Jonathan opened his eyes on the first day of spring in 2092 as a seventeen year old to bright lights and dark blurry figures. He searched out the tubes in his arms. His eyes barely able to focus on the blinking lights off to the side of the bed.
"Wow, he looks so good. When will we be able to take him home?" he heard a foreign voice say as the blackness took over him.
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The
suns fingers crept up the floor grabbing each speck of dust in its
beams as if to show each photons activity. The must of the living room
was intensified by the dark wood paneled walls and the rusty orange
colored sofa. Looking up into his mothers face he saw the eyes of a
geisha framed by the pixie cut of a girl right out of the twenties. He
felt a tickle behind his ear and by his mothers magic a wooden Mutual of
Omaha nickel appeared. Her fingers traced his tiny palm as she placed
the wooden piece in his hand. He turned it over and over in amazement
wondering how something so large was behind his ear and he never felt
it.
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A
bellow escaped his throat and buried within the deep wail was one
syllable, "Mom!". His vision blurred, he licked his lips and tasted the
salt in his tears. He looked down and his knuckles went from pink to
white. Stuck, he whispered, "mom, help".
There
was no answer, no slamming of the back door followed by running feet
and the voice of his hero screaming, "I'm coming son!".
Hugging
the tree his tears carved age into his cheeks. Time slowed and turned
infinite, minutes rose and set with the sun. He lowered his foot on the
branch toward the abyss below him. White turned back to pink as his feet
touched the crunchy leaves scattered at the base of the tree.
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The sun shone bright in his eyes as he focused on the pitcher, crouching at home plate all he saw was a silhouette winding up. The white ball with the red stitching stretched across the brilliant white sky and he lost it. His eyes were drawn to the sun as it glinted from behind the brim of the pitchers hat. He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot and tucked the sun back behind the pitchers head and with the instant shadow he saw the ball fill his vision.
He awoke to his coach patting him on his cheek saying, "Oh, Jesus, his mother is going to kill me. Son, hey son, wake up, you're alright son. No harm done. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Ta...Ta...Two," Jonathan said.
"Alright! Hop on up and let's work on catching that curve ball some more," the coach bellowed.
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Jonathan opened his eyes to the voices in his head. His eyes flooded with light as his pupils adjusted to the flourescent glow from over his bed.
"Jonathan, dear, it's your mother. Over here," she said with a wave. He looked but did not recognize the face. "Do you know me yet?" she asked.
Another voice said, "Ma'am, we are still loading. We're at age seven. For a proper recovery we must strictly adhere to the timeline."
"Well, how much longer until he is fully functional?" the mother asked.
"Just two more weeks ma'am." the other voice responded. It sounded like it was emitting from every wall, every direction.
He closed his eyes and the sounds faded to a dull static and he was asleep again.
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The sun shone bright in his eyes as he focused on the pitcher, crouching at home plate all he saw was a silhouette winding up. The white ball with the red stitching stretched across the brilliant white sky and he lost it. His eyes were drawn to the sun as it glinted from behind the brim of the pitchers hat. He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot and tucked the sun back behind the pitchers head and with the instant shadow he saw the ball fill his vision.
He awoke to his coach patting him on his cheek saying, "Oh, Jesus, his mother is going to kill me. Son, hey son, wake up, you're alright son. No harm done. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Ta...Ta...Two," Jonathan said.
"Alright! Hop on up and let's work on catching that curve ball some more," the coach bellowed.
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Jonathan opened his eyes to the voices in his head. His eyes flooded with light as his pupils adjusted to the flourescent glow from over his bed.
"Jonathan, dear, it's your mother. Over here," she said with a wave. He looked but did not recognize the face. "Do you know me yet?" she asked.
Another voice said, "Ma'am, we are still loading. We're at age seven. For a proper recovery we must strictly adhere to the timeline."
"Well, how much longer until he is fully functional?" the mother asked.
"Just two more weeks ma'am." the other voice responded. It sounded like it was emitting from every wall, every direction.
He closed his eyes and the sounds faded to a dull static and he was asleep again.
