Interpretation

by Dylan Callens

  When Carl opened the door to his apartment building, a dim light splashed its way through the opening. At first, he was thankful to see more detail; then, he noticed thick grime covering the floor. Years of dust built up on every ledge. Large holes in the drywall exposed metal joists with wires running near them. Light fixtures were missing; lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, most of which were dead. The worst part, however, was the scent of mold and urine. He tried to bring an arm up to his nose, but the pain in his shoulder forced the limb back down to his side. While Carl wanted to go back outside to escape the stench, he knew that he must push forward. He was so close to finding some answers. Hanging on to that thought, he did his best to ignore the smell.

  Carl pressed the elevator button, unsure if it would work. The lift roared to life, clanging its way closer until it came to a sudden stop. The heavy doors screeched open, causing Carl to wonder how anyone could sleep through the racket. He couldn’t recall the elevator ever making more than a whisper. It used to be sleek, gold trimmed, designed as if made for royalty. Now it looked like a wooden coffin lined with scratches and dirty hand prints. What was once an ivory button with the number four etched in gold was now a piece of metal sticking out of a circle. The doors slammed shut. The cab hurled upward, shimmying from side to side. Carl stuck his hand against the wall to steady himself, making contact with something sticky. He wiped his hand along the side of his pants but couldn’t get the gummy substance off. With a jolt, the elevator came to a stop, causing Carl to stumble. The door flung itself open and he was happy to get out of the death trap.

  Carl guessed that it was nearly two weeks since he last saw Liam, though he couldn’t be sure. The days and nights blended into this one moment, frozen as he faced the door to his apartment. The off-white plywood door looked nothing like the beautiful mahogany that he remembered. Taking a deep breath, Carl turned the doorknob and walked into the place he once called home.

  An old refrigerator. A foldable card table in the kitchen. Emptiness. The deep couch, the plush leather rocking chair, the Exoche. Everything’s gone, Carl thought to himself. He figured that his belongings wouldn’t be as nice as they once appeared, but sadness shrouded him. He hoped that everything would still be here, to indicate that Liam stayed in the apartment. His shoulders slumped with defeat. He imagined that Liam was orphaned into the system. Carl had no idea where to begin looking. This would be a more difficult journey than he hoped.

  While Carl mulled over his next steps, he opened the fridge. Smacking his dry lips together, he hoped to find something to drink. He swung the door open, noting how broken down the machine looked compared to the one which glittered with a mixture of family photos, news reports, and advertisements from an Exoche.

  Carl’s mouth dropped when he found bar after bar of the same curd bricks that were served to him at Bedlam, each one wrapped in clear plastic and piled like gold. On the top shelf sat a jug of translucent brown liquid. He pulled the jug out, unscrewed the cap, and took a whiff. Sure enough, the pungent odor of rotten eggs clawed its way into his nose. Carl shook his head, disappointed by the find but overruled by his thirst. He tilted the jug back, drinking until water seeped out the corner of his lips and down his chin. Droplets splashed on his blood-stained shirt.

  When he couldn’t handle the flavor anymore, he placed the jug on the kitchen table, letting the familiar aftertaste of sulfur rise in his throat. Reluctantly, Carl grabbed a brick of curd. While he hoped for something more flavorful, the rubbery slab would have to do. After tearing off a chunk, he set out to wash his wounds in the bathroom sink.

  Mold and mildew clung to the bathroom ceiling, working its way down the walls. Thick grime stuck to the sink. Carl sighed, thinking about the robotic maid he bought years ago. He remembered seeing the machine washing floors, scrubbing toilets, cooking food – whatever he wanted done. He couldn’t believe that his senses were so fooled as to believe that this machine existed. The evidence stared at him; the washroom was never cleaned. Nor was the rest of the apartment in any better condition.

  Carl stripped down and turned on the tap for the shower. The pipes rattled before spitting out more sulfer-ridden brown water. Carl slumped forward with the realization that this water was probably the same that he drank. No matter, he had to get as clean as possible, even though he figured that his cuts were probably already infected. He just hoped that it wouldn’t turn into something that required medical attention because that, he knew, would be problematic.

  The water shot against his weary body like ice. There was no hot water whatsoever. He used his hands to wash away as much dirt and blood as he could. As he spun around, water hit his chest. A quiet yelp escaped his mouth. He let the water run down the deep gash on his chest for as long as he could. Even though the water froze him, he stuck his face in the stream, letting it run through his matted hair. Despite its frigid temperature, the sensation of water cleansing him made him feel less like a stray animal.

  Water, clouded with dirt and blood, dripped off of Carl. As soon as it started to run clear, he decided it was time to get out. Time to try and patch up his wounds.

  Brown stains and patches of black mold on the towel weren’t appealing, so Carl chose to drip dry instead. He wiped the cracked mirror to get some of the dust off, then looked deep into his own eyes, saddened by how sunken his face looked. He shook his head. It was time to focus. Carl examined the cuts along his arms and shoulders. They looked clean enough, though reddened around the edges. Then, he focused on his chest. The cut looked like parted lips with a tongue sticking out of the middle. He pressed a finger along the bottom, which caused him to bare his teeth with discomfort.

  Carl remembered seeing surgical tools that would seal wounds like this together. He didn’t know what they were called, but wished he had one. They probably don’t exist, anyway, he thought to himself. Instead, he needed to stitch the wound together. Looking around the bathroom, he didn’t expect to find any needles or thread. Carl recalled one drawer in the kitchen where he stored stray items. Naked, he strolled back into the kitchen to rummage through the drawer.

  Pencils, a flashlight, some kind of old device with numbers on it – all items that Carl didn’t remember seeing before. He continued to dig through scrap pieces of paper, plastic baggies, and a few archaic toy cars – he remembered seeing pictures of automobiles in school. From the back of the drawer, Carl pulled out something round. A grey circle with no middle. He looked around the edge of the object, rubbing his finger along it, finding a bump which he picked at. The underside stuck to his finger. He peeled the thin grey strip further to find that the strip stuck tightly to his skin.

  Bringing the object back to the bathroom, Carl started to peel the piece even further until he felt it was long enough, then carefully tore it off. He set the round object aside and proceeded to pinch the wound together with his free hand. With a grunt, Carl held it tight as he stuck the tape to his skin, pulling it as firmly as he could, trying to keep the skin together as he went along. He continued to tear off strips of tape and fix his wound the best he could. When he was done, he wasn’t sure if it was good enough. Even though the wound felt like it was pressed tightly together, there was no way for him to tell for certain. At the very least, the cut looked more protected. Carl put some of the tape on the deeper cuts around his shoulders, too. He slid the roll of tape over his hand, wanting to keep the item with him, in case he needed some more.

  Walking down the hall, Carl entered his bedroom, hoping to find clothes. A large pile sat in the corner. The clothes stank of sweat and were stained with dirt. Yet, the items were far cleaner than the blood-caked garb that he previously wore. He chose the cleanest clothes in the pile. Before putting them on, he laid back on the floor and thought about what his next step should be.

  If Liam was taken in as an orphaned child, where did orphaned children go? He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for children who lost both parents. In fact, while he could recall one or two discussions on the
topic, he never saw an orphan before. There was always one parent and one child. Always. Even stranger, now that he considered it, it was always a girl with a mother or a boy with a father. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the genders mixed. And never were there two parents.

  Carl slid the half-dirty shirt over his head as he tried to think of counter-examples. Faded memories of people in the mall, or during a Supreme Combat fight. But no, it was always one parent and one child. So, if there were no parents, where did the children go? He pulled his pants up, trying to come up with answers.

  Bang!

  Carl bolted to attention. “Liam?” He rushed towards his son’s room. He pushed the plywood door wide open, letting light push its way into the bedroom. Carl could see an emaciated boy laying on the floor; the one that Carl remembered hovering over him before he passed out during the Supreme Combat fight. Carl knelt down beside his son. He took his first good look at how Liam really looked: dark tangled hair, dirt smudged on his face, cheek bones trying to escape thin skin that stubbornly clung to his visage. A tear escaped Carl’s eye while his breath wavered against the silence.

  Carl put a hand on Liam’s shoulder and rocked him gently, trying to break his slumber. “Liam,” he whispered, “Liam, wake up. It’s me, your dad.”

  Liam rolled onto his back. His eyes still closed, he mumbled, “No, my dad’s at work.”

  “No Liam, I’m right here.”

  ”What?” Liam mumbled, “why are you home already?” He opened his eyes half way to see the man hovering over him. The peaceful expression of sleep drained from his face, replaced by a magnificent fear, as if he was witnessing his own death.

  Carl took his hand off of Liam. “What’s wrong?” he asked, shuffling back on his knees.

  Liam mouthed something inaudible, crawling back against the wall, tears welling up in his eyes. His breath became pants that caught in his throat.

  “Liam, it’s okay. It’s me, your dad.”

  Shaking his head, the expression of his imminent death still plastered to his face, Liam tried to speak, “No. Please, no.”

  “What’s wrong?” The horror spread to Carl.

  Liam pushed his feet hard against the floor, using the wall to slide himself up to his feet. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Why would I kill you? I’m your dad.” Carl raised himself to his feet, opening his arms for an embrace.

  “Help,” Liam shouted, “Help! The Executioner is here!”

  “Liam, what are you talking about?” Carl asked, taking another step back.

  “It’s Carl Winston, someone please help!” His shouts became louder, his desperation shaking the walls. “Help!”

  Carl heard footsteps rumbling from the room above. “Liam, no,” his voice wavered as tears cut down his cheeks, “I’m your dad.”

  “Help!”

  A set of footsteps came to the door. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

  Carl stepped part way out of Liam’s room to look towards the front door; it was his neighbor. The man called out, “It’s Carl Winston! Call the police! Quick.”

  Carl swung around to look at Liam cowering in a corner. He tried to get through to him one more time. “Liam, please come with me. I’m your dad. I won’t hurt you.”

  Liam pressed himself harder into the corner, calling to his neighbor, “Mr. Lang, please, save me!”

  Lang, however, was backing out of the door. “Someone already called the constables, Liam.” He turned to talk to a different neighbor who also came to see the commotion. “It’s The Executioner. He’s here, in our building. There’s an Untruther in our building.”

  Digital noise, akin to an old air raid siren, crept into the background, slowly getting louder. Carl had to leave. Now. He pleaded with Liam one last time, “Please Liam, I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m your dad. Come with me, before they get here.” He moved towards Liam, extending an arm, reaching out to touch Liam’s shoulder, hoping that contact with his son would help soothe the boy’s anxiety.

  Liam recoiled further, as if trying to press himself through the wall. Carl removed his hand from Liam’s shoulder. The child’s horror caused a flood to wash down Carl’s face. His lips trembled as he attempted to ask Liam one more time to leave, but the words were too chopped up to make any sense. Carl struggled to admit to himself that something changed during his time at Bedlam. He struggled to admit that the boy shaking in front of him was Liam, but no longer his son. Seeing him in this state was worse than anything he could have imagined.

  More people gathered at the door, trying to get a peek at Carl. The sirens were so close, Carl wondered if the robotic constables were on top of the building. It was time to go. Still blubbering, he managed to say, “Goodbye, Liam. I love you.”

  Carl ran towards the front door. The small crowd parted, not daring to touch the man that news reports claimed was considered armed and extremely dangerous.

  Carl ran past the elevators, hoping that the stairs he remembered seeing were really there. Some relief came when he opened the door and saw that they did exist. He pumped his legs as quickly as could, using the loose railing to balance himself. Making his descent, he saw a sign that read Three hanging above a door. The sirens disappeared, accentuating the shuffle of footsteps throughout the stairwell. Two. Only one more floor. So close. Only a few steps left to go.

  The door to the first floor – Carl’s escape route – flung open. The rusted hinges popped out of place as the massive robot pushed through. The canons strapped to its arms immediately swung towards Carl. In a deep, monotone voice it called out, “Carl Winston, stop running. You are under arrest and your capture is inevitable.” Despite the rust on the machine, it moved effortlessly. Seven feet of metal rolled on its tracks with ease, almost silently floating over the ground.

  Carl pulled on the rail to help spin himself around, nearly pulling the loose bolts out of the wall. He stumbled while trying to take his first steps back up the stairs. Carl’s hands slapped against the higher tiers, using them to bound up the stairs, like a dog scurrying away. He needed to move faster. As he reached the first platform in the stairwell, a quick peek back revealed that the robot was already making steady progress upwards, its tracks able to grip against the stairs well enough to propel it forward.

  Go, he told himself. Go faster. He darted up the last set of stairs and burst through the door on the second floor. Startled residents watched as Carl stood for a moment, contemplating what to do.

  “There he is,” someone called out.

  The tenants on his left blocked the hallway as they stood in a mob, unsure of what to do. They didn’t want to approach The Executioner, but they didn’t want to look away – it was far too exciting to see an Untruther up close. Carl ran towards his right, where the crowd was scattered. Tenants loitered outside of their doors, some of which were open. The balconies, he thought to himself, this is only the second floor. He dashed into the first open apartment that he saw. The room appeared as desolate as his own, Carl noted. He scanned the room for sliding doors to the balcony, which were prominently placed on the outer wall of the living room.

  Carl hurried to the balcony as cheers rang from the hallway. In its monotone voice, Carl heard the robotic constable ask, “Citizens, where is Carl Winston?”

  Carl peered over the rusted railing on the balcony as the machine entered the room. “Carl Winston, stop running,” it said.

  Looking down, Carl guessed that it was a twelve foot drop to the ground. Perhaps a little more. While swinging a leg over the rail, he looked back into the living room to see the constable advancing, raising his gun. Fear that his frail body would split apart on impact, Carl thought to himself, Maybe I should give up. He swung the other leg over, still staring at the robot which was close to the sliding door.

  Bent over with one hand on the railing, Carl reached down to feel the concrete slab under him. He brought his other hand to the surface of the balcony, then carefully lowered himself so that he hung there. But his skinn
y arms and cut-up shoulders ached; his fingers not strong enough to hold his weight. The constable rolled its way onto the balcony as Carl’s fingers gave out.

  He managed to keep his body upright. The impact buckled his legs, though he managed to remain on his feet. To Carl’s surprise, there weren’t any other robotic constables waiting for him on the ground. He expected it to look like the Exoche reports, where a dozen or more constables waited on the scene. He expected to see The Hunter waiting for him along with news drones. But no one waited for him, other than the constable on the balcony. The machine with rotating lights on the top of its head kept its guns fixed on him. The monotone voice boomed, “Carl Winston, do not move. You are under arrest.”

  Carl thought momentarily that he should stay put. What was there to look forward to, anyway? His son didn’t recognize him. He was an outlaw. There wasn’t any place for him to go. If he ran, that robot could easily gun him down. If he stayed, however, Carl figured that he would be sent back to Bedlam and then he would be killed anyway. That was enough to encourage him to run down the street.

  Each time he swung his leg, Carl expected a bullet to pierce through him. When the constable rang its alarm, Carl jumped, thinking a shot was fired. But only the irritating sound hit him. As the distance between him and the robotic constable grew, so did Carl’s ease, though he didn’t understand why the machine refused to shoot him.

  Dim light pierced through the grey horizon. Carl guessed that this was what morning looked like. Bleak. Sad. Eerie. Embattled buildings. Pock-scarred streets. Carl knew that it was time to run away from this city, away from the life that he knew. Saddest of all, it was time to leave the one person that he loved: his son.