Enough part 3
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I didn’t want to die.
That sounds like such a silly thing to say: almost nobody wants to die, and the people who do need counseling. You don’t realize the immensity of the sensation, the pure driving force behind it, until you’ve felt it.
I was feeling it.
I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to leave behind my friends and family, my dog, my overworked life as a socially isolated scientist, none of it. I didn’t want to leave behind my body, didn’t want to leave behind just living: the sensation of blood in my veins, air in my lungs, food in my stomach, myself just being inside my own skin, it all became-incredibly precious. Each moment a gift. We are incredible creatures.
I didn’t want to leave behind the world we live in, either. I loved it, then, even more than I love it now, with a fierce, burning, painful sort of love, so strong that sometimes I felt I couldn’t breathe around it. I thought I had so little time on earth, you see. It-strengthens everything.
I loved every bit of our planet. The pretty and the ordinary, the strange and the painfully everyday and the downright ugly. I even loved the blocks-of-apartments neighborhood my house was in; I loved the cat who lived next door to me and left half-eaten mice on my doorstep; I found it within myself to love the silverfish who lived in the counters of the hut’s kitchen, and that is something indeed.
It’s because the fact that anything, that everything, is there, exists at all, is a miracle. I’d found faith before, and this-reaffirmed it. I loved it all. I still do: of everything that happened, I am so grateful that I kept that. Grateful to whom, I don’t know, but it’s there. God, I suppose, although I’m not sure if I believe in God. I do know I believe in miracles, and in science.
It was the odds that made me love everything, even silverfish, because that the treacherous roads of evolution had produced them was a miracle, as it was with any of us. Even silverfish, disgusting, revolting, hateful crawly things they are-or were; I kept my faith, but my tolerance for certain insects faded quickly, especially insects that live in my kitchen-are life-affirming to me.
I’ve never felt so alive, before, or at peace, almost tranquil. I’m no Buddhist master, of course, able and willing to let go of the world and sink into an understanding of the universe, and on some level I was a seethe of frantic emotions. But I’d known my death was coming, and I could-I could live with it. It helped that I knew my killer wouldn’t be human: I couldn’t bring myself to feel that they shouldn’t kill me because that was expecting moral behavior from them. They were monsters in my eyes, so it made sense that they’d commit monstrous acts.
I didn’t want to die, but I would do so anyways. At least I could go out peacefully, or as peacefully as I could. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do: die with grace. I’ve said that though, haven’t I?
Half the time, I wanted to kick and scream and throw a fit, the way I did for the first two weeks of kindergarten every morning when my mother tried to drop me off, and the again when she tried to pick me up. That was it: I wasn’t ready to be dragged home, that is, to be killed. I didn’t, though, partly because, yes, I wanted to have the best death I could, and partly because I was in denial, and partly because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Or no-nothing I did would affect him in any way, I was so far below him, in his mind. I didn’t want to prove him right.
I cried a lot. It left me feeling tired and blotchy and thirsty. That’s what being close to death feels like: it’s crying yourself out and not feeling any better, because the problem hasn’t gone away, and it’s not going to, and things really won’t look any better in the morning.
I still wasn’t ready when it happened.
It was just a few words, said to me one morning as I walked out to door to splash cold water from the pump on my face, to wake me up. I wasn’t sleeping well, even when I exhausted myself during the day.
“Prepare yourself,” was all the Decepticon said. I didn’t know what he meant by that. “We leave in half of an hour.”
And then I knew that that was it. This time, he wouldn’t be stopping by my house so I could disappear without setting off a search for my body. This time, there would be no grocery store where I could buy necessities, and maybe a few little frills, like a truly awful romance novel and toilet paper and a long-gone bar of chocolate.
It’s like being at your own funeral, or the hour leading up to it. I panicked, but it was an icy-cold panic, something that was almost calm. I moved in a blur, washing up and getting dressed and numbly eating a little (after all, I didn’t know when I would eat again, and if it took long enough for my actual death to occur, I would be hungry) even though I felt like throwing up.
I brought my birding guide, and a pen. I still don’t know why: it was the actions of a panicked woman knowing she’s going to her death. It wasn’t logical.
“Get in,” he said when I reappeared, clutching the book. “It’s time.” I did.
We drove for an hour in silence.
I started talking, eventually. It wasn’t like it would make a difference, now. I had been obsessively deferential when I hadn’t known when my actual death was going to occur, but now it was imminent, a few hours or a day or two either way made no difference.
“I don’t want to die,” I said. “I-I love living. I love being alive. I love the world, and every little thing on it. It’s all a miracle. I am a miracle. That’s a revelation for me. So I don’t want to die. -That doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.”
He didn’t say anything, so I continued. I needed to talk out loud, anyways. The sound of my own voice helped to convince me that I wasn’t already dead. That seems like such a stupid thing to feel, doesn’t it? But facing your own mortality changes you. I was a different person for those last few days, someone I’m not anymore. It changed me, though. I’ve never been who I was before it all happened, either.
“Would you tell my parents I loved them? And Eliza, Sophie and Beth?” My family: father, mother, and the two older sisters. “And Lizzie, Stephen, Drew and Mackenzie.” My nieces and nephews. Oh, there were too many things I wanted to say-to friends, to old friends, to childhood playmates, to the woman I bought my coffee from every morning. We never talked, but she always smiled at me, and I always smiled back. My coworkers, even the annoying ones; even Luca, the handsome jerk I might have dated, if we hadn’t had to be coworkers. My mother’s friends, who all fussed over me just as much as they had when I was twelve and dressed up for Easter Sunday, two years before I started refusing to go to church at all; that had changed, later on. I was going to miss my nosey widowed neighbors. I was going to miss Gracie, but I wasn’t going to ask anyone, let alone the Decepticon-any Decepticon, but this Decepticon in particular-to give my dying words to my dog.
It was easier, in a way, that I didn’t have any children or a spouse, or even a serious boyfriend. I didn’t even have someone I’d dated more than twice within the past two, three years. I regretted that, suddenly, for the first time in a while. I was sorry I hadn’t gotten more filled in on my life-list, that I would never get up at six AM on a Sunday to drive out to the woods and hike, birding guide and binoculars close at hand.
It was painfully, horribly sad. I started crying, silently. It was almost like being driven out to the hut again, only this time it was the middle of the day.
“It’s good Mom’s got so many daughters. Having a close family will make it easier for them all. And Lizzie’s the only one of the kids who’ll really understand I’m dead. At the lab… They’ll need to find someone new. I did a lot of work for them. Although I heard they’re having budget troubles. Maybe they’ll just leave the spot open. I guess I’ll never find out our results in the frog lab. I knew that was going to happen-”
“Please-tell my mother to watch out for Gracie.” It wasn’t too far-fetched, I thought at the time: he was going to be at least somewhat involved in a broadcast, and what better way to build rapport with the public than to have me plead for my elderly mother to watch after my adorable pet? Then I realized who I was talking to. What he thought of humans. The contempt-
A human is always, first and foremost, human. You don’t meet people with a burning hatred of the species as a whole. Unless you meet Decepticons.
“Alright, so you won’t. That’s-oh God, this hurts.” I started crying in earnest, tears rolling down my face which was scrunched up with misery. I was starting to sob. “They won’t know. I won’t be able to tell them-not even my mother! Not my father, not my sisters-it’s been too long since I’ve told them I love them, because I do, I love them all so, so much-” My hands were digging into my arms, nails cutting into the flesh. “I don’t want to die like this. I wanted the chance to tell them-”
He never said a word, of course.
We drove so long I fell asleep, even with the way things were. It was uneasy, though, and I jerked awake as soon as the Decepticon pulled to a stop.
My heart froze. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, but what did that mean? I didn’t know if it mattered or not.
I think I made an involuntary, whimpering sort of noise, but I’m not sure. My memories are hazy with adrenalin and pure, undiluted fear.
All I could think was that I was going to die. There were peripheral thoughts-memories, people I would miss, things I would miss, I wondered what difference my life had made, and what difference it would make-but the one big thought, the thing that kept repeating, was that I was going to die. It’s probably evolutionary: you can’t ignore it when it’s that immediate.
We humans are preoccupied with death, aren’t we?
And over it all, I was numb. It’s not something that’s easy to understand, accept. I am going to die. Here and now. You just can’t-grasp it.
Did you know that you never stop wishing for that last-second miracle to save your life? No matter how unlikely, how absolutely absurd, it is.
“Get out,” he said, and he did. Either his voice was odd, the tone just-off, or my ears were, or my brain, or something like that. To this day, I’m not sure which.
I obeyed out of habit. I moved jerkily, slowly, but I moved. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. I was-and this is ridiculous-afraid to disobey because I was afraid to die. He was going to kill me anyway! I knew that! It was those last few seconds. When you’re down to the wire, you cling to whatever you have left. Those last few breaths. Your blood still pumping through your veins. Neurons firing and your body reacting. Nothing more-but nothing less-than that.
I couldn’t stand up. I lay on the ground instead.
The Decepticon transformed and knelt, drawing in closer to me. I know because I peeked, even though I’d had my eyes hidden-I didn’t want to see my actual end.
Having him that close to me was… Indescribable. That level of fear. It was like with the raven, although I knew that I wasn’t getting off that easy. Again, I wanted to yell at him. Just do it! I know I’m going to die, because of who you are and what some other human, some nobody I’ve never met, did to your old leader! And he had a stupid name!
I didn’t, though. Instead, I started shaking, almost hyperventilating. I think I was crying again-yes, I had to be, the tears were turning the dust beneath me to mud, it was smearing onto the cheek I had against the ground-but it isn’t very clear. All I could think about was death and the monster, still looming over me.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, voice quiet. He had to repeat it: the words didn’t sink in, the first time. I just didn’t understand the phrase. It’s like those nonsense sentences, the ones that are grammatically correct but just don’t make sense.
“-Don’t do this to me,” I said at last, turning roughly away. “Just kill me! You hate humanity, but-you don’t have to be cruel when you’re going to kill me anyways. Please. Just kill me-”
“I’m going to take you home,” he said, insistent. His hands hovered in the air, almost as if he was going to reach out and touch me. He didn’t, though. I wouldn’t have been able to take it if he’d tried to. “I am-I have reevaluated my loyalty to the Decepticon cause and my stand on humanity, and I will not kill you. You are-I hadn’t realized how very much like a Decepti-like a Cybertronian you are. I am, or I once was, a scientist as well. It would be…
“This isn’t your war. I won’t drag you into it. I’ll bring you home, and then I will contact the Autobots and inform them of the situation. I will be forced to avoid both them and the Decepticons, but… I am morally unable to continue with this plan. For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
I think I started laughing, out of sheer disbelief and hysteria, although maybe it was something more like sobbing. If it was laughter, it wasn’t very happy. Everything hurt, physically hurt, I just couldn’t take any more. It’s like everything I’d been dealing with, everything I’d been holding back, burst through at once.
I just couldn’t take it any longer.
He went away again. I don’t know how far: this time, I didn’t look. And after a while, he returned, but he just sat there. That didn’t make things any better.
After a while, I quieted. As I lay there, panting slightly, trembling with fear and exhaustion and disbelief, he just sat and watched.
I hated him then, too.
“I need to bring you home,” he said at last, and I was too tired to argue. I followed the order woodenly. (Order, although it had been phrased as a question, and the words themselves were simply an innocent statement.)
He brought me home. And he left. That was-unbelievable.
I took a shower, and let Gracie stand in the shower stall with me. Then I ate fried eggs, and fell into bed. I was so tired. It was emotional, beyond physical exhaustion. I was… Drained. Tired. Frantic, still, and half panicked.
I called my mother in the morning, when I woke up. She’d been frantic with worry. Later, she descended on the house with my sisters in tow. I was grateful when they left: I couldn’t deal with the chatter and the questions and the worried, disturbed glances they gave me when they thought I wasn’t looking.
One of them called the police. I was only lucky that one of my neighbors hadn’t called them the night before. Again, I answered a string of questions: where was I, what happened, was anyone else there? Are you sure? Anything else? Yes, officer, there was something else. It-he-was a robot.
I was supposed to be dead. I remember thinking that, too.
I made something up, of course. I tried to be as truthful as I could: I’d been in a hut in the woods, I don’t know how far, or where, what he’d made me do, how long I’d been there. I made up a captor, a human, and kept the details vague. I said I was in shock. That wasn’t a lie.
It helped that I didn’t know much at all about anything, whether I was being truthful or not. They gave me a list of recommended psychologists and left, looking blank or doubtful, depending.
I still looked awful. I took another shower, and put on another pair of clean clothes. I threw away the ones I’d had with me in the woods.
I’d lost the bird guide. That made me cry again, until Gracie came over, all worried, and that made me start laughing through the tears.
Work called: news had gotten out. My mother and my sisters, an unstoppable force. It was a Tuesday, and they all shouted at once through speaker-phone. I promised to be in as soon as I could.
I needed something to fill up time.
That first day I went to the grocery store and bought fresh things. I had fruit and fresh salad for dinner, just lettuce and tomato and cucumber, and absolutely nothing else. It was wonderful. That evening I put antibiotic ointment on a handful of infected bugbites, finally clean, and then cried myself to sleep. I let Gracie into the bed with me, too. I spoiled her rotten, those first two weeks back. Part of it was that I didn’t want to face sleeping alone, which made no sense. But I needed that living, breathing body next to me. It reminded me of where I was, when I woke up in the middle of the night.
They found my car. My real car, I mean. It had been crushed and left in a ditch. It mystified the police. I didn’t say a word.
It took six months, but I started to believe that the Decepticons weren’t coming back. Life had normalized, at least on the surface.
I still twitched at strange cars that seemed to be following me. And a few other things haunted me.
I never lost the love of-well, of everything that had come over me. That was the one thing I was glad of. If I hadn’t already been a biologist, I would have started classes. My job became a passion, not just something that consumed my life.
On some level, though, I never stopped believing that it was all a temporary reprieve. That, some day, it would all turn out to be some kind of sick joke. I know it sounds self-centered, but that paranoid fear paralyzed me, some days.
Three years later I could forget that it happened, throughout the day. It no longer weighed on my mind, wasn’t something I thought of constantly.
My life was… Average, in many ways. I dated casually for a while, then stopped. I didn’t have much free time. I still went for long walks with Gracie, weekends and whenever else I could spare the time, up in the mountains or at the very least in a big stretch of National Forest. I worked, and threw myself, body and soul, into that work: it was all-incredible.
A miracle.
It’s much harder to take your own life for granted when you’ve almost died. I’d been very, very close to dying for weeks on end. It… Changed me. It may sound trite, but I tried to live life fully. Not by doing things like skydiving or going to exotic foreign countries on vacation, but by finding joy in the world. …I’m sure I sound like some sort of hippy new-age flake, but it’s true. I didn’t want an exciting life. I wanted one that was-lived. Fully, and well.
I’m sure I was a much nicer person to have as a coworker. I still am, for that matter. Like I said, some things don’t leave you. And by then I could forget what had happened, sometimes, but it still touched me, in ways I didn’t expect and, doubtlessly, didn’t recognize. And still don’t.
It’s hard to see yourself clearly, because nearness dulls insight, in these sorts of matters. When you’re too personally involved, you can’t maintain neutrality. And what’s closer than who you are?
I started to believe it was over.
It’s never that simple, though.
I wish it was.
He came back.
The Decepticon.
I’d gone for a walk, or a hike, really. It was a Sunday morning. The morning had been ominously cloudy, but I walk year-round in the Pacific Northwest. If you let a little damp discourage you, you never go anywhere. It had started raining as I’d reached the trailhead parking lot. I’d decided it wasn’t worth it (it wasn’t like there were any birds stupid enough to fly in that much rain) and turned back early, and I arrived back at the end of the trail in absolutely pouring rain. It was hard to see all the way across the parking lot, so I didn’t notice him at first. He was the only other car there, other than my own. A new one, of course.
The rain was starting to peter off-of course, because I’d decided to call it a day-and there were only scattered drops from the tree branches overhead by the time I pulled out. Downpours are funny like that.
He blocked my way out. I paused, peering through the fogged-up car windows, trying to figure out why someone had parked right smack-dab in the middle of the road. I didn’t see it for what it was, someone (something) purposefully and actively blocking me in, because I assumed it was empty and parked. There was no driver, after all.
He’d switched his car form. He was something else unassuming and uninteresting, much like my own car but not the same make or model. I don’t even know if it was the same company. I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing. I didn’t recognize him, until he transformed.
I panicked. Of course. What else? I’d been right all along: it wasn’t over. It was all going to come back to haunt me, again. …I had Gracie in the car with me. Would he actually kill her, this time, instead of just telling me he had? He certainly wouldn’t put up with her if I was kidnapped again-Or maybe he was just going to kill off a loose end. If he wasn’t, if this was the start of something new, maybe this time I could kill myself-
He didn’t move. I got out of the car, moving in the slow-motion of horror: adrenalin made me clumsy, made my fingers thick and awkward. I almost fell.
I started crying. You couldn’t mistake it for rain.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I remember saying. It didn’t seem very fair. Why me? I wasn’t even very interesting! I’m still not, really. I’m no hero, to go out and save the world. I’m not even a very important scientist-I don’t work on ground-breaking life-saving cancer-curing research, or anything like that. We run redundant tests on frozen frogs, or, or-things like that. Nothing interesting. I like it that way. I personally think it’s all fascinating, but that’s just me. I know that, and I knew it then, too.
“…I’m sorry,” he said, lowly. “Again. But I-”
I wasn’t listening, not really. He seemed to realize that, and stopped talking. I was shaking, and kneeling in the mud and gravel that made up the road right now: my legs had given out.
“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured, and he sounded almost like he was trying to make his voice-so low, rough and growling-gentle, calming. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But I think it’s the truth.
That made me laugh, hysterical. I’d closed the car door behind me, and I could hear Gracie barking furiously, scrabbling at the window. That dog has all the sense of a bag of rocks. I love her for it.
“What will it take to make you trust me?” he said, and even though the words were out loud, I think he only meant them for himself. I replied anyways. I’d shaken my old habit of mindless, cowering obedience. I couldn’t face-what had happened happening a second time.
That just made me laugh harder, almost choking on that, and my sobs. “Trust? Trust? You were going to kill me! You kept me captive! You ordered me to-I was so scared! You can’t understand-you! You were my captor! Oh, just kill me now. I won’t go through that again! I won’t! I can’t, can’t-”
“I told you. I am a traitor to the Decepticon cause. They will kill me if they see me. Because I believe in your-your humanity. I won’t kill you, or any other member of your species, because you are sentient beings, with your own individual worth.”
“You expect me to believe that?” My tone was harsh, mocking.
He spoke very quietly, when he continued. It was hard to hear: his voice was so deep that it was swallowed up by the sounds of the near-by river. “It was you who changed my mind. I am also a scientist, and I had… I had forgotten why I had become one. You helped to remind me. And you… You did not act as a mindless drone acts. You have free will, even though you are carbon-based. You are capable of compassion, sorrow, joy. …Forgiveness.”
“Just kill me now. Please,” I said, again.
“I will not!” That made me jump, suddenly terrified. He never raised his voice-and he sounded so irrational then, so unbalanced-almost deranged. I cowered, there in the mud. It’s appropriate: I’m a coward. We can’t all be heroes.
“I won’t. I… Again, I am sorry. For your incarceration, and for… Disturbing you in this way. Again. I wanted to thank you, but…
“I’m sorry.”
He drove away. I sat there, cold and damp and dirty, until it started raining again. Then I drove home. It’s a miracle I didn’t get in an accident. I was in no condition to drive.
I fell into bed without thinking when I got home. I showered, ate, changed clothes, all in a daze, and then fell asleep. I woke up five times with ambiguous screaming nightmares.
I didn’t want to think. He had sounded too human, when we had talked. And he couldn’t be. That couldn’t have changed. And there was nothing but a monster in my memories of my incarceration. That was how he had put it. Such a good SAT-vocabulary word.
…Except for when he’d asked about the natural world, birds, other scientific questions. When he’d fed Edgar, the raven. I hadn’t known what to think when they’d been asked, had given rote answers and pressed it aside as whims a human couldn’t possibly understand, and I didn’t know what to think then, either.
I didn’t want to believe he was telling the truth. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But it’s true. It made things so much simpler. It…
He’d sounded lonely.
Even today, things would be easier if I’d just lived out the rest of my life, both scarred and inspired by my experiences, assuming he was some monster.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s-
This part of the story-my story-is the hardest part. Both for me, and for you, I assume, to understand. Because it’s-
I don’t know. But the Decepticon-in some ways, he became a part of my life. That sounds crazy. Doesn’t it? But I didn’t know what else to do but ignore him-again, it wasn’t like I could call the authorities; I couldn’t run-so I did ignore him. I just-pretended he wasn’t there. It was at least partly for my own sanity.
A year. I did that for a year. And I never saw much of him: maybe once a week, once a month, a quick glance. Nothing more. We never spoke. If I saw him I’d pretend I hadn’t, and sometimes I was even able to fool myself. I don’t think I ever fooled him. It still set off a panic reaction, although less of one, all the time…
He really didn’t do anything. It was starting to convince me. That, and familiarity breeds contempt, or at least changes your perceptions. It knocked the edges off my fear, like beach glass, dull and rounded from the sand and the waves.
I thought about his words-often. It seemed incredible, that he’d be changed by me. That he’d come to realize he’d been wrong. I couldn’t imagine the Decepticon who’d held me captive, as cruel as an earthquake and as human as one-so the cruelty was simply something that was; you don’t blame the earthquake for being what it is, even if you hate it for destroying your life, your home, your family, or for trying to-as a scientist: methodical, logical, devoted. I couldn’t imagine him ever feeling the-the love I felt. The love I feel, really.
He’d thanked me. He’d said he was sorry. Manners. Human manners. He was following human social customs and he was offering me-me!-a gesture of respect. Of repentance.
I still also thought it was all a trick, to get me to lower my guard. That was-illogical, really. They could just kidnap me, really, unless they purposely wanted me to trust them. But then it would just be easier to find someone new, someone who didn’t already hate them, distrust them, panic at the very thought…
For someone who’s loved science and worked as a scientist and nothing else since I graduated college, I was being remarkably unscientific. I was allowing my emotions to influence me, and strongly. That’s the way things should be, the way things have to be, in these kinds of situations. I wouldn’t be human if I’d reacted otherwise. Sometimes, you just need to be irrational.
Irrationality faded. Or rather, my panic did. It… Dulled.
I started wondering more about what he’d said. I could almost-almost-believe him. I wanted to believe him, really. Although I also didn’t. I wanted to believe I was safe, and that I’d made a difference. I didn’t want to have to face him. I didn’t want to have to believe he was telling the truth.
I stopped turning away when I saw him. Sometimes, I’d even watch him, almost, out of the corner of my eye, and more out of curiosity than out of fear. I stopped panicking at all.
That brings me to now. And now… Now, I’m writing this.
I’m going to talk to him tomorrow.
I guess I needed to tell someone the story, even if they never hear it, if it never gets read. It will be my autobiography if I die. Because I still can’t help but doubt: my memories are still-
Like I said. At the beginning, he was clearly hateful, clearly loathed humanity, every scrap of organic matter on this planet-but later. Later, sometimes he was… Unclear, confusing, in his actions and reactions. But I’ve said: that could just be time and doubt changing the memory. Adding nuance to what was clear-cut. Adding depth to a mirrored image-you can’t reach out and actually touch what’s being reflected!
I think, though, I think I just needed to tell my story. It’s been… A long time. Five years.
I haven’t told anyone. Except for Gracie. And you, now, I guess. Even if ‘you’ are only ever going to be me. Some stories aren’t meant to be told.
It’s why I’m not a hero. Even though I think I did make a difference-that it was me who made all this happen. Do you understand, now, that I’m not being particularly egotistical when I say that?-my story’s not meant to be told. It’s just for me. And for the Decepticon, I suppose.
I’m no one special. I’m just who I am. I just-I resonated, I suppose, with the Decepticon. It was enough to change him. (Or so he says. I suppose I believe him, now. But I also might die tomorrow, or some day after that-although I can’t see him dragging the charade out any longer than another day or two. Even if it’s been years, now.)
It was luck, I guess, pure and simple. That it turned out that just being who I am was enough.
That I was enough at all.
I suppose you’ll know. This might be the end. If I die, it just-
It’s the end of the story. A lot of stories end with death.
I didn’t die. I don’t think I will. And I think that that’s enough.
I waited outside my car when I pulled into the parking lot of my usual hike. He came, of course.
We talked. About birds, mostly. It was uncomfortable, awkward: I was still nervous, skittish, ready to panic. That’s normal.
He’d remembered what I’d had on my life list, five years ago. It’s changed now, of course. I’ve added a fair number of species.
So I suppose, even then, he was paying attention-
He has a name. I hadn’t thought about that. He’s not ‘the Decepticon.’ He’s not my captor. Or not just my captor.
Variance. His name is Variance. That’s… Kind of weird, really. It makes me think of somebody very wishy-washy, and then scientific variables. That, though, variables…
And I suppose ‘Variable’ wouldn’t make a very good name, would it?
Variance. I think I’m going to talk to him again. I don’t think he’s going to kill me at all. I’m… I’m not sure why. Or why I shouldn’t.
He says he saw a snowy owl once. I’m jealous.
--End--
Back to part 2
I didn’t want to die.
That sounds like such a silly thing to say: almost nobody wants to die, and the people who do need counseling. You don’t realize the immensity of the sensation, the pure driving force behind it, until you’ve felt it.
I was feeling it.
I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to leave behind my friends and family, my dog, my overworked life as a socially isolated scientist, none of it. I didn’t want to leave behind my body, didn’t want to leave behind just living: the sensation of blood in my veins, air in my lungs, food in my stomach, myself just being inside my own skin, it all became-incredibly precious. Each moment a gift. We are incredible creatures.
I didn’t want to leave behind the world we live in, either. I loved it, then, even more than I love it now, with a fierce, burning, painful sort of love, so strong that sometimes I felt I couldn’t breathe around it. I thought I had so little time on earth, you see. It-strengthens everything.
I loved every bit of our planet. The pretty and the ordinary, the strange and the painfully everyday and the downright ugly. I even loved the blocks-of-apartments neighborhood my house was in; I loved the cat who lived next door to me and left half-eaten mice on my doorstep; I found it within myself to love the silverfish who lived in the counters of the hut’s kitchen, and that is something indeed.
It’s because the fact that anything, that everything, is there, exists at all, is a miracle. I’d found faith before, and this-reaffirmed it. I loved it all. I still do: of everything that happened, I am so grateful that I kept that. Grateful to whom, I don’t know, but it’s there. God, I suppose, although I’m not sure if I believe in God. I do know I believe in miracles, and in science.
It was the odds that made me love everything, even silverfish, because that the treacherous roads of evolution had produced them was a miracle, as it was with any of us. Even silverfish, disgusting, revolting, hateful crawly things they are-or were; I kept my faith, but my tolerance for certain insects faded quickly, especially insects that live in my kitchen-are life-affirming to me.
I’ve never felt so alive, before, or at peace, almost tranquil. I’m no Buddhist master, of course, able and willing to let go of the world and sink into an understanding of the universe, and on some level I was a seethe of frantic emotions. But I’d known my death was coming, and I could-I could live with it. It helped that I knew my killer wouldn’t be human: I couldn’t bring myself to feel that they shouldn’t kill me because that was expecting moral behavior from them. They were monsters in my eyes, so it made sense that they’d commit monstrous acts.
I didn’t want to die, but I would do so anyways. At least I could go out peacefully, or as peacefully as I could. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do: die with grace. I’ve said that though, haven’t I?
Half the time, I wanted to kick and scream and throw a fit, the way I did for the first two weeks of kindergarten every morning when my mother tried to drop me off, and the again when she tried to pick me up. That was it: I wasn’t ready to be dragged home, that is, to be killed. I didn’t, though, partly because, yes, I wanted to have the best death I could, and partly because I was in denial, and partly because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Or no-nothing I did would affect him in any way, I was so far below him, in his mind. I didn’t want to prove him right.
I cried a lot. It left me feeling tired and blotchy and thirsty. That’s what being close to death feels like: it’s crying yourself out and not feeling any better, because the problem hasn’t gone away, and it’s not going to, and things really won’t look any better in the morning.
I still wasn’t ready when it happened.
It was just a few words, said to me one morning as I walked out to door to splash cold water from the pump on my face, to wake me up. I wasn’t sleeping well, even when I exhausted myself during the day.
“Prepare yourself,” was all the Decepticon said. I didn’t know what he meant by that. “We leave in half of an hour.”
And then I knew that that was it. This time, he wouldn’t be stopping by my house so I could disappear without setting off a search for my body. This time, there would be no grocery store where I could buy necessities, and maybe a few little frills, like a truly awful romance novel and toilet paper and a long-gone bar of chocolate.
It’s like being at your own funeral, or the hour leading up to it. I panicked, but it was an icy-cold panic, something that was almost calm. I moved in a blur, washing up and getting dressed and numbly eating a little (after all, I didn’t know when I would eat again, and if it took long enough for my actual death to occur, I would be hungry) even though I felt like throwing up.
I brought my birding guide, and a pen. I still don’t know why: it was the actions of a panicked woman knowing she’s going to her death. It wasn’t logical.
“Get in,” he said when I reappeared, clutching the book. “It’s time.” I did.
We drove for an hour in silence.
I started talking, eventually. It wasn’t like it would make a difference, now. I had been obsessively deferential when I hadn’t known when my actual death was going to occur, but now it was imminent, a few hours or a day or two either way made no difference.
“I don’t want to die,” I said. “I-I love living. I love being alive. I love the world, and every little thing on it. It’s all a miracle. I am a miracle. That’s a revelation for me. So I don’t want to die. -That doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.”
He didn’t say anything, so I continued. I needed to talk out loud, anyways. The sound of my own voice helped to convince me that I wasn’t already dead. That seems like such a stupid thing to feel, doesn’t it? But facing your own mortality changes you. I was a different person for those last few days, someone I’m not anymore. It changed me, though. I’ve never been who I was before it all happened, either.
“Would you tell my parents I loved them? And Eliza, Sophie and Beth?” My family: father, mother, and the two older sisters. “And Lizzie, Stephen, Drew and Mackenzie.” My nieces and nephews. Oh, there were too many things I wanted to say-to friends, to old friends, to childhood playmates, to the woman I bought my coffee from every morning. We never talked, but she always smiled at me, and I always smiled back. My coworkers, even the annoying ones; even Luca, the handsome jerk I might have dated, if we hadn’t had to be coworkers. My mother’s friends, who all fussed over me just as much as they had when I was twelve and dressed up for Easter Sunday, two years before I started refusing to go to church at all; that had changed, later on. I was going to miss my nosey widowed neighbors. I was going to miss Gracie, but I wasn’t going to ask anyone, let alone the Decepticon-any Decepticon, but this Decepticon in particular-to give my dying words to my dog.
It was easier, in a way, that I didn’t have any children or a spouse, or even a serious boyfriend. I didn’t even have someone I’d dated more than twice within the past two, three years. I regretted that, suddenly, for the first time in a while. I was sorry I hadn’t gotten more filled in on my life-list, that I would never get up at six AM on a Sunday to drive out to the woods and hike, birding guide and binoculars close at hand.
It was painfully, horribly sad. I started crying, silently. It was almost like being driven out to the hut again, only this time it was the middle of the day.
“It’s good Mom’s got so many daughters. Having a close family will make it easier for them all. And Lizzie’s the only one of the kids who’ll really understand I’m dead. At the lab… They’ll need to find someone new. I did a lot of work for them. Although I heard they’re having budget troubles. Maybe they’ll just leave the spot open. I guess I’ll never find out our results in the frog lab. I knew that was going to happen-”
“Please-tell my mother to watch out for Gracie.” It wasn’t too far-fetched, I thought at the time: he was going to be at least somewhat involved in a broadcast, and what better way to build rapport with the public than to have me plead for my elderly mother to watch after my adorable pet? Then I realized who I was talking to. What he thought of humans. The contempt-
A human is always, first and foremost, human. You don’t meet people with a burning hatred of the species as a whole. Unless you meet Decepticons.
“Alright, so you won’t. That’s-oh God, this hurts.” I started crying in earnest, tears rolling down my face which was scrunched up with misery. I was starting to sob. “They won’t know. I won’t be able to tell them-not even my mother! Not my father, not my sisters-it’s been too long since I’ve told them I love them, because I do, I love them all so, so much-” My hands were digging into my arms, nails cutting into the flesh. “I don’t want to die like this. I wanted the chance to tell them-”
He never said a word, of course.
We drove so long I fell asleep, even with the way things were. It was uneasy, though, and I jerked awake as soon as the Decepticon pulled to a stop.
My heart froze. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, but what did that mean? I didn’t know if it mattered or not.
I think I made an involuntary, whimpering sort of noise, but I’m not sure. My memories are hazy with adrenalin and pure, undiluted fear.
All I could think was that I was going to die. There were peripheral thoughts-memories, people I would miss, things I would miss, I wondered what difference my life had made, and what difference it would make-but the one big thought, the thing that kept repeating, was that I was going to die. It’s probably evolutionary: you can’t ignore it when it’s that immediate.
We humans are preoccupied with death, aren’t we?
And over it all, I was numb. It’s not something that’s easy to understand, accept. I am going to die. Here and now. You just can’t-grasp it.
Did you know that you never stop wishing for that last-second miracle to save your life? No matter how unlikely, how absolutely absurd, it is.
“Get out,” he said, and he did. Either his voice was odd, the tone just-off, or my ears were, or my brain, or something like that. To this day, I’m not sure which.
I obeyed out of habit. I moved jerkily, slowly, but I moved. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. I was-and this is ridiculous-afraid to disobey because I was afraid to die. He was going to kill me anyway! I knew that! It was those last few seconds. When you’re down to the wire, you cling to whatever you have left. Those last few breaths. Your blood still pumping through your veins. Neurons firing and your body reacting. Nothing more-but nothing less-than that.
I couldn’t stand up. I lay on the ground instead.
The Decepticon transformed and knelt, drawing in closer to me. I know because I peeked, even though I’d had my eyes hidden-I didn’t want to see my actual end.
Having him that close to me was… Indescribable. That level of fear. It was like with the raven, although I knew that I wasn’t getting off that easy. Again, I wanted to yell at him. Just do it! I know I’m going to die, because of who you are and what some other human, some nobody I’ve never met, did to your old leader! And he had a stupid name!
I didn’t, though. Instead, I started shaking, almost hyperventilating. I think I was crying again-yes, I had to be, the tears were turning the dust beneath me to mud, it was smearing onto the cheek I had against the ground-but it isn’t very clear. All I could think about was death and the monster, still looming over me.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, voice quiet. He had to repeat it: the words didn’t sink in, the first time. I just didn’t understand the phrase. It’s like those nonsense sentences, the ones that are grammatically correct but just don’t make sense.
“-Don’t do this to me,” I said at last, turning roughly away. “Just kill me! You hate humanity, but-you don’t have to be cruel when you’re going to kill me anyways. Please. Just kill me-”
“I’m going to take you home,” he said, insistent. His hands hovered in the air, almost as if he was going to reach out and touch me. He didn’t, though. I wouldn’t have been able to take it if he’d tried to. “I am-I have reevaluated my loyalty to the Decepticon cause and my stand on humanity, and I will not kill you. You are-I hadn’t realized how very much like a Decepti-like a Cybertronian you are. I am, or I once was, a scientist as well. It would be…
“This isn’t your war. I won’t drag you into it. I’ll bring you home, and then I will contact the Autobots and inform them of the situation. I will be forced to avoid both them and the Decepticons, but… I am morally unable to continue with this plan. For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
I think I started laughing, out of sheer disbelief and hysteria, although maybe it was something more like sobbing. If it was laughter, it wasn’t very happy. Everything hurt, physically hurt, I just couldn’t take any more. It’s like everything I’d been dealing with, everything I’d been holding back, burst through at once.
I just couldn’t take it any longer.
He went away again. I don’t know how far: this time, I didn’t look. And after a while, he returned, but he just sat there. That didn’t make things any better.
After a while, I quieted. As I lay there, panting slightly, trembling with fear and exhaustion and disbelief, he just sat and watched.
I hated him then, too.
“I need to bring you home,” he said at last, and I was too tired to argue. I followed the order woodenly. (Order, although it had been phrased as a question, and the words themselves were simply an innocent statement.)
He brought me home. And he left. That was-unbelievable.
I took a shower, and let Gracie stand in the shower stall with me. Then I ate fried eggs, and fell into bed. I was so tired. It was emotional, beyond physical exhaustion. I was… Drained. Tired. Frantic, still, and half panicked.
I called my mother in the morning, when I woke up. She’d been frantic with worry. Later, she descended on the house with my sisters in tow. I was grateful when they left: I couldn’t deal with the chatter and the questions and the worried, disturbed glances they gave me when they thought I wasn’t looking.
One of them called the police. I was only lucky that one of my neighbors hadn’t called them the night before. Again, I answered a string of questions: where was I, what happened, was anyone else there? Are you sure? Anything else? Yes, officer, there was something else. It-he-was a robot.
I was supposed to be dead. I remember thinking that, too.
I made something up, of course. I tried to be as truthful as I could: I’d been in a hut in the woods, I don’t know how far, or where, what he’d made me do, how long I’d been there. I made up a captor, a human, and kept the details vague. I said I was in shock. That wasn’t a lie.
It helped that I didn’t know much at all about anything, whether I was being truthful or not. They gave me a list of recommended psychologists and left, looking blank or doubtful, depending.
I still looked awful. I took another shower, and put on another pair of clean clothes. I threw away the ones I’d had with me in the woods.
I’d lost the bird guide. That made me cry again, until Gracie came over, all worried, and that made me start laughing through the tears.
Work called: news had gotten out. My mother and my sisters, an unstoppable force. It was a Tuesday, and they all shouted at once through speaker-phone. I promised to be in as soon as I could.
I needed something to fill up time.
That first day I went to the grocery store and bought fresh things. I had fruit and fresh salad for dinner, just lettuce and tomato and cucumber, and absolutely nothing else. It was wonderful. That evening I put antibiotic ointment on a handful of infected bugbites, finally clean, and then cried myself to sleep. I let Gracie into the bed with me, too. I spoiled her rotten, those first two weeks back. Part of it was that I didn’t want to face sleeping alone, which made no sense. But I needed that living, breathing body next to me. It reminded me of where I was, when I woke up in the middle of the night.
They found my car. My real car, I mean. It had been crushed and left in a ditch. It mystified the police. I didn’t say a word.
It took six months, but I started to believe that the Decepticons weren’t coming back. Life had normalized, at least on the surface.
I still twitched at strange cars that seemed to be following me. And a few other things haunted me.
I never lost the love of-well, of everything that had come over me. That was the one thing I was glad of. If I hadn’t already been a biologist, I would have started classes. My job became a passion, not just something that consumed my life.
On some level, though, I never stopped believing that it was all a temporary reprieve. That, some day, it would all turn out to be some kind of sick joke. I know it sounds self-centered, but that paranoid fear paralyzed me, some days.
Three years later I could forget that it happened, throughout the day. It no longer weighed on my mind, wasn’t something I thought of constantly.
My life was… Average, in many ways. I dated casually for a while, then stopped. I didn’t have much free time. I still went for long walks with Gracie, weekends and whenever else I could spare the time, up in the mountains or at the very least in a big stretch of National Forest. I worked, and threw myself, body and soul, into that work: it was all-incredible.
A miracle.
It’s much harder to take your own life for granted when you’ve almost died. I’d been very, very close to dying for weeks on end. It… Changed me. It may sound trite, but I tried to live life fully. Not by doing things like skydiving or going to exotic foreign countries on vacation, but by finding joy in the world. …I’m sure I sound like some sort of hippy new-age flake, but it’s true. I didn’t want an exciting life. I wanted one that was-lived. Fully, and well.
I’m sure I was a much nicer person to have as a coworker. I still am, for that matter. Like I said, some things don’t leave you. And by then I could forget what had happened, sometimes, but it still touched me, in ways I didn’t expect and, doubtlessly, didn’t recognize. And still don’t.
It’s hard to see yourself clearly, because nearness dulls insight, in these sorts of matters. When you’re too personally involved, you can’t maintain neutrality. And what’s closer than who you are?
I started to believe it was over.
It’s never that simple, though.
I wish it was.
He came back.
The Decepticon.
I’d gone for a walk, or a hike, really. It was a Sunday morning. The morning had been ominously cloudy, but I walk year-round in the Pacific Northwest. If you let a little damp discourage you, you never go anywhere. It had started raining as I’d reached the trailhead parking lot. I’d decided it wasn’t worth it (it wasn’t like there were any birds stupid enough to fly in that much rain) and turned back early, and I arrived back at the end of the trail in absolutely pouring rain. It was hard to see all the way across the parking lot, so I didn’t notice him at first. He was the only other car there, other than my own. A new one, of course.
The rain was starting to peter off-of course, because I’d decided to call it a day-and there were only scattered drops from the tree branches overhead by the time I pulled out. Downpours are funny like that.
He blocked my way out. I paused, peering through the fogged-up car windows, trying to figure out why someone had parked right smack-dab in the middle of the road. I didn’t see it for what it was, someone (something) purposefully and actively blocking me in, because I assumed it was empty and parked. There was no driver, after all.
He’d switched his car form. He was something else unassuming and uninteresting, much like my own car but not the same make or model. I don’t even know if it was the same company. I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing. I didn’t recognize him, until he transformed.
I panicked. Of course. What else? I’d been right all along: it wasn’t over. It was all going to come back to haunt me, again. …I had Gracie in the car with me. Would he actually kill her, this time, instead of just telling me he had? He certainly wouldn’t put up with her if I was kidnapped again-Or maybe he was just going to kill off a loose end. If he wasn’t, if this was the start of something new, maybe this time I could kill myself-
He didn’t move. I got out of the car, moving in the slow-motion of horror: adrenalin made me clumsy, made my fingers thick and awkward. I almost fell.
I started crying. You couldn’t mistake it for rain.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I remember saying. It didn’t seem very fair. Why me? I wasn’t even very interesting! I’m still not, really. I’m no hero, to go out and save the world. I’m not even a very important scientist-I don’t work on ground-breaking life-saving cancer-curing research, or anything like that. We run redundant tests on frozen frogs, or, or-things like that. Nothing interesting. I like it that way. I personally think it’s all fascinating, but that’s just me. I know that, and I knew it then, too.
“…I’m sorry,” he said, lowly. “Again. But I-”
I wasn’t listening, not really. He seemed to realize that, and stopped talking. I was shaking, and kneeling in the mud and gravel that made up the road right now: my legs had given out.
“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured, and he sounded almost like he was trying to make his voice-so low, rough and growling-gentle, calming. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But I think it’s the truth.
That made me laugh, hysterical. I’d closed the car door behind me, and I could hear Gracie barking furiously, scrabbling at the window. That dog has all the sense of a bag of rocks. I love her for it.
“What will it take to make you trust me?” he said, and even though the words were out loud, I think he only meant them for himself. I replied anyways. I’d shaken my old habit of mindless, cowering obedience. I couldn’t face-what had happened happening a second time.
That just made me laugh harder, almost choking on that, and my sobs. “Trust? Trust? You were going to kill me! You kept me captive! You ordered me to-I was so scared! You can’t understand-you! You were my captor! Oh, just kill me now. I won’t go through that again! I won’t! I can’t, can’t-”
“I told you. I am a traitor to the Decepticon cause. They will kill me if they see me. Because I believe in your-your humanity. I won’t kill you, or any other member of your species, because you are sentient beings, with your own individual worth.”
“You expect me to believe that?” My tone was harsh, mocking.
He spoke very quietly, when he continued. It was hard to hear: his voice was so deep that it was swallowed up by the sounds of the near-by river. “It was you who changed my mind. I am also a scientist, and I had… I had forgotten why I had become one. You helped to remind me. And you… You did not act as a mindless drone acts. You have free will, even though you are carbon-based. You are capable of compassion, sorrow, joy. …Forgiveness.”
“Just kill me now. Please,” I said, again.
“I will not!” That made me jump, suddenly terrified. He never raised his voice-and he sounded so irrational then, so unbalanced-almost deranged. I cowered, there in the mud. It’s appropriate: I’m a coward. We can’t all be heroes.
“I won’t. I… Again, I am sorry. For your incarceration, and for… Disturbing you in this way. Again. I wanted to thank you, but…
“I’m sorry.”
He drove away. I sat there, cold and damp and dirty, until it started raining again. Then I drove home. It’s a miracle I didn’t get in an accident. I was in no condition to drive.
I fell into bed without thinking when I got home. I showered, ate, changed clothes, all in a daze, and then fell asleep. I woke up five times with ambiguous screaming nightmares.
I didn’t want to think. He had sounded too human, when we had talked. And he couldn’t be. That couldn’t have changed. And there was nothing but a monster in my memories of my incarceration. That was how he had put it. Such a good SAT-vocabulary word.
…Except for when he’d asked about the natural world, birds, other scientific questions. When he’d fed Edgar, the raven. I hadn’t known what to think when they’d been asked, had given rote answers and pressed it aside as whims a human couldn’t possibly understand, and I didn’t know what to think then, either.
I didn’t want to believe he was telling the truth. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But it’s true. It made things so much simpler. It…
He’d sounded lonely.
Even today, things would be easier if I’d just lived out the rest of my life, both scarred and inspired by my experiences, assuming he was some monster.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s-
This part of the story-my story-is the hardest part. Both for me, and for you, I assume, to understand. Because it’s-
I don’t know. But the Decepticon-in some ways, he became a part of my life. That sounds crazy. Doesn’t it? But I didn’t know what else to do but ignore him-again, it wasn’t like I could call the authorities; I couldn’t run-so I did ignore him. I just-pretended he wasn’t there. It was at least partly for my own sanity.
A year. I did that for a year. And I never saw much of him: maybe once a week, once a month, a quick glance. Nothing more. We never spoke. If I saw him I’d pretend I hadn’t, and sometimes I was even able to fool myself. I don’t think I ever fooled him. It still set off a panic reaction, although less of one, all the time…
He really didn’t do anything. It was starting to convince me. That, and familiarity breeds contempt, or at least changes your perceptions. It knocked the edges off my fear, like beach glass, dull and rounded from the sand and the waves.
I thought about his words-often. It seemed incredible, that he’d be changed by me. That he’d come to realize he’d been wrong. I couldn’t imagine the Decepticon who’d held me captive, as cruel as an earthquake and as human as one-so the cruelty was simply something that was; you don’t blame the earthquake for being what it is, even if you hate it for destroying your life, your home, your family, or for trying to-as a scientist: methodical, logical, devoted. I couldn’t imagine him ever feeling the-the love I felt. The love I feel, really.
He’d thanked me. He’d said he was sorry. Manners. Human manners. He was following human social customs and he was offering me-me!-a gesture of respect. Of repentance.
I still also thought it was all a trick, to get me to lower my guard. That was-illogical, really. They could just kidnap me, really, unless they purposely wanted me to trust them. But then it would just be easier to find someone new, someone who didn’t already hate them, distrust them, panic at the very thought…
For someone who’s loved science and worked as a scientist and nothing else since I graduated college, I was being remarkably unscientific. I was allowing my emotions to influence me, and strongly. That’s the way things should be, the way things have to be, in these kinds of situations. I wouldn’t be human if I’d reacted otherwise. Sometimes, you just need to be irrational.
Irrationality faded. Or rather, my panic did. It… Dulled.
I started wondering more about what he’d said. I could almost-almost-believe him. I wanted to believe him, really. Although I also didn’t. I wanted to believe I was safe, and that I’d made a difference. I didn’t want to have to face him. I didn’t want to have to believe he was telling the truth.
I stopped turning away when I saw him. Sometimes, I’d even watch him, almost, out of the corner of my eye, and more out of curiosity than out of fear. I stopped panicking at all.
That brings me to now. And now… Now, I’m writing this.
I’m going to talk to him tomorrow.
I guess I needed to tell someone the story, even if they never hear it, if it never gets read. It will be my autobiography if I die. Because I still can’t help but doubt: my memories are still-
Like I said. At the beginning, he was clearly hateful, clearly loathed humanity, every scrap of organic matter on this planet-but later. Later, sometimes he was… Unclear, confusing, in his actions and reactions. But I’ve said: that could just be time and doubt changing the memory. Adding nuance to what was clear-cut. Adding depth to a mirrored image-you can’t reach out and actually touch what’s being reflected!
I think, though, I think I just needed to tell my story. It’s been… A long time. Five years.
I haven’t told anyone. Except for Gracie. And you, now, I guess. Even if ‘you’ are only ever going to be me. Some stories aren’t meant to be told.
It’s why I’m not a hero. Even though I think I did make a difference-that it was me who made all this happen. Do you understand, now, that I’m not being particularly egotistical when I say that?-my story’s not meant to be told. It’s just for me. And for the Decepticon, I suppose.
I’m no one special. I’m just who I am. I just-I resonated, I suppose, with the Decepticon. It was enough to change him. (Or so he says. I suppose I believe him, now. But I also might die tomorrow, or some day after that-although I can’t see him dragging the charade out any longer than another day or two. Even if it’s been years, now.)
It was luck, I guess, pure and simple. That it turned out that just being who I am was enough.
That I was enough at all.
I suppose you’ll know. This might be the end. If I die, it just-
It’s the end of the story. A lot of stories end with death.
I didn’t die. I don’t think I will. And I think that that’s enough.
I waited outside my car when I pulled into the parking lot of my usual hike. He came, of course.
We talked. About birds, mostly. It was uncomfortable, awkward: I was still nervous, skittish, ready to panic. That’s normal.
He’d remembered what I’d had on my life list, five years ago. It’s changed now, of course. I’ve added a fair number of species.
So I suppose, even then, he was paying attention-
He has a name. I hadn’t thought about that. He’s not ‘the Decepticon.’ He’s not my captor. Or not just my captor.
Variance. His name is Variance. That’s… Kind of weird, really. It makes me think of somebody very wishy-washy, and then scientific variables. That, though, variables…
And I suppose ‘Variable’ wouldn’t make a very good name, would it?
Variance. I think I’m going to talk to him again. I don’t think he’s going to kill me at all. I’m… I’m not sure why. Or why I shouldn’t.
He says he saw a snowy owl once. I’m jealous.
--End--