The Darkest Path

“What is life without that which makes it worth living?”

Dr. Williams ran out the door after kissing his wife twice. He was a peaceful man, untroubled by his age that was often associated with midlife crisis. He hurried in the warm, morning air, ignoring the blue sky and the gorgeous weather to see the beauty that was his wife. He haphazardly tossed papers and a briefcase into the backseat of his small Mercedes. Turning the key in the ignition, he waved to his wife. She waved back and blew him a kiss. Dr. Williams pretended to catch it when suddenly the ignition made a wrenching sound. He released the key, blushing at his mistake wile his wife of equal age only smiled back, making the entire ordeal worth it for him, just to receive that smile.

He sped through the streets, windows down, papers flying around in back. The wind blew through his once black, now graying hair. His hair was not the only thing that had changed with age; his once muscular figure was also succumbing to the devastation that was age. But his smile didn’t give proof to any loss or sadness.

He swerved into a parking lot, making a crescent shape out of burned rubber. There were permanent tire marks at the entrance of the parking lot, forming the exact same crescent shape as the one he had just made, showing that this was not the first time he had been so daring.

He parked in front of a building, whose entire front was made out of glass. In big black letters on the glass, it stated ‘Williams Laboratory.’ He parked under these letters and made his way into the building. He smiled as he was greeted, meandering his way past people, until he made it to his destination. He stopped at a normal sized door, with lettering mimicking the ones outside, except in much smaller print. He opened the door and stepped into a brightly lit lab, thick with all the appealing odors one associates with spring and summer. He gazed at the open windows looking out onto a green pasture and a content smile came over him.

The room was expansive, about a thousand square feet. The walls were lined with counters and sinks, which in turn, were covered with assorted test tubes and beakers, all somewhat unique in the color liquid they contained.

After a quick coffee, he began to work vigorously with the beakers. He exchanged liquids, added powders, heated and mixed the chemicals, always examining them under the microscope. This lasted for a few hours. After he felt he had done enough, he sat down and opened his briefcase, and then his lunch. He began snacking, and then saw a note in his lunch.
“Hugs and kisses, from the misses,” the note said.
He smiled, then took a bite from his sandwich. While eating, he took out a small notebook to write down his thoughts, most of them being poems. He began writing about what he felt that day, but his thoughts began to wander toward his wife.
“A day without a kiss is like a day without oxygen,” he wrote.
He continued writing several more things like this, but after glancing to the clock, he realized he had to resume his work.

He sat before a long line of beakers and microscopes, with two beakers in front of each microscope.

He took a small piece of flesh from an airtight box no bigger than his fist. He removed the flesh and put it under a microscope. One of the beakers next to the microscope contained acid and the other contained an oddly colored, mystery liquid. He did this for every microscope, putting a tiny piece of flesh on each one, and adding a small portion of acid to the flesh, very mechanical in his movements. He moved down the line in this fashion, and once he got to the end of the line of microscopes, he moved back to the top of the line and began putting the mystery liquid onto the deteriorated flesh. Again, he did this very mechanically, as if he had done it a hundred, even a thousand times before. He put a few drops of the mystery liquids onto the flesh and examined it for exactly twelve seconds, each time no different than before. Another twelve seconds passed, and he was about ready to move onto the next microscope when he suddenly froze. A rigor mortis took over him, his face turned pale, and then very slowly he moved back to the microscope he had just moved from. He stayed there for some time, looking at the flesh. He added the acid and the mystery liquid again and watched. A smile slowly came over him as he looked into the microscope.

“HA, ha,” a quiet, controlled laughter escaped him, “ha ha…ha ha …HA HA…HA HA!!! HA HA HA HA!! Yes! I did it! I…Yes!!”

He jumped into the air, swinging his arms about him wildly, absolutely unable to control his happiness. He twirled and danced, when suddenly he caught sight of the phone in the far corner of the lab. He immediately sprinted to it. He quickly dialed his home number, anxiously twirling the phone cord around his index finger. He waited four rings and left the message.

“Honey! I did it! I finished it, the miracle cure, it- …you are going to get so many diamond rings after this!”

He sat down and daydreamed about all the possibilities there were and all the money that could be made. He thought of all the things that he could give to his wife, the cars, the houses, the tropic islands, the trillions of dollars begging to be made.
He had just come up with a miracle cure. The liquid was designed to read the genetic code of a specimen and repair any defects in it. So if a person lost a leg, they could use this concoction, and in time their leg would be nearly as good as new. Spinal cord injuries, brain cancer, AIDS, all a thing of the past. In order to help him calm down, he turned on the small TV. It should have been set on the Discovery Channel, but instead it was an urgent news bulletin.

He continued to study the concoction he had just discovered, devoting one ear to the television. Eventually, he just couldn’t take it, and watched the news.
A young, female reporter was standing beside a policeman asking him questions about a crime scene.
“Can you elaborate on the cause of this horrible occurrence?” the woman asked.
“Well,” the police officer began in a deep southern accent, “as far as we can tell, the victim was taking a walk. And as she was waking, this white van came behind her, scraping against this wall you see behind me. Well, it appears that the van hit her and sent her flying, maybe twenty or thirty feet. The van crashed, but was not entirely destroyed. Now, you see, the driver of this van was in the middle of fleeing, after robbing the 21st street bank. He had three hostages in the car with him, and because the driver of the van had the hostages with him, he wouldn’t allow us to get near enough to him to get the woman hit by the van, threatening that he would kill the hostages and any approaching MT’s. It may sound cold, but we couldn’t risk three lives to save one.”
“Has the driver of the van been identified?”
“Yes, his name is Michael Genson. He has already been taken into custody.”
“He was an accomplice in another bank robbery, correct?”
“Yes, this is not his first offense. And with the hostages and the dead woman on his hands, I doubt he’ll get anything short of life in prison.”
“Has the victim been identified?”
“Yes, but the family will be notified before we can let that get out.”

Suddenly, the phone rang, an intense, gut wrenching noise that cut through the still air. Dr. Williams turned down the TV and glanced over to the far corner of the lab, watching in agony as the phone rang. A somber expression came over him as he stared at it, not moving a muscle.

Dr. Williams burst through the door. He ran past people in the hallways, cursing instead of waving, shoving instead of smiling. He ran by the front desk and into the parking lot. He jumped into his Mercedes and roared out into the street. He had run three red lights and two stop signs, but nothing would deter him from seeing his wife. He came up to three police cars that blocked off the road. He ran out of his car, pushing his way through people. When he got to the yellow tape, a police officer stood in his way. But he pushed past the young deputy and went to the limp body covered with a white sheet. He knelt by the body and lifted back the sheet and stared into the pale face of his wife. He bent over her, crying, touching the purple bruises on her body. Two police officers tried to pull him off, but he struggled against them.

“No!” he screamed, fighting against the officers as if defeating them would bring back his wife.
He burst through their grip and bent down, hugging her and whispered into her ear, “Don’t you leave me, please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dr. Williams lay in bed, staring out, into the dark room. He never realized how big the room was, how empty it could be. He clutched the pillow that was his wife’s, and slowly began to cry.
“No,” he whispered, sniffling and holding back tears. “I can fix this.”
He went to the garage, jumping into his Mercedes. He still wore his pyjamas, but he didn’t care. His life was a tunnel now and the only thing that mattered was the light at the end of it. He backed out of his driveway and drove down to his lab. When he got there the lights were out. He flipped the switch, sat down by a counter, and looked at his beakers and experiments, all lying untouched. He turned and saw the TV, remembering the horrible scene it had shown him. Flashbacks came back like nightmares, and suddenly he leapt from his spot, hands clenched tightly against the box and in a great show of strength and rage, he tossed it across the room.

He sat down, breaths coming and going in furious temper. He calmed himself and began to study his miracle cure, adding liquids and powders, heating and examining it repeatedly.

In the middle of mixing two liquids he began to cry, but reminded himself that he could fix what had happened.

One week had gone by, and he had not left his lab. Food and drinks were brought to him, and there was a small bathroom in the corner. As for showering, foul smells did not concern him. He picked up the phone and began to dial. It rang on the other line, and he waited intently until someone answered.
“Joseph?” he asked in a tired, defeated tone.
“Yea, what do you want?”
“This is Dr. Williams. Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?”
“Yea, sure, what about it?”
“Well, I want you to do it. I want you to bring her to me.”
“Remember the money.”
“It’ll be here.”

Nearly a day later, a young man with messy, long red hair appeared in the lab. He brought in a body on a gurney, which was covered by a white sheet. Dr. Williams slid three neatly folded hundred-dollar bills across the counter to the young man.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Dr. Williams said in a deep voice that croaked like a frog’s.
“No, thank you. This’ll pay my rent.”
Joseph left the room without a second glance. Dr. Williams slid the sheet off of his wife and rolled her next to him. A tear came to him, but he fought it; he wanted to work, not cry. He quickly resumed working. He took a small tissue sample from her arm and put it under the microscope while adding different liquids to it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

15 years passed, and Dr. Williams looked more deceased than his wife, who was stored in a horizontally standing, coffin shaped container. The airtight glass of her container stopped the decomposing process, making her just as she was the day she died, wounds and all.
“So close,” he hissed with failing lungs, “but I need some more time, more time.”

Dr. Williams now relied on a machine that kept his blood circulating, as his heart had given up. His doctor had said it behind his back many times, always wishing his overly determined patient would hear it. Dr. Williams was supposed to have died of heart disease one year after his wife was killed. ‘They were supposed to be together in heaven,’ his doctor would often mutter to his assistant.

But Dr. Williams could be just as stubborn as death. He had little time to live though, and had already surpassed the doctor’s prediction. He looked at what his hands held, a small beaker full of circulating brown and green liquids.
“Please work, please give me more time” he whispered in his hoarse voice.
He poured the horrendous looking liquid into his mouth, and nearly gagged from the horrible taste. His body heaved, trying to throw it up, but he forced it down. He began to choke, and moved about the lab, his body going into uncontrollable convulsions. He lost his balance and went unconscious, his head bashing against his wife’s glass container as he fell. And then nothing.

He awoke seeing only darkness, hearing the sound of hard rain hitting the windows. He opened his eyes, his pupils moving in circles, as if following some invisible light. Suddenly a lightning strike outside illuminated the lab, making long, menacing shadows out of every beaker and microscope.

He slowly rose to his feet, awaiting the back pain to come to him. He arched his back in anticipation, as if he already felt it. But he paused; there was no pain.
“Interesting…” He spoke to himself.

Again, something was wrong, there was no hoarse wheeze, only a smooth and deep voice that he only recognized in memory.

He felt his face with his hands, feeling smooth skin behind the thick stubble that had grown in his long unconscious state.
“It worked,” he whispered, “Ha ha, it worked!”

He ran his hands through his hair, a habit that many a frustrated night had caused him to do. And then he felt it, his hair was thick and luscious, restored to its former glory. He stood, being able to take in more of his darkened lab with a renewed height and strengthened eyes. His hands quickly searched through the darkness, scanning his lab until he felt the tiny mirror. He held it in front of himself, awaiting the next lightning flash. He grew anxious in the quiet darkness, and then it came. Two flashes filled the lab and he saw himself; strong shoulders and wide arms, chiseled facial features and a head full luscious black hair. His eyes stared out strong now, a restored youthful arrogance gleaming behind them.

Everything had worked; the concoction was a perfect success. Now he would have all the time in the world to restore his wife.

He looked at what he knew to be the glass container that housed his wife. He looked at it intently, awaiting the next lightning strike to illuminate the darkness. He wanted to see her, wanted to whisper to her that it would all be ok.

Again, the lab was filled with bright lights and long shadows and then he saw her. And his face turned to one of horror.

He saw black spots where the body had begun to decompose. Then he saw the broken glass. His head had hit the glass container so hard when he fell that the glass cracked. He quickly tried to put a makeshift seal on the glass, but it was too late. Oxygen had seeped inside of the container and began to decompose the tissue.

His eyes took her in and suddenly, it was all worth nothing, the fifteen years, the glass case, all the stubborn hope and forced sacrifice. The body had to remain in the same state in order to be revived, but the decay was enough to alter the body; the concoction couldn’t restore her now. Everything was in vane.

He moved to the container, his slow step full of remorse. All the pain that had built up over fifteen years suddenly came back with a vengeance, turning hope into hell. He stood before the container, running his hands along the cold glass. He looked down at her, seeing only a black, formless shape in the absence of any light. He placed his hand against the cold glass as if it were her shoulder.

“So you’re really gone…”
The lightning flashed and he saw her again, purple with decay. He grimaced at seeing her this way, so close, but so out of reach. He ran his hand down the glass, his eyes still focused on the dark spot that was his wife.

His hand met the sharp, cracked glass and he suddenly pulled his hand back in pain, examining the glass implanted in his finger. He watched it as the glass was pushed from his skin, observing as the tiny wound abruptly healed itself before the glass shard hit the ground.

He stood awkwardly, in silent contemplation, examining the situation with all the quick thinking of a brilliant scientist. And then he understood it all. He silently added and subtracted the variables, looking at the situation of himself and of his wife. And then he realized the hell he was soon to be stuck in.


Suddenly youthful testosterone gave in and he smashed his fist through the glass. Lightning flashed and glittering shards rained down upon his wife and before he could draw his hand back by his side, all of the shards had been pushed from his skin and his flesh and blood was healed. He smashed his head down against the now shattered glass, and as he pulled his head back up, feeling the blood trickle down his face, the wounds healed.

“What have I done?” he asked himself, “I can’t be injured. But- but what’s life without that which makes it worth living? No, I don’t want to live without you. I’m coming home, honey.”

He quickly moved through the darkness, knowing his entire lab by heart. He reached into a desk and produced an old handgun. It was a gift from his father, the war hero, and after an incident with a deranged patient, he felt it best to have it handy. Without devoting a second’s thought, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. There was a click and a delay. He looked at it, thinking it was a dud, when suddenly it fired. Blood and precious fluid splattered against the wall behind him, and Dr. Williams fell to the floor. But as he lay on the floor, his body going into all the convulsions one associates with brain damage, he healed. He felt his restored head with his hands, no gaping wound, no scar tissue, nothing.
He dropped the gun and jumped to his feet.

“There has to be something that will kill me,” his voice choked, on the brink of tears.

He quickly exited the lab, moving into the dark and echoing hallways. His co-workers would tell water cooler stories about how this place was haunted, about how whispers could be heard among echoes. He thought of that now as he realized how alone he was.

Lights outside hit the rain covered windows, making hundreds of tiny shadows that ran down the walls like snakes. He looked around him as he had done on so many late nights. He looked up and down the long hallways, scanning them for dangers. He had often thought of what he would do if there were a murder in these hallways or some incensed man out for his blood. He thought of that now too, becoming nervous as he walked.

But then he remembered, what could be out there that could kill him? If a bullet to the head couldn’t kill him, then no man or beast could. Rationalization had calmed him of the fantastic dangers, and now he only had to concentrate on his real problems.

He exited the dark building, greeted by stinging rain against his skin. He surveyed the parking lot, entirely empty save for his old Mercedes.

In the distance he saw lighting strike a large tree. The base of the tree split down the middle in a grand light show of fire and sparks. The two sides of the tree fell to opposite sides and a hopeful smile came to his face as an idea began swimming around in his head.

He found the stairs behind the building and climbed up to the roof. The building stood eight stories tall, higher than anything else in the area. He quickly found several metal pipes lying in the corner, each about fifteen feet long. He grabbed two of them, clutching them tightly.

They were heavy, but with his renewed strength they felt like twigs. He lifted them both into the air, and stared up at the dark rain clouds, squinting to keep the tiny raindrops out of his eyes.
A bolt of lightning struck a light pole in the parking lot, making it explode.
“No!” he yelled over the sound of wind and rain. “Hit me! Hit me!”
The roof had accumulated at least a foot of rainwater. He trudged through the water, marching around on top of the roof, making himself an easy target.

Another lightning bolt struck in the distance, hitting a small communications tower.
“Come on, you idiot!” he screamed, furiously jumping up and down. “You call a yourself a fucking God!”

And suddenly it happened. Lightning that could turn any night to day struck down, hitting the poles that he held in the air. The air heated up to tens of thousands of degrees, the water flash boiled, the metal roof melted, onlookers miles away would be inspired as they saw the greatest flash of light they had ever seen. And in the middle of all this was Dr. Williams, watching in horror as his burnt, contorted body, separated itself from the liquidated metal, restoring itself to what it had always been.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, “No…no, no, you…you can’t do this to me, you fix this, God damn it! Fix me!”
Then, almost as if by instinct, he sprinted to the edge of the building leaping off head first, his anticipating eyes taking in the approaching cement. And faster than he could think, his body slammed against the hard pavement. A series of cracks spread from where he hit, but his body proved to be fine.

“Just kill me!” he screamed, thrashing his arms about, groveling on his knees to some invisible entity.

And then he stopped; stopped crying, stopped begging and blaming. He stood, straightened back full of forced dignity. He lifted his chin, breathing in deep breaths.
Then he walked out of the parking lot and into the night life. The rain didn’t concern him, nothing did now. He walked in the street, stepping into traffic. The loud screeching of a diesel truck’s brakes filed his ears, but he didn’t even look. The truck attempted to swerve, but it slammed into him, throwing him into the back of a bus. The truck swerved sideways, tires screeching like banshees and it tipped over. The truck fell onto Dr. Williams, smashed him against the pavement, rolled over him, and rammed into the bus. Dr. Williams got up, vacantly brushed off the dirt and continued his walk of sorrow, not caring about the body he had attempted to destroy or the lives he had just ended. The winding path that is life, was altered much as it was meant to, but in lieu of his defiance and choice of direction, he would forever be forced to walk the darkest path.