The trees whisper in September wind. There’s a body in the dirt near a hole in the ground—a bag over his head. He’s not dead yet. He’s looking up at me through the slit in the bag and saying, “God, please. Oh, please, God.”
This is beautiful. The way the orange leaves lift and dive through the wind in elegant ballet strokes—it calms me. I put the shotgun down. The phone rings. I pick it up and answer it.
“Yeah?”
“Is it done?”
I look again at the sad sack, a piece of human filth sobbing and shivering and praying.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Then once more, “Thank you.”
I hang up, taking the gun again, not sure if I’ve made up my mind or if I’m stalling before the inevitable. I lift it with shaky hands.
The trees begin to whisper something else.
***
My hands slipped from the wheel as the car barreled over the median. All I could think about was how I never learned to tie my shoes. My father tried to teach me once or twice, when me and Tom weren’t making a mess of the house, coloring all over the walls and pissing and shitting all over the place. He’d say, “You can’t learn to learn something if you don’t wanna try to learn it.”
Maybe that’s what he meant after all these years, talking about how much better off the rest of the family was while I was doing nothing, sitting in my apartment, dreaming away the days while Tom was out getting married and having kids and stuff.
Now, Tom is in the car with me getting his forehead smashed in by the windshield while the airbags crush the other parts of his face. We’re tumbling over onto the other side of the road—an oncoming car swipes us and sends us rolling the other way. That’s when the impact breaks both my ankles, cleanly snapped as the front of the car folds into me, while the steering wheel attempts to puncture my lungs. Tom’s still being attacked by the glass with the seat being ripped out, and all the while it’s the car that’s screaming, not us.
The car spins around like a top until it slows and makes the sound of a plate settling on a hard floor after being dropped. I hear other screams now that the car is quiet.
I look over at Tom’s twisted face and think, He’s dead.
I look down at my ropey broken legs and mangled shoes and think,
Now I’ll never have to learn to tie my shoes.
***
Hello everyone! My name is Anthony Tucker, CEO and Founder of Universum. Today, we’re so excited to be announcing the latest addition to our expanding line of AI-assisted technologies:
Uprise
We took the incredible feedback from our last app and applied it to this one.
Our goal with Uprise is to heal families, assist with grief, and change the way we communicate with loved ones.
With Uprise you’ll be able to talk to relatives, friends, and loved ones from the past with our patented, highly-advanced AI Voice Recognition software.
Once you create an account, Uprise will collect audio and vocal data from voicemails, recorded phone calls, and even video to bring those you love to life in an amazing way.
Now, you’ll finally be able to say those missed goodbyes or heal those old wounds. You can fall in love again or strike a new bond. The possibilities are endless with Uprise.
Download today. The future is our connection to the past.
***
One year and three months. One year and three months and I’m still in a wheelchair. Things haven’t changed for me much. I’m still sitting around my apartment—listening to four-hour podcasts and cooking up boxed mac-n-cheese and chicken nuggets. I’m nearing 40, and I’m still eating kid shit. Not that I really care. There’s not much left to care about anymore. There never was, I suppose.
And you probably expect me to talk up all my trauma and depression and all that. Maybe I will, someday. Today, it feels like it’s nothing new.
I downloaded that app today. Uprise— name’s a bit too on the nose, don’t you think? I don’t think it’ll help me. But mom says it’s helped her. So why not? We’ll see how it goes. It won’t heal my legs or help me tie my shoes, but it’ll give me something to do.
***
Our first conversation went a little something like this, if I can remember it right.
I agreed to the bible’s length of terms and conditions and agreements. I added a new contact— “Tom”. I plugged in all our voicemails and phone calls and everything I could find. The app takes a while to process everything, but a few minutes later, the phone’s ringing. And there’s his picture—Tom’s face on my phone as if he’s still alive and calling me right this very moment.
But he’s not alive. He’s dead. I’m not even sure I want to answer the call. This is too fucking weird. But I have to. What do I have to lose?
I pick it up.
“. . . Hello?”
“Aaron, is that you?”
I think, Holy shit. I think, He sounds a little weird, but that’s him. He’s nasally and quiet, but it’s Tom. My goddamn dead brother—on the phone!
“Yes, Tom. It’s me.”
“Oh man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
What do I even say? What was I supposed to do? Three months ago, I was looking at the blood smeared all over his cheeks and the teeth sitting on the dashboard, and now he’s talking to me like nothing happened.
After a pause, I ask, “Do you know what happened to you?”
“Well, not really. But I think I died. Right?”
I think again, Holy shit.
“That you did.”
“Was it bad?”
“Yup.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Yup.”
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
I think, Shit, what do I wanna talk about?
“I’m not sure if I want to talk about anything, Tom. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I’m not even sure what’s happening. Do you know what’s happening?”
“Nah. But I have a few questions.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you know what happened to me? Why I’m dead?”
That was a good fucking question.
“We were driving home from Everett and a truck creamed us.”
“Oh,” is all he says.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember his name anymore. He worked for the city. Some drunk bastard.”
“Ah, I never did like to drink did I, Aaron?”
“Sometimes, Tom. But not that night.”
“Thank you for talking to me, Aaron. I’ve really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Tom.”
It wasn’t anything Tom would ever say to me in a million years. But in that moment, with the TV on and my legs feeling like jelly while the rain smacked against the window, my phone pressed against my ear, I cried a bit.
Tom ended the call.
***
I never liked hiking, but I used to have dreams where I was hiking. There was always one, specific dream that followed me for many years. Tom liked the woods, and in this dream, he was dragging me out of bed every morning and taking me out to the woods by our lakeside house. There was a spot about a mile away that would open up to a cliffside that gave us a whole big beautiful look at the lake. Sunlight would hit the water so hard it could blind you if you weren’t careful. The water sounded so peaceful, splashing against the side of the cliff.
It was the same dream every time, except for the last time I had it. I was maybe fourteen years old. This time, when we made it to the edge of the cliff, Tom jumped off. We’d done this before, but I didn’t follow. I just watched him disappear under the waves forty feet below. But he never came back up. I stood there, not sure what to do. I didn’t scream or cry or run away or dive in after him. I just stood and listened to the wind rustle the trees. The wind that high up could be forceful enough to blow me over, if I didn’t keep my ground, feet steady. But if I could let go of that instinct, the wind would seem to hold me gently in place, while the trees whispered and told me everything would be fine if I just let go. I’d let go, and I’d fall and fall and fall.
I woke up just before I hit the water.
***
Many more months of conversation went on with this Tom that wasn’t really Tom but sure as hell felt like him. At some point during this time, Mom died. I thought about calling her too but I didn’t.
Eventually, I finally got rid of that damn wheelchair. But moving around isn’t that much easier with big, bulky crutches.
Every time Tom called me, he’d always ask the same question. He always asked how he died and who did it. It got to me really bad. He never seemed to remember.
Finally, I figured out the guy’s name from the court papers. Today, I’m calling Tom and telling him about Harry Lark.
I pick up the phone. I open Uprise and call Tom.
I say, “Hey Tom. Before you ask, you were killed in a car accident.”
“Oh.”
“I know who did it.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Tom. I know who did it. His name is Harry Lark. City guy. You remember him? Got into a fight with the mayor’s wife.”
“This Harry guy, he’s the one who killed me?”
“Yup. That guy.”
“Well. So, you know who it is, huh? And what happened to him?”
“He got hit with a DUI and a few days in jail.”
“That seems unfair, doesn’t it.”
“It sure fucking does! He killed you! Creamed you with his car!”
“How could that happen?”
“He’s a city guy, Tom. Law doesn’t exist for them until they’re caught in the act. Judge said because we didn’t have our lights on he couldn’t have been able to see us.”
“That’s quite unfair, Aaron.”
“Yup.”
Tom never used words like ‘quite’, but I’m too angry to notice. I’m too furious to care about anything other than talking up a flame about Harry fucking Lark.
Then Tom asks, “And how come you haven’t done it?”
I pause for a beat.
“Done what, Tom?”
Tom pauses for a beat.
“Killed him?”
I think, Holy shit.
“Now, h-h-hold on here, what do you mean ‘kill him’?”
“I mean kill him. Wouldn’t that make you feel better? I think you wouldn’t be so grieved anymore. And we could keep talking forever, without worrying about the past.”
I don’t want to trust this—this voice. This person that seems so much like Tom but somehow isn’t. But only Tom would think of such an idea. I want to believe. I need to believe it’s him.
“Tom? Is that you?”
Then his voice answers, clearer than ever, “Yes, it’s me. Do the task.”
***
For another month or so I call Tom every now and then and tell him about his killer. He seems to be remembering it now. I don’t have to spend as much time on the details. But it always ends with, “how come you haven’t done it?”
It’s starting to become a good question. Before, it seemed like a kind of nasty question—one you don’t want to think about. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. How come I haven’t done it? Tom tells me about the shotgun in his shed, which I’ve kept locked since he died. He tells me about the potato sacks in his barn. He tells me about the rope hanging in the back of his garage. These are all things I know. I even think about them from time to time—each object flashing in my mind’s eye in sharp images.
Now, he’s saying, “You have to do it, Aaron. It’s the only way make things right.”
“What exactly am I making right?” I ask.
“He killed me, Aaron.”
“I know he killed you, Tom. I saw your brains splatter!”
“And wouldn’t you like to see him like that too? Just think about it. Think about justice. Isn’t that what you want? Do you really want a city guy to get away with something like this? Think about all the other people he might nail the more he continues to drink and barrel through the streets in his big Ford truck? Are you thinking about that, Aaron?”
“Yes.”
I am thinking about it, but I’m not sure what to do anymore. Or how to do it. I can’t even walk.
He asks me again, “Are you thinking about that, Aaron?”
I say again, “Yes.”
“Then do it.”
***
The night before it happened, I had the dream again. My big brain in my little kid body, running through the woods and nearly falling off the edge of the cliff while the wind pushes against my face. Tom’s standing next to me and I think he’s going to jump again. He does, but this time he grabs my arm and pulls me with him.
I wake up under the water, feeling wet and tired and realizing it’s just sweat and nothing more.
***
I’ll be light on the details. I took the transit to Tom’s place and found all his stuff. The gun, the rope, the sack. It’s all where he said and where I seemed to remember them being. I found out what building the guy worked in. Google knows this. I took the transit there and waited for him to come out of the side exit by the parking garage.
I waddled up to the door on my one remaining crutch and pointed the gun at him. He probably thinks I escaped the VA or I’m some homeless nut until he recognizes me. I tell him how he’ll take me to where I ask him or I’ll blow his goddamn brains out.
He does what I say.
And now we’re out at the lake. The leaves are starting to fall now, as they do this time of year. The waves sound the same. The trees say the same things. The cliff is a few hundred feet away from where the hole is, by a hiking trail that leads down to the water.
He’s on his knees in the dirt. He’s saying, “God, please. Oh, please, God.”
I put the shotgun down. The phone rings. I pick it up, and answer it.
“Yeah?”
“Is it done?” he says.
I look again at the sad sack, a piece of human filth sobbing and shivering and praying.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Then once more, “Thank you.”
I hang up and take out the gun again, not sure if I’ve made up my mind, or I’m just stalling before the inevitable. I lift it with shaky hands.
The trees begin to whisper something else.
And I swear it sounds like Tom’s voice, somewhere out there, by the cliff. The gun is shaking in my hands and what’s left of my legs is starting to hurt like hell. For a while I point it at Harry’s head and hold my finger over the trigger, thinking about how great it’d be to see his face all twisted up just like Tom’s.
But I put the gun down again.
I feel the wind press against my face, gently. Like a friend.
I hear them whisper again and think maybe I’m dreaming now, but I know I’m not, because I’m no longer a child but a grown, old man playing out some kind of game. I hold the phone in my hand and think about calling Tom. But I remember that it’s not really Tom.
Tom is out there. He’s in the trees, in the leaves, his voice carried by the wind, held together by dreams and air and memory, which now seems so much more real than the voice that brought me here.
I toss the gun into the hole, then I toss the phone into the hole. I leave Harry Lark kneeling there, crying. I drop the crutch and limp my way over to the edge of the cliff; I’m dangerously close to falling.
I listen deeply to the wind telling me about instinct, grief, pain, dreams. I feel this as the wind holds me gently in place, while the trees whisper and tell me everything will be fine if I just let go. I’ll let go, and I’ll fall and fall and fall.
And just before I hit the water, I might wake up.