Jack in the Box

by Shaw, Michael

  My father kept his finger against the table. The tip completely white.

  I unbuttoned my collar. Fell into my chair and rested my arms on the desk.

  He leaned on the edge. "What about your mother? Will she take it? Would you put her through that?"

  I shook my head. We were both breathing deeply now. "No," I said softly. "Neither of you have to take it."

  "Then I have one more question for you."

  "What?"

  He bit his lower lip and looked to the side. The light reflected bright off of his eyes. "Why?"

  The word gave me chills. "What?" I whispered.

  "If everything you said is right. If morals are imaginary, and if you're completely consistent, why would your mother and I be exempt from taking the test?"

  My mother. What could she have been thinking about then? She had to be the saddest woman in the world. Her own son would become the world's largest mass-murderer. And my father. He'd always wanted me to do something amazing. And I devastated him.

  The Jack of my dreams considered something for the first time. He pictured the people he loved in the test. I felt something on my face. I reached up and touched my cheek. Water. I wiped it off with my arm. I seemed surprised that I had tears. As if it were a bad thing. I tried to hide it, which simply made it obvious.

  "You believe in morality, Jack, whether you admit it or not," my father said slowly.

  I couldn't say anything. I tried to cover my face.

  "I can't let you do it."

  "What are you going to do? Take away my credit card?" I scoffed.

  "No," he replied, "but I will stop you. I will still call you my son, but I will have no choice but to stand against you."

  I grunted, "Don't bother. If you stand against me, you have disowned me as your son. So you can forget calling me 'Son.' And I'll forget calling you 'Father.'"

  As if he'd been physically pushed, he jerked his chest back an inch. His mouth opened. No words.

  Finally he said, "You don't mean that,"

  "Consider it a promise."

  He lowered his eyes slowly.

  I wiped my face again. And I felt that those were some of the last moments my father and I would share.

  I pointed to the door. "So will that be all, Brian?"

  →

  I woke up on the floor again. Squinted as the light flooded my eyes. Every inch of my body ached. As if I hadn't slept at all. Or, I had slept for a long time.

  Everything had changed. Before, I had just found out the inevitable. I had created the test. I tried to deny it until it couldn't be denied anymore. But this? I didn't even see this coming. I should've known. It was so clear, but he tried to hide it.

  Brian is my father.

  I scrambled to throw the covers off of me. Rolled over and staggered to my feet. Tossed the covers back into the bed. I breathed heavily. My voice sounded with each breath.

  I looked around the room quickly. Bounced back and forth on my feet. I shivered. My arms and legs had goosebumps. I looked around again. No meal. Somehow, I was freezing, but there was no food.

  I had to do something. The test would never be the same now. I had to act. I had to find Brian. Find my father.

  After a few minutes I cooled down.Just wait. Wait and he'll come for breakfast.

  Hundreds of thoughts ran through my head. How could I pass the test now? I didn't want to kill Brian before, but now I didn't even feel right trying to do anything to pass, if it would hurt him.

  And why would my father be in the test, anyway? Why would he be in hell with me? If the punishment fits the crime, he wouldn't be in the same hell as me.

  He shouldn't be here with me,I thought.My father's hell shouldn't be mine. He even tried to stop me.

  It led to a feeling of sadness. Then anger.Why did my father get put here?

  I pulled a chair back and sat.I'm the one who created the test. Why is he here?It didn't seem right. It was my fault. It was my test. Why did my test have to be his hell?

  And then it was guilt. I clasped my hands together.If I hadn't made it, neither of us would be here.I bowed my head.This is my fault.

  I stood when I heard the sound of the door opening.

  The man who I once knew as Brian entered. Eyes on the floor. Seeing my feet, he lifted his head.

  We made eye contact.

  I took a deep breath.

  He raised his eyebrow. "Hey?"

  "What did I dream last night?"

  He started to close the door. "That's your business."

  I listened to the door click shut.

  We stared at each other for several moments.

  The only sound was that of my watch ticking.

  We continued to stare.

  The watch seemed to tick slower.

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  I blurted it out. "You're my father-"

  He froze.

  I had finally said it, but it was in a surprised tone. I still wasn't completely used to the fact.

  His pupils dilated as his eyelids opened up.

  My arms grew tense.

  A few more seconds went by. Both of us shaking.

  He closed his mouth. Grabbed the doorknob. Opened the door. And left.

  He left me. I'd just told him that I knew. I knew the truth. And his response was to leave.

  My response was to follow.

  I went into the next room.

  My father was walking with a steady stride toward the following door.

  I caught up to him. "Wait," I rested my hand on his shoulder.

  He shrugged it off. Kept walking.

  I took a few big steps to catch up with him again. Grabbed his shoulder this time. "Wait, Dad, I-"

  He jerked his upper body forward, releasing my grip on him. Never stopped walking. He reached the door.

  I grabbed both of his shoulders and turned him around. "Dad. What are you doing? Why-"

  He pushed me back. Forcefully. "Let go of me," he said in a low voice.

  "No," I grabbed his arms and pinned him to the wall. "Why are you walking away from me?"

  His hands made fists.

  "Dad, I don't understand what's happening. . ."

  He pushed forward. Trying to get out of my grasp. His eyes were furious.

  I grit my teeth and pushed him against the wall. "Dad! I'm trying to-"

  He broke his arms free and grabbed my right shoulder. Squeezed hard. With his other hand he wound up and punched me in the jaw.

  My head spun to the side with the blow. I held my hand out toward him.

  He punched me again.

  My knees bent, and I staggered downward. I heard the slow tick of the watch.

  He struck me a third time.

  My face hit the ground. Followed by the rest of my body.

  My mouth opened wide. Pain. Physically, it wasn't terrible. A few punches. Hard punches, yeah, but that's all they were. It wasn't the physical pain that mattered. It was that I'd just been beaten down by my father. In what seemed to be pure hatred. That was the pain.

  "You made a promise to Brian Colson, Jack."

  I lay on my side. Bent my back over.

  "You made a promise to never call him 'Father' again."

  My ears popped.

  He turned the doorknob. "I expect that you keep your promise."

  →

  I stayed on the floor for several minutes. He had left. Went back to the room, I assumed.

  Is this my father's revenge? Did he actually want this for me?He wasn't even happy that I'd found out. He was furious. I hid the purpose of the test from him. I took the opportunity he'd given me, and I killed everyone. And this was his justice? Is that what it was all about?

  I lifted myself up.Which direction did I come from?I needed to get back to my room. Thinking of where I had been facing before I hit the floor, I figured which direction to go. I walked through a couple rooms, and I was back in mine.

  My father was there. So was lunch.

  Lunch.I must
've slept through breakfast.

  I pulled out a chair. Lowered myself into it.

  My father pulled out an ice pack from under his seat and handed it to me.

  "Thank you. . ." I held it against my jaw.

  He chewed quietly. Mouth closed. It was obvious that a lot was going through his head.

  I didn't know what to do. He was my dad. And he hated me. "Dad. . ."

  He shot his eyes toward me.

  ". . . Brian. . ." I wanted to talk to him. But I didn't know what to say. "So, why were we able to have that little conversation without the referee coming at us? It was during lunch."

  He shook his head, looking at his plate. "The temperature drops five minutes before a meal. We still had time. That's why I could. . ." he tilted his head.

  ". . . punch me in the face."

  "Yeah," he flattened his lips.

  "Okay," I rubbed the top of the table.

  "I always come five minutes before. It's my schedule."

  I nodded.

  He moved his food around the plate.

  I looked down.

  My father offered no other subject matter to talk about. The wrinkles on his face looked deeper than they had before.

  The silence choked me.

  My father put his fork down.

  "Brian," I lifted my eyes, "what's happening?"

  He brought his face up. "You think I hate you."

  I heard the ticking of my watch again. The air in the room was dense. I felt as though moving would be harder than it should be. It was always the conversation. Conversations always made the room feel different. Everything was blurred except for my dad's face. His words almost echoed in the room. My heart beat resounded in my ears. A quiet tone rang in my head. And the watch. It seemed to tick to the beating of my heart. The ticking of the watch. The beating of my heart. Everything was slow. Tense. Painful. I didn't confirm or deny what he'd said. But he was right. I thought that he hated me.

  "I don't, you know," he folded his hands. Rested his elbows on the table.

  ". . . You beat me."

  "I know," he rested his head on his hands, "but that's not because I hate you."

  My heart felt as if it were in my throat. It pounded like a drum; its beats resounded through my skull. "Then what's going on?"

  His face tightened. He pressed his eyebrows down and shook his head. "You know what, Jack, you just have no idea. You really don't get it."

  "Well, Dad. . . Brian, I'm trying to. I know what I did."

  "It's not about that," he shot back.

  We made no eye contact. We just talked to the table.

  "Why can't we just get out of here?" I asked. "Let me pass. We'll both escape."

  "It doesn't work like that." he tightened his fingers. His hands grew entirely pale. "If you passed, we'd never see each other again. The only way we both walk out of here is if we both die. But you don't want to do that."

  I exhaled. "What happens if we die? We're already dead."

  He rocked slightly. Back and forth. Fingers still interlocked. "Death. . ." he started. His cheeks raised. "Death isn't so much the absence of something as it is the travel from one place to another. Death brought you here. Your own hell."

  I pulled my chair forward. I watched his eyes as he gathered the words.

  "But hell isn't just this place, Jack," he was uneasy. "If you die here, you go where everyone else goes."

  I shook my head. "There's two hells?"

  "Not two hells. Just two parts to it. Part one is specific."

  I ran my hand through my hair.

  "Part two is general."

  "I don't understand."

  "If you die in here, hell doesn't stop," my father brought his eyes up to mine. "It just changes. And trust me, it's much worse." he closed his eyes and exhaled. "When you died on earth, it brought you here. Die here, and you go to the part of hell that everyone else ends up in after their own hell."

  It shouldn't have been surprising to me. But for some reason it was. The things he told me about hell, were they true? I looked into his eyes and saw real sadness. But was he speaking reality? It all added up. At the same time, though, I always had this feeling when he spoke about hell. It made me uneasy. Not because it was about hell. No, it was what he said. It didn't seem correct. What grounds did I have to argue against it, though? He knew more than me. And he was my father, he wouldn't lie to me. He had no reason to.

  Even my father didn't look right when he spoke about hell. And I don't think it was just because of the subject. Something was going on in him that I couldn't figure out.

  "Why. . ."

  "Because of what we've done."

  "Not that," I folded my hands in the same manner as my father, "Why are you telling me this now?"

  "I've told you before," he said painfully. "You asked the right question."

  I looked at my wrist. The watch kept begging my attention. I didn't know why, but it almost called out to me. It wasn't its shine, or the tick of the second hand. I felt different with it on. It already had my initials on it. It'd been made for me. By whom, I didn't know.

  "Where'd you get this. . ." I held my wrist up.

  He shrugged solemnly, "I. . . already had it when I got here. . ."

  I examined the time. Twelve thirty. "Was this mine? When we were alive?"

  He looked down. Started pushing his food around the plate again.

  I lowered my hand. And I forgot about the watch rather quickly.

  My father looked like the saddest man on the planet. No, the saddest man ever. I thought it was because of me. But it was something else. I saw regret. But he wouldn't tell me what was going on.

  "Why are you here?" I asked him.

  "You know why you're here. . ."

  "No," I said firmly. "Not me. You. Why are you here?"

  My father smiled. The gravity of the room told me he wasn't really happy. But he smiled anyway. "That's a good question."

  I nodded. Raised my eyebrows and waited for the answer.

  "But I can't answer it." The smile left as quickly as it had come.

  My eyebrows fell. "You don't know?"

  "Oh, trust me I do. I don't know everything, but I know the reason I was put here."

  "Then why can't I know?"

  "I can't tell you why this is my hell. But Ican tell you my job. One, to keep you from passing. Two," his eyes reflected the light on their glossy surfaces, "to help you discover why it's yours."

  I released my folded hands. Rested my arms on the table.

  My father was not the same man I'd known in my life. There was always something he hid. He was never like this on earth.

  But he probably felt the same way about me. I was not the same person either. Who knew death could change the way a man lives? The life I lived before death was almost completely polar to the one I was living in hell.

  So, we were both changed. With that similarity, though, there was still one difference between him and me.

  My change was for the better.

  "You said it was a good question," I objected.

  "It's not one I'm allowed to answer," he blinked.

  "If I made the rules, I wouldn't have made any rule about that."

  "Yeah, Jack, you made the rules on earth." My father sat up. "But things here aren't going to be just as they were in the world. You already know that."

  I rubbed my head.

  "The rules aren't the same here. They're. . . edited."

  "And who would have edited them?"

  "No," he shook his head. "Can't answer."

  I leaned forward. "Do I know him?" I imagined the answer would be the devil, but I had the feeling there was more to this.

  He sighed. "You know him more than you'd think. But. . ." I saw in his eyes that he was picturing the face of this person, or thing, ". . . For your sake, I hope you never meet him."

  My father was never afraid of anything. Even when I betrayed him. When I was the world's most powerful enemy, he didn't back down
. He was never afraid. But he was afraid now. Whoever, or whatever, this thing was, it scared my father. And it was in complete control.

  "The referee?"

  My father chuckled. "No, the referee's just another pawn. Its power goes nowhere past its own strength."

  My heart came back with its pounding rhythm. My upper body moved with it. "Then what do we do?"

  He curled his lips inward. Turned his head to the side.

  The room heated back up. I shifted in my seat.

  He looked back at me. "We do what we're told."

  I sniffed. Nodded. "Yeah," I said, unconvincingly.

  My father nodded. "Yeah," he said softly.

  We didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say. The test would go on. I would keep dreaming. We would have to be enemies. My father couldn't be my father. I couldn't be his son.

  This place really was hell.

  thirteen

  After my father left, our conversation played back in my head several times.

  There were things going on that I wasn't aware of. My father and I were both dead, but our conditions were different. He knew everything, but I lost my memory. Had he died before me? Maybe he'd learned all that he knew before I came. And the guy in charge gave him his instructions. Whoeverthat was.

  I took out my marker pen and walked to the North door. I had known what I wanted to do for a long time, but things kept keeping me from doing it. The referee, my dreams, my father. I'd gotten sidetracked.

  I didn't mark the door. I marked the wall next to it. An N next to the North door. An S for the South door. And a W and E for West and East. I put a line under the S and the W and two lines under the N and E.

  I wouldn't mark every room like this. Just my bedroom. To know where I'd be going whenever I set out. And I'd bring my compass with me. I didn't know if it would work. But I decided to be hopeful. Everything else had been ruined for me. I was the apocalypse. My father was in hell. And we couldn't both get out. The only thing I had now was hope. Hope that everything would be okay. That I'd pass this thing without getting one or both of us killed. That I could be his son again. Hope. Maybe it was irrational. But it was a fuel that I couldn't get from anything else.

  So I continued to work. I tried to simply move through the rooms with an awareness of where I was. Things went better than I thought. I realized I had a very good visual memory. The map I'd drawn on paper appeared in my mind. I knew where I was in relation to my room. What made it hard was going north or east. I had to remember it was two steps forward, one step back.