. I don't know how that could be possible. But what I do know is that I can't keep living like this. I don't want to hate people anymore. I don't want to be terrified to leave my apartment anymore. I don't want to hate my job anymore. I don't want to run away from relationships anymore. I don't want to blame God for my pain anymore. I don't want to be scared of the world anymore.
I don't want to be this person anymore.
Enough is enough. It's time for a change.
Monday - Day 1
This time-travel stuff is real.
This is no hoax, no scam, no bluff. I shouldn't have doubted. Doc was one hundred percent serious about this therapy. Today, we took a test run to get myself familiar with the Chronopod—that's what Doc calls the time machine—and I saw things I never thought possible.
I arrived at Doc's office a little after eight in the morning. He greeted me at the door; his secretary doesn't usually come in until after nine.
"Good morning, Herbert," he said, opening the glass door to his office. "I trust you slept well?"
"I guess," I told him. "Can't say I'm looking forward to this."
"You've nothing to fear. I won't let anything happen to you. Come; the Chronopod awaits."
Doc led me down a long hallway past his office and study. Most of the lights were still off as his first patients weren't scheduled to arrive for hours. The door at the end was locked electronically; only by holding each of his fingers against a scanner could he release the mechanism. When the door finally slid open, I couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated.
The Chronopod stood in the center of the dark room. It looked like a giant pill of some kind, a steel capsule no less than twelve feet tall with a single circular window. Wires, tubes, and hoses ran from the lower portion of the pod into the floor. The rest of the room was barren with the exception of a couple of chairs near the far wall. It almost looked like something that Doc had picked up at a garage sale somewhere and tossed into storage to be forgotten. But he'd told me last night that the unit would be powered and ready to go by morning, and the blinking green button on its side seemed to indicate just that.
"Don't worry," he assured me. "It has been thoroughly tested. I can assure you that there is no need for concern."
I wasn't so convinced. "Are you sure half of me won't end up in one year and half of me in another?"
For some reason, despite the fact that I don't entirely trust him, Doc's smile always has a way of comforting me. I imagine it to be similar to the way a father's smile warms his child's heart, though I have no such experience to draw from. Still, in many ways, Doc has been my father for the past three years. Anyway, what he said next shocked me.
"I'm going with you. So I will share in whatever fate awaits you. Does that help calm your nerves?"
I had not known he was planning to come with me. I expected he'd keep himself from danger and stay in the safety of his office. Still, that didn't make me feel better. No, it actually made things a little worse. "Not really," I admitted.
Doc, always contemplative, pressed his old glasses against the bridge of his nose and raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why not?"
By now, he's more than familiar with my obsessive worries and paranoia. I've come to find that if something can go wrong in my life, it will not only do so, but it will go so terribly wrong that the negative effects will stretch to limits that not even my pessimistic mind had anticipated. Most people like me see the glass as half-empty. I see the glass as half-empty, cracked, and leaking.
I know, you're probably rolling your eyes. I'm not surprised you don't understand; truthfully, I don't get it either. That's why I'm in therapy.
"Because if, by some chance, something happens to you and not me, I'll spend the rest of my life knowing that you died while trying to help me with my petty problems."
Doc shook his finger at me. "I've told you a number of times that your problems are not petty in any way. It is a diverse world we live in, Herbert. Different things affect different people in different ways. Your difficulties don't make you any less sane than anyone else. Don't assume your struggles to be insignificant simply because other people have problems that you perceive to be worse."
I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I knew what he was trying to do for me, but I wasn't buying it. I didn't dare say so, though. That was a lecture I didn't need to hear again. Instead, I changed the subject. "So how does this work?"
"Simple," Doc said, pressing the green button. A holographic keypad appeared above it, and he typed in a rather long passcode. The Chronopod split open with a hiss, revealing a surprisingly roomy interior. Wide enough to fit two people comfortably, the capsule housed little more than a padded blue bench and a panel of colored buttons on the inside wall. "Have a seat."
If I said I wasn't afraid, I'd be a liar. I was terrified. Despite everything, I was still having trouble accepting that traveling through time was even possible. How could such a scientific breakthrough have occurred without my hearing about it on the news? And how in the world did a random shrink in Ohio get his hands on such technology? It all seemed so unbelievable to me. And yet, there was the issue of my health insurance. They were covering the expenses. That meant it had to have some sort of legitimacy, right?
I was about to find out just how legitimate the whole thing was.
With great apprehension, I took a seat on the left side of the bench. Doc sat down to my right and tapped a couple of buttons. The hatch slowly closed. My heart raced. I think I was sweating; I don't remember. But that fatherly smile never left Doc's old face. He reached beneath the bench and pulled out a crown-like ring of steel. A pulsing line of blue light ran around the circumference of the thing, and the inner portion of it was padded with little circles of what looked like rubber.
"This is the memory reader," Doc explained. "Since it is highly unlikely that you remember the exact dates of every event in your life—significant or otherwise—this will allow us to return to the approximate moment and location of whatever memory you desire."
"Won't people be a bit freaked out if they see this giant capsule appearing in the middle of, say, a schoolyard?"
Doc shook his head, brushing his artificially darkened hair from his eyes. "The unit is equipped with a holographic projector. It will read your memory and disguise itself as something appropriate to the time period and environment to which we are traveling. So if we wind up in a park, it will look like a tree to everyone else."
That didn't quite solve the problem as far as I could see. "Okay, so instead of seeing a giant metal capsule appear, they'll see a tree appear? That doesn't seem any less conspicuous to me."
He placed the metal crown on my head and fitted it so that the little pieces of rubber were pressed firmly against my forehead. "You're worrying too much. The device is designed to seek out unpopulated areas in which to appear. And even if someone does see it, what can they do about it? Run to their friends and tell them a magic tree or vehicle just appeared out of nowhere? Who's going to believe that?"
There was a strange logic to that, but it still didn't answer my question. Regardless, Doc seemed to be confident that we had nothing to worry about, so I gave up and let him do whatever it was he needed to do to get us underway. "Where are we going first?" I asked.
"Well, I had planned for today to be more about getting you familiar and comfortable with the Chronopod. So where would you like to go?"
I hadn't expected that, but I already knew the answer to his question. "Starwood Lake," I said. My favorite place in the world.
Doc nodded. "Close your eyes, Herbert."
I closed my eyes and waited, a strange exhilaration filling me. I couldn't believe I was going back. Starwood Lake was a childhood paradise for me. My grandfather owned a cabin along the eastern edge of the water. I spent countless summer nights along the waterfront learning how to skip stones and catch fireflies. On nice afternoons, Grandpa would take me to town and buy me a new toy boat or airplane. Then we'd get ice cream and go for a walk along the lake where the locals would tether their boats for cleaning or to be prepped for fishing or waterskiing. Nothing mattered when I was at Starwood Lake. I didn't have to worry about Mom or Dad or school or whether or not I was going to get to eat each day. Grandpa always took good care of me. I can honestly say that my memories of Starwood Lake are some of the happiest times of my life.
A dull hum came from the Chronopod. Even with my eyes closed, I could see bright flashes of light. The room shook and shifted; I felt like I was losing my balance despite the fact that I was sitting on the bench. A moment of dizziness. Then a moment of nausea. More dizziness. The capsule was spinning. Or maybe I was.
"You must choose a memory, Herbert," Doc's voice floated through my head. "You must focus on a single moment of time."
I tried hard to concentrate. There were so many memories of Starwood Lake to choose from. I tried to think of everything I liked most. My mind zeroed in on an image of myself, as a child, sitting in front of Grandpa's old television—he clung to his long after holovisions had become the standard for home entertainment—watching cartoons. Behind me, Grandpa himself stood at the kitchen counter, frying up some bacon to go with the pancake breakfast he was preparing.
Abruptly, the dizziness vanished. My balance returned in the absence of the flashing light, and I slowly opened my eyes. What I saw through the pod's window was breathtaking.
Doc's voice was soft. "We're here."
We sat amid the wooded area not five hundred feet from Grandpa's cabin. The sun was shining high above the treetops; it must have been nearly noon. The lake, beautiful and clear, reflected the surrounding coastline like a mirror. A momentary touch of wind created ripples barely noticeable to the human eye. Then it was gone, and Starwood Lake's surface was a sheet of glass once again.
Everything was just as Doc had promised.
"I don't believe it!" I told him. "This can't be real."
"Would you like to see just how real it is?"
Doc reached down and yanked the locking clamps free. A few button presses set the door into motion with a loud hiss. I removed the crown and stored it in the small compartment under the chair before I stood. But Doc had to talk me out of the capsule. The whole thing absolutely terrified me. What if my past self saw me? What if I saw him? Would he think anything of it? What if Grandpa saw me? Or even a cop? Climbing out of a space-age looking coffin probably would grab the attention of a cop or two.
But Doc was already standing between the trees a few feet away. "It's alright, Herbert. Come on out."
It was like stepping into a photo from my childhood. In fact, in many ways, that's exactly what I was doing! Everything from the smell of the lilacs to the bickering honks of the geese along the waterfront; it was all just as I remembered. "This is incredible," I murmured, gazing into the azure sky. But the fact remained that we were two strangers standing on Grandpa's property. "What if we're seen?" I asked.
Doc pulled two belts from beneath the bench before he snapped the Chronopod's cover closed and secured the locking clamp. The hologram generator concealed the entire unit within the guise of an old tree. "No need to worry. Put this on," he said, handing me one of the belts, "but don't latch it yet."
I didn't really understand, but I did as I was told. And when Doc connected the ends of his belt, he vanished. Like a candle being snuffed out, he disappeared right before my eyes.
Of course, my jaw dropped.
"What do you think?" It was strange to hear his voice right next to me without being able to see him.
"That's . . . incredible!" was all I could get out.
"Go ahead, buckle yours."
The ends of my belt snapped together, and I watched with wide eyes as my own hands vanished. "How is this possible?"
"They're military-grade invisibility belts," Doc explained. "I honestly don't know exactly how they work, but they essentially bend light around us. They'll keep us out of sight, but they won't mask our voices. So we'll have to keep quiet as we observe your memories. But we shouldn't have to worry about being seen."
I had to ask the obvious question. "How in the world did you get your hands on military invisibility belts?" First the time capsule, now this?
"There's no need to concern yourself with such things," Doc said with a chuckle. "I have some friends in high places, that's all. When you know the right people, all things are possible."
A slight breeze blew, sweeping my memory back to my childhood days the way that only a cool spring breeze could. I closed my eyes and breathed it in, imagining that I was six years old again. It filled me with the desire to run to the swing hanging from the old tree on the other side of the cabin and let the magic of Starwood Lake suck me in all over again.
"So, tell me about this place. Where are we?"
At first, I didn't even hear him. The sights, the sounds, the smells; everything I'd cherished so much as a child and everything I'd missed so much as an adult was all right in front of me. It had been far too long.
"Herbert?"
I shook my head as I turned to face him, though I saw nothing but trees, of course. This was going to take some getting used to. "Sorry, Doc. I was just . . . I haven't been here in almost thirty years. I'm a little . . . overwhelmed."
Doc's voice took on that soothing tone you'd expect from a shrink. "Where have you brought us?"
"This is Starwood Lake," I said. "That's my grandfather's cabin over there."
"Did you spend a lot of time here as a child?"
"Not as much as I would've liked," I replied. "Mom and Grandpa never really got along. The only times she brought me here were when her fights with Dad got so bad that she'd leave him for a while."
"Did she stay with you when you visited?"
I shook my head, forgetting Doc couldn't see it. "No, she'd just drop me off and skip town. She often didn't tell Grandpa that I was coming. Sometimes she wouldn't even walk me to the door or check to see if Grandpa was here. I'd just knock and hope for the best, and he'd open the door to find me and my little knapsack standing there alone."
"So this was sort of a refuge for you, then?"
"You could say that, I suppose. Actually, 'refuge' would've been an understatement. Starwood Lake was a safe haven when I was young. I was safe from everything there. Dad's rampages, Mom's liquor, school kids, teachers, tests, fears, worries—they all vanished when I was with Grandpa. I could just be a kid. I was free to laugh, run, play, jump, or scream all day long. Nothing held back. I could just . . . be."
"You've never mentioned this place before. I would've thought you'd bring something like this up during our sessions." He sounded surprised.
"These days are long gone," I told him. "There's no point in dwelling on something I can never get back."
It was strange to see the dirt compress beneath Doc's feet without being able to see the man himself. "We all dwell on our pasts in one way or another. Most of the time it is for negative reasons—things we've done, haven't done, wish we'd done, and so on. To have memories of things we're glad to have done is a gift to be cherished and appreciated."
I didn't tell Doc this, but the reason I try not to think about my memories of Starwood Lake is because they're good memories. I don't want them analyzed. I don't want them corrupted by the rest of my issues.
"So," Doc continued, "which memory have we come to see today?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I mean, I remember the day, but only in brief images. I don't know if anything special happened on this particular date or not."
"What made you choose this day to return to?"
I thought about it for a moment. "I wanted an average day. I mean, every day here was special. So that's what I wanted. A typical day."
I couldn't see him, but I could tell from his tone of voice that he had that warm smile on his face. "You lead the way. I'll stay close by at all times; don't worry about me. Just explore as you wish."
My eyes were fixed on the cabin. "Can we go inside?"
"If that's what you'd like to do."
Bravery has never been one of my strongest points. "I don't know. Do you think we'll be discovered? Maybe we'd better not."
"It's alright, Herbert." I felt his hand on my shoulder. "I won't put you in any situation I don't have complete control over."
That didn't exactly calm my nerves. But at the same time, what kind of fool would I be to turn down an opportunity like this? How many people get the chance to see loved ones that have died long ago? "Okay, let's go. We can get in through the back door."
As usual, Grandpa had forgotten to lock up. That saved me from having to remember the passcode. A flood of aromas filled my nose when I inched the door open. Everyone's house has a smell of some kind. Most people just overload on whatever air freshener they like the best. Some smell like fabric softener. Then there are some that smell like whatever food they cook most often. Grandpa's cabin fell into that category. The smell?
Bacon and coffee.
And maybe butter.
It was a combination of flavors that brought back memories of summer mornings when Grandpa would be making breakfast while I played with my toys in the living room. I could almost hear Grandpa telling me stories about the big fish he had caught on his latest adventure on the lake.
No, I really was hearing it.
Doc and I stepped through the door to the rear den. I could hear voices from the other room along with the sizzling of breakfast on the griddle. The den was just as I remembered it. All of Grandpa's biggest fish were mounted on the walls. His favorite old couch was there. Even his fishing gear was piled in the corner, presumably where he left it after a recent trip. The fireplace and wicker chair where he used to read, the wooden coffee table he carved—it was all just as I had remembered it.
"Breakfast is served!" a voice boomed from the other room. There was no mistaking it. That was Grandpa!
Even knowing what I was about to face, the sight that greeted me when I stepped into the living room stopped me dead in my tracks. There he was, Grandpa Joe, standing at the little table near the far wall with a plate full of bacon and pancakes in one hand and a pitcher of orange juice in the other. At this point in my life, he had to have been around seventy years old, but he didn't look the part whatsoever. He took good care of his body—the temple, he called it—with routine exercise and plenty of vitamins. And though his temple was routinely bombarded by bacon, that was likely his one and only vice.
"Come and get it, Herbert!" he said.
There's no real way to accurately describe what it is like to look upon your childhood reflection. A part of me wanted to cry. I was staring at the innocent little boy whose outlook upon the world had yet to be corrupted. Yet another part of me wanted to go and punch that child in the face for being so naïve to the nature of the society around him. Regardless, there I was, jumping up from my imaginary world of race cars and speedboats to run for another of Grandpa's delicious breakfasts.
To avoid confusion, I'll refer to the childhood version of myself as "Herbie" going forward. It's funny; I don't mind calling myself that, but if other people do it, I really get irritated.
Herbie climbed into his chair as Grandpa put two pancakes and a slice of bacon on his plate. He couldn't have been more than four years old at the time; it's a wonder this was even a part of my memory at all. It's amazing what things stick with a person. I walked around the two recliners to get closer, fascinated by the sight of my own history brought to life. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, but the sound attracted no attention. The cabin was old; it creaked plenty enough on its own.
"Have enough there, Pal?" Grandpa asked. Herbie just nodded and stuffed his mouth with pancake.
“Pal.” Grandpa always called me that. It's funny, to most people, that kind of thing probably goes in one ear and out the other. But I liked it. It made me feel special. Considering my Mom referred to me as "the brat" and Dad used even more colorful terms, being Grandpa's "pal" was something I treasured. It meant that there was at least one person out there who loved me. One person who didn't mind having me around. One person who enjoyed my company. Grandpa was my friend, and to this day, I haven't had another like him.
And like a child trapped in an adult's body, I found myself fleeing the cabin to avoid sobbing uncontrollably in front of them.
I walked as softly but quickly as I could until I was back outside. Then I ran all the way back to the Chronopod. It wasn't until I was standing amidst the trees wiping my eyes that I remembered Doc. I'd left him all alone in there!
"Are you alright?"
Wait . . . How? "How did you know I'd left?"
"I had a feeling. Was that too much for you to handle? We can stop now, if you'd like."
He had a feeling? How? "No, I'm fine," I said. The uncontrolled sniffle that followed the statement clearly stated otherwise.
"Herbert, the whole idea of these sessions is to explore your pain. Your thoughts. Your fears. Those very scars you hold so close to you because you don't want anyone to make them any deeper. But as long as you keep your feelings secret, they'll only continue to drown you. Please, talk to me."
There wasn't much to say. I thought my reaction was pretty obvious. "I just miss these days, that's all. If I had my way, I'd never get back into the Chronopod again. I'd spend the rest of my life here, at Starwood Lake, with Grandpa."
"The past often looks more appealing than the present, and even more so than the future," Doc said. "Tell me something. When you were here with your grandfather, did you ever worry about the inevitable appearance of your mother or father? Obviously they came back to take you home eventually. Did that ever weigh on your mind?"
"I don't know," I said, turning toward the shimmering lake to watch a flock of ducks overhead. As much as I have convinced myself over the years that nothing bothered me when I was with Grandpa—I even said so earlier in this entry—there was an . . . unsettled feeling that rose every time it was time for me to go back home.
"Does that fear come back to you whenever you think of Starwood Lake now?"
Admittedly, it did not. As I said, the cabin was, in my mind, a safe place. Perhaps I don't feel it because I no longer need to worry about such things. It allows me to have the joy of the memory without the burden of worry. "Not really. I remember it, but I don't feel it."
The sound of Doc's voice moved beside me as he spoke. "Would you then say that your feelings regarding your days spent with your grandfather are better today than they were back then? If for no other reason than the fact that your affection and appreciation for those memories is not clouded by the fear you once felt?"
"It's not the same as the real thing," I told him.
"I understand that. I'm just trying to show that you can appreciate Starwood Lake now in ways that you simply couldn't back then."
I don't know why I always have trouble conceding Doc's points. I know he's just trying to help me. "I suppose."
He patted my shoulder. "Well, where to next?"
I thought about it for a moment. The memory of this day at Starwood Lake had once been one of few happy moments from my past. Now, my brain would likely associate it with today's experience. And though I could still appreciate the original memory for what it was, I didn't want the rest of my good memories to be tainted by the intrusion of my present-day self. I didn't want any more days with Grandpa to be remembered as "trial runs" in the Chronopod. "To be honest, I think I'd just like to go home."
"Really? You don't have any more good memories you'd like to visit?"
I let out a long sigh as I headed for the Chronopod. "Actually, I do. But I'd like to keep them that way."
Tuesday – Day 2
Well, my second day of time-traveling has come and gone. The memories I explored today were not nearly as positive or comforting as my visit to Starwood Lake, but I hadn't expected this therapy to be pleasant. We went back and observed the day of my first real fight with another student. This happened in the fall of first grade when I was still naively trying to fit in with the other kids.
I should note that I didn't want to hurt other people back then, and I certainly didn't enjoy it. When a situation arose in which it was necessary, I only acted in self-defense. Not that I ever seriously hurt anyone—I think the worst I ever did was give Billy Handel a bloody lip in middle school as he ground my nose in the dirt—but I felt remorse whenever I acted violently toward anyone regardless of the circumstances. Silly, I know. There are times now when I wish I'd shown even a quarter of the aggression I've got built-up inside today. Thinking of those days makes me furious. I mean, I know showing God's love is and always was the right approach, but the more selfish and emotional side of me says I should've let loose on each and every punk who picked a fight with me just because they knew I was an easy target.
When I got to Doc's office today, he was in his study going over his notes from a session with another patient. "Good morning, Herbert," he said, collecting the sheets into a neat pile and filing them in his desk. "How are you today?"
I gave my standard response whenever someone asks that on any given day. "I'm here."
"Today is likely to be a bit more emotional than yesterday," he warned, pushing his chair back and standing. "Are you prepared?"
"As much as I can be," I told him. "Do you know where you want to start?"
Doc deactivated his computer terminal. "I thought we'd begin with your early memories of abuse in school. Schoolyard bullying played a significant role in your childhood trauma, so I thought this would be a good starting point."
I followed him back to the storage room. "My first fight, then?"
"Was that the first memory you have of being hurt by a classmate?"
I thought about it for a moment. I remembered a couple of incidents here and there in kindergarten—Ricky Beal hitting me in the head with a wooden bat, Marcy Galvin dumping paint on my head in art class, even Edward Garcia stealing my crayons and subsequently eating them—but they were just floating bits of memory, incidents I remember happening but nothing more.
The fight with Timmy Jentson, however, marked the first time that I began to think that violence was just how people dealt with things. Not just my parents, but everyone. I remember the day vividly because it was the first time I began to wonder how I was going to survive in this world. I didn't want to fight anyone. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But I couldn't seem to get away from the violence. Mom had already given me my share of beatings by that point in my life. Now I was getting them at school, too.
Doc was still waiting for an answer. He opened the Chronopod and sat down. "Not the first time I was hurt," I said, taking a seat beside him, "but I'd say it was the first time I began to feel like an outsider to society. I'm sure I didn't think of it in quite those same terms at the time, but I know I felt like I didn't fit in with anyone anywhere."
"I see," Doc nodded, placing the steel crown on my head. "Then let us go and see exactly how it all began."
My troubles had started early that day, so the Chronopod arrived safely outside the schoolyard while parents walked their children to the entrance on the far side of the field. I knew exactly where to find my past self; Mom always dropped me off at the same place. Walking me to the door was a hassle she didn't want to have to deal with, so she'd just let me out by the curb at the bottom of the hill leading to the parking lot. The first aeromobiles had only hit the retail market a few years earlier, so most people were still using old-fashioned cars. Doc and I got down there just as she was pulling up.
She was very much like I remembered her, if only a bit smaller. Her blond hair was a mess, sticking out at different angles. Obviously, she had gotten home very late the previous night. The tiny orange glow of the cigarette in her mouth pulsed as she pulled to a stop. I couldn't help but feel at least some pity for her, especially given the circumstances of her eventual death. But nothing changed the fact that she didn't love or want me, and that pain overrode everything else.
"Get goin," I heard her yell as Herbie opened the door. He was wearing the clothes I remembered well; a pair of sweat old sweat pants and an unwashed sweatshirt with a giant chocolate stain splattered across it. She always told me that once a piece of clothing was stained, there was nothing that could be done about it. And I, being a naïve little boy, believed her. Now, of course, I know that it was just one more chore that she was avoiding.
Herbie climbed out of the car in his little worn sneakers. No laces, just velcro. Teaching me to tie laces would've been another chore. "I love you, Mom," Herbie said.
She took the cigarette out of her mouth long enough to yell "Shut the door and get going! I'm holding up traffic!"
Herbie nodded and closed the door. I shook my head in disgust as he waved goodbye. She ignored him and sped off, a trail of smoke rising from the driver's side window.
Doc and I were far enough away that we didn't need to hide our voices. "How stupid was I?" I asked rhetorically. "How could I not see that she hated me?"
"The innocent mind of a child is an amazing thing sometimes," Doc replied. "They instinctively believe that their parents are their teachers and protectors, therefore anything they say or do must be in their best interest. They don't worry about anything because Mommy and Daddy have things under control."
Herbie trotted up the steep incline toward the parking lot with his little blue knapsack slung over his shoulder. Doc and I followed. "I was so small," I murmured. "How did I ever lug that thing up this hill every morning?"
"It looks like he's about to be intercepted. Look to the left."
Three young boys stood in the grass on the far side of the path, all staring in Herbie's direction. I couldn't remember the name of the first, a stocky boy with orange hair. The second was Gene Olitz, a known troublemaker but also a known coward. That's why he always traveled with the third boy, Timmy Jentson. Built like an ox, Timmy was the first person chosen for every game played in gym class. He was solid and strong, but he was also a brat and a delinquent. "That's him on the end," I said to Doc. "Timmy."
"Hey Herbert!" Gene yelled at little Herbie. "What's the matter? Couldn't figure out where to put the ice cream?" That got a laugh from Timmy and the other boy.
"Shut up," Herbie yelled without stopping. "Leave me alone."
"You got a problem with us?" Timmy yelled. "We'll beat you into the tar, you little weenie!"
Ah, the maturity and creativity of elementary school insults.
Herbie kept going without looking back. I wish he had, because Timmy and his friends started to follow him. They didn't back off until Herbie reached the crowd of parents and children near the school's entrance.
"What's on your mind?" Doc asked me. "How does it feel to be back here?"
I was honest. "Nervous. Worried. Afraid."
"Afraid of what? Being discovered?"
"No, I don't think so," I said. I lowered my voice as we approached the crowd. "It's actually very similar to the feeling I had when I was a student here. It's an unyielding anxiety that something bad is going to happen."
"Because you know what to expect this time?"
"Perhaps," I admitted, "but why should I be worried about that? I already know how it turns out. There are no surprises waiting for me."
"True, but that doesn't eliminate empathy."
"I guess. Are we following him inside?"
"I think we should," Doc answered. "But it is entirely up to you, of course."
I hadn't come here just watch me walk from Mom's car to the school. "All right, then. Let's go."
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