The Seam

The Seam

By

Dylan Rostek











              The rest of his senses came back slowly but the first one screamed it’s presence.  The headache was unbearable.  He moved his hand from the soft wet grass that he had just begun to feel and transferred it to his forehead.  The pain bolted through his entire cranium, as if something inside was growing; trying to push it’s way though every point of his skull all at once.

              He pulled himself into a sitting position, trying to gain his bearings through a wave of dizziness and vision that was, only now, starting to regain focus.

              It was dark out.  Not so dark that he couldn’t see but yet the sky was void of moon or stars.  He was in a field, but the ground wasn’t right.  The grass felt normal, cool and moist, although somewhat more sparse here where he was sitting then it was ahead of him.  It was the dirt that bothered him, it wasn’t dirt at all.  In the diminutive light it looked almost black although he could make out faint traces of red to its color.  It was smooth and…, he rubbed his tongue against his inner cheek, felt like the smooth skin inside his mouth.  The thought repulsed him and he pushed himself up, throwing out his arms to keep balance and fight off the fading dizziness.

              Standing he attempted to take in his surrounding.  The field stretched on for what seemed an eternity in front of him.  The only other thing in his field of view, apart from the grass, was what appeared to be an old farmhouse.  It was quaint and familiar, although he couldn’t place where he would know it from.  And now, as he thought about where he would have known this farmhouse, he realized he could not remember anything about himself.  His past, his home, even his name eluded him.

              Fear and panic started settling upon him like a wet blanket, covering him in sweat and making him twitch with small spasms.  He twirled around, trying to piece things together and figure out where the hell he was at.

              The field and black void of sky continued in a complete panorama only being broken by the farmhouse ahead of him, and a light behind him.  He stopped spinning and stared at the light.  The field continued towards it, the grass growing ever sparser as it got closer to the light, to the point of disappearing some yards before it.  It appeared as if it were an opening, a gapping yawn, as if the entrance to some illuminated cave, tearing a hole through the midnight sky. Halos of light span out from around the opening (as he now found himself thinking of it) and as he concentrated upon it he realized he could hear commotion coming from just beyond it.  It was a mesh of many things, bangs and beeps and voices, of which he couldn’t make out, but voices none the less. Impossibly loud voices, as if from the mouths of giants.

              It enthralled his curiosity but at the same time, filled him with a dread that he never imagined could exist.  He took a single step back, his subconscious deciding he should be far away from whatever it was a split second before his conscious came to the same decision.

              And then the world shook.  The ground beneath him trembled, as did the sky, pulsating towards him and then back away again, pausing slightly, only to convulse again, and again.  He fell to his feet, fear creeping over him once more as he felt his body slowly being pulled towards the light.  He planted his feet into the dirt and pushed himself backwards, away from the mouth of light that was sucking him in.

              The sensation of being pulled intensified, fighting against his own momentum of pushing away.  He turned over, planting his feet and pushing himself back up, eyes locked now upon the farm house, and possible escape.  He vaulted forward, trying to run against the force that pulled him back, putting him in an almost slow motion jog, but he gained ground.

              He fell twice before reaching the wooden porch at the front of the house, the pull against him always getting stronger and stronger, but he made it.  He climbed up the stairs, having to practically crawl to keep enough hold against the suction.  He dragged himself across the rough wooden porch until he reached the door, pulling himself up by the knob and, without a thought to the fact that it might be locked, opened the door.

              The door cracked slightly inward, and then slammed back shut as the light pulled it back.  He turned the knob again and pushed himself forward, falling inward into the homes interior as the door slammed behind him.

              He lay on the floor; the pull on his body had stopped leaving him feeling slightly queasy.  He looked around the homes parlor.  It was a small room with light yellow wall and a hardwood floor.  An opening sat in one of the side walls and a coat rack on the other.  The back wall consisted of a small table, which he used to once more pull himself into an upright position.  Above the table hung a mirror.

              He looked at the man in the mirror, at himself, a man he should know but could not remember.  He looked extremely haggard, which after the current events outside, did not surprise him any.  He had a two day beard going and his disheveled, short cropped hair contained as much dark brown as it did gray.  His wrinkles intensified as he squinted and leaned in closer, trying to remember the man he was seeing in the faint orange glow of the weak chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

              Family, friends, occupation, hell his name would be a godsend, but nothing came.  He turned his head from the mirror down to the desk.  He ran his hand along the rough grain of it’s top.  He took a deep breath, inhaling the musty smell of the house, old wood and cleaning polish, glue from fresh wallpaper, stale cigarette smoke, and something clicked.

              He bent down to one knee and looked at the table again, wrapping his hands along the table’s legs.  He was a kid.  It was the start of summer, his allergies still bothering him from the freshly cut wheat.  He would come barreling in, kicking his mud caked shoes off underneath the table and throwing whatever rocks or sticks he had found interest in onto the table, usually receiving some wrath from his grandmother later for having brought them into the house, before heading towards the smell of dinner.

              He stood back up and faced the mirror.  His grandparent’s farm.  He couldn’t remember their faces, or even any real memories of the place, but that’s what this farmhouse was, and some how, deep down, he knew those forgotten memories were some of his childhood's fondest.  He took a deep breath, overwhelmed by the fact that something had come back.

    Collecting himself he turned away from the mirror.  Facing the front door again he could once more feel a slight pull, trying eagerly to coax him outside.  The feeling made him queasy all over again and he hurried to the only other way out of the parlor, through the door to his right.

    The doorway opened up into a quant family room.  A rough red throw rug covered the center of the room.  A coffee table sat on the rug surrounded on one side by a sofa and two evening chairs on it’s other.  Between the chairs sat a small end table with an old radio upon it.  A few other tables covered the walls, a few with vases of flowers or knick knacks upon them.  Two sides of the room were covered with windows that were shuttered and hid the outside world.  The wall to his right contained another doorway that led to the rest of the house, and hanging next to the door was the room’s only picture.

    He slowly walked towards the picture, somewhat reluctant of what he might see there but compelled either way.

    The picture was a black and white snapshot of the doorway of a small house.  A young boy, maybe five or six, stood in front of the door.  He was dressed in a dark school uniform; he had a bag thrown over one shoulder and a lunch pail in one hand.  He was grinning up at the camera with such a force that veins stood out on his neck.

    The man starred intently at the familiar boy, getting lost in the photo and in thoughts that couldn’t quite form.  Slowly a few things came into the focus.  The uniform was blue; the house’s walls were pale green.

He stared longer, unaware at first that as he remembered more of the scenes color the photograph actual became colored itself, slowly fading from black and white into a bright and vibrant image that could have been more window then photograph.  He stepped back momentarily, wondering if he was imagining or dreaming.

    The man leaned back in, looking closer at the pictures details.  The emblem on the child’s uniform, the mat in front of the door, the closed lip smirk of the child.  He stopped.  He could of swore the child had been beaming so fully that his face had been half teeth but now the photo showed a sly tight lipped grin.  He slowly raised a finger towards the frame, this time unaware of that pulling feeling working at him again until it was too late.

    Next thing the man knew he was in the photograph, standing just to the side of the small boy, taking in everything the photographer had cut out.  A man was standing in front of him taking the picture as a woman stood next to him in tears.  The man dropped the camera back down to his side and placed his other arm around the woman.  The man with the camera beamed just as brightly as the boy.

    “Come on now Mary, don’t cry, it’s only school he’s going to, he’ll be home by four, isn’t that right Bobbie.”

    “Yes sir.  Look mom I’m not crying, don’t cry!”  The man from the farmhouse yelled in unison with the boy by his side, producing a huge smile towards his parents before realizing what was happening.

    His first day of school.  He remembered now.  He was so proud because he stood tall like his dad, and he knew his dad was proud.  His mom, his dad, happy memories of his childhood started flooding in, and the last thing to dawn on him hit him harder then if the farm house had fallen on him.  His name.  Robert.  He remembered his name.

    Tears streamed down him face, blinding him and ending at his still grinning mouth.  He gasped for a breath, enjoying the taste of salt that came with it, and ran his sleeve along his eyes.  His tears dried up at once.  He was back in the farm house, sitting upon the family room sofa.  He looked around the room again, slightly confused, and then started laughing.  Fuck it, he was Robert Timothy Simmons and he was starting to remember.  He stood up and headed towards the door that led into the next room, determined to find more photographs.

    The doorway opened up into the hall of the almost shotgun style farmhouse.  There were two rooms off of each side of the hall and the hall ended in the home’s kitchen.  He rushed forward entering the first bedroom on his right.

    The room was sparsely decorated and the furniture was covered with throw covers.  He vaguely remembered it being used as a spare bedroom for guests that his grandparents never seemed to of had, at least it had been once he had gotten older, when he was younger it was his room when he had come over.  He scanned the walls and found what he was looking for.  The outside wall contained two photographs separated by another shuttered window.  He ran to the closest picture.

    The man in this photo was easily more recognizable.  It was him at seventeen; standing outside the school auditorium dressed in the black robes of graduation.  Robert reached up and grabbed the picture frame, concentrating on the younger version of himself in the photograph.  The pulling sensation came once more and once more he was there, standing on the concrete next to himself looking once again at his parents, his dad once again manning the camera.

    “Alright, one more son,” exclaimed William Simmons.  The younger Robert straitened himself up once more for the photo, and then started walking forward.

    “Excuse me one second dad,” he apologized, walking pass them towards a young woman in the background.  She was also dressed in black robes, but she was sitting on a bench, head in her hands.  The future Robert looked on, his brain in overdrive as things fell into place.  He had stopped by his parents as they remained oblivious to his presence.  He was out of earshot of the young woman and his younger self, but he didn’t need to hear them to know what was going on.

    She was from another school that was sharing the auditorium for their graduation.  She went through the graduation, wondering the whole time why her parents hadn’t shown up until a few minutes before meeting Robert. A teacher had approached her with a message.  Her parents had been in a crash on the way to the graduation and were hospitalized.  Her name was Becky.

    He sat there consoling her for about fifteen minutes before convincing his parents to give her a ride to the hospital.  It wasn’t a happy moment, but for some reason to him his mind was convinced that it wasn’t a sad moment either, something good came from this moment that he couldn’t remember yet.

    A small smile crossed the lips of Robert as he realized he was back in the spare bedroom, staring at the photo of his younger self staring back.  A sharp pain screamed through his head, gone as quick as it came, as his brain filled in the memory gap between this photo and the first one.  Summers at this very farmhouse.  Third place in his fifth grade science fair.  Marcy Trello, his first kiss in seventh grade.  The memories flooding in with the force of a semi rushing down the highway of nerves that crisscrossed his brain.

    He took a deep breath and stumbled over to the photo hanging on the other side of the closed window.  Once again he stared at himself, about four years older this time, dressed in a black tuxedo, this time with Becky by his side dressed in white and holding a bouquet.  Another tear rolled down his face as he was pulled into the frame.  Once again he stood by the happy couple staring once more at his parents.  Becky’s father stood next to them, looking just as proud as his parents and once again the memories flooded in.  Getting shakes with Becky at the local soda shop.  Being there for her when her mother slipped from her coma into whatever came after this world.  That night in the mountains where they felt the touch of someone else for the first time.  The day he proposed.

    He stared at the photo a little longer after returning to the room, drunk on the thoughts of the woman he loved and the life that was slowly returning to him.

    He turned and headed towards the hall and the room across from this one.  Wondering once again what the hell happened to him and what the hell this place was.  He could almost believe it was his grandparent’s farm house if it weren’t for the fact that he was pretty sure, without quite remembering, that at the age he assumed he was, they were probably dead, and the fact that the house wasn’t quite right.  The decorations were a bit off and he knew that the photos in there house contained more then just him.  Where were the photos of his parents or his Aunt and Uncle?

    And what about his memory.  He supposed that seeing photos of important times in his life could bring back memories, perhaps there was nothing strange about that, but there was definitely something strange in the front yard, something that he would just as happily forget along with everything else he couldn’t remember.

    He walked briskly into the next room.  The air seemed charged and his brain went into overdrive as things seemed to start happening quicker.  He noticed three pictures on the wall but knew what was there before he even reached them, half way across the room he felt the pull.

    The hospital, Becky lying in a bed looking tired and excited holding Violet in her arms.  The younger Robert, now twenty-six, sat beside her, wearing the same grin he wore in the previous photographs, tickling the chin of there newly delivered daughter.

    Vi’s first birthday, full head of black hair and face full of cake.  She has her fathers grin and her mother’s eyes.

    Becky hugging him, tears running down her face.  Another five years had passed, and she’s pregnant again.

    The memories flooded him once more.  His mom helping them prepare for Violet’s birth.  Him teaching Vi to ride a bike.  Every sleepless night and kissed booboo.  Becky pregnant and crying on Violet’s first day of school.

    Robert slowly back out of the room.  Violet.  How long has it been since he held her and how old was she now.  He wished he could remember, he knew he would soon, but with the still vacant gaps he missed her dearly.

    He turned and headed up the hallway going once more for the door on the right.  He entered the room disappointed.  It was a closet at one point but had along the way been turned into a bathroom.  He scanned the room for photos but could not find any.

    His mind still churned brief flashes of him as a young kid again, pretending to shave next to his Grandfather as the senior Simmons did the real thing.  Small glimpses but nothing substantial.  He turned, leaving the bathroom and heading towards the room he now remembered as his grandparent’s room.

    He entered the room, expecting once more to simply be pulled in, just as he was in the room his parents had used.  But the excitement quickly faded once more.  There was no pulling and no sense of his brain racing, trying to grab the memories as they flew by.  He scanned the walls, once again bare except for the outer wall.  A single picture hung upon this wall between two windows, and these windows were open.

He hung back, his first thought at this new development being the odd light outside.  He pushed the hesitation away, he had to see the photograph.  He had to remember.

    Robert made his way towards the wall, making an arc around the bed that took up the room center until he came to the first window and froze.

    Despite the glowing horror outside he had really only expected to see black sky and a grassy field, however he saw neither.  He saw himself, weeping, little six year old Vi asleep in his arms.  He was sitting in his chair in the living room of their house, only it was only their house now.  He remembered this scene, no matter how much he had wanted to forget it, now that it had come back, he remembered it.  He had just returned from picking up Vi from his parents after having come home from spending a week in the hospital.  Becky was gone, there were complications and she hadn’t survived childbirth.  Little Elizabeth had been sent to the I.C.U. in an incubator only to pass away a week later.  He had gone from two lovely ladies in his life, to three, to one.

    Robert sat on the bed, sobbing along with his window counterpart.  He sat there for what seemed an eternity, composing himself only to break down again.  Every thought centered on the three women of his life.  The love he lost, the love he never really knew, and the love that he still couldn’t fully remember.



    He awoke upset that his memory loss didn't extend to his current situation, not even the slightest momentary relief of thinking it had all been a dream.  He knew exactly where he was, and exactly which memories he had yet extracted from this childhood house of horrors.  His heart panged as he looked towards the window which had caused his most recent pains.  It was no longer open, at some point it had shuttered itself.  He sighed as a small bit of relief waved over him, then his eye went to the photo hanging to the windows right.

    His chest tightened as fear slowly crept over him.  You don't have to look, he thought to himself.  There is more to this house to discover, maybe even a way out.  But part of him knew he had to just as part of him knew that there was no way out.  Finally he stood up, the pictures had all been good memories so far, the window was the bad one.  His eyes shifted slightly to the still opened window on the far right.  He looked back quickly towards the photograph and took a deep breath.

    He stepped forward once more, the slight pull tickling at his face as he made it closer and the images contents came in to view.  It was Violet, only she was a long time removed from the days where she would huddle against his lap.  She was a beautiful young woman now, holding a pair of key and smiling brightly towards the camera.  Robert looked around, realizing he had once more, unknowingly, slipped out of the farm house and into a memory.  Vi stood next to the car he had gotten her for her seventeenth birthday.

    He stood next to his past self, shocked at how the version of himself holding the camera now mirrored the real him, maybe younger by only a few years.  The camera snapped and Violet came running over, throwing her arms around the photo him and thanking him profusely for the present.

    Robert, the current Robert, the real Robert walked over to the hugging father and child, tears in his eyes.  He reached out, trying to brush his daughters arm, only to watch his hand pass right through leaving only a numbingly cold chill in his fingers.  The tears came faster as the memories rushed back in.

    Violet playing tea party with her animals on the living room floor.

    Tears in both their eyes as they bring flowers to her mother and sisters graves.

    Meeting her first boyfriend.

    Teaching her to drive.

    He felt the tears this time as he appeared in front of the photograph again, enraged at knowing everything that had been taken away.  He slammed his fists against the wall causing the picture to shake on it's nail and screamed at the wall.

    "Why?," he bellowed his wet face burning red.  "What did I do to deserve this fucking place?  Was I so bad, is this my punishment for things I still don't fucking remember?"

    He hit the wall again, realizing that his outburst was useless, and angrier for it.  Then the pull started again, but this time it felt stronger, and menacing, as if it wasn't pulling him, but ripping his soul from out his being.  He turned his gaze towards the window from which the force was emanating.  The dreaded, cursed thing that he knew was more heart ache and regret.

    "Fuck you," he told the window and turned away, it pulled at his back but he moved away anyway, determined to get as far from the open sore as he could.  He made his way around the bed, and then the door shut.  He ran forward, grabbing the knob and twisting despite already knowing the outcome. 

    It wouldn't open.  It wasn't locked, the knob turned freely but the door wouldn't budge.  There was no shake or give, it was as if it wasn't a door at all but a knob set into the wall itself.  He sank down to the floor, more tears of anger and helplessness streaming down his face as his hands still shook at the knob.  Finally he gave up and let his hands drop.  He let out an uneasy laugh.  "Who'd have known that Hell was my grandparents farm," he said to no one in particular, another uncomfortable laugh escaping his throat. 

    Fuck it, he thought to himself, let's play the game.  He pulled him self up and slowly made his way back around the bed.

    He sat down on the mattress across from the window, his eyes shut and head down, and momentarily fought the pull that seemed to be trying to lift his head towards the window.  Then with a deep breath he opened his eyes and looked.

    He saw Vi, pale and thin laying in her bed.  Tubing twisted away from both arms like inverted balloon strings.  A nurse was by her side, removing the I.V.s from her arms as he sat next to her, holding his daughters hand his face buried into her stomach, shaking with uncontrollable sobbing.

    The real Robert sat, watching this scene, shaking along with the windows version of him, only the real him had no tears left to shed.  The memories were coming back.  He stood up as he heard the door click open and headed out into the hall and then turned towards the last room in the house.  His mind flooded with images as he walked. 

    The cancer diagnosis just two weeks after she had received her car as a gift.

    The horrible year of chemo, hair loss, and sudden sickness.

    The four months of remission and hair regrowth, and laughter.

    The diseases sudden return, and his last six months with his daughter.

    He made it to the kitchen, not bothering to look for pictures or windows, knowing that there would be no more to see, everything was rushing back now.

    His week of not leaving his house since his daughters death.

    Then the day he needed to leave, and he needed to drink.

    Robert found himself standing in front of the kitchens back door, the one that led outside.  But this door wasn't going to lead him to the expansive field of his Grandparents land, it was going to lead him to that day. That day he left the house.  The day he needed the drink.  He could hear the sirens, even see the flashing blue shining from the crack under the door.

    He took in a breath.  There was no pull from this door, stepping through was his decisions and his alone, no other power would make this one for him.  He could always stay in this house of memories forever.  He even briefly thought about trying to start things over, he wasn't sure he could, but it was a possibility, but part of him was pretty sure that that door became locked to him the second he started to remember.

    He pulled open the door and looked past the wooden porch.  The field was gone, replaced with asphalt and frenzy.  Police cars and an ambulance surrounded the car that had wrapped around a telephone pole.  And there was the idiot drunken driver, thrown from the car upon impact and laying at the end of the bloody trail that showed just how far he had slid after landing.  He stared at himself, laying in the middle of paramedics as they tried desperately to restart his heart, failing over and over again.

    He looked at he bloodied twisted former body of his and made up his mind.

    He had no idea what would happen when he rejoined the real world, only that he wouldn't be there more then a few seconds before it was pulled from him again.  The only hope he could hold onto was that, when the pain was gone, he would see his girls again.

    "Violet, Rebecca, Elizabeth, I'm sorry, I love you, and I'm coming."

   

He stepped off the porch.