139 Years to the End of the World

Door to Tomorrow, Part Four

As the elevator descended to the basement of the church to the graveyard below, I contemplated the metaphorical descend as similar to my relationship with my daughter. On a way down to hell. I shared this thought with Joan, to which she said I'm being melodramatic and Leila's just going through a phase.

Professor Leah Leslie Hullway had joined us shortly after my daughter's outburst. "She's right. You're just over-thinking it," she agreed to Joan. Her blonde hair had lost some of its shine in the past seven years and she had chosen to forgo the lab coat ensemble in favour of a yellow sleeved dress and a thin white cotton jacket, colouring in a shade of perkiness to the otherwise moody atmosphere. "Give her some time."

With a sigh, I could only reply, "Yeah." I thought of how Leila had requested to return home first without even saying goodbye. After some discussion, some gritted words, and more crying, Joan relented and had G escort Leila home.

A ding signalled that the elevator had reached its floor. Though we called it a graveyard, the place was more of a crematorium. The expanding Mist meant less places to build and bury bodies, forcing the five cities to expand downwards to sustain the slowly increasing population.

Stepping out into the graveyard which stretched for almost two hundred meters in all directions, we were greeted by rows and columns of urns placed squarely on marble-white pedestals, each unique in their own designs. Some were vase-like, with intricate patterns etched into the ceramic, while a few styled themselves as busts of the deceased's heads. Long fluorescent tubes lined the ceilings, bathing the room in bright white light. The floors were covered by stone slab tiling.

"Who are we visiting?" I asked as we walked down the aisle of the dead, even though I already knew the answer somewhere within me. "Is it my parents?"

The ensuing silence from the two ladies confirmed my suspicion and I knew immediately which were the two urns the moment they entered my sight. Settled in the middle of a field of painted ceramics ceramics and carved stone urns, were two plain ones placed side-by-side. No special designs or elaborate details. Just one brown and one grey, plain, round urns.

I stopped right between the urns, the women not questioning how I knew. I just knew. I guess it's like those people who were blinded when young and their hearing improved as compensation. When your entire body loses the ability to physically feel anything, emotionally, the mind tries to balance things out. Maybe. I'm completely grasping at straws here.

Looking down on the golden name plate with 'James Jones' etched into one and 'Stella Jones' into the other, I found my legs wobbling and placed two hands on the pedestal of my mother to steady myself, Joan supporting me with a helping hand on my elbow.

"When was this?" I asked.

Joan answered, "About a year after you went under," she paused, sensing I needed the short time to centre myself after the news. "In their sleep. Same day. Peaceful."

"I should have been there," I said to no one in particular. Well, that was a lie I guess. I was trying to talk to my parents, knowing full well that such a thing was not possible. "I am a selfish asshole. Leila's right. I didn't think anyone would miss me. Not her. Not you. Not even my parents."

I recalled how as a child, my father would come back late from work and, despite his fatigue, would tutor or play with me. My mother would wake up early in the morning, earlier than I did, just to get me up and ready for school, never once a peep of objection on her part.

"What kind of son am I? Can't even take care of his parents in their golden years." To me, it felt like my illness, this Mist Poisoning, was just an excuse to be lazy, even though the logical part of me was yelling that it would not have made any difference. "I should have just died seven years ago."