Title in construction

         Fathers. From birth, human beings are taught that they are there as protectors, to make children feel loved and watched over. The tragedy is, even when the father is absent, this lesson holds. It creates a longing, almost from birth and some spend their entire lives searching to fill a void they don’t fully understand.

         Wendy Harris, 17, sits at her computer screen with an icon flashing, waiting for her to respond. She twists the ring on her middle left finger, a gift from her Grandfather and often a comfort, even if it always brings hurt into her heart. Bethany, her oldest friend from school and polar opposite in every way, sits in a smaller box on the screen looking very skeptical.

         “You sure you wanna do this? If your mom finds out you even have that pic, she’s gonna lose it. You know she doesn’t like you talking about her past, let alone looking into it.” Bethany plays with her hair whenever she’s nervous and Violet Harris was always someone who made her nervous. Not because she was mean or a bad person but simply because of her intensity.

         “What choice do I have? She is eventually gonna have to wake up to the informational age. Even if it is already almost over. Just tell me if you think it’s a bad idea.” Wendy tapped her fingers nervously on the edge of the keyboard, her eyes on the mouse.

         “So you can ignore me and do what you want anyway? No thank you.”

         “Oh come on, Beth, don’t be that way. What do you think? Tell me. Please? I’ll be your best friend.”

         “Ship sailed when we started sleeping in the same bed in the third grade. Gonna have to find another sucker to tell you the obvious. Gotta count sheep. See you in school tomorrow.” The window closed, leaving her alone in her room, a picture now in her hands. Her mom looked just like her, except with black hair, standing between her uncle Barry and a mystery man with his arm around her shoulders, a big grin on his face. There were no other links, she had no choice. A single click away.

Send.



         Three states away, a bunker only one has seen or heard of is quiet. Enclosed as it is, deep enough to necessitate an air filtration system, no machinery can be heard. It’s inner walls are made to look like the interior of a house, the walls decorated with faux wood paneling, the floors lushly carpeted. Silence isn’t always the atmosphere within that warm seeming home. But on this night, the solitary occupant seeks refuge from the world within meditation, serenity required. Alarms ring out and a pair of gray eyes open with fury in their depths.

         He is up in a flash, lean muscle stretching pale skin as he races through the corridors in the dark, not pausing to turn on a light or get his bearings. The rage fades as soon as he sees the screen, his brown hair falling over his face as his head cocked to the left.

         “Well, isn’t this curious.” He recognized the photo, knowing all of the teenagers. Intimately in some cases. A voice not the same but the same burbles from his lips, almost childish. “Can’t be her. She gave up years ago. You know that Dietrich.”

         “Hush, Micheil. I’ll find out about it, you go back to meditation.” His original voice, crisp and clear cuts off the inner voice before it can go on, deactivating the alarm. Silence retakes his world. Sharing existence is hard for them, often because he is the adult and Micheil is very much a child still. A few keys has the monitoring program displaying information on the ad.

         It’s simple, just a picture with a few words and an email address. Innocent. Who cares if some little girl from nowhere is looking for who he used to be. Means less than nothing. His finger is a centimeter away from the monitor’s power when a second alarm freezes it. Three letters and everything changes. Childish though it was, his other returns with full force.

         “Harris. Wendy Harris. Shit. Violet.” Dietrich falls inward and Micheil takes his body back fully for the first time in months.