0-0-0-0-0-0 (or) Deadline
llustrated Short Story
Prologue:
When Time Moved Forward
He was marked perfect, the day He came out the womb. The doctors were worried when He didn’t cry to fill out his lungs. “It’s okay” He said, “I finished early.” His family was not surprised however. They seemed to be acutely aware of how He would turn out – a prodigal genius, the result of a myriad choices spanning generations, by progenitors and predecessors in order to craft the perfect Child. The maids were too afraid at first. What does perfection do, but make one self-conscious? But the initial apprehension faded, and thereafter there was nobody on the estate who didn’t yearn to hold Him in their arms. The Boy wove an air of the divine, by merely being present in the room. The apple of the eye, and the razor of the intellect. An inimitable charm along with an immutable mind but most crucial was that this was all tempered by the deep, inborn sense of love and passion for all His people. He was taken up by the concept of struggle at 2 years of age, and that’s when He made it his chief goal to eliminate suffering and materialize heaven on Earth. And He wasted no time - at 5 He mastered classical mathematics, at 8 He composed masterful poetry rivalling the works of Promestheus and Sakuntala. At 10, He initiated a series of actuarial methods that squared his family’s already boundless wealth, along with rescuing the economy of half the modern world. At 11, He devised formal plans for a perfect city that would have mired Viswakara and leCorbusier in awe. At 12, he fell in love. He gave her everything, but there’s only so much a 13-year old maiden could be tasked with wanting. She broke His heart and His logic. For, she was only human.
At 14, He journeyed across the world to study with the masters. Rabusen
taught Him metaphysics, Oriala taught Him tantric psychosomatics,
Varn taught Him biomimetics, while Gregari expounded upon Him,
chaos-risk functions. While on this great pilgrimage, He produced an
immense array of paintings, tableaus and writings. These covered a
rich variety of topics, and possessed a masterfully refined complexity.
Soon, He had no more equals. Contemporaries and critics, governments
and religious leaders all bowed before Him. He battled a suffocating
isolation. The works He produced during this epoch would go on to form
the foundation for His life’s work. He theorised a new fundamental ideal
of beauty. As the many hermits and sakyamunis before Him, He set His
vision on the Ultimate - The Unchanging and the Undying.
When He was 17 his mother passed away. Reeling from His loss,
the last few pieces fit into place. Now, He was resolute. All He would
need, is a device that would transmute His theory into reality, and
so He started building it. He married the Angan princess whom the
Great Genetic Charter had selected for his bloodline, years prior to
His birth. His work kept him away from homely exploits, but a few
years before the realization of the project, they would have a son.
While attempting to devise this machine that would stop Time,
He poured all His assets and resources into laying the framework for
the plan’s execution. The press and media couldn’t get enough, they
practically did the convincing for Him. ‘Satya, jeetega!’ and ‘Stick it to
with the Man!’ streamed across headlines.
He promised to deliver men within their lifetimes, their Salvation, their Truth, their Perfection. An omnipresent apparition in every screen of modern civilization, his manifesto rung out,
“Time,
is the antithesis,
to all Perfection, all Happiness.
Our qualm, is with Time itself.”
1
neg 0yrs 0mts 0dys 7hrs 12min 41sec
I looked at my wristwatch, to survey how much time was left. I could afford a few more minutes. The others thought I was crazy, for sleeping in so late on such an important day. But I wasn’t like them, I had had a plan and I had executed it to nigh perfection. I had earned the extra rest, especially on this day when I would need it. And then, never need it again. I tossed to the other side of the cot, inscrutably wound in my sheets and sunk once more into their softness, as I tried to ignore the sunrays invading my sleep from between the blinds. Even now at the very end, I am awestruck as to how He was able to reverse the flow of Time. “We all want the same thing. Why shouldn’t we achieve it? Take this opportunity I submit to you.” The Man said. Or so I’ve read. There was a time of scepticism. But I hardly think anyone remembers such an era. Any doubts were cleared when humanity witnessed the seamless establishment of the greatest logistical network of all time, in delivering every person alive: a one, atomic quartz wristwatch and two, a compac-seal dose of morphine, 200mg. He had been brutally honest about it, He had not lied to anyone. Yet, I doubt there could’ve been a single other, who taking the same steps and the same precautions, could have convinced the whole world to take this modern path of salvation. The vacuum of morning thought gave way, and a dull shock to my heart reminded me of my purpose: Verona.
The thought of her was delicious and nauseating. Something in me, told me, assured me, that she would love what I’ve planned for her. This was no hopeful gesture of courtship pining for the mere chance at her hand. I know in my veins, that she will be ecstatic. I know how, her lips will part askance, a supple oval expressing surprise and then, curl into a smile as wide as the sunny sky. I know how her glassy eyes will dwell on the gift, then lock onto me, then scurry back. I know how her delicate ankles will hoist up her body as she stretches up to kiss me. I know how her arms will slip underneath mine, our warmths locking as she embraces the man who has secured for her, her eternal happiness. Yes, I had earned this time. A true lover needs time to sit with his heart in love and muse over his beloved. My heart is perennially wrung of its love. I am drained every single day till the point of nauseating hysteria, and every night I fall parched at my pillow, satiated by being wrung clean of everything I am. And in the mornings, I awake light and revitalized, ready to do it all again. I keep giving until the final threshold when I seem scant to give more, but at that moment of true emptiness, that’s when I know my heart will expand forth and the very thought of her will suffuse me again in an endless waterfall of love. She might not know much about me, save for my name, but everything I do, is for her eternal happiness.
There was a veritable knot in the air, a thick sense of unease. You could easily tell them apart - every man on this day walked the streets drenched in the prescience of his final truth. There were the men who clambered around frantically, in a fury of plan and execution. This faction was comprised of roughly half of all existing people – somewhere along the line, they started calling themselves the Dreamers. Most had acquired a pathological tic, compulsively glancing at their watches to scan for the time they had left. But on this day, even the very best of the Dreamers could afford at most, a brisk pace in their step, no slower. These were the men who, unlike any generation of men before them, could see their salvation before their very eyes; for by sunset, the worlds of man, dream and divinity would align for all eternity. The remaining half, the other faction – drifted quiet like nymphs in a dream. These were the ones, who resigned to the fact that their hopes of perfection could never be attained. They would never achieve the perfect happiness that would define their lives. Casting off any ideals that would cause them further misery, they quietly wait for 0-0-0-0-0-0 at which point they would be privy to one last euphoria by morphine. The Drifters formed packs, their lifeforce but a hush, as they held hands in solidarity to surrender to the truth. This had peculiar effects in this rung of population, one destitute-looking Drifter woman started rolling around in the dirt, shrieking that God had visited her in every mote of dust and gravel. Cones of Drifters gathered in the town Square, singing and chanting and hallucinating to honour the abandoned dead. A few weeks ago, a Dreamer man had simply cast his deceased mother’s corpse outside his curb for he had had no time to waste for a funeral. A group of Drifters had consecrated at the forlorn body, to sing and pray for it and gild it with flowers. Other Dreamers had followed in that man’s ways and soon, forsaking the dead was common practice and the bodies piled up. The Drifters prayed and sang for them all. The stench of decaying bodies melded with the fragrance of the lilies and gardenias woven betwixt their rotting fingers and toes.
The big white numbers set in an opalescent black case, the watches worn on the wrist of every person alive, united all, past Dreaming and Drifting. They were manufactured in a host of factories in Eurasia, and within two years, nigh every living person was fitted with one to keep absolute track. The Man had not demanded payment, just acceptance. Families could request for more watches, as and when their children were born. But, the global birth rate itself dipped into negligible quarts. One force was powerful enough to stop the Dreamers in their frenzied tracks. It was a message ingrained into each one of us, but it still warranted paying heed to, possibly for the last time. I sat up and looked outside. The pane glass distorted the numbers on the big clock at the intersection, but they were clear enough to read:
‘neg 0yrs 0mts 0 dys 7hrs 0min 54sec’.
The high-pitched whirring of the intercoms summoned their attention and the people nearby flocked to it. In the Square, in the Cants, in the residential district, every box pulled in a swarm of listeners. Across the world, activity promptly halted to hear His message. And then He spoke. His oceanic voice bloomed through the intercoms.
“Today is beautiful. As it was foreseen to be, hence it’s lot as the Eternal Day. I won’t keep you long my friends, for I know that Time is of the essence. My message is of two parts. Listen cautiously, for the lack of Time keeps me from repeating myself.” He spoke each syllable with sonorous veracity.
“The first – Those of you who fight for your dreams, remember that not a second will be spared for you, past the dwindling of the clock. It was decreed and agreed, that you would get this much. If you find that your dreams are unreachable phantasms in the distance, you are always free to avail the alternate option.” “For those who wait patiently, wear your most beloved clothes, choose your most beloved space and sit with your most beloved people. At neg60 seconds, the intercoms will sound the final call. At this sound, you will have roughly 35 seconds to assemble the syringe, draw the full dosage into the barrel and treat yourself with it intravenously. This should be completed by neg25 seconds. The syringes are made to be as intuitive and intelligible as possible. In any case, a clear microform of instructions is provided in the case. After treatment, you will begin to experience its effects in approximately 7 seconds, regardless of your physiology and genetics. The ensuing 18 seconds, and all Time after, are forever yours. We are neg5 hours from creating perfection. I will meet you all again, in the End.” The voice went away, and the speakers crackled for a few seconds till they stopped silent. Activity resumed with a thunderous force. With the announcement, my time of idling had repleted too and purpose came crashing back to me. -verona- I -verona- spurred -verona- into -verona- action -verona— verona—verona—verona—verona—
neg 0yrs 0mts 0dys 0hrs 27 min 33sec:
The sun was preparing to set, as the first rays started to stretch from white to golden. Hopefully everyone else was in their place now. I was in mine, in front of her. All the Dreaming and Drifting would come to an end. “Verona, I know we haven’t spoken much. But I want you to know, that I really like you and that I’d like nothing more than to spend my last moments, talking to you and learning about you.” (Of course, I already know everything there is to know). “I’ve found a great spot to sit and wait till the count ends. Please tell me you’ll join me.”
neg 0yrs 0mts 0dys 0hrs 0min 120sec:
It couldn’t be more perfect than this. I have her, with me. We will spend the rest of Time together. She chose me. She loves the plumerias that remind her of her first garden, she loves the apple pie I made her that takes her back to her mother, she loves the hammock we sit in, she loves the view overlooking the sunset. She loves me. I lean in to kiss her, and if I time this right, it could be our eternal moment. She saw my intent. She blushed, looked away nervously and then, she looked back. I closed my eyes and braced myself, every hair on my body standing on end. My heart beat faster and faster. The intercoms came alive, and they sounded the call for the Drifters, it was neg60. I heard rustling and metal scratching. By the time I realized what this meant, it was too late. I opened my eyes. She was holding the syringe. I swatted it away frantically but it was too late, her wrist went limp. I watched in horror, as her eyes rolled up her head. She convulsed and moaned in ecstasy. And then, as if her very spine was pulled out of her, she sank into the hammock’s ropes.
neg 0yrs 0mth 0dys 0hrs 0min 6sec:
I don’t think He calculated this. “5.”
Because if He had, then this could not have happened. “4.”
I gave her everything she could ever want. “3.”
I did my research and my planning. “2.”
The sun is no longer golden, more than it is blood red. “1.”
“0.”
It appears to have worked. Time has been annihilated. Everything seems to have gone off without any hitches.
My vision is warped and fountains of distortion hang in the air. When I move across space, my eyes collide with stationary photons and the image that thence forms is heavily distorted. All the world looks like it’s underwater. Everything is illuminated by iridescent brushstrokes, rendering cosmic vistas in every locus of space, as constellations of unmoving photons.
“Eldris and Zelda, I wish I could have brought you with me…” My wife and son sit forever on this settee at the centre of our salon. The golden sunset let in through the large windows coats their silhouettes in scarlet and bronze plumes. The wide mirror on the adjacent wall multiplies the space into a vast golden paradise. Eldris will never see a life of suffering, he will remain immortal at his mother’s breast. His one tiny hand in hers, and his other, in mine.
“I’m sorry I had to let go Eldris. I’ll be back soon.”
2
neg 0yrs 0mth 0dys 0hrs 0min 0sec
Far out in the meadow fields, there is a handsome couple fornicating on a fleece laid in the grass. The lovers bury their faces in each other’s chests, locking in a tense embrace. Their skin is covered in mottled patches of pink and red from the clawing and the abrasion. “A thoroughly amusing idea! I hope they timed it well!” The man has remarkable auburn hair that tangles with her flowing raven locks, and underneath her river of hair, she too is beautiful. As the golden sunlight enunciates their melting forms, there is no telling where the woman ends and the man begins. And so they fuse, for all eternity.
The ocean is still. The sight of this primordial force standing motionless is something I cannot quite fathom. The large swathing waves stand as towers above their smaller brethren, the smaller waves are peaking crests, just beginning to poke above the surface of water. Sea-foam and mist-spray like suspended starbursts punctuate the immutable rocks on the shore. There is an old man, standing a distance away, with his feet in the water. He owns the coolness of the seafoam forever. The sea is him and he is the sea.
In the ghetto, people sit outside, arm in arm. Dozens of them have bunched up sleeves and the pockmark at their vein, and manic ecstasy on their face. In the end, they were able to acquire a piece of the divine happiness that so eluded them all their lives. A strikingly beautiful beggar girl sits amongst the people, her features undaunted by the grime and dirt of her home. Beneath her tattered attire, she has patches of red and pink, almost as if she had just made love. For some reason, the image of her lover comes to mind –
An auburn haired brown skinned man.
I step outside to check on the nature of everything. The world itself is rendered into the finest impressionist painting. The erasure of Time has robbed everything material of its movement. Though not a soul stirred, colour shone alive. With every shift in perspective, hues split and mixed. I have never experienced such beauty before. It is indescribable and surreal. I am but walking down the hall from my chamber to the main foyer, an act I’ve done ten thousand times before, but never has it assumed such a breath-taking quality.
There lies a blond butler, outstretched on my divan, syringe and case ajar on the floor. His eyes are closed and clear tears gush out to watercolour-wash his sunburnt cheeks. His mouth is open wide, in the middle of a scream. He appears to be in pain, but the slight curl of his lips and his eyes rolled up under the lids sign to me that he is not frozen in discomfort, but euphoria.
I stride out to the Square. Large crowds of people are embracing each other in their arms as they look skyward. There is a brown-skinned man who leads them all. They appear lost in song. A young boy holds his mother’s leg as his green eyes look down at something he has drawn. It is a yali, carved onto the paper in the chicken-scratch lines of a crayon. The mother gazes down, and can’t help but crack her crooked smile at her son, beaming at his own drawing. No syringe near her, she chose this as her final moment.
Snowflakes impinge upon my face as I walk through the eschewed mountain scape. The warmth of my skin brings death to the otherwise immortal snowflakes. There is no cold, nor heat. But the melting of snow on my face creates an unusual phenomenon similar to sweating, which feels out of place here in the middle of this snowy ravine. Seated on a perch powdered with snow, is another, who seemed to be indifferent to the temperature - a naked, golden-haired hermit who has renounced the outer, and since receded to the inner world. He sits tranquil in the still blanket snowfall, as if all of Time stopping could have been as inconsequential to him as amoeba to an elephant.
A middle-aged woman sits on a bench with the dogs of the neighbourhood. A vortex of wagging and fur surrounds her. Buttoneyed dogs brown, black, white, spotted, marbled scruff up against her legs with tongues out and tails up. She meets their chaotic longing with crumbling biscuits in her fingers, and sits for all eternity, content to be forever amidst friends.
I cannot be sure how long it has been since I set out to witness my creation, but that very question is no longer of consequence. I can now safely attest that I have succeeded, I have brought about Perfection. Time no longer razes beauty. Humanity’s creations and its civilizations, our Truths will forever remain at their prime. The young will never age, the old will never die, fathers and daughters will never separate, mothers and sons will never part, spouses will never dissolve their love, the rich will never lose their wealth, the poor will never lose their kinship, the euphoric will never submit to sobriety. I now return to Zelda’s side, and when I take up Eldris’s hand once more, the final piece will be placed.
I enter the great doors, and walk past the grand foyer. Something in my vision arrests me in my step. The butler on the divan, lies outstretched. But his once black hair is an old man’s bleached mane. How could he have aged? Have I erred in some way? Is biological life still churning away underneath the metaphysical plane? I test his wrist for a pulse, but nothing moves.
A woman sits on a settee, with a boy at her lap. He holds her arm, and she embraces him with her other. I infer that she is his mother, and he her son. But. Who are they? Is the light deceiving me? No, it isn’t. Somebody else sits where they sat. Where have Zelda and Eldris gone? Who are these facsimiles? Eldris had his dullahan drawing with him, where has it vanished? My boy had made something that made him happy! Is his drawing with him?
Where have they gone? I executed everything to perfection! Why am I denied my own? I had to be separate! What is the ultimate Perfection perfectly staged and perfectly represented, without the perfect observer? I had to be separate, I had to witness what I had done! What would be the difference then between Perfection, and suicide?!
“GOD! Is this your doing?! Reveal yourself! Give them back to me! Has my prowess made you impotent with jealousy! Have you become spiteful, now that I, Man, have bested you!”
All the photos in the house have been replaced with fakes. I tear through albums and yearbooks. Another man sits in my bed, another man commemorates my factory. Some sadistic force beyond me, has snuck in to my home and replaced all traces of my family. And they didn’t think I would notice?! No. There is nothing for me here. I will find them. I will turn the whole world inside out. I have all the time, and all the resources. They’re out there. This facsimile, this cheap imitation is a disgrace. Who is this crooked smiling crone, that sits here with her ugly boy with a bulbous head? They aren’t mine.
“When did you get here? Who are you?” There is another who stands next to me. I adjust to the streams of light warping. It’s him! The imposter, the man in the pictures! I will rush him, to bar his escape. He will face the anger of a god! He responds in kind and rushes at me. We make contact.
I writhe in a sea of glass shards. Countless miniscule pieces have cut me. In the scarlet sunset, the shards glimmer like rubies… or is it blood that makes them look that way?
