lickhaven

Ryle Clendon slipped into his 70s with few cares. Head of a huge conglomerate of his own forging, he could, in theory, take it easy – no longer married, one daughter lost to time and distance, uninterested in human connection beyond his meticulously constructed work edifice, nothing to hold him back.

But what was there to draw him forward? As he turned 80 he stood before his mirror. Bad enough to watch the withering of his social equals, sliding into dissolution, but for him, in his own bathroom… He exploded in rage against degeneration, against life, against death – against himself.

“There is no justice!”

In fairness to Clendon, he had no illusions about justice. He had discovered not a trace of it in any sector of the universe he had visited. But his rage insisted: He must not fall into oblivion. He must not die.

Discussions swirling online hailed something called “soul transference,” misty and unlikely experiments that involved flipping an individual consciousness from one human entity to another – or to some undefined receptacle. He dismissed them out of hand when the rattle and blather began – yet another bullshit social-media squeal – but over time, bits and pieces he saw began to reflect the sheen of truth: Two papers, in particular, released in scientific journals of repute, appeared to confirm the mind-cloning of rats and guinea pigs (if guinea pigs could be said to have a mind). What exactly was duplicated, and how it could be tied to a specific recipient remained conjectures, even when supported by charts tabulating near-synchronous mental activity.

Could it be possible, Clendon wondered, to escape – or indefinitely delay – death?

Over the next two years, as his mirrored face developed a cascade of wrinkles, wens and skewings, the transference studies, now referred to as “individual mental duplication” (IMD), had born few solid results, and one of the two peer-reviewed articles had been retracted. Yet… there was one outfit, the ridiculously named OverThere LLC, privately funded and operating outside university-aligned channels, that claimed notable, if loosely documented, success with its animal studies. 

Their work encouraged a spark of hope in Clendon, who forwarded $100 million in corporate shares to OverThere, asking nothing, as yet, in return. This failure to demand a quid pro quo was not unusual for him. Despite his removal from most social interaction, he now and then funneled large sums, no strings attached, to allow those he respected to perform unencumbered research. That was the way, he said, you found things – found out about them.

On May 15th, the week following Clendon’s 82nd birthday, he received a telephone call from Horic Susburl, OverThere CEO. The center’s IMD research, Susburl told him, on promise of secrecy, was drawing close to the possibility of human trial.

Clendon’s spark of hope blossomed into a ground-fire of possibility. Following the transfer of another $25 million in securities, he met with Susburl. After a round of hearty handshaking and standard mutual admiration, he began his pitch, feeling a rare flicker of unease.

“Who are you looking for in the human trial?” he asked “What sort of person, I mean. Must they be young? male? female? high intelligence? What about their health, should if be optimal, whatever that might mean? In this situation?”

“To be wholly honest,” replied Susburl, “age and gender are not so vital… well, not a child, certainly – could you imagine the negative publicity? Intelligence… basic functionality, of course, but more especially, a clear, non-deluded mind. The mind, that is what is vital. You have read the story ‘Flowers for Algernon,’ yes? It is fiction, yes, but it highlights the folly of inflating the lure of game-changing mental research with unexamined or unverified euphoric expectations. We believe human transference will work – for the devil’s sake, we would not think of proceeding otherwise – but we cannot assure any exact result. It is an experiment, and like all experiments we are seeking information for expanding our knowledge and capabilities –”

Clendon flapped his hand at the serious yet voluble man. “No need to go into that, I understand. But I want to know what criteria you use to select your subject. He – or she – must be of sound mind you say, that much is obvious. But what limitations, equipmental or otherwise – regulations, approvals, limitations, as I put it, would have to be in place?”

Susburl shrugged. “Dependent on no public funding, as you know, and with no direct tie to other research organizations of the kind, we can… avoid much of the regulatory net. I do not mean that we will be lax in our intentions or methods, not at all, but it would be very much a matter of the donor’s preference, though donor may not be the exact word in this case. Overseen by our legal staff and associated experts, we are in a unique –”

“I would like to apply.”

“Apply?”

“To be your initial human subject.”

“Ah, this, ah… how quite unusual.”

Clendon shrank back in is seat. “I am too old?”

“Not at all, as I said. It  might require somewhat  more… accommodation for your age, yes, the checking that your health is good, of course, free of degenerate – that it would not be too taxing for… your body. Age does do serious things. I would for certain need to coordinate with Albert, Dr. Albert Dessell, the director of our chemical engineering department. Ah, well.”

“Do you have other applicants? At this point?”

Susburl looked toward his feet. “We have not sought applicants, have not publicized. That is in much part why I asked you not to speak of it, the… No, as yet no others have… presented themselves to us.”

“I am too old – wait! I have not finished. It could be too chancy, too difficult with me as a subject. More ideas and outlooks that must be taken into consideration. Here is a proposal. My proposal. An additional fifty million dollars to cover all subsidiary expenses of me being a unique or different case needing special considerations to… consider. Perhaps creation of a new department or sub-unit devoted to the difficulties of age transition? Of my age. Or that of anyone who might later be in my position.”

“This is sudden. I – I don’t frankly know what to say to it.”

“Say yes, and it – and I – are yours.”

“I must check with… fifty million dollars? Like that? Just so?”

“It is worth it, let us say. For everybody.”

The “checking” progressed too slowly to suit Clendon, but weaving the 50 million offer into every succeeding conversation with Susburl or Dessell – he despised Dessell, a firm yet fussy sort who, for some reason, wore a tie while mixing toxic liquids – had an accelerating effect. And he came to see why there had been no other applicants for the human trial. He read not a sane word in the media, mainstream or social, only veiled suggestions of an absurd conspiracy, the sort to delight the looneys but ignored by those who might otherwise be interested. Susburl was determined to maintain the highest level of secrecy – realizing, Clendon felt sure, that legal suits would fall like rain were the lack of outside control to become widely known. Fair enough, to protect his possible entry into an eternal life. But he must make the transition soon, whatever it might achieve: His mirror, like Snow White’s, refused to lie.

As the day approached, he was introduced to an inanimate figure of his height and general proportions. It did not sport his current face, thank God, with its leaking and blanching, but what he recalled as his face of 30 or 40 years past. If in outward form the replicant could pass for the past Clendon, internally it was moved largely by mechanical parts, though with a brain that could fully duplicate his neuronal connections.

How could they have accomplished all this, he asked, when the brain, as he had read, comprised billions of neurons that formed trillions of connections? “Mapping,” said Dessell in his usual off-hand way, augmented by the latest in AI learning. Clendon’s background in financial manipulation lent him little sense of what these buzzwords meant in practice. He had left all such details to his myriad IT technicians. As always, he did not trust Dessell, but here was the nearly complete example standing immobile before him. 

Was Clendon ready to take the leap? He found himself beset by confusion, dillying one day, dallying the next. How eager was he to become a part-mechanical duplicate of his younger self? Would he feel the same – feel human?  And what would become of his former body? Cremation? Burial? Massa’s in the cold, cold ground?

He would, Susburl assured him, once transferred be wholly separate from his former self, know nothing of its destiny. Clendon was not convinced: “This has never been done, there is no template for it, I’ve signed everything you’ve given me to sign, run it through a team of lawyers, themselves threatened with elimination if they breathe a word of it, but how can you provide me with an ironclad guarantee of the results? This is me, my self. What if it vanishes without a trace and all that’s left is an old dead body? It could be anyone, anything. If this fails, I will cease to exist.”

“Do you want your investment back? I cannot give it back, it has been spent. The material and the means are here for a complete and flawless transfer. A new life. Of indefinite length. You would throw that away on the chance if a vanishingly tiny possibility?”

“The risk!”

“Every second of human life presents a risk. There is always risk, from arising in the morning to going to bed at night, from the second of conception until the last breath. What we are giving to you, to your farthest breath, is a lifetime otherwise unimaginable. I’ve provided every assurance I can, by my mouth, in black and white, by inspection of the mechanism, by what you have witnessed. Go home or stay here to consider what you must to consider, then do it.”

By Susburl’s decree, Dessell was not present at this final discussion. That risk, Susburl was not willing to take.

The following Monday, at 10 am, Clendon lay on a standard hospital bed deep within the OverThere Center. Supple plastic lines fed a variety of compounds into his body at multiple locations – arms, legs, chest, mouth, nostrils. His cyborg self-to-be lay unresponsive on an adjacent bed, the space between them just wide enough to facilitate the movement of two surgically masked specialists (surgeons, Susburl had told him, of unique competencies: masters – or mistresses, Clendon could not sense their sex under their gowns – of arcane matters of brain and body not readily described.

In the seconds before the anesthetic sent him under, Clendon knew that his concerns would have resurrected had he not been suffused with compounds to erase all apprehensions. Then no more. No more anything. Anesthesia does not remove only physical sensation, it erases all hint of being.

Swimming awake, trying to recall what to remember, what remembering is… after… who? Remember who… who he is. He had… something happening, may have happened. He moved his head, almost grinding, neck confused. Another bed, on it… someone, he should know, like the mirror. There. He himself too young… when did he get old? Tried to shift, elbows refuse, like neck… keep at it, neck did, elbows can. Too. So… explosion of wonder, knowledge, horror. He in same bed as… yesterday, or today, later today, same bed, unmoving image next bed…

Clendon screamed. It hadn’t worked. All that money, time, hope, same as before. Machine there young not moving except hand twitch? What?

“WHY AM I HERE? NO!”

Masked-gowned figure at run in the door sliding shoes then steady at end of the bed. His bed.

“Can you remember?” mask asked.

“I’m here, why am I here?”

“You came to –”

His weak wavery hand trying to point to other bed. “I sposed be there.”

“You are. It –”

“Didn’t work, didn’t work, dint…”

“It did.”

“Where… suburb, Susburl? Where?”

“You’re here and you’re there,” mask pointing to him, the other bed, back to him.

“Both?”

“Yes. It worked.”

“NO, no, no, nononononooooo…” Dessell there now too, no mask, fucking piece of shit bastard crapfuck Dessell. “What you do fucker fucker, WHAT?”

“It worked. All of it.”

“There’s two, two me, can’t be can’t have two.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“Told me can’t be two fuckhead kill you,” trying to push from the bed but no strength.

“Get him down, tie him… keep him there.” Dessell shooing with his hands while the mask held Clendon’s wrists to the bed rails, nothing to tie him with, to keep him restrained.

“Over there,” the mask’s nose pointed, “counter – straps.”

Dessell’s dithering fingers grabbing two short straps, dropping one on the counter, picked it up, held both out to the mask hands busy on Clendon’s wrists.

“I can’t let go. Put one around his wrist.”

Clendon tried to yank loose, but his arms had no power. “Sucker fucker didn’t tell me. You knew, didn’t’ tell me. Two of me.”

“What did you think?”

“Transfer, not duple duplicate. Said so! Don’t want him, stop him, get rid of him…”

The mask tightened the straps… Clendon bound for execution.

“He’s – you’re there, still asleep. There.” Dessell nodding at the other bed. “When you wake up you’ll be both.”

“Can’t be. Shitfuck.”

“It is designed –”

“Lied to me. Lied! Transfer, original destroyed.”

“I never said that.”

“Did. Only one me, only one, for however forever. Why I want two of me? How does it-me think, must think like me, hate you same way I do. Want to destroy… Will we merge, impossible, two physical beings, minds merge, then kill this me,” trying to strike his chest but can’t pull his fists from the restraints, “put me in him, where I belong, make me him.”

“Anesthesia,” barked Dessell. The mask fumbled for a syringe, stabbed it in Clendon’s shoulder. Again, no more of him.

The other bed was empty when he awoke, fully awake this time, memories clear too, almost clear. Where was the other him, why wasn’t he in it, his mind? Did the mechanical body fail, gears strip, mind wobble on its spindles? He pawed at the other bed. Futile. “Hey, masked man? Dessell? hey.” No answer. What was wrong last time, his arms wouldn’t work. Working now but nothing for them to do, nothing to reach. He pulled sideways to get his feet to the floor, where was the floor? There.

He could stand up.

Could he?

A woman, gowned, unmasked, bustled into the room. “Hold on. Don’t try that. Not yet. Give me your hand.”

“Who are you?”

“Jane. An orderly. C’mon, I’ll help you sit up.” 

“Sitting awready. Almost. Where’s the other?”

“Other what? Who?”

“Over there.”

“He left. They… well, I don’t know where they were going with him. That’s not my area.”

“Have to find him, I want myself.”

“Oo hoo, don’t we all” She reached toward his clothes, hanging on a wall rack. “You want to get dressed? You’re leaving soon, I think.”

“Yuh, need to leave, clothes,” then he realized that he didn’t need to talk like this, like he still wasn’t seeing or thinking straight. Or should he keep acting confused, get more information? “Is there someone I can talk to, at the nurses’ desk or wherever?”

Orderly Jane shrugged. “It’s not like, not set up like a hospital, no nurses’ desk. They just brought me in and put me here.”

“I’m not in a hospital?”

“You didn’t know that? Didn’t they tell you that?”

“They didn’t tell me. So much not to tell me.”

“Well.”

Clendon dragged his clothes closer. “I’ll get dressed. Will you help me? Not getting dressed, not that, show me how to get out.”

“They’ll come get you.”

“NO!”

“Well, I don’t know what else.”

“I want you to stay – to stay a moment, OK? While I’m getting dressed. In there.” He pointed to a door that must be a bathroom.

“That’s a closet.”

“Ah, uhn, turn your back?”

She turned. He slopped his body into his clothes. If these were his clothes. They didn’t look familiar, not alien either. They would be his clothes now. For now.

“You don’t work in a hospital?”

“Oh yes, that’s my regular job, this is part-time, sort of freelance, you know?”

“I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

Jane fussed with the cap on her hair, trying to fuss with the hair underneath. “Oh, they’re taking you? Or you mean you have an appointment?”

“I have someone else to be. I have to be me in someone else.”

“Yeah, that sort of stuff happens, with the anesthetic. You should wait for them to show up.”

“I should strangle them.”

“That would be kind of extreme.”

“No, perfectly rational. A balanced approach. Fits the facts.” 

“Sit down for awhile.”

“Do you know Dessell?”

“I think that’s the guy who hired me. It was kind of confusing back there.”

“Is he the one supposed to pick me up?”

“Not sure. If that was him, who took me here, he just said someone would.”

“Can you reach him? Call him? No, forget it, don’t. Not him, not yet.”

What did he want to do, and who did he want to do it to? The urge to kill. He could kill Dessell, it would be fun, but it wouldn’t change the past. The past was what he hated about Dessell. He could kill Susburl, deserved it for setting him up, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere, to the other self. He could kill that self, his cyborg other self, but it wouldn’t be the necessary suicide. So probably he didn’t want to kill anyone. Not right away. Someone else might be willing to kill his other self. He could hire… No point killing the machine self. He should wait till his head was clearer, if he could recognize clarity then, recognize his head attached to some body, else.

Susburl was at the front door, at the end of the hall, and fell in beside Clendon as he walked out. What was this building? Where? They walked like buddies to Susburl’s car, not talking. Susburl opened the car door. Clendon stood away from it.

“Starkett said you sounded like you wanted to kill yourself.”

“Who’s Starkett?”

“The anesthetist. You weren’t supposed to wake up that soon, to see yourself… your other self.” Susburl closed the car door but kept his fingers on the handle.

“Why didn’t you tell me there would be both of us. Huh??”

“There had to be both. Keep both. If we killed either one, after, it would be murder.”

“One’s a machine. Half machine. There’s no law about machine murder, murdering a machine.”

“Maybe we could find it legal some way, but it would take months, years of legal work, courts. It’d cost us everything we could make out of this. We can’t let the courts decide anyway. That would pile up a whole mountain of shit we’d never shovel down. And why would we want to kill him? Why would you want him dead – that’s what it was about, making you live longer, half at least of forever.”

“I don’t know what’s happening. In him. In another me. Can’t feel it, can’t know how we each other think… I’m me, put here, not continuing inside him? That’s it, huh?”

“It’s the same, for both, your personality over there.” Susburl flicked his hand, maybe pointing, looked more like trying to shake snot off his fingers. “It’s the same. It’s you. If this you, here, dies, you go on, over there, no matter what.”

“I don’t know that, don’t feel it, how can I know that if I can’t feel it? I can’t believe it or you. Not Dessell. I need to talk to him… to the other me.”

“No. Shut up, get in. Can’t happen.”

If Clendon got in the car, where would Susburl take him, what could he to do at his own office if that was where they’d go? What happens if there’s wo of him there?

He held his arms straight out. “He can never be in my organization. I won’t allow him in there, nobody can see him.”

“They wouldn’t recognize him, he doesn’t look like you, the you out here, they wouldn’t believe it was you. No problem.”

“I don’t care. Don’t take him there, ever.”

“We didn’t plan to.”

What else did they plan to do or to not do? He had to talk to himself, see if the other was really him, find a way to merge, to be one, only one, again. A person is one.

“Where is he? Where did you put me?”

“Later. Get in.”

Clendon got in the car. His body was shaking. He needed food.

“I need food.”

They stopped at a deli with two small tables off to one side. Clendon had no idea where they were, were they in the city, not in the industrial park, where? Susburl ordered something from the counterman, Clendon didn’t hear, didn’t care, just needed food to stop the shakes. Susburl brought over a sandwich with meat in it. Pastrami? Ham? Not baloney. It had no particular flavor. Susburl got a soda from somewhere and pushed it toward Clendon. Clendon pushed it away, stopped himself. Can’t afford to look anxious, must turn the conversation. “You know, one time, all the money I made, financials, I looked at it, at the idea of it, you know? at the accounting columns? It looked like nonsense, just numbers, any kind of numbers, piles of peanuts, spectators at a football game, all the stones on Mars. You know? Does that happen to you? That numbers or something abstract loses meaning, aren’t even numbers anymore, just something. Inside you they’re amounts, you can feel that, but you don’t know what, you know the amounts but not what amounts are, how amounts mean.”

“No, never had that happen. I usually know.”

“Uh huh. Well, me either, not, I mean, any other time, but it’s something I remember, the… change away from normal. What if numbers didn’t mean anything, not money, the peanuts or… anything? What if numbers existed without meaning? Or words? Or things? What if none of any of it meant anything? That could be what people think in bad times, you know, the Depression, without realizing it, that nothing means anything. Does the vacuum, empty space, mean anything? How could it, since it’s empty? But that’s where everything comes from, the vacuum, all the stuff comes from there, also time, the continuum… Not sure what it meant that time, about meaning, if it meant anything when it happened, that pile of numbers. But I’ve never forgot it.”

“Yeah. You going to finish your sandwich?”

“You want it?”

“No, just you should eat. You hat a shitty time and you said you need to eat. Do you always think this way, like what you were saying? The numbers and abstract things? Whatever?”

“Did you ever hear me think like that before? Did I?”

“No.”

“So no, I didn’t before and don’t always think like that, just that one time, with the numbers. What would we do with numbers if they stopped meaning or never meant anything but only a… pile? If numbers are math, are they outside us, are they real so it doesn’t matter what we think about them, or is it if we stopped thinking they were anything that we could count with or use different ways, would they maybe disappear? Poof, no numbers? It was just that once, but something like that sits in your mind. When it happens. Doesn’t it? It does with me. But if you never thought like that, there would be nothing to sit in your mind that kind of way.”

“No. There’s dressing or something on your chin.”

Clendon wiped his chin. “I didn’t taste the dressing, didn’t notice it was there. But dressing isn’t numbers. It’s there, dressing, whether I think of it or not. You saw it.” He folded his dirty paper napkin carefully, as if it was clean and ready to be put away. Susburl might be thinking his mind had flipped, but he’d taken the talk away from about which of him was or wasn’t himself, and whether they, the two, could meet. Susburl had to forget about that, because he was going to make sure they, the two him, did meet. But how would he find out where the machine self was if they couldn’t talk to Susburl about it. “I need to get back to my office.”

“I’ll take you there.”

“Thanks. Yeah. This has been… very interesting. I need to be somewhere to think, need to do something else so I can think underneath the work piled up at the office.”

“Numbers? Those piles?”

“Just work. Not numbers. Some numbers, sure, but work is real because you can put your hands on it, hold it. You can’t hold numbers. You can hold things to count, but not the numbers themselves.”

“True.”

The work at Clendon’s office had piled nose high, but he ignored it. The one important thing was to find his other self, the rest of him. Where were they keeping him? Must be at the OverThere Center. He could go there, but they’d be on the lookout, especially Dessell. Why did he think that – especially Dessell? Dessell hadn’t shown for the pickup, only Susburl. Clendon had to be careful with assumptions, especially assumptions based on raw hatred. Don’t waste the hate. Or hate them both equally. 

At his desk he linked to the OverThere website, knowing it wouldn’t immediately tell him that much, but it might give him clues. Clues, rhymes with news. Or shoes. Or booze.

Got to clear his head all the way.

The “directions” page on the site included a simple schematic of the Center, with “entry” highlighted where Clendon knew it was. Main areas had similar all-caps markers, but there were also undefined sectors, mostly toward the back – amorphous grey not divided into rooms. Could be anything.

No schematics of systems, they wouldn’t be on the public site.

Where was the URL Susburl had given him one time, the “just in case” internal link? He found the slip in his right-hand drawer. (Clendon was somewhat obsessive, not too obsessive, about where he kept stuff.) This link required an ID. Clendon had his OverThere ID that he used at the entrance. He copied its numbers – numbers – and that let him in. Careless of Dessell or whoever, but only if you already had the “secret” link. This schematic included systems and areas marked Medical, Electric, Break Room, Changing Room, HVAC. 

Medical? Most likely. But if they’d be looking for him to appear at the Center, he for sure couldn’t sneak into the Medical area. But…

But….

The orderly: Jane who? He hadn’t asked her last name, didn’t know where she worked, and she couldn’t even recognize Dessell’s name. The anesthetist: Starkist? – that couldn’t be it, but something like that. But the anesthetist had been masked. Jane he could recognize. So Jane it had to be. Try it.

Absurdly disguised under sunglasses and a large floppy hat with a feather, he sat on a bench by the OverThere entrance. At close to 10:30 he picked out Jane easily enough. But following several feet behind, he was struck by the thought that exactly because he was unrecognizable, someone might challenge him, even if he was using his card. And it had his picture fused on, so he would probably end up with a guard manhandling him to the area marked “security” on the schematic.

Only one way to make certain. He slid his card through the reader. No challenge. But where had Jane got to? Ahead, off to the left, turning a corner. Clendon picked up his pace, falling in behind as she reached a door near the far end of the corridor. This had to be where his other self was being kept.

Weird thought, he was in the corridor and also behind the unlabeled door, shifted through space. Wormhole. Anatomical obscenity. He walked past the door, around another corner… What next, lurk in the hallway? Would his entry card work in the door ? How could he explain himself to her, once inside? Could he trust her? Why should he?

He asked himself these questions to keep from focusing on the one answer, the only answer that mattered: That he was two people who were the same. Or that weren’t the same. He couldn’t find that answer without meeting himself.

The tiny green light flashed and the door clicked when he inserted his card. The too-easy route to the answer?

The room was narrow, lined with shelving on both sides. It led to a further room, hidden except for the common continuing wall that looked like the end of a wider room. He hung back for two seconds, three, then almost sprinted through the doorway. Jane was fussing with something on the countertop to his right, but he ignored her hands, because on the bed lay himself, in a hospital gown, awake, looking at Clendon as if he expected him.

Jane turned, startled. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I should be, but I’m not supposed to be. Officially. But I should be. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. For us. I don’t know your last name.”

“Melvin. Jane Melvin. You have to go out.”

“That’s me,” pointing to the bed, “you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s what they put me into. A cyborg? Not fully a cyborg? It has my mind.”

Jane edged slightly away, “You need to –”

“They didn’t tell you. A lot they haven’t told us. So I look insane to you, what I’m saying, on the edge, nuts. Did they tell you at least who I was, who he is?”

The figure on the bed raised a limp hand, pointed. “Listen to him. You can believe him. Us.” The voice was his, Clendon’s, as he’d heard it recorded and always hated, the whiny certainty that cancels himself as soon as he talks. Whenever he hears his voice, unfiltered by his head, he wonders how anyone takes him seriously. Ever.

“I like you Jane, good to me” said the him on the bed

“had a wife sometime a daughter, girls are daughters are girls” said the him standing

“didn’t pay enough attention”

“lost them they lost me”

“forgot about them, way things go” said the him rising  from the bed to stand

“wonder where they went to” said the him now sitting in the only chair

“in the sea of time”

“floating floating”

“girl and buoy”

“sweep of the waves”

“wave to them on the sea”

“see them in the waves”

“What are you two, what are you doing?” Jane backing into a corner, cringing.

“Not two, we are ONE” chanted in unity standing while sitting down

“believe in us”

“like we believe in you”

“how the world should be”

“interdependent”

“Christ on the cross”

“pendent between two thieves”

“beautiful dreamer”

“dreaming of the father”

“holier than the ghost”

“You’re not the same, can’t be,” Jane holding bandage shears before her en garde.

“I can dance” standing feet shuffling

“I don’t know how” sitting immobile

“I lie to each other”

“lie at each other”

“I stand”

“I sit”

“no one lies”

“down”

Jane squealed, a piglet trapped in gravy while the one-two one-two failed its attempt to dance

“who am we”

“what are I”

“Charleston”

“Charleston”

“front and back”

“number” the sitting him drawing the gun from his waistband to blow his brains out but it does not fire the gun has no bullets his brains have gone to live with his wife of the him standing next to the bed laughing pretending to fall dead

“Stop it stop it stop it,” screeched Jane, and both of him did, because he likes Jane, respects Jane, would not hurt her feelings or emotions inner or outer if he could and can help it

Jane dashed for the door, will they-he stop her, he does not, but she has not yet opened the door, lost in amaze at their different sameness, can’t find the panic button to alert the guard somewhere in the maze of the building.

Sitting him dropped the gun

standing him picked it up, examined it, shook his head – in sadness?

“will my daughter be like Jane”

“she’s 50 now Jane’s too young”

“Jane’s farther away from death”

“I will not die” standing him thumping hollow chest

“I will die” sitting him awash in tears

“will won’t will won’t will won’t” not knowing which is who is live or dead is one or two or many or none he reached himself engaged hugged wrestled strangled sought advantage there was none

Jane opened the door and ran and ran and ran ran ran ran…….