The Bounty

by Theodore Lee

|1|

WHAT BECOMES OF THE BROKENHEARTED

You’re not good enough. Those four words often returned to Edwin Dorset, resonating in his mind as if from anywhere other than himself; at times, those four words were all that he could think about, all that he could hear when spoken to: “You’re not good enough.” Four words (or were they five words?) hammered into him as a child, having followed him into adulthood. Nagging and ever constant—his own existence, filtered through all the experiences he had in life—reaffirmed, conditioned by all that the world tossed his way, without him being aware of it. “You’re not good enough,” the world told him—voices from the past, voices from his own mind.

“You’re not good enough”—oh, such a blanket statement. . . .

Sometimes, Edwin wondered whether he was supposed to have been born at all. He had never belonged, truly, nor did he feel there was any purpose to his being. Could there be such a thing as purpose, after all, or destiny? If anything, he felt that his life until then had been nothing more than an inconvenience, nearing its expiration date. Though such thoughts were unfounded, though they did not have any base to hold onto, they latched onto him like parasites, refusing to let go. He was only twenty-three, and already he felt as if his life had passed him by, as if all that he could ever achieve, all that he could ever accomplish, had come and gone—as if he weren’t good enough for anything better.

Edwin had an inkling, however unwarranted, that he would die any day soon. Sometimes, a part of him desired death, that sweet lust for relief, and no matter how hard he tried to break away from that desire, he couldn’t get rid of it entirely—didn’t know how to get rid of that desire—because that desire, whether or not he liked it, was a part of him now, that inclination for self-destruction, as much as he was a part of it.

Edwin had no family, kin, or legacy to call his own; there was no one around to notice his absence—or at least, no one he could think of at that moment, trapped as he was in a mindset that kept him from thinking such clear thoughts. He felt too much inside, and he couldn’t understand why others didn’t. He was an outsider looking in and perhaps always had been. A drifter, searching for purpose, an excuse to live, a reason to exist in a world without purpose, without reason.

But there was still a desire within him—a desire for life, for better things. And he yearned for new memories—for a world outside his own, for a world where he mattered and where his actions had consequences. For a world where he could alleviate others’ suffering, a world where no one had to suffer at all.

And yet, what was stopping him from making such a change?

What was keeping him from the path that lay ahead?

Was it only himself . . . ?

Grief had followed him all these years, and as much as he tried to escape it, it always caught up to him. Hadn’t enough time passed since his brother’s death? Since his foster parents had come and gone, ever so quickly, hardly taking even a brief span in his life? If it was grief that he constantly felt—if it was grief that had followed him all these years—then the losses of Lamar and Mr. and Mrs. Kemp couldn’t have been the sole reason that he felt so crippled by despair. He had known this sorrow before those losses; it had been with him ever since he could remember, ever since his first memory. The anguish, that empty yearning for more, for something greater than what was given. This feeling had been with him from the very beginning.

But how could he feel such a loss for a life he had never had? A life that he might never have. It was seldom he could entertain any thoughts of a life outside his own, outside his present circumstances and the invisible box enclosing him, those emblematic walls of his own creation separating him from his full potential.

He wanted more.

An unseen future loomed ahead—a future he couldn’t see just yet.

But those four words (maybe five words) always returned to him: You’re not good enough. Such a baseless indictment, without the courtesy of any constructive criticism. Who was it in his mind that was saying he wasn’t good enough? And who the hell were theyto say what was “good enough”? Everyone had a different definition for what was good enough; hell, everyone had a different definition for what was “good.” And good enough for what? What was the criteria for being “good enough”? Was there a goal in existing to meet such a requirement? Why should anyone ever feel the need to apologize for their own existence, let alone for their lack of luck in life? Yet, those four stupid words (probably five stupid words) wouldn’t go away—they were ever internal, silent to all but the bearer. Edwin tried desperately to ignore them, but as of late, he was losing the battle. Again, he sometimes entertained the thought of putting it all to rest—of doing the unspeakable.

Such thoughts made him feel uneasy.

And with such thoughts came the images of those he would leave behind. He pictured the reaction of his unlucky roommates, Tommy and Marco, the moment that they found his body rotting away in his bedroom, its early stages of decomposition and deterioration in progress. He sometimes wondered how many days it would take them to realize he was dead were they not to stumble upon his carcass right away. Would it be a week before they smelled it from outside the room before deciding to investigate? He imagined the look of horror on their faces as they stepped into the room. (And would he have locked the door? He didn’t know, didn’t want to know, and didn’t even want to think about it.) No, he couldn’t do that to his roommates—offing himself in his apartment like that, leaving his body behind, only to force them to take care of it, all the while leaving them behind with that sick feeling of guilt for something they hadn’t been able to stop, had they just known how he was feeling, if only he had just reached out to them. . . .

Perhaps it was an inconsiderate thing to dwell on his own death—to sometimes want it. However involuntary it was, Edwin couldn’t let the desire for that sick lust for relief overtake him. He made an effort to war against such self-destructive ideation. He had made a promise long ago, and he couldn’t forget it: He would never end his own life, at least not willingly. And it was his goal to live up to that promise. No matter how much pain he had to endure. No matter how many times those four words (and, really, were they four words or were they five? perhaps if he were “good enough” he would know) kept returning, unwanted. Even though sometimes, no matter how much time or effort he put into fighting such self-destructive thoughts, he couldn’t get rid of that desire, not entirely. Because those four words (or five words, depending on how you looked at it) always came back to him. Those thoughts were a part of him now, a part of his DNA, and he was tired of the battle, that uphill climb that got only steeper with every year—the battle against his internal demon, as it was—that constant fight as of late to press onward, to not despair.

Edwin’s earliest memory in life, the first memory that he could pinpoint ever having (rather vividly, as well), had been one of pain. Suffering. He couldn’t remember how young he was. He could have been three, four, or maybe even five. It was a seemingly insignificant event among the many other events to enter his life, and yet this one event, this one seemingly insignificant memory in time, stuck with him for dear life, holding him captive even after all those years. And though he may not have realized it at the time, this one little memory, the first of many such memories, would dictate how he viewed things for the rest of his life (or, at least, a good part of his life)—a bit ironic that the experiences of a child could affect an adult’s perception of the known world around him. But perhaps, like any genuine work of art, or anything that moves you and keeps you alive, memory too cannot be judged rightly by a single glance; as with all experiences of existence, only a slight shift in perspective can change everything.

Before falling into the foster system, the child Edwin would explore the tracks behind his neighborhood on the outskirts of Oakland. He often went alone, not always out of choice but rather out of necessity; in fact, Vicky had always let Edwin roam on his own without questioning where he was or where he had been; the little guy often wondered if she even knew that he was gone at all. He usually left in a hurry whenever Vicky’s friends came over. He hated the putrid smell that surrounded them: cheap cigarettes and rancid sweat. He felt invisible when they were around, as if he were never there. They were strung out in the living room, Vicky among them, with needles in their arms and lobotomized looks. Whenever Vicky’s eyes were on him while she was strung out, he could never tell if she recognized him or not. Did she even know who he was? Who she was . . . ? Had she ever considered him her son? To this day, he still wondered what had become of her.

But on that day, just like the others, Edwin had nimbly climbed out of Vicky's bedroom window and scampered across an alley. Wooden fences aligned a narrow pathway, following alongside the apartments. The cluster of buildings were small and each identical, save for the lawns, which were strewn with litter. (No one seemed to bother, of course, and certainly not the landlords.) Edwin followed the scattered patches of grass rooting out along the broken pavement, and he imagined the grass coming to life, rushing forward before him, moving toward an unknown destination, an unknown adventure awaiting him. In those times, adventure followed Edwin wherever he went; the world was still new to him, every color bright, every emotion raw and unfiltered. But most of all, there was freedom to a life unburdened by an adult’s years of hardship, of an adult’s having to worry about tomorrow. For Edwin, there was only the now.

In his right hand, Edwin held a Superman toy, outstretched in a flying pose (albeit missing one arm). The Man of Steel donned his classic red and blue costume—the one with the red undies over the pants rather than under them. The toy had been a gift from Lamar the previous Christmas, and Edwin brought it with him everywhere. Sometimes running, sometimes walking, Edwin elevated the Superman toy high, moving it up and down in waves, as if it were soaring against the wind at a speed unfathomed.

But eventually, the alleyway ended, along with the edge of the apartments, and Edwin had finally made it to his destination. Aside from a long concrete wall covered with colorful graffiti running along the side of the tracks, there was nothing there but dirt, rocks, and overgrown weeds. It wasn’t a playground, not even close. But the sun was out, birds were flying, and the worries of the world seemed far away. Besides, at this point in his life, the tracks were Edwin’s favorite place to be—the only other place he felt safe aside from being with Lamar.

On the tracks, he spun in circles, holding out his toy in front of him with both hands. As he spun around, each step faster than before, the world around him faded, turning into nothing but a blur: nothing but the toy, nothing but Superman. And Edwin’s gaze remained fixed; he was mesmerized. A lightness swept over him, an overwhelming euphoria. Where it once had been silent, there now was music; where there once had been darkness, there now was light. And nothing else in the world mattered at that moment—nothing else even existed—except Superman, flying against a backdrop of self-induced motion-blur, soaring faster than humanly possible. Edwin imagined himself as the toy—as Superman—soaring to the rescue: up there, in the sky, outside the world of his daily life. The boy spun around and around and around, lost in the moment—an abandonment of everything but life itself. (Had he been laughing? He couldn’t remember. But that feeling of bliss, that feeling of being in the moment, caught in its wave, had remained in his memory—even after all those years, even when he didn’t know it was still there.)

His spinning quickened.

So much happiness. So much life.

It had happened so fast—just one misstep.

His head thudded back from the impact of the steel track. Stumbling away, the little one grabbed at his mouth with both hands. Taken aback, too shocked to scream, too shocked to feel anything. But suddenly, as if it had been waiting for an opportune time—without warning—there was a sharp pain at his gums. A stinging sensation, a burning that only intensified the more he let his thoughts drift to it. He imagined a knife wandering in his mouth, digging into his gums, and twisting deeper and deeper, experimenting with his nervous system.

Blood poured from the gaps where his two front teeth had once been.

There was so much pain. Too much all at once.

He screamed. A gut-wrenching cry that fell on deaf ears. His two front teeth lay somewhere among the rocks. A few feet away from them, the Superman toy also lay, alone and neglected. The joy that had been there mere seconds earlier had vanished. All that remained was a burning pain—and a helpless longing for someone to come and save the day. But no one came to save the day. No one else was there, no one but Edwin.

Edwin Dorset was to learn, much younger than his peers, that there was no shame in the struggle. No matter how hard things would get or how hopeless his situation would feel, there would always be that sweet promise for something better, that speck of light at the end of the tunnel to lead him onward. But what he hadn’t yet realized—or rather, what he hadn’t yet discovered—was that there was actually no light at the end of the tunnel, not really; whatever light he was searching for had perhaps all along been within himself.

• • •

Jack Claremont, the current owner of the Geekstarters comic book shop on Divisadero Street, had set up a record system in the back of the store, near the gaming area (between the board games and the tabletop miniatures). Vinyl, both known and obscure, adorned along two wooden shelves on the back wall, behind the gaming area, where the record player sat and a vinyl of Jimmy Ruffin’s Sings Top Ten spun under the needle. An interval of silence hung between tracks two and three. Until: “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” began to play across the store, starting with a low note on the piano like a bass (BUM, BUM BUM . . . BUM, BUM BUM) and a repeating kick on the drums.

Jack played whatever mood he felt at any given time, and his moods often jumped around periodically (in other words, quite a lot). As for his taste in music, Jack had no bounds. One moment he would play an orchestral score, operatic and epic in scope (very fitting, in fact, for the tabletop gaming communities that often frequented the store), but the next moment, he found himself playing KC and the Sunshine Band (and more often than not right before the weekend, in preparation for the nights he went out in full drag at the Castro, performing karaoke in loud, crowded bars with the occasional stand-up routine).

Jack’s father, Hans Siegel, had immigrated to America in the fifties (an entire decade before Jack was born). Using the inheritance he had saved, Hans changed his surname to Claremont and set up a shop in San Francisco, on the edge of the Haight-Ashbury district. What would later become Geekstarters had started as a shoe store decades before Jack had taken over from his father; but even then, from the start of the company’s inception back when Hans was still alive, to even now, there had always been music playing. “Music transcends every culture,” Hans had once told Jack as they drove along Market Street in a red Volkswagen Beetle with the top down and the radio blasting through the speakers. “You don’t have to speak its language to know what it says; you just have to feel it, to embrace it.” He smiled, looking down at Jack with a burning passion inside. “There’s music in all of us, Jacky—even in those who can’t hear it. Can’t you hear it? It’s playing everywhere.” 

Whereas Hans had been a small and delicate man, Jack had taken more after his mother, with a tall and broader build (his growing waistline brought on by years of cannabis use and an overindulgence in “munchies”). But where Jack and Hans’s appearances may have differed—aside from their dark eyes, which were nearly identical—with various aspects of difference brought on by the gaps in their age and the current zeitgeist of the time, the two shared a love for life and a desire to live to the fullest, without any regrets. Jack and Hans had an energy to them when they walked in a room that immediately caught your attention. No matter what they did in life, no matter how small the feat, their one goal remained the same: To make the world a better place while doing it—all that and, of course, their shared love of music.

Jack hoped to extend his father’s legacy. Hans had always welcomed those who were different, who didn’t fit the norm. As an immigrant, he understood what it was like to be an outsider looking in. Whenever searching for new employees whom he could trust, Jack always tried to follow the model set by his father. To look within, not without, and to find the best internal virtues that were exhibited externally. Jack was proud of those who had worked for him in the past, along with the many accomplishments they would go on to achieve in life; one of them was now a famous film director, and another an accomplished porn star. Sometimes, Jack wondered if his life meant anything, but then when he saw that at least someone he’d influenced had accomplished their dreams eventually, well . . . he then figured that his life couldn’t have been meaningless after all (even if one of those dreams had been to be a porn star). It was Jack’s philosophy that even if he did live a mundane, boring, nine-to-five life, he could at least try to make a difference in someone’s life—and maybe, just possibly, influence the next Charles Darwin or Martin Luther King Jr. to grace the world. Posterity was the name of the game: If the person Jack helped today could help the person of tomorrow, what would that mean for the future and the eventual domino effect of good deeds? Sure, there was a part of Jack that could have been overthinking the simple impact he had on his employees’ (and even customers’) personal lives, but hey, he was an optimist, and a vast part of himself, that part of himself that saw a half-empty cup as filled to the brim, liked to think differently.

Jack Claremont watched as Edwin Dorset wheeled in the last of the new shipment on a red dolly. Edwin wore a black Geekstarters polo, dark jeans, and sneakers. The young man had brown skin, a dark shade, and was slim, much shorter than Jack; he was handsome and possessed the eyes of someone older than he was. When Edwin parked the red dolly (three boxes stacked atop it) near the break room door, he eyed Jack, realizing that Jack had been watching him from behind the counter.

“The driver wouldn’t let me sign the paper,” Edwin said, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. “He said you have to sign it.”

Jack looked past the front windows, outside the Geekstarters store at Divisadero Street, the white van resting by the curb with its hazards on, and the driver sitting within it, looking back impatiently. “That’s the new guy, isn’t it?” Not wearing his contacts that day, Jack couldn’t quite see the driver’s face.

Edwin nodded. “Patrick, I think is his name.”

“‘Patrick,’” Jack repeated under his breath, almost absentmindedly. “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick . . .” He glanced again at Edwin across the counter, standing with his arms folded, still watching Jack. There was a clouded look on his face—thinking, dwelling in his head.

Edwin Dorset had started as a customer at Geekstarters five years earlier, and he had been an employee for at least three of those years. As long as Jack had known him, he had never once thought of him as someone broken or “not good enough”; sure, Jack knew that Edwin sometimes struggled with his mental health (as anyone often does), but whatever internal demons he faced, he kept them well hidden. Out of all the employees working there, Edwin remained the most punctual. He remembered customers’ names and treated anyone who came in as if they were his friend (Jack was certain that he truly did see them as his friend); he smiled often while conversing with others (less often now than before, however), but there was nothing fake about that smile—no hidden motive or agenda behind it that Jack was aware of (and Jack had an eye for such a thing). Edwin listened more than he spoke, but even when he spoke, he spoke as one far ahead of his years. What made Edwin stick out to Jack, though—far more than the others who had worked at the Geekstarters comic book shop—was their shared love of music. Music, and their impartial taste in graphic novels. Perhaps Jack was biased, but Edwin remained one of his favorites—out of all his employees, past and present (a favoritism that only one who was biased could have).

Jack pressed Edwin again about the shipment’s paper. “Did you tell the guy—what was his name again? Patrick?—that he doesn’t need me to sign it?”

Edwin nodded.

Jack smiled. “And he didn’t believe you?” 

Edwin nodded again.

“Ohhhh,” Jack said dramatically, rubbing his hands together, his grin broadening. “I forgot: You’re a Virgo.” He shook his head, laughing. “You Virgos don’t always speak your mind.”

“I can tell him again on my way out,” Edwin said, almost apologetically. “I’ll tell him you don’t need to sign it, and if he keeps insisting, I’ll just leave—he was being an asshole anyway, so I don’t feel bad about it.” Edwin’s eyes wandered away, scouring the empty store. Perhaps seeing if he could do anything more before he left—he always liked to stay busy, Jack noticed. A guilt complex, perhaps (Jack had had one as well at that age). “Am I good to go now?” Edwin asked. “Do you need any more help?”

Jack wondered why Edwin wanted to go home so early; he hadn’t yet worked half his shift, and unlike the others, he usually jumped for the chance of overtime. But for such a rare request, Jack figured there was probably a good reason he’d asked to leave early. Luckily for Edwin, the store had been empty most of the day (a fact that wasn’t so lucky for Jack), which gave Jack further incentive to grant the young man his wish. There would come a time in Jack Claremont’s life when he would come to terms with the realization that this would be the last time he ever saw Edwin Dorset again. (Some days, he would think of Edwin as the son he had never had.) Jack set his hand on Edwin’s shoulder and gave him a kind, reassuring smile, hoping that whatever it was that was going on in Edwin’s life, whatever it was that was keeping his mind so preoccupied, so distant from the world, it would all work itself out, and that whatever came next, big or small, would only get better from here on out. (As I said, Jack was an optimist.)

“Get some rest,” Jack told Edwin. “I’ll see you Monday.”

• • •

With his brown messenger bag slung across his shoulders and both hands in his jacket pockets (a black and yellow letterman that had once been Lamar’s), Edwin Dorset walked along Divisadero, staring absentmindedly at his feet, one foot after the other, lost in wordless thought. His mind was elsewhere—neither dwelling on the past nor on the future; there was an emptiness there, a paralyzing numbness.

He turned right at the corner of Haight, where the street sloped into a vigorous climb. If Edwin had any desire to go home, he would have kept walking on Divisadero until the street turned into the Castro, and from there he would have taken the Muni underground to West Portal, and from West Portal he would have boarded a bus, which would have then taken him to Daly City, adding another half hour or more of transportation—all in the heat of rush hour, as was the reality of commuting to and from work in such a city, given that he had no driver’s license, car, nor any other affordable option than to commute using public transportation. But he had no intention of going home at that moment—not yet, anyway. He didn’t want to be home right now; quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted just yet. So, he continued walking up the hill, regardless of whether he knew where he was going.

The air was crisp—a cool chill for late spring. Even at the height of summer, Edwin had learned to keep a spare jacket with him wherever he went—the idea tourists had of strolling half-naked to the beach on a hot summer’s day was foolish in San Francisco; its weather had an unpredictability to it relative to where you were in the city. The sky was clear, albeit with a few white clouds. The clouds moved fast, though, and a strong wind scattered fallen leaves along the sidewalk, moving in front of him as if guiding him onward. Colorful Victorian-era townhouses lined both sides of the street, and after a block, he could see Buena Vista Park ahead, on his left-hand side, across the street, and on another large hill, a thick patch of grass covered by trees beyond it.

He quickly crossed the street to get there without a moment of hesitation.

At the outer edge of the park, a brick stairway led upward into a dense forest and a steep climb before forking into two separate pathways. Edwin followed the left path, a set of stone stairs that continued to ascend, rising toward the top of the hill into a land of greenery. The farther he continued along the pathway, the denser the trees became (eucalyptus, cypress, and pine, among others); and eventually, he could see nothing past the trees. At least, nothing else but ferns, grass, and the path—the path that had now turned into a dirt road, with the occasional wooden stair to help ease the climb.

A lone bench rested on the hillside, and an opening in the trees revealed a part of the city in the distance. A little out of breath, Edwin sat on the bench and stared in awe at the view. He could see the Golden Gate Bridge, way out in the distance, along with the Pacific Ocean and Marin County behind it. There was a nice spot on the beach over there, right below the Golden Gate Bridge, where he liked to read sometimes, atop the rocks (few people were ever there, too . . . although it could have had something to do with it being a nude beach, but he wasn’t entirely certain); only a few spots in the city rivaled seeing the Golden Gate Bridge like at Marshall’s Beach, and for a place so close to his work, he figured that the view on this bench, up on Buena Vista Park, wasn’t half as bad.

It’d be a nice place to take a date, he thought, plopping his messenger bag onto his lap. How long had it been since he’d had a date now? He shook his head, finding it a trivial question; he didn’t care about trivial things. Opening his messenger bag, he pulled out a leather-bound journal from within, along with an ink pen, and started scanning through a few of the pages. The pages consisted mostly of sketches, though there was some writing now and then, and yet nothing incredibly personal, at least not unless you knewhim—and few ever truly knew him anymore.

He stopped at the page he’d left off, opening up the journal until the spine was flat. Lamar’s face covered an entire page in black ink. Edwin’s brother had always encouraged him to pursue his art; it was only fitting that he had now become it. Regretfully, Edwin had never possessed any photos of Lamar; he had to draw him from memory, exactly how he had last seen him, or at least the closest he could get to from his memory (he truly doubted if he remembered every little detail). On the page across from Lamar’s face was the number 15 in black ink, along with the date of the drawing.

The anniversary of Lamar’s death. Fifteen years ago. To this day.

Has it been that long? Edwin wondered. He suddenly felt a pang in his chest. Even at twenty-three, Edwin shared a strong resemblance to how his brother had looked at seventeen. At the time of his death, Lamar had been nine years his senior—now Lamar was six years younger than he was. I’m older now than he ever was. The discomfort in Edwin’s chest partly subsided, but with that slim relief came a numbness—an apathetic paralysis, arresting him in its grasp. I’m older now than he’ll ever be.

He didn’t feel like drawing anymore. He had no desire to do anything at that moment. Any thought of a world without Lamar crippled him. He thought he’d moved past this. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to remember the pain of losing him all over again. Of living in the past, of feeling the guilt of being left behind. The feeling that it was all his fault. Lamar wouldn’t want him to feel that way. The world had moved on. It was high time Edwin moved on as well—that was what his brother would’ve wanted.

But how can I move on when there’s nowhere left to go?

He reexamined the page with Lamar on it. He could almost hear his brother’s voice speaking directly from it. “Only you carry what’s inside of you.” He had already forgotten Vicky’s voice, but Lamar’s he remembered perfectly, as if it were only yesterday. “Make the world a better place, Little Brother. . . .”

He closed the journal.

Edwin shut his eyes and thought of the times when Lamar would visit. Even though he had never had a dad, Lamar did have a dad, which made Lamar’s visits that much rarer after his brother had to move to Sacramento to be with his dad. Lamar would bring Edwin comics each visit, though, whenever he could see him. Eventually, Edwin had accumulated a decent stack of them—a collection of DC and Marvel comics, among other, lesser-known brands. Those comics had kept him company after Lamar died. His favorite was Uncanny X-Men—stories about outsiders and mutants, supposed “freaks” hated by society and yet fighting with everything they had in order to save it. The original X-Men comics had started during the civil rights era, by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, about communities ostracized at the time; in a weird way, Edwin supposed that through these stories, he had adopted an altruistic worldview greater than any he had ever learned from anywhere else. In a way, superhero comics had become his religion, and he aspired to be just like his heroes, those modern mythological gods—and whatever trial he faced through life, no matter how hard it was, his heroes had suffered far worse.

(“Make the world a better place, Little Brother”)

He wondered how many other kids in America (or perhaps even in the world) had learned better virtues from stories rather than from any parental figure—he was sure he wasn’t the only one. The thought was a little disheartening, but Edwin knew of no other life than his own; even without Lamar, he had always had his stories to keep him going. Literature, movies, and graphic novels—did any of the writers, directors, or artists realize just how pivotal their art was to sustain humanity? (To keep those like Edwin from killing themselves?) Perhaps he was oversentimental, or perhaps there were others like him, but he was certain that without their stories, without their art, he would have never known a world where good triumphs over evil, where love conquers hate, where the hero ends up with the one they love. But life wasn’t so black and white: Reality had a different story to tell, and it liked to take its time.

And what’s my story?

A long time ago, Edwin would have considered himself a storyteller. He’d always wanted to be a comic book artist. It’s what he had gone to college for—at least, before dropping out. He used to draw comics all the time as a child, even into his late teenage years. Sometimes serious, though mostly comical. He’d never realized how violent those drawings were from his adolescent years, until he’d grown much older, and now, with hindsight, he saw that his adolescent expression of art revealed a troubled time in his life. Many troubled times. But somewhere along the line, he had lost his passion for telling stories, his passion for his art, and maybe even his passion for life itself.

He still wished that he had his drawings from when he was a kid. They had been everything to him, but he had lost them. Twice. His drawings got destroyed the first time, and the ones that weren’t in his backpack got lost in the fire, all on the same day. He wasn’t there for the fire, though—or at least not during the aftermath of it. . . . By then, the authorities had already taken him away. The same day his backpack was stolen, the day that Lamar died. Fifteen years ago.

Fifteen years of waiting, he thought. But waiting for what? For things to get good? For things to get better? It had been fifteen years since then, and it was high time that he should have moved on. But move on to where? Where was there left to go? There was so much to do in life, so much still to accomplish. If only I could see tomorrow. . . . 

High above, the faint outline of the moon could be seen in the sky: a white specter, half-fading on a blue canvas. Edwin gazed up, lost in thought, letting his imagination drift off to anything but reality. He wondered what it would be like to walk on that surface, looking up at an endless ocean of black, gazing up at Earth as he now did the moon; there was something special about that image in his mind, something important and meaningful. But what makes seeing Earth from the moon any more significant than seeing the moon from Earth? Is it only a perspective thing? Technically, the likelihood of Edwin’s existence was far rarer than any of either view, given that he had evolved from the Earth itself. And if that’s the case, and everything I am comes from the Earth, making methe Earth. . . . what, then, are my chances of ever leaving it? His thoughts continued to drift; he sometimes liked to think of the hypothetical, but it’s not like he would ever step foot off the Earth before he died—not unless he were in a plane, or literally falling to his death. The chances of him ever leaving Earth grew increasingly low. Still, there was something majestic about the idea: the idea of leaving the familiar and walking into the unknown, somewhere no one had been before. An undiscovered place that only a few dared to enter. Edwin imagined himself being one of the few; in many ways, reality would have a strange way of exceeding his expectations.

• • •

As the sun began to set, a tear in the sky ripped open.

Copyright © 2024 by Theodore Lee 

All rights reserved.