Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness by James Gerard (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

Eyes looked up to the terminal above.  “Tormentor, display, programs, explore.”

The list scrolled by.

“Stop.  Highlight, program, ninety three.”

The scene flashed from the visor and into the mind.

A sky of blue, dotted with puffs of white, served as a background for an ocean of blue and a cover for jagged cliffs.

Swells rolling towards the shore crested just before breaking into a sudsy conglomeration of foam and sand that pounded the beach.

Wind swept spray off the crest-fallen waves and into the face, carried with it the smell of salted air.   Timothy inhaled deeply.

The sun, high in the sky, beamed rays of warmth down onto the sand which cushioned the steps, buried the toes with a blanket of comfort.

“I miss this so much,” sighed Timothy.

Water filled the depressions of steps left in spongy sand as Timothy strolled down the beach.  Sheltered from the pounding surf by a jetty jutting forth into the waves, eyes spotted the mast of a boat securely anchored away from the turbulent water.

All of a sudden he felt relaxation displace the tension within.  Thoughts of slumber invited him to take a nap.

Timothy lay upon the sand and let beams of brilliant sunshine bathe the skin with waves of energy.  Eyes closed.  Body melted into the bed of sand.

“Timothy,” a voice called.

“Go away,” whispered Timothy.

A figure blocked the sun.  A shadow fell upon him.

Eyes opened and looked at the figure hovering above.  “Go away Charles.”

“This can be a reality for you Timothy….”

“If the program ties into my memories,” shouted Timothy, “then get the hell out of my mind.”

Charles vanished.

Before Timothy could respond to his disappearing act, laughing erupted about him.  He sat up and looked around the beach.

“Oh my God,” he shouted.  “Hey guys, wait for me.”

Timothy ran up the beach.  “Gino, Bill, stop.”

The boys disappeared behind the jetty.  The mast moved away.

“Come on guys.  That’s not funny.”

Fingers pointed.  Laughter was their reply.

The boat sailed further and further away.

“I didn’t realize until it was too late,” he shouted as the wind filled the sails.

“How am I going to get off the island?” he shouted.  “This isn’t right,” he whispered.  “Charles, tormentor, friend, computer, whatever you are, you ruined my life.”

Hands snatched the visor off the face.  “Tormentor, program, stop.”

*                            *                            *

The alarm screamed.

“Okay.  I’m up.  I’m up already,” mumbled Timothy.

Fingers rubbed and rubbed the eyes, but they could not clear away the dense cloud from within.

A light flashed on the monitor above.

The tormentor screamed in its place, but its shrieks did little to evoke enthusiasm from Timothy.

“Hello,” he calmly whispered.  “Is there anybody out there?”

No response.

“Tormentor…display, status, rover.”

The tormentor ceased the ranting and flashed: Rover is operational.

Completing the morning ritual, Timothy drifted out of the bedroom and to the attic.

Just as he was about to fool the tormentor yet again, he thought if they don’t know the ship is here, then being out on the rover won’t make a difference.

“Tormentor, activate, cameras, exterior, all.  Scan, direction, all.  Display.”

The monitor split into many images.  Distant stars and the scarred surface of the ship popped in and out of view, but none of the eyes picked up the image of the flashing light.

“Tormentor, transfer, cameras, exterior, all, living room.”

For hours Timothy sat quiet scanning the images, waiting for the flash of light to appear once again.

“Come on,” he whispered, “where are you?”

He could not understand.  The ship was at the coordinates, but no one knocked or called.  And except for the glimpse of a flashing light—its origin in question—there was no signal of any kind that they were aware of him or the ship.

It can’t be a ruse, he thought.  Why would they waste all this time and money just to fool me?  There’s no way they can create a weightless environment, or place some sort of bubbled theatre screen around the ship so I’d think I was way out in space.

He drifted to the east garden.  The wheel’s rotation stopped.  The walls came down.  Eyes looked upon the fallen fruit from the nectarine tree.  Its orbs lay molded and rotting.

They wouldn’t have sacrificed you two if this was a trick.  That wouldn’t make sense.

“Tormentor, transfer, cameras, exterior, garden, east.”

The monitor divided into small screens.

“Over ten years,” he uttered in disbelief.  “Why would they do that?”

Eyes looked to the plum tree.  Its orbs lay at the base rotting away.  The bare body of the apple tree that died long ago still stood with dried and rigid branches and twigs.

A light suddenly flashed from one of the split screens.

“Tormentor, display…three.  Transfer, living room.”

“Looks small,” he whispered as the ship crawled past its position.

The ship lurched and shook.  Hands seized supports.  Is that the last of the engine bursts? he wondered.

As the satellite grew smaller and smaller within the frame of the monitor, Timothy sat quietly on the living room chair wondering if anybody was going to come for him.

*                                *                               *

The alarm blared.  A hand reached out and silenced it.

“Another day,” he mumbled.  “Nearly five weeks now.”

Eyes squinted at the monitor and saw a faint flash caught by the eye of one of the aft cameras.

The morning routine finished, the tormentor screamed.  Timothy drifted to the living room and restrained himself onto the chair.

“They’re not coming.  I must’ve done something wrong.”

Eyes stared blankly into the nothingness of space.

The tormentor still screamed.

“Tormentor, transfer, clipboard.”

Eyes scanned and scanned the list of chores.

“Doctor, I’m not feeling so good,” he whispered.

The doctor ignored him.

“Doctor, weak.”

An arm found its way into the slot.

The doctor probed and prodded the arm, diagnosed the source of the complaint: Malnourishment.

Timothy felt a needle prick the arm.  He figured a solution of nutrients was being administered.

While the doctor held him securely, Timothy read the recommended food list it had spat out in addition to the liquid flooding the veins.

“Yuck,” he whispered.

Hands unrestrained the body, and then guided him to the food storage room in the mid module.

“Strawberries.”  A hand picked the small package of the dehydrated, irradiated balls from the bin.  He drifted to the east garden.

“Bad news guys,” he whispered.  “I don’t think they’re coming.”

Fingers weak, the teeth managed to tear open the package of strawberries.

Eyes stared at the plums.  “You’re too young yet to be yanked from the tree.”

*                               *                            *

The alarm blared, slowly penetrated the peaceful slumber.  Hands took hold of the supports.  A finger hit the emergency stop button.  His mind spun.  Stomach filled with nausea.

He tumbled out of the bedroom towards the kitchen, but then stopped.  Slowly, he rotated around and drifted to the east garden.  A light above burned out as the walls were removed.

“I don’t know where they are.”

Timothy drifted next to the orange tree.  Its orbs looked ready for the harvest.  The wheel spun; oranges fell down by the legs.  Timothy picked one up.  Teeth managed to tear the rind away from the flesh and bite off a small portion then slowly chew it into pulp.

“I wish I could tell you what’s going on, but I don’t know.”  Eyes looked to the tree.  “I had hoped your life wouldn’t end out here in the emptiness, but I’m afraid it’s going to.  The apple tree died, but he didn’t die alone.”

He took another small bite of the orange, but it dribbled away from the lips.

“My friends died, but they had you and me and each other for company.”

Another orange fell to the side.  “No thank you,” he whispered.  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Timothy felt the weight of the eyelids fall; seal the last ounce of life that still stirred within.

The wheel stopped.

“Timothy,” a voice called.

“Not now,” he mumbled.

“Timothy.  Come on Timothy, get up.”

The eyelids lifted.  Eyes saw a blurred image of a face surrounded in white standing before him.  “God?”

“No, not God.  Now get up.”

Timothy smiled.  “Saint Peter.”

“Snap out of it.”

“I’m sorry what I said about God.  I hope he’s not mad at me.  Can I still go to Heaven?”

“We’re not going to Heaven.  Now get up.”

“I want to go home.”

No response.

“Snap out of it,” shouted Charles.

Reaching around for a hand support Timothy brushed an arm against the tree and knocked an orange off the branch.  A hand reached out for the floating orb but missed.

“Now I know how you can be here Charles.”

Hands propelled him out of the east garden and into the hallway.

Charles flew after him.

Stopping at a closet, Timothy grabbed a hammer from one of the tool bins.  He darted to the hallway and glided up to camera twelve.

“What are you doing?” asked Charles.

Timothy anchored his position in front of the camera.  The hammer lifted.

“Charles, tormentor, whatever you are I just have one last thing to say you.”

Eyes spewed out hatred at the camera.

“Go away.”

The hammer smashed the camera’s eyes then its housing.  Charles disappeared.

“It was always from my mind—my messed up memories.”

Timothy wondered just how stupid he could have been for involving himself with the sociopath many, many years ago.  He thought by escaping the center all problems causing a life of pain and misery would vanish, but now he came to the conclusion that he could never escape from the true tormentor—himself.

Quietly, he glided down into the living room.  “Tormentor, cameras, exterior.  Camera, one, pan, right, stop.  Focus.  Camera, eleven, pan, left, stop.  Focus.  The screen split into two.

He was now resolved never to allow anyone to manipulate him again, but for that to occur the mind that occupied the body needed purging.  Having tried everything and anything possible to change the cycle of torment, a myriad of plans and schemes that were mere futile attempts, the answer to the dilemma was contained within the doctor.

Rotating around and reaching into one of the doctor’s cabinet, a hand retrieved the hidden pistol and clip.

He turned to the terminal.  “Tormentor, activate, cameras, exterior, all.  Scan, directions, all.”

A hand strapped the body onto the living room chair.  With pistol in hand Timothy slapped in the clip.  He sat quietly just staring at the images of ever changing lights from the twinkling stars.

“Heaven or Hell?”

Two lights flashed simultaneously.

The home was silent.

Text: James Gerard Burch
Images: Right to use purchased from ova-Fotolia.com
Editing: James Gerard Burch
Publication Date: 09-27-2015

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to us who understand "Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it."