Black Mirror

Chapter 17 - Filth And Squalor

***ALEX***

Punching bags are such innocent victims. They're designed for the express purpose of being beaten up repeatedly. Maybe it's for exercise, maybe it's for getting out pent-up aggression. Maybe it's a little of both.

It's definitely a little of both in my case. Rage is a toxic feeling, and if I don't tire myself out, I'll feel it burning holes inside me all day. So I punch this bag to the beat of some good old-fashioned Dear Hunter on my iPod speakers. The Black EP, for industrial-strength venting in this industrial-looking room. I think it might have begun as a factory break room, and it's still covered in a thin layer of some kind of grease.

"Jab, jab, left cross. And whoa, you got a mean right hook there, son."

I freeze. Not literally this time, to my surprise. Then I turn on my heel to see the one I'm sentenced to share this particular dream with. Elijah, wearing a tank top and basketball shorts not unlike the ones I'm wearing right now, but in white instead of black like mine. White that shines every so often when the half-dead fluorescent lights over our heads flicker.

Behind him are the ropes for the centerpiece of this pit-sweat-smelling boxing gym - the ring. I race forward and pin him to these, practically foaming at the mouth as I spit venom into his face. "If you call me that again, I'll fucking kill you."

"Whoa, hey, cool your jets." I haven't pinned him hard enough - he's still able to talk without gasping for breath.

Using one arm, I push harder, forcing his head between two of the ropes. My free hand, I use it to point at my own mouth. "Read my lips: I. Am. Not. Your. Son."

Now his voice is ragged from the pressure of the rope on his trachea. "I know you wish you could change your biology, but...wish in one hand, shit in the other-"

"SHUT UP!"

"Look, Alex, the truth hurts-"

"YOU WANT ME TO KILL YOU, HUH? YOU WANT ME TO SNAP YOUR GODDAMN NECK?"

He pushes me back, then pulls his head out from between the ropes. A black line covers his skin. Rope dirt, I think. "Why so pissed? I didn't call you 'son' this time."

"No." It's a struggle to not scream at him, but even in this dream, I'm already starting to lose my voice. "You said my name. You don't get to say my name." I let go of him, returning my attention to the punching bag where it belongs.

"Then what am I supposed to call you? 'Kid?' 'Dude?'" That one sounds so wrong in his Southern drawl. "Oh, oh, I got it...'Turn around, Bright Eyes!'"

In spite of myself, I obey that command. "Oh God, Gabe inherited your singing voice too."

"Hey, before Red Rain happened, I was the karaoke king in my squadron."

I shake my head at him. "Seriously? You're gonna try to sing me an 80s classic? Is that your way of trying to bond with me?"

"Maybe...?"

Now Elijah's seeing my best "Do Not Want" meme-face. "I don't have a father to bond with. I never have. Why start now?"

"I tried to kill you. I killed your girl. I'm sorry, Alex."

Am I wrong, or does he sound sincere about it? "You expect me to forgive you?"

"No."

"Good. 'Cause I never will."

"I know." Jesus H. Christ, he's actually tearing up. Now I don't think he's sincere anymore. "You met me at rock bottom. I thought revenge would help me feel better about what I'd lost. Hell..." I hear him sniffling, wiping his nose. "Revenge is a virus, Alex, and I infected you with it. When I died, the second time...that was me knowing I'd gone beyond redemption."