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Authors: William P. Young
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place, although he said it wasn’t ‘exactly’ home. He also said it wasn’t ‘exactly’ hell either, whatever that meant.”
The man grinned. “You don’t know Jack. Extraordinarily clever with words, that one.”
“I didn’t understand everything he said, but I started to get the gist of one thing—the difference between real and true.”
“Hmmm,” the man grunted and remained silent, as if not to interrupt Tony’s processing. They stood for a time, side by side, each seeing the place through different eyes—one compassionate, the other uneasy and a little dismayed.
“So, when you say this is a habitation, are you talking about this old run-down house or does that include the property, too?”
“It includes everything, everything you saw yesterday and more; all that is inside this enclosure and all that is outside of it, everything. But here,” he said, his hand spanning the entire enclosure, “is the center, the heart of the habitation. What happens here changes everything.”
“Who owns it?”
“No one. This place was never intended to be ‘owned.’ ” He enunciated the last word as if it were slightly repulsive and didn’t belong in his mouth. “It was intended to be free, open, unrestricted… never owned.”
There were a few seconds of quiet as Tony considered the right words for his next question. “So then, who ‘belongs’ here?”
A smile toyed at the corner of the man’s mouth before he answered, “I do!”
“You live here?” he asked before thinking. Of course he did. This stranger was a complex projection of Tony’s own subconscious, and somehow he was interacting with it. Besides, no one would actually live here, in the middle of nowhere, alone like this.
“I certainly do.”
“You like living alone?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never lived alone.”
That piqued Tony’s curiosity. “What do you mean? I haven’t seen anyone else here. Ohhh, you mean Jack? Are there others like him? Can I meet them sometime?”
“There’s no one like Jack, and as for the others, in due time.” He paused. “There’s no hurry.” Another silence followed, almost awkward in duration. During these spaces between conversation, Tony had been trying to conjure up some image or memory that would begin to make sense of what he was seeing, but nothing came. No picture, no idea, and as far as he could remember not even an imagining that resonated with any of this. How was it possible that all this was simply a projection of his drugged brain scrambled inside a coma? He was drawing a blank.
“So, how long have you lived here?”
“Forty-some years, give ’r take. A lifetime, some would say. Barely a drop, really.”
“No kidding,” retorted Tony, shaking his head, the tone of his voice disingenuous and tinged with superiority. What crazy person would choose to live in this wilderness for forty years? He’d go stir-crazy in forty hours, let alone forty years.
Trying not to be obvious, Tony glanced sideways at the stranger, who either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care. Tony already liked him. He seemed to be one of those rare people who felt completely comfortable inside their ownskin, and at peace with everything around him. There was no detectable agenda, no sense of someone looking for an advantage or angle like most everyone else he knew. Maybe
content
was the word, not that anyone in his or her right mind could ever be content out here in this loneliness. To Tony,
contentment
and
boredom
were synonyms. Maybe the guy was just ignorant, didn’t know better, untraveled and uneducated. But here he was, an unexpected element inside some projection of Tony’s subconscious. He must mean something.
“So tell me, if you would, who are you?” It was the obvious question.
The man deliberately turned to face him, and Tony found himself looking into those incredibly penetrating eyes. “Tony, I am the one your mother told you would never stop holding on to you.”
It took a
The man grinned. “You don’t know Jack. Extraordinarily clever with words, that one.”
“I didn’t understand everything he said, but I started to get the gist of one thing—the difference between real and true.”
“Hmmm,” the man grunted and remained silent, as if not to interrupt Tony’s processing. They stood for a time, side by side, each seeing the place through different eyes—one compassionate, the other uneasy and a little dismayed.
“So, when you say this is a habitation, are you talking about this old run-down house or does that include the property, too?”
“It includes everything, everything you saw yesterday and more; all that is inside this enclosure and all that is outside of it, everything. But here,” he said, his hand spanning the entire enclosure, “is the center, the heart of the habitation. What happens here changes everything.”
“Who owns it?”
“No one. This place was never intended to be ‘owned.’ ” He enunciated the last word as if it were slightly repulsive and didn’t belong in his mouth. “It was intended to be free, open, unrestricted… never owned.”
There were a few seconds of quiet as Tony considered the right words for his next question. “So then, who ‘belongs’ here?”
A smile toyed at the corner of the man’s mouth before he answered, “I do!”
“You live here?” he asked before thinking. Of course he did. This stranger was a complex projection of Tony’s own subconscious, and somehow he was interacting with it. Besides, no one would actually live here, in the middle of nowhere, alone like this.
“I certainly do.”
“You like living alone?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never lived alone.”
That piqued Tony’s curiosity. “What do you mean? I haven’t seen anyone else here. Ohhh, you mean Jack? Are there others like him? Can I meet them sometime?”
“There’s no one like Jack, and as for the others, in due time.” He paused. “There’s no hurry.” Another silence followed, almost awkward in duration. During these spaces between conversation, Tony had been trying to conjure up some image or memory that would begin to make sense of what he was seeing, but nothing came. No picture, no idea, and as far as he could remember not even an imagining that resonated with any of this. How was it possible that all this was simply a projection of his drugged brain scrambled inside a coma? He was drawing a blank.
“So, how long have you lived here?”
“Forty-some years, give ’r take. A lifetime, some would say. Barely a drop, really.”
“No kidding,” retorted Tony, shaking his head, the tone of his voice disingenuous and tinged with superiority. What crazy person would choose to live in this wilderness for forty years? He’d go stir-crazy in forty hours, let alone forty years.
Trying not to be obvious, Tony glanced sideways at the stranger, who either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care. Tony already liked him. He seemed to be one of those rare people who felt completely comfortable inside their ownskin, and at peace with everything around him. There was no detectable agenda, no sense of someone looking for an advantage or angle like most everyone else he knew. Maybe
content
was the word, not that anyone in his or her right mind could ever be content out here in this loneliness. To Tony,
contentment
and
boredom
were synonyms. Maybe the guy was just ignorant, didn’t know better, untraveled and uneducated. But here he was, an unexpected element inside some projection of Tony’s subconscious. He must mean something.
“So tell me, if you would, who are you?” It was the obvious question.
The man deliberately turned to face him, and Tony found himself looking into those incredibly penetrating eyes. “Tony, I am the one your mother told you would never stop holding on to you.”
It took a
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