silent-gift

Sitting at the table, I held the meager piece of paper in my hand. On it was a single line of text. Across from me was my father. Standing a couple paces away was my mother. They were both looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak.

My mouth agape, I looked at my parents, contemplating disobeying them. I tried that before, tried not reading what was on the paper, tried delaying it. No, they wanted me to read it now, in their presence.

The world was expecting me to. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and read, “Each day that I grow into becoming a man—”. I paused, to see if they approved. My dad nodded. I continued. “—I'm grateful for all the ways you two have raised me.” The words didn't sound like me. They were written by someone else, someone who wanted me to say it.

They both relaxed. My mom sashayed around the back of the table and put her arm around me. “And we are delighted to have you as our son,” she said cheerfully without skipping a beat.

“Just remember to do what you're told, and no harm will come of you,” my father added, just as enthusiastically. “Our rules are here to protect you.”

The rules. I grew to acknowledge them, to obey them. Despite my hatred of my parents rules I knew they did protect me. I've heard stories secondhand from others—my parents, friends—of special people who had their own outer darkness, had their own doorways that captured their curiosity. The only thing they encountered was excruciating pain for several hours until death finally took them.

It was safe here. Whenever I asked why I couldn't go past the outer darkness, but others could, I was always met with the answer: “You're special, Ryan.” I remember one conversation when I was about five years old. I was sitting with my mom at the dining table where we often had these conversations.

“Special?” I asked.

My mother nodded enthusiastically, the light glistening in her eyes. Hair fell over her ear, and she was quick to tuck it behind again. “You have a special gift that makes going past the outer darkness dangerous.”

They both cared about me. And everyone I talked to (include friends) reiterated how dangerous it would be to go past the outer darkness. With death as the inevitable outcome, everyone was trying to keep me safe. How could I argue?

Still, my imagination ran wild thinking about what was beyond the outer darkness. What was it like? Was it just a series of rooms like this one? Was it just an empty abyss?

I often asked my parents about this. What was beyond the outer darkness?

“A world you might see someday.” “Everything that harms you.” “It's dangerous to ask such a question!”

So eventually I just stopped asking.

Everything would soon be revealed in due time, I reckoned. When I was ready.

It wasn't just me and my parents in the room. We would sometimes have parties, celebrations, inviting cousins I never knew I had. During those times it felt like the whole world was watching.

And I even had some friends that would occasionally come over. They would always ask about me, ask what I was interested in, engage in anything I wanted to do.

“Where do you live?” I asked my 11-year-old friend Cameron.

“Oh, just out there,” he replied.

The answer too vague for my liking, I pushed. “What do you do for fun?”

Cameron looked away, contemplating. My dad stepped into the room, his posture tense.

Cameron turned back. “Oh, lots of things!” And he left the answer at that, changing the topic to something else unusually quickly.

As I became a teenager, of course, they brought girls over. Most I thought of as friends. A few I fell in love with. The couch in the middle of the room usually became the cuddle-and-talk spot. I would talk with the girls. We'd get to know each other. And in those moments, it felt like the whole world watched with eagerness, seeing how our new love would bloom.

When I was sixteen I remember one specific girl, whom I was convinced I'd marry. Beautiful girl. She had a great sense of humor, a zest for life, and bright, fiery eyes.

After one memorable night of cuddling on the couch, still seated, she finally kissed me gently. “It's getting late,” she said, “My parents are probably worried.”

Normally I'd return the touch. Normally I'd follow her out. But for some reason, this time was different. Instead, I sat there on the couch as she started to get up, then a flame ignited, and I was overcome with desire. Outer darkness or not, I had to follow her!

With my jaw set I got up from the couch to follow her toward the door. Turning, she gasped, and quickly positioned herself to block me. “No, Ryan—it's dangerous! You'll get hurt—you'll—you'll die!”

“I don't care, Megan!” I cried. “I want to go with you.”

“Ryan, Ryan, please!” she begged, gently pushing me backward. “Don't do this. It's—it's—dangerous.”

“What's out there?” I asked her.

Tears welled in her eyes. She looked like she was contemplating saying something.

Now more agitated, I grab her shoulders. “Megan, what's out there?”

“Ryan!”

I turn behind me. It was my father. He came in from the other side of the room, joined with my mother. My dad looked nervous, but retained his composure. My mom looked just as shaken.

“Ryan,” my dad continued, “Megan seems like a good girl. Why are you treating her like this?”

I turned back toward a trembling Megan. “I—”

My dad continued. “Megan will call you when she gets home...won't you Megan?”

She nodded frantically.

“See, Ryan, there's nothing to worry about. You can let her go.”

“Yes, Ryan, I'll call,” she said desperately. She leaned forward and kissed me strongly. “I promise.”

I was starting starting to tremble myself, the bravado I initially felt now replaced with adrenaline. I stepped back, watching her slip into the darkness beyond.

An hour later the phone rang. I picked up quickly.

My parents were watching. The whole world was watching with bated breath.

“Megan?”

There was silence for several seconds. I heard a sigh. Then, haltingly, she said, “I think it's best...I think it's best if we don't see each other...anymore.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't feel...I'm not in love with you anymore.”

My mouth was dry. My mind raced, trying to think of something to say, something to keep her there.

“Goodbye, Ryan.”

Then she hung up.

Stricken, I fell to the floor and began to weep. My parents came along beside me, turning me at an angle, toward the light, to get a better look at my tear-soaked face. The world fell silent.

For months I questioned what I saw. I questioned my own perception. Everything inside me told me Megan loved me. Why did she suddenly grow cold?

After recovering from the shock, I asked my mom about it. She revealed that Megan moved away, and stressed that I'd never hear from her again.

Why would I never hear from her again? The situation felt frustratingly convenient—and not convenient for me. Just everything was clicking, the rug was pulled out from under me. Not everything was as it appeared. It felt like strings I wasn't privy to were being pulled for someone's amusement to watch me suffer.

That wasn't the only event that had me questioning, though. My entire life was marked by similar experiences that had me questioning my very sanity.

For instance, on time when I was thirteen my mother had just finished a school lesson, meticulously tucking her hair behind her ear.

“It's not real!” I heard a voice scream. My mom jumped. “None of this is real! Get out of here, Ryan!” The voice continued screaming, then it became stifled and muffled; finally, it fell silent.

My mom continued to nonchalantly gather up school supplies.

“What was that?” I asked.

Her motion continued smoothly, uninterrupted. My mom, bearing a grim smile tilted her head, “What was what?” she asked cheerfully.

“The—that woman screaming?”

She made a point of frowning. “There wasn't any voice,” she said emphatically.

“I heard a woman screaming something at me,” I insisted.

My mom pouted, thinking, then she turned aside, still keeping an eye on me. “John?” she called.

My dad came in the room. “What is it, honey?”

Still looking at me, Mom said, “Ryan says he heard a voice.”

My dad forced a chuckle. “Was it my terrible singing?” he chided.

“No,” I insisted, “it was a voice. A scream. A woman was screaming none of this is real.”

My dad frowned. “Oh, that's—that sounds serious. I think we should have that looked at.”

They brought in a psychiatrist. I went through eight weeks of psychotherapy, rather, eight weeks of hell in order reorient what I considered normal.

“Your mother says she didn't hear a voice, and was sitting in the same room as you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And your father says he didn't hear a voice, and he was in the next room.”

“Yes, but—”

“So then it's only you who's claiming you heard the woman.”

Eventually I conceded that it was in my head. But it did little to put the my parents' minds at ease: I was put on a medication regimen with excruciating side effects for the full eight weeks of the sessions.

Those eight weeks I remember those sessions so vividly, so painfully, that next time I heard a voice, I simply ignored it, smiling at my mom who was smiling right back at me.

***

That night after my parents forced me to read the note about becoming a man (they had always forced me to read many notes) I went to bed, but my young male mind raced with rage just as much as it raced with curiosity.

After all, I was 19 now. An adult. My parents didn't need to make decisions for me. I was my own person, and—damn it!—I could make my own decisions. If I wanted to risk death because of my curiosity, that was my decision, and my decision alone!

Resolute in my decision to face the darkness, I knew I had to be quiet about it. I listened for noises in the next room over, hoping to hear signs that my parents had gone to bed.

Instead, my parents were whispering in dining room, but the whispers soon died down, and I heard footsteps. The light dimmed. I got up from my bed, and opened it slowly. Thankfully, it didn't creak.

I saw the back of my dad heading into the outer darkness.

I tiptoed out of the door, across the floor, and I once again approached the precipice of the outer darkness. My eyes were fixed on the void before me. How soon would I experience the torment my parents warned me about? Was it immediate? Or would I get too far in, experience the the anguish, then lose my way to return to safety?

It didn't matter. The desire was too great.

Two steps from the edge of the darkness.

Then I heard a voice behind me. “Ryan?”

A chill ran up my spine. I froze. Then, realizing I had nowhere to run I turned back around. The look of disappointment on my dad's face tore me apart.

“Dad I'm sorry, I—”

“Go back to bed.” He said. When, I didn't move, he added forcefully, “Now!”

His firm command set my feet in motion, and he continued to eye me with contempt. “I thought we raised you better,” he said.

“Dad, I'm sorry!”

“We'll talk about this in the morning.”

And we did. We'd had these talks before, but not with as much passion, and with far fewer arguments thrown. Here I was, now a man, arguing against my parents.

“Ryan, we love you, you're safe here! If we lost you—”

“That's not your call to make, Mom! That's my choice!”

“We'll lose you,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“Ryan, look what you've done to Mom!” my Dad raged, dramatically extending his arm toward her. “You've upset her.”

“I know, and I'm sorry, but I have to find out what's past there!”

“You will do no such thing. You live under my rules. I promised you and mom that I would keep you safe, and I would do exactly that.”

“You have to let me go.”

“Never!”

“I hate you! I hate you both!” I screamed, then, instead of running to my room, I ran to the bathroom, the one place where I felt like I could hide from the world. I huddled against the corner, grabbing my knees, and wept silently.

I don't think I ate the rest of the day. I don't remember going to bed.

But I remember waking up. My eyes popped open. I thought I heard water running. Was I dreaming? No, I heard it again, water running, on both sides of the bed.

Slowly, I sat up in bed, then moved my feet over the edge. Immediately, my bare feet hit a cold pool of water. Instinctively, I pulled my bare feet back from the water.

Looking down I noticed it wasn't just a pool. It was the entire floor. And rippling around my the bed, the water was rising. Already it was ankle deep.

With the water rising, I realized that I'd soon drown here. I had to get out of here.

But where? I've lived here my entire life. Leaving would mean the death of me!

“Ryan! Ryan!” I heard my parents shouting.

By the time I made it over to the door the water was already up to my knees. It took immense effort to pull the door open. Both my parents waded over to me, flashlights in hand.

That's when I noticed it was darker than usual. Besides lights coming from unusual sources, the flashlights my parents held provided the only other source of illumination.

“Ryan, we have to get out of here,” my dad told me.

“Where?”

“Come on!” he cried.

Before I could move my mom was already halfway into the outer darkness.

“Wait,” I said, halting. “The outer darkness, I'll die!”

My dad glanced behind and scowled at me. His mouth moved like he was trying to find the right words. Finally, as the water rose to his thighs, he barked, “Don't you get it? If you stay here you'll drown. Let's go!”

I followed him, but it was slow going. The current was getting stronger; the stronger it got the longer it took to move forward, which meant the cold water was rising faster than I could run. By the time I got to the threshold of the outer darkness, the water was already up to my chest. A table nearly bumped into me as I floated by.

I stood near the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest. All my life I was told this would kill me. Now I'm told it will save me. Despite the rising water, I was still afraid.

The light of my dad's flashlight passed over the outer darkness, illuminating the world beyond it, showing me the true terror of the void.

But, to my surprise, it wasn't a void at all. The truth was mundane, boring, and a disappointment.

Beyond the outer darkness was a room, about ten feet wide. On the opposite side was a concrete wall. Along the wall I spotted ropes which ran vertically toward the ceiling, but I lost sight of them.

Dad was in front of me, half walking, half swimming toward the ropes. I looked for Mom, but I didn't see her.

Where was Mom?

More chillingly—where was the world? Was the whole world in this flood?

I didn't have time to ponder. The water was up to my chin, my feet now unable to touch the ground, and, terrifyingly, I knew I couldn't swim. I finally reached the ropes and pulled myself above the waterline, alongside my dad, dripping wet and breathing heavily.

Then the realization hit me: I was past the outer darkness, past the point that everyone said would lead to a long and agonizing death.

Was this it? Was this the death they were talking about?

Between me trying not to drown and trying to make sense of the current overwhelming situation, I barely heard my dad speak. “Ryan!”

I looked over. My dad nodded toward a green door. Above it was a sign that was lit red with the word “EXIT.”

“Head toward that door,” he said. “You can't swim so I'll go first. Once I'm in, push off with all your strength. The current's pushing in that direction, so it should be easy.”

I was still nervous, but I nodded. Now, all my hope fell on my father, the one man in my life who taught me to fear the darkness. But now that I was in it, he was my only salvation.

My dad pushed off and swam toward the door. I thought he would get swept past, but at the last second he grabbed the handle, braced himself against the wall and pulled. Entranced, I watched as a new room opened to by perception. I saw what looked like stairs. But part of the room was underwater, meaning my Dad braced against part of the stairs in order to be in line to catch me.

Once he steadied himself, he motioned for me to follow.

Terrified, I still held tightly to the rope, but I felt the strong current tearing me away. I was still looking around me in all directions, trying to make sense of this new environment. What was all this? Why was it so deadly?

“Ryan!” my dad called. His eyes were pleading, desperate. “Come on!”

I readied my legs on the wall, ensuring they were primed for a final push. I let go, then launched myself in the water. Just like my dad said, the water carried me toward him. But before I reached the doorway, the current changed direction. Lunging forward, my dad grabbed my shirt, pulling me back toward him. Water streamed over the back of my neck; my head went under water; I started gasping for breath, receiving brief reprieves of air and sputtering and coughing, before I was pulled under again.

Right when I thought I'd drown, my dad pulled me up out of the water, and hoisted me on steps above him.

Weary from exertion, we both sat there, catching our breath.

“You're—your alive,” he said.

I was alive. But would I soon be dead? Sudden fury enveloped me. Was my dad the devil or my savior?

I glared at him. In a rage, I stood up, and ran up the steps. The steps led out of the floodwaters toward a dry hallway with a right angle turn. I ran down both, my bare wet feet slipping on a linoleum floor.

He called after me. “Ryan...Ryan!”

The hallway was lit very eerily. I could only describe it as raw, unkempt, unnatural. But I didn't try to figure it out. Instead, I ran toward a set of double doors, and ran headlong into them. I stumbled as they flew open, and I found myself in a large room.

The room itself was dim, but panes of glass revealed an environment I'd never seen before: a torrent of water running in a large room I'd never seen before, equally as eerie and unnatural as the light in the hallway.

What was this place?

I heard my dad's footsteps down the hall. But I turned and before me I saw a wall. Even in the unclear lighting I could make out some writing, and an image transposed on the wall.

What stood out the most was the picture. I recognized who it was immediately.

It was a picture of me.

Not just a single picture, but a series of pictures. At different stages of my life. Walking, playing with my friend Cody, receiving a medal for having graduating high school.

It was only then that I saw the large text above the montage. “COME SEE RYAN'S FULL LIFE.”

And the text below: “OPEN 24/7”

I staggered backward, falling into water that was now a rising shallow pool in the room. Stunned I stared at the wall art. I saw my name, I saw my likeness, painted onto a wall, advertising people to come see the star of the show—me! What kind of people came here, desiring to gawk at me for their own amusement?

I barely noticed my dad rush up to me, grabbing me. He begged, “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan!”

“What is this!” I demanded, throwing my hand toward the art. “This is my life?”

Surprisingly, he started to grow angry and frantic, pulling me toward another door as the water started to rise. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Huh? You want to undo what's already been done?”

“You knew? All this time?”

“We'll talk about it later. Right now, Mom's on the roof. We need to get up there, too. Now!”

He trudged off, the water now up to his knees. He opened a door and stood there, waiting. Heaving, I looked back at the advertisement, the amalgamation of my life summed up on a graphic with the sole purpose of corporate profit.

I screamed in a voice of violent rage, letting everyone who's passed by the artwork know how I felt. After that brief moment of catharsis I followed my dad through the door. We walked up a few flights of stairs before coming to a metal door, our faces illuminated by a another red EXIT sign.

He looked at me. “Are you ready?” he asked.

I nodded, unsure what to expect.

He opened the door. I saw a view of something I couldn't comprehend. Out of curiosity and fear of dying, I quickly ran out of the doorway onto another floor.

And the World, the True World, opened up before me. Everything was dim and dark. I looked above my head and noticed a dome above me, and all around me. How far it went, I couldn't tell, but there were very faint dots of light twinkling closer to the bottom of the dome. It seemed like a monumental engineering project, whatever it was. Some sort of large screen, perhaps?

And then below me, boxes, rooms, surrounded by water. Was this normal? Since we had to run, I got the impression this wasn't normal.

My stomach turned. Here I was, 19, trying to understand the world. It was bigger than I could have ever imagined.

I was so entranced by the moment I barley noticed my Mom was on the roof. “Ryan!” she cried, then ran to hug me.

Maybe it was just the simple action of her approaching me, anxiously grinning, arms outstretched. Or maybe it was deeper. Maybe it was all the questions I had, all the opaque concealed answers from my parents that were now bubbling to the surface. In my fury, I pushed her away and screamed at her to stay back.

Startled, she stepped back. My father, stared at me, but made no motion to correct me. I think he could see how I was feeling.

“Are you my parents?” I demanded. “My real parents?”

Stunned, they stared at me. Even as the dome's dim colors overhead became more vibrant, I saw the color drain from their faces.

Not satisfied with their silence I pushed further. “Are you my parents or not?”

My dad cleared his throat. “Y—yes,” he finally said. “You were born on stage.” I scoffed, looked away. “That was the beginning,” he continued.

“And were you ever going to tell me?'

They both looked at each other. “We—we're under a contract,” my dad said.

“Were,” my mom corrected.

I stared at them in disbelief. Standing ten feet from me, neither of them seemed to know what to do.

Finally, my mom spoke. “But we still very much love you,” she said. My dad's head nodded in impassioned agreement.

They loved me? Seriously?

Disgusted, I turned away from them. My mom started to follow me, but my dad put a hand on her shoulder, halting her.

I sat on a large box on the top of the building, overlooking what I determined was the city. Again, I considered how people lived. Did people get around in boats? Or was this truly a catastrophic event I was witnessing?

I heard a buzz, then a thunderous pop toward the other side of the building. I turned. My parents had also turned. “What was that?” My mom asked curiously.

A minute passed. Nothing happened. I turned back to ponder and brood.

The dome was now changing colors and getting brighter. It started out as a cold gray-blue color, but was now becoming more reddish at the bottom, but mostly blue. And the blue seemed to be dominating the display on the interior of the dome. A bright light that nearly blinded me rose up from the bottom of the dome, illuminating the destruction around us.

Why was it doing that? Was it like my lights as I was going to sleep? This place was bigger place than I could imagine, and I noticed for the first time that no one was looking at me. No one was cheering at my successes or groaning at my failures. Not even my parents seemed as interested in me as they had been my entire life

Hot tears filled my eyes, and I felt them run down my cheeks. I again wondered what I'd do now. How can I even begin to understand a world that's been hidden from me since birth?

My nostrils detected an acrid smell. Just then I heard my dad gasp. I looked toward the other side of the building and I noticed gray smoke rising from below.

My dad rushed to the side. Putting a sleeve over his nose he peered down. Then, quickly turning away, he suddenly bent over, coughing. He hurriedly rushed toward my mom. “The building's on fire. The water must have shorted something.”

“Won't the flood put it out?”

My dad shook his head. “The source is above the water line. And the water stopped rising.”

Both turned their gaze toward the non-smoky side of the building. Their second thought—as well as mine—was the water. Was that a way out? Thirty feet below the muddy water filled with countless dangers and debris. Then the gut-wrenching realization came that we'd have to jump. Would we survive? My parents might be able to, but since they kept me physically constrained since birth, my chances were slim.

But would that be so bad? Choosing one death over another?

Because right now, I was nobody. Up until now I believed my life had a meaning. I was here to perform for others. Everything about my life boiled down to how I looked, how I spoke, how I interacted with everyone in my room, and I was punished or rewarded for how I interacted with this construction. Is that reality? If it was, I wanted no part of it.

“It's spreading!” My dad cried.

He was right. Already I could feel the ground feeling warmer.

“They should rescue us soon,” my mom said, trying to console bot her and my dad.

They scanned the edge of the dome for several minutes. Suddenly, looking away from me, they became frantic. They began jumping up and down, waving their arms in the air. “Hey! Over here!” they shouted.

I looked closer toward the edge of the dome. I saw a black dot that was growing larger. The black dot soon took the shape of a machine floating in the air as if on a string. I also heard a loud roar from what I assumed to be an engine or motor as part of the machine.

Was it here to rescue us?

I looked down into the murky water. Just thirty feet down, a couple seconds of falling, a few moments of terror being unable to breathe, and then I can end it all. The heat rising up from the fire was becoming too intense, and I had to decide soon. I started coughing violently from smoke, unable to catch a breath.

Within a minute the machine hovered above the platform we were standing on. A door opened and a man on a rope emerged. He descended onto the roof. My dad helped my mom get a harness strapped around her. She ascended with the man toward the opened door of the machine.

My dad waved his arm, beckoning me. His eyes were wild, pleading. “Ryan, come on,” he said, before he was overcome with a spasm of coughing fits.

The man descended, again. He, too, urged me to come forward.

Fire, water, or rescue.

I chose rescue. I ran up to the man. I was placed in a harness. The man reeked of sweat and sewage, but the smell was a relief from the overwhelming suffocation from the smoke.

My feet left the ground, and I was overcome with panic. I gripped tightly to the man, who—what it seemed—empathically grabbed me tighter, too. I looked down, only to hear a brief command of, “don't look down,” so I opted to close my eyes tightly until I was told to climb into the door of the machine.

Once I was safely aboard, I observed the inside of the machine. I saw my mom sitting against a far back wall, guzzling a bottle of water as a doctor leaned close to her ear and peppered her with questions. Two strangers—a woman and her teen daughter—sat against the opposite wall. They were both covered in dirt and grime, too in shock to register anything.

The doctor then turned to me and asked a series of health questions before running a quick checkup. In that time, the rescuer ascended with my dad strapped to his torso.

All three of us were now onboard the machine. Now that we were, the machine's engine changed pitch, it tilted, and I felt it move away as the world outside tilted with the motion. Despite the terror, curiosity still gnawed at me, and I scooted on the floor toward the front of the machine. Behind me, two people seemed to be operating the machine. I paid them no attention, and instead, looked out toward the city underwater, taking in the new information.

We seemed to be heading farther toward the edge of the dome. I wondered what would happen? Is there a hidden platform I couldn't see? Did a door open up?

But despite being overwhelming me curious, my brain was spent. I gave up guessing. I promised myself that whatever I saw from here on out, I'd accept it as normal.

The rescuer by the door leaned in closer to me and yelled in my hear to be heard. “I'm sorry, this may be an odd question, but...do I know you?”

I didn't answer. I simply stared at him, too tired to do anything. The rescuer then looked at my dad, then my mom, and finally put the pieces together. His face brightened in recognition. Then, when a vibrant grin on his face, he turned back to me. His answer was expected, but nonetheless empty and hurtful. “I do know you! You're that kid that was born on the stage! My wife and I saw you when you were just eleven. Those tickets were so expensive, but it was so worth it!”

Beaming and giddy, the man said some more things, seemingly more to himself. My dad, noticing the exchange, gently put his hand on the man's shoulder and yelled something at him, but I couldn't make out what he said. The rescuer nodded, his grin dissipated, and he continued to look out the door at the flooded city below.

My dad then met my weary gaze. Slowly, he scooted closer to me. He had two food bars in his hand, and extended one to me. I only acknowledged the action with a blank look. He retracted the food bars.

“I know you don't trust me,” he said, leaning into my ear. He paused and swallowed, seeming to choose his words carefully, “but your mom and I do love you. I promise.”

He waited, expecting some sort of response, but I gave none. He turned away and something to himself. He might not have expected me to hear him, but even under the roar of the motor, I could still hear him cursing, “Damn Christopher Avery. Damn him!”

I continued to watch us fly closer to the wall of the dome until my eyelids became too heavy and I fell asleep.