Temujin's Journal

by
Jason Temujin Minor

Time has stopped.

I know how that sounds – I’m not crazy – but it is a fact. One minute everything was fine and the next, well…there were no more minutes. The planes stopped flying, televisions stopped broadcasting, cars stopped running, and the people…everything stopped. I couldn’t keep it from happening, nobody could. So here I sit, in the big leather chair by the window, with a gun on my lap and watching the snow fall. What else can I do? It is oddly beautiful tonight. The street lamp outside creates this perfect little portal of light that catches each snowflake. They melt against the windowpane and disappear. There is nothing in the darkness beyond that portal – only wasteland – but the stillness is calming and surreal. The Maxwell’s dog is barking again. It is the only sound and I’m thankful. It’s a gift. The barking allows me to believe that I’m not alone, that I am not the last woman left on a dying planet.

Can you see me sitting here?

Can you see the snow and the light?

Can you hear the dog?

My throat is so dry. That’s one reason I made this drink. The other was for courage. It’s the last of the Vodka but there is no reason to horde it now. The liquor burns my throat and the warmth it sends through my body is a welcomed relief from the cold. Seems like it was summer only this morning. My God, how long have I been sitting here? It’s impossible to tell. Has it been only one night? If so, how long has it lasted? One endless night since it happened – nothing but cold and darkness.

As I said, Time has stopped. The Maxwells’ dog knows but he’s not ready to accept it. He keeps barking, trying to wake his masters I imagine. It used to drive me crazy but now the dog is my only companion. One bark, two bark, three…each one represents a second and each second means my existence has moved one tick forward. Four bark, five bark…six, of course, it’s just a vague theory. It could be the first bark or the thousandth? I don’t know. Now I’ve lost count.

How do I begin? I have to tell you. I want you to understand. I want to understand it myself. How did it come to this? But where do I start?

I was a Systems Analyst before Time ended, but then you knew that. Do you know why I became one? Neither do I – not really. How many people actually know what a Systems Analyst does? I didn’t when I made that career choice. As it turned out, I had a natural talent for the job. Its systematic quality appealed to me. All solutions were in binary, either 1 or 0. That works for me. I think most people like simple answers to their complex questions. It doesn’t matter if the answers aren’t exactly true.

Most of the decisions I’ve made in my life have earned about the same level of forethought I put into picking my career. As a child, the question: “what do you want to be when you grow up?” was enough to send me into a panic. Others shouted firefighter or doctor and eventually I learned to do the same. It was simpler that way. In 1963, the assassination of John F. Kennedy shocked the world. I was a junior in high school and I cried, just like everyone else. In college, I took the drugs, enjoyed the free sex and attended the rallies. I watched people speak passionately about ending the war and bringing our troops home. It meant something to them. Did it mean anything to me? I thought so. The war ended in the 70’s and the nation partied. We had been wound up like a coil for so long and this was the release. I was there, floating along with the revelry. In the 80’s, I chose the exciting world of Systems Analysis and married Gary. We had our two children, bought our suburban house, and lived beyond our means. In the 90’s, Gary and I had our trendy divorce. My Starbucks habit, cell phone, and tailored business suits now defined me but I was happy to have a definition. I reminisced with my co-workers about the 60’s, the free love, drugs, and music but we never mentioned the protests. However, we did all agree there was probably something fishy about the Kennedy assassination – it made for good water cooler talk. I just kept floating along. Now they are all dead, my co-workers, Gary…everybody. Judgment has come. It is just my barking friend and I, alone, the last ones to leave – lock up on your way out.

In some ways, I was alone before Time decided to give up the ghost. Ironically, I was happy – well, content at least. Gary was gone. No more 2 am trips to the bar to bring him home and no more strange calls from strange women. The kids had grown up and left. Jeff graduated college, and married a scrap of a woman who delighted in calling me mom. They popped out a few little ones of their own and were a happy family, I suppose. We all wished you could have met their children but things went a little differently for you, didn’t they Brandon?

The street lamp is flickering outside. I’m surprised the power has lasted this long, I guess generators keep generating even though Time is over – they don’t know there’s no point. The vodka is good. I’m going to miss this, better savor every drop. Gary loved vodka, it was his drink of choice – not that he was fussy. I guess I acquired the taste from him.

You shouldn’t hate your father, Brandon. He wasn’t all-bad. Gary and I had some good times, like the night we met at Brian’s party, our first Christmas, the trip to San Antonio, the wedding, Jeff’s birth, and yours. Jeff was an accident. Gary loved him but said he took after me. Apparently, that was really bothersome to my husband. “The boy’s eyes are like a shark’s, Brenda! There is no feeling there at all.” He said one night. Gary didn’t see Jeff run from the room, didn’t hear him cry. Gary was drunk.

We planned you, Brandon. Gary wanted a second child and I agreed, on one condition. Gary had to stop drinking and he did, for a while. He was trying to be a real father and I gladly stepped aside. It’s not that I didn’t love you but it seemed fair. We each had our child, Jeff was mine and Gary had you.

I don’t know why your father started drinking again, he’d been sober for years, but I know it wasn’t your fault, Brandon. Sure, it was a shock when you came out – no parent is ready to hear their thirteen year old is gay – but homosexuality was just his excuse to shut you out. The funny thing was you were the son Gary always said he wanted, you were independent, passionate, and a creative genius – it was obvious even then. You were everything Gary wished he could have been but never was. Actually, you were the last one he did give up on; he’d been drifting away from Jeff and me for years. Gary hit you the night you told us your secret. I never forgave him for that and made the decision to divorce him then and there. I only stayed the extra year to get my affairs in order and make sure I was financially ready. It was prudent.

Caressing the revolver makes me smile. It is cold and hard, it’s the most tangible thing in my life right now. I wonder where Gary and his new bride were when Time ended. Did it come as a shock to them? Did they notice? I’m not angry, maybe I should be, but honestly, I’m just curious. In a way, Gary and Angela made the perfect couple – she was a young girl looking for a new father and Gary…well Gary just saw her tits. At least after the wedding he stopped harassing me. Gary took our divorce hard, I didn’t except that. I just assumed he was as done with the marriage as I was. I guess he didn’t want me until he couldn’t have me anymore. I suppose most men are that way.

The streetlamp is flickering again. Ah, there it goes. Well, the last of the manmade light has just pooped out. It’s so dark, I can’t see anything. Stay calm, Brenda, stop shaking. It’s just dark, your eyes will adjust. See they are already starting to…

Oh shit! I can’t scream, I want to but I can’t…do you see her? Jesus Christ! Do you? She’s right there, standing at the window…staring at me. An old naked woman with wild gray hair and her mouth hung open like some damned zombie. Do you see her? Maybe if I don’t move she will just leave. Damn it, she‘s not budging. There is something familiar about her, something about her eyes. She looks kind of like my mother.

“MOM! Is that you?”

Oh my God. It’s not mom. That’s me! It’s just my reflection. This horrible old crone is just my own damned reflection in the window! She has been there all along, hiding in the streetlamp’s light. How can that be me, breast sagging to my navel and bone thin? Did I look like that yesterday morning? Surely not, yesterday morning Time existed, I was fifty-four and in decent shape. My hair was auburn with only a hint of gray. I could not have been the husk staring back through the window. Yesterday morning, mom was dead but exactly how long ago was yesterday?

I wonder what mom would think, her only daughter sitting here with a gun…alone, thinking these thoughts. I doubt she would approve. She didn’t approve of much. If you took after anybody, Brandon, it was your grandmother. I never understood either of you. Both fiercely independent and completely – annoyingly – unwilling to accept things for the way they are. It drove me crazy. So you wanted to be an artist. Okay, but nobody was going to pay for the kind of stuff you were painting. It was bizarre and dark; people don’t want that on their walls. They want landscapes, portraits, happy and serene images. You couldn’t have made a living. I know you hated school and didn’t appreciate how hard I pushed you but I wanted you to have a backup plan, something you could do with your life when the art thing didn’t pan out. Is that why you ran away, because I didn’t approve of your art? Surely not, there had to be other reasons. I wish you had just told me instead of leaving that cryptic note and disappearing. It wasn’t fair, Brandon.

I’m sure you remember the set of oils your grandmother bought for your sixteenth birthday. You’d never used oils before and I think you actually teared up a little when you saw them. She and I fought about that for months. I felt she was contradicting my parenting by encouraging you to continue painting when you were flunking out of high school. She said I was a fool to let academics come before your God given talents. A year after you left, Mom showed me the painting you did to thank her. It was your first attempt at using the oils and it was beautiful. It really was, Brandon. Mom cried as she told me the story. I felt like crying also but the tears wouldn’t come.

Your grandmother admired your courage and willingness to express yourself. When I was growing up, she was a very fearful woman. You never knew her that way but you also never knew my father, Frank. He was a brutish man, intimidating and violent. He thought nothing of giving mom or me a good smack. For years, mom tried to find the strength to leave him, but she was too scared. Then something changed. One night when I was fourteen, mom grabbed me and we fled the house. The only thing I remember from that night was that mom had blood on her hands but I don’t know whose blood it was. I never considered it possible that we could just leave my father, that it could be that easy. I suppose it wasn’t for mom. I never saw Frank again.

They were officially divorced and whatever happened that night was settled but mom never stopped hating Frank. She hated him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Years later, I told her that hate was self-destructive and that she needed to let it go and make her peace with Frank. Her response was simple but to the point; “When you are in an intolerable situation, Brenda, you use whatever you’ve got to survive. Hate is like any other weapon, used correctly, it can set you free.” It sent chills down my spine. But, in a way, it was true; the hate did set her free. She changed, not all at once but gradually until I could hardly remember her any other way. She worked many jobs to support us and got her degree in Social work. She had several new lovers. Some were serious, some were not but she never married again and she never let any of them hit us.

Oddly, I never hated or loved Frank. I didn’t like when he would hit mother or me, but when it was over, it was over. He was the ogre we had to navigate around in order to live. That’s all.

Mom would never talk about the night we left but I have often thought about it. What could have happened to push her to that extreme? It must have been big. With Gary and me, the last straw was when he hit you. After that, I spent the better part of a year planning and preparing. When I caught him with another woman (it wasn’t Angela but he was seeing her as well) it was all I needed. I was financially ready, I knew I would get custody of you and Jeff, and now Gary was guilty of infidelity. The divorce was over before he knew what hit him. My decisions were cold and calculating. My love for him had died long before – if it ever existed. I didn’t hate him either; he was just another man in the world. Surely, this indifference is what truly hurt Gary.

After Gary and I divorced, mom wanted to be a part of my life again. She blamed herself for Frank’s abuse. It was silly; she was as much a victim as I. Still, she wanted to redeem herself and earn my love. Of course, I loved her. She was my mother. But sometimes, when mom said she loved me, a look came into her eyes. I could see the words meant more to her than maternal obligation. They had meaning on a level I could never relate to and it scared me. Maybe that is why I pushed her away.

You would have liked your grandmother in the last years of her life. She got into politics and was fearless. She wanted to make a difference in the world. She wanted it to be a better place. She was so much like you. I guess a part of me admired her but mostly her antics embarrassed me. I just wanted her to leave well enough alone. I told her that one night and we got into a huge argument. We only spoke on four other occasions after that. My mother died a mystery to me. We were just two people who grew old in the same house and got beat by the same man. It is an age-old story and it is all I have to offer you. Did I even cry when she died? The answer is, no.

What was that yelp? The barking has stopped. What an awful sounded. Poor dog, I guess the last of the Maxwell’s is dead. I am truly alone now. Alone in darkness and silence. Holding the gun helps. Just knowing there is an end helps me to bear life without Time for a little longer. It still looks brand-new and it’s fully loaded – well, almost fully loaded. Gary bought the .38 when we were living on the south end of Chicago, the “bad section of town.” I hated the gun then and I hate it now, yet it is my salvation.

They say suicide is a sin, that if you take your own life it is a one-way ticket to Hell. Honestly, I never thought too much about Heaven or Hell. I was raised Catholic because Frank was Catholic. I believed in the Catholic God and the Catholic Devil. It was simpler that way. So perhaps I’ll go to the Catholic Hell.

When Time ended yesterday (it might have been days, months, or even years ago for all I know) I’d just come home from work and I was happy. It had only been two months but having you back living with me again, Brandon…it felt so right. When the clinic in New York called and told me what you had been through, I felt awful but I was delighted they’d found you. I left that night to bring you home. I guess I ignored how sick you really were. I ignored the cough and the lesions; I ignored your skeletal frame and your constant fevers. All I knew was you were back and we were getting along. That was wonderful. I’d brought some flowers home for you. Margaret pawned them off on me. It was her last day before she transferred to the California branch and we had thrown her a party. Brown-nose Bob bought the biggest, nastiest arrangement I’d ever seen. Naturally, Margaret didn’t want the flowers and I knew you could make something beautiful out of them – the thought had me in high spirits. I was struggling to get the arrangement into the house when I noticed all the clocks were flashing “12:00” in that hideous, blood red digital light. That was it. Time was no more.

As a child, when Frank and mom fought, I would hide in my closet, hoping to avoid the violence around me. So, once again, at fifty-four, I hid in my house and waited. Outside, Time may have ended but the people were still trying to cope. There were screams and loud noises, all sound and fury. Eventually the chaos ended, much like mom and Frank’s arguments. Then there was just the Maxwells’ dog and me. Now he’s gone too. It all happened so fast.

Why couldn’t you give me the chance to make things right? Was this your way of punishing me for driving you away? You were the one who wasn’t interested in college. You were the one who want to “find” yourself. What happened to you was not my fault. I didn’t put you on the streets, I didn’t put the spike in your arm, I didn’t pimp you out, I didn’t make you sick, and I didn’t cause Time to stop ticking. Maybe if you’d listened to me once in your goddamned life none of this would have happened. You were selfish, Brandon. Now you are gone and I’m alone in a world dead and dying.

I’m sorry Brandon. It’s just…God, I miss you so much. I’ve never felt this way and I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m not committing suicide, I’ve just decided not to sit here alone waiting for the inevitable…it’s logical. You can understand that…right?

There is…something outside. Can you see it? There’s light out there, I see the…horizon. The houses, trees, and power lines are all black silhouettes but framing them is a gray sky. It’s getting brighter, the sky and the room. It’s beautiful. See the reds and oranges, they are spectacular. There’s the sun, like yellow fire dancing on the clouds. My god, I thought I’d never see that again but it’s all happening too fast, like time-lapse photography. It’s so bright in here, my eyes should be hurting but they aren’t. Could this be it, has Time started again? It must be. There is a sunrise. If there is a sunrise then time must have passed. It’s only logical. No, this isn’t right, this is a trick. It must be because Time is still dead. It doesn’t make sense but, sun or no sun, Time is over. Maybe it isn’t the sun at all. Maybe this is God coming to survey the dead. Is this your answer, Brandon? If so, I don’t understand.

Your grandmother believed the sun was a God. Did you know that? After she divorced Frank, mom sought guidance from the church but Catholicism wasn’t for her. She began studying other religions and came up with her own beliefs. She loved to watch the sunset or sunrise. It was the two times when sun and moon could be seen sharing the sky. “That’s when Mother Night and Father Day meet and make love.” She would smile like a little girl with a secret. God Sex – she called it. Sounded like New Age bullshit to me but it’s what she believed.

All right then, if that is what mom believed, so be it. I’ll go outside and watch the God Sex.

Ah, it’s difficult to stand. Feels like I’ve been in this chair for years. Maybe I have. The flowers are still on the table where I left them. All dried up – dead like everything else. The lump on the floor next to them, that’s not you, Brandon. I know that. It doesn’t even look like you anymore.

We think someone who commits suicide is depressed and too weak to find an alternative. We call them victims – victims of suicide – as if it were some external force. We pity and vilify them – a bit like blaming a rape victim, I suppose. We pretend that we simply can’t understand why a person would do something so awful. The truth is too painful to face.

It’s cold outside but I don’t even feel a chill. I’m sure I make quite a sight – and old naked woman carrying a gun, standing at her doorway in broad daylight. It’s almost funny but there is no one to see the joke, no one to laugh, or cry, no one to stop me. There is no one to help me.

Suicide is the logical choice. You were not a victim. You made your choice. You were selfish, as you always were. But can I really blame you? Who wants to slowly die in a world without Time, a world of constant misery? I don’t.

I should have a clear view of the sex in the back yard. The flowerbeds are dead too. That is a shame. You said working in them was good therapy. You talked about taking a job as a gardener and getting an apartment once you were feeling better. Were you trying to show me you’d grown up or was it just a lie to throw me off the scent? Maybe you weren’t lying, maybe things just changed quickly. If a fruit fly can live an entire lifetime in twenty-four hours, should the changes a day brings really be a surprise?

The snow has stopped. Not too much accumulation. I hope the Maxwell’s dog isn’t back here. I really don’t need to see that. It is so silent, not even a breeze. There’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach I recognize. It is anticipation. I’m not happy or sad, just eager. Why should I be sad? I’ve had a good life. So my childhood could have been better. Whose couldn’t have been? I’ve had enough money, enough friends, enough love…I’ve had enough time. Gary always said I was cold and maybe I am, even to my own death.

The sun’s warmth feels nice on my naked body. Mom thought it was a God. It’s just a ball of fiery gasses to me. There’s the moon, just starting to fade away in the light. I guess the sex is over. Mom thought it was a Goddess. A rock that orbits the earth – that’s all I see.

I bet you can see more, can’t you? You saw the world in ways I could never begin to imagine and you turned them into the most beautiful images. When your grandmother showed me your painting, I was amazed. For some reason I could not admit it, not to her. I couldn’t admit she had been right to buy the paints for you. I couldn’t admit I had lost you. I planned to tell you this the night I came home with the flowers and Time ended. I planned to buy some oil paints and set up an easel in the office. I wanted you to know that I was wrong, that I was sorry.

The sun is so bright in my eyes. I can pretend to see a smile even if there isn’t one. That’s a laugh.

The gun-in-the-mouth bit worked for you. It seems to have done the job and that’s good enough for me. Should I bite down on the barrel? Jesus, what if my teeth shatter? I guess I won’t be here to care.

Aggg! Gun oil! Tastes awful. Oh god, the vodka…it’s coming back up…

Goddamn it! I hate to throw up. Sit down, Brenda, you’re shaking. Just stay calm woman, it’s almost over.

Well the gun-in-the-mouth bit just isn’t going to work. That leaves the next logical choice, under my chin. I’m trying to see the smile in the sun. I’m trying very hard, mom. There is no hesitation, no fear. Why should there be?

………there is an echoing thud, thud, thud, like the sound of someone hitting a hollow tube underwater. I’m blind. Slowly, a ringing sound fills my head and the thud, thud, thud changes to a sharper sound. Over and over again, the sound repeats, counting down each new second. After a couple of minutes, I recognize the sound. It’s the Maxwells’ dog, he’s barking again. An old joke leaps to mind. The world has ended and everyone is dead except for one man. He can’t stand the thought of being alone, so he climbs to the top of the Sears Tower and takes a dive but as he sails the third floor window, he hears a phone ring.

I begin to laugh; the sound comes out garbled and wet.

Time has begun.

I am dying – but not cleanly, like I had planned. I can only guess at the damage. What a macabre sight I must be – a laughing, naked, faceless beast. There is no pain. I can hear now but not like before. The unearthly sound of bird song floats around me. I can hear the strength of the dog’s bark and feel his muscles tighten as he runs. I hear the insects buzzing around me and feel their light touch. I feel the earth circling the sun at 67,000 miles per hour. I feel the sky above and the freedom in the wind. I feel the trees and hear their whispers. Everything is crystal clear in my mind’s eye and it is so breathtaking.

Is this what you were trying to tell me Brandon?

Decades of repressed feelings pour over me. A billion and one emotions fight for space within my fragile mind – love, hate, despair, joy, lust, longing, greed, honor, fear – endless varieties, thousands of subtleties. I feel my life as it could have been, laughing with my parents as I take my first steps, crying as my mother and Frank scream at each other, fretting over an endless stream of pimples, lusting for hundreds of boys, and shivering with a thousand orgasms. I am shocked by a murdered president, angry at a pointless war, overjoyed on my wedding day, the embodiment of love with the birth of my children, embittered over Gary’s affairs, devastated when you run away, and I cry at mom’s funeral. You return and I am complete. You use the evil bullet and I am broken.

The emotions are unceasing. I have denied myself so much of life – wonders of existence ignored and betrayed by my fear. They are all mine again, everything I’ve lost is here in this single instance. I don’t want it to end, would give anything to undo the damage the bullet has caused but it is too late. Only in the end do I understand. Only in the end do I want to live.

I

Step

Across

THE END