So I'm finally uploading my first story for CWII. The great news is that I got a B+(86%).
My teacher's comment:'Sarah, this shows that your writing is getting more interesting and complex. Here's what needs work: I get the gist of the story's plot, and I know what Graden wants, but it's a very confusing story. Is it sci fi? Is it realism? Is it a story about aging? Or fatherhood? Or memories that destroy us? I didn't know what the focus was supposed to be and it seemed that Graden wants too many things. And, there are so many people in this very short story that I can't keep track of what's happening to whom or why. I think the idea is cool. I like that Graden welcomes his dementia and actually doesn't want the memories to come back. I would like to see you develop him as a character, and maybe that of his wife, and keep working on why he wants to refuse his memories. Focus on the relationship between Graden and the other characters.You're getting better. Just remember the mystery should never be in the MDQ or the motivations.'
Diagnosed with dementia, Graden
debated whether he should get a memory chip implanted in his brain. Like with
everything else Isobel stood by his side but if he knew the future; Graden
would decline the doctor’s offer. The chip was supposed to give him total
recall of his memory and stop the disease in its tracks. Some memories should
be forgotten though.
On Wednesday Graden had the surgery and
even after the procedure was finished, noticed changes even when he woke up. He
remembered morning conversations—the neighbor slept with the dance
instructor—that the Red Socks won a game and the mailman’s name was Ernest. It
didn’t last and ended when he went to bed.
Graden woke up and didn’t find his
elderly wife lying beside him, their German Shepard wasn’t at the foot of their
bed, he didn’t even feel his Arthritis.
“Something’s not right.”
Graden threw off the blankets and
went over to the mirror hanging on the wall. Reflected back at him was a young
man, he wasn’t seventy-six. He had ash blonde hair and a goatee. There weren’t
any wrinkles, just faint lines, and the scar on his nose wasn’t hidden by
moles. Graden made faces and pinched his skin.
“How did this happen? I don’t drink
and my memory’s been perfect since the chip.”
His eyes widened as he gasped. Could
the memory chip cause him to go back in time? How far did he go back? Graden
turned and saw his wife still asleep. She was the brunette Noir beauty he fell
in love with, only now she looked like it again.
Thud!
Graden ran out the room and down the
hall, the sound had come from the bathroom. He kicked the down the locked door
and found his son lying face down on the floor. Prescription pills and syringes
littered the floor. He rolled the son on his back, Graden fell to his knees and
started to pump his chest. Vomit scents filled his sinuses.
“One, two, one, two. Damn it Calvin.
Breathe.”
Graden tried to breathe for Calvin.
“He’s dead isn’t he?”
He didn’t hear his wife come in. She
tried to get closer to the body; Graden blocked her view and told her not to
look. He wrapped her in a hug and felt her struggle to look past his shoulder
to see their son, he let Isobel cry and let her complain about how selfish
Calvin was. All he could do was comfort her.
“I carried him, gave birth to him,
and Calvin does this. Didn’t he consider that he’s our only child? The only one
we can have.”
“We don’t know if it was a suicide.
It could’ve been an accident.”
“How could he do this to his own
mother?”
After CPR failed Graden called 911,
rode in the ambulance when it came, and relived the day over again and by the
end of the day all Graden wanted was to sleep.
“Maybe the answer will come in the
morning.”
The next day was the same. Graden
still heard the loud sound, he ran to the bathroom and saw his lifeless son on
the floor, and he comforted Isobel. Nothing changed and still didn’t have an
answer on how to escape this memory. Graden couldn’t stop his son’s death; he
wasn’t sent to the night before to stop it.
And he couldn’t help Isobel’s depression and still didn’t have answer as
to why. All he knew was that the memory chip had something to do with this. So
this cycle continued for a week until he came up with a plan. By the end of the
week Graden was tired. He had bags under his eyes. He tried not to sleep but
tomorrow stayed the same. Graden
couldn’t tell Isobel this and when he tried she said, “Old man? What are you
talking about? You’re only forty-six.”
Graden had decided if he couldn’t
leave the past by waking up he’d try something drastic. Harm. He still had the
gun; he used to be a hunting fan. Maybe a bullet through the brain would be
enough of a shock to wake himself up. Graden waited until Isobel fell asleep
before he got the gun out of the bedside table. He walked to the bathroom where
Calvin died.
Graden laid the gun on the sink
while he looked himself over in the mirror. His blonde hair wasn’t surprising
now, so he had gotten used to his sudden youth. He kept seeing the after image
of Calvin’s body whenever he closed his eyes. Graden saw his son’s mouth foam,
the syringe lying by his son’s side while Calvin was left in a crumpled ball.
Graden picked the gun up and placed it in his mouth.
“Never thought I’d be eating my
gun.”
His finger was on the trigger and
tried to press down. He thought about the pain. If this didn’t work he would
die. At least I’ll be with Calvin. What
would this do to Isobel though? Graden took the gun out of his mouth.
“This would send her over the edge.
She thought that Calvin killed himself.”
He placed the gun against his head
this time and still couldn’t pull the trigger. Graden set the gun down again.
He unloaded his gun and threw away the bullets. ‘Not the answer,’ was all he
said. Graden stepped out of the bathroom and went back to bed.
It was an endless circle or time and
memory. Every time Graden Cutshaw woke up he found himself in the same place,
thirty years in the past. Graden smelled fresh vomit, felt the cold tiles of
the bathroom floor dig into his knees, and saw Calvin’s vacant eyes. Isobel
would enter and slump in the doorway and he’d wrap her in a hug to shield her
from the dead body. Then Graden would let her but this time would be different.
Graden would end the cycle in his own way.
Graden shoved his wife aside,
ignored her bloodshot, teary eyes, and grabbed the lamp stand by the bed, in
his hands. He jammed the end of the stand through the glass window with a smash
and let the shards rain down all over the outside window ledge. There wasn’t
any time to think or any need to. Besides, if Graden gave any thought to this
at all, he’d lose his nerve. He climbed
out the window and stood on the ledge and let the shards cut his feet. On the
count of three he’d jump.
One. Graden felt his blood boil, his
heartbeat double, and hands sweat. Two. His muscles tensed up and he heard
Isobel run to the window. “Come back inside. You’re acting crazy,” she said. A
complete shot in the dark and if he turned around he might just listen to her
and go back inside. Three. Graden bent his knees and dove off the ledge.
The floors fell past him. Graden saw
the chipped gargoyles, a sunflower reach for the sun. He heard a people argue
on one floor and cat on the ledge. And Graden had time to think as he plummeted
to the ground. Isobel’s shouts didn’t enter his mind nor did the scene of his
son’s overdose. All he thought of was how he found himself in this mess.
So Graden fell. The concrete was
feet away now. He’d splattered all over the pavement below. What will I look like when it ends? Worst case he’ll end up reliving the same day
over and over again.
He hit the concrete but felt
nothing; no broken bones or blood rushing out of him and he didn’t stop at the
street; he passed through it, through time and space, through memories. Graden
remembered the day he met his wife at work, the night Calvin was born and his
death and funeral.
The fall didn’t stop until he
dropped down on his bed. Graden was thrust back into his old body, felt his
bones ache, but he didn’t feel like he was home until he tossed onto his side
and saw Isobel. Graden shook her awake.
“It’s three in the morning.” Isobel said.
“I’m getting the chip removed. It’s
caused too many problems.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning. But
forgetting can be better than remembering.”
