Contingent (The Brain Stays) by ToothyMaw

They say time runs in a single direction.

I say time is contingent.

What is the ticking of a clock, a revolution around a sun, if not change? And if time is indistinguishable from change, then what distinguishes the chaotic movements of a well-thrown knuckleball from its own future state after being struck soundly with a bat?

Magnitude.

This is my manifesto, and I record it in the moments after my capture. I never would have thought I would be the type to write such a thing, but I find that I have been surprising myself quite a bit lately - severe frontal lobe damage and all that.

For example, it is surprising to find that you suddenly and intensely desire to hear women scream in pain and to set dogs on fire, but to find that you were in love with a woman that you couldn’t bring yourself to approach? Of course, we all know each other on the ship, but I didn’t tell her my feelings yet. Well, I seize life by the balls. Or at least I do now. And no amount of early twenty-first century power metal will teach one to do so - much to my former self’s detriment.

[i]That seems to resonate somewhere deep down - power metal. That’s what Frank used to listen to. Serenity. Kamelot. The names come to my lips, yet they are unfamiliar. I also do not know who Frank is, but vivid images are conjured into my mind: he is tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired. He wears military fatigues and is saluting. His broad, easy smile betrays his kindness, a sincere farewell. He looks like…Erika?

I shake off the memories and the accompanying sensations - nostalgia tinged with nausea - and keep writing.[/i]

So, what did I do once I figured out just how much I used to love this Erika? I worked myself into her good graces. I brought coffee and dessert rations to the doctor’s office when my janitorial work took me there. Like checking items off a list, I endeared myself to this unknowing bitch just so I could fuck her.

She came to my unit last night crying, makeup smeared. She told me her father was arrested and charged with terrorism, that he had plotted to blow up the big statue of Mackey in Folger’s Square back on Earth. She said she knew he was anti-federation, but also that he loved her and that he wouldn’t leave her after sobering up. She asked me to never abandon her like the rest had.

[i]“Sure, turn your back on me,” says a deep, rough voice. “That’s all you’re good for anyways. You never could deal with the consequences of your actions, you little whore.” It is father, drunk again. He leans in and grabs me. I can smell his fetid breath. “Your brother is in hell, you know. Broke your mama’s heart dyin’ in that war and now he’s in hell. I say good riddance.” I start to sob and break free from his grasp, then rush out the front door. I run along the cornfields until the bones in my feet hurt. Eventually I stop and stare at the stars. How I wish I could escape to some distant Eden, so far from the cruelties of this world.

I recoil from the intruding memory. Is this Erika’s past or mine? Why…? Anyways:[/i]

I didn’t know if I was going to laugh or vomit. Her fifty-year-old dad was going to strap a bomb to his fat ass to destroy a statue?

I told her I would always be there for her and took her head in my hands and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then I read her a poem I wrote on a napkin sometime prior:

“WINGS:

Blackened and white, four wings flitting

Supersensory signals, not quite committing

In one moment no longer two birds of a feather

In another moment both tethered

To the same stake

Until time has sate

This skein”

Erika began crying again and nestled her head against my chest. She told me it was the most beautiful poem she had ever heard. Then we had sex.

When it was over we laid on my bed and talked and smoked cigarettes until the early hours of the morning. Eventually Erika fell asleep. I eyed her ample curves outlined under the loose white sheets. She seemed at peace. Serene. She would awaken the same person, the same clingy bitch. I grew agitated, stinging doubts crawling through my mind like fire ants. I got up and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I didn’t recognize the man I saw, but I knew he was dead, although not empty, inside. A monster. A created monster.

I returned to the bedroom, lit another cigarette, and studied Erika’s gentle breathing. How easily her innocence - the tempo of her very life - could be snuffed out. I put out my cigarette and wondered what it would feel like to wrap my hands around her slender neck. A little surprised, I looked at those calloused hands. Whose were they really?

Then I saw it clearly - Erika’s was a false love, a long line of displacements. I would kill this woman merely to make a point: no one escapes tragedy unscathed. The universe had provided no such succor for me.

So I did it. I strangled her and then vented her out of an airlock.

Is that what all of you secretly wanted to hear? That I used her for sex and then murdered her? Does that upset you?

If so, here’s a poem for you:

“War criminals kill tens of millions

I killed one bitch

Fuck you”

[i]I can’t really tell time or remember certain types of things for long since the accident, but I’m not too worried. They’ll let me out of here eventually. I just wish I had my watch to tell the passage of time.

I regret what I did. I really do. I wish to god I could be free, free to love, but father made sure that that wasn’t an option. It couldn’t have been any other way.

Well, I’d better post this file on the net, lest it be read and deleted. The people will eat this shit up. I should’ve thought to do something like this sooner.

I hear something. Oh shit - they’re going to vent the unit! They’re -

…

Holy shit. So that’s what it's like to be spaced. Why am I back here? Oh god…they wouldn’t.

The sim pods. I’m totally -

…

FUCKING GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER

If they space me again, I’m going to fucking lose it. I can’t do this. One hour in a sim is, what? One minute in the real world? Fucking bastards. Must have knocked me out or edited my memory.

But someone had a roll of being spaced?

Erika?

Cock sucking vigilante motherfuckers. I get it. Your bosses wanted to see if I was a liability. Oldest play in the book. Well, you sure as fuck -

…

Why is this happening? Why me? Why can’t I just die? Godammit Erika, why can’t you stop being so fucking easy?

…

Oh god, I understand now. Is that not enough? Can we stop reliving it? I’m not my father. I swear I’m not my father. I’m just me. And I want this to end. So stop the memories. The changes.

…

[b]A catfish nailed to a barn-door. It flails in desperation.

…[/b]

I FUCKING KILLED HER AND I FUCKING ENJOYED IT! FUCK ALL OF YOU!

[b]…

A catfish nailed to a barn-door. Father strips off its smooth skin while it flails in desperation.

…[/b]

I’m better-sorry. I’m always sorry. Please stop. Just stop. I can’t take any more. I’m always so sorry. But I did what I did. And I’m still always me - and I’m always Erika, too. But who am I really? A trick, that’s what it is. Time tricked me. Tricked me into believing I could make the world bend to my will. Of course I did, but was it worth it? Is this what people want when they talk about justice? Oh god, I’ve done it again, Lady Justice. I used your forever-name; a constant. Like Erika.

[b]…

A catfish nailed to a barn-door. Father strips off its smooth skin with a long, skinny filet knife while it flails in desperation. Once it is done, he turns around and smiles at me. “This is a good catch, Erika. Your mother will be impressed.” I struggle to contain my unease as I look into his eyes. They are two deep black holes.

…[/b]

The brain stays. The body is…immaculate. Erika and I have become something more but less, some horrible abomination. The memories won’t stop, and I suspect they never will. I was so wrong, yet so right…[/i]

I can’t stand. I can’t think. Over and over. I have no idea how many times I’ve died. I think I am dead. I crawl on the floor and write this with quivering hands. Is this proportionate? All I know is:

the brain stays.