Object x, p.3
Object X, page 3
Where to start? Could Object X be opened? Or moved? Or anything? He understood the importance of what he stared at, but he lacked the imagination to create a plan. He read science fiction books; he didn't write them. So, he did what came so naturally to him. He did what his next son would be too intelligent to resort to after he found a brilliant woman more worthy of his seed than Wendy.
He made his way to the garage.
He briskly returned with an aluminum bat used on the softball team that he'd played for several years ago—talked into wasting his time playing first base on Tuesday nights by Wendy's brother. Big surprise, right? The truly shocking part were the faint memories of actually enjoying those evenings. Wendy cheering him on in the stands; Tommy too young to understand but mesmerized regardless. But that was before Object X. It was before he found real meaning.
He didn't find the actual object beautiful. Instead, the beauty came from within. It hid beneath the surface—the temptations of limitless possibilities. He needed to open it and absorb its raw power. It would change him more than it already had. It would change everything.
He'd always enjoyed watching outfielders take a few steps back after he walked to the plate on those Tuesday nights. Pudgy dads and overconfident college kids all treated him alike in the world of softball. He was the definition of a man. He was muscular and athletic. He was why so many of those guys got laid later that night. They had no idea that their wives and girlfriends were actually thinking about him.
He didn't expect to feel fantastic physically after smashing aluminum against metal—if that was in fact what this object was made of. He could handle necessary discomfort, though. It was a small price to pay for greatness, and he knew for a fact that he wouldn't receive his desired answers by just sitting here scratching his balls. Tormented geniuses went without love. Rock stars went without stability. Career-oriented women went without children of their own. And now, in his backyard, he was ready to temporarily sacrifice the comforts of his suburban life in order to become something he'd never expected, but always knew he had in him. It was time for Sam Ellison to make his mark on the world.
He wouldn't destroy it. Rather, he would chip it. He would fracture a small piece to reveal the big picture. He would never harm it. It understood that. It understood him.
Bang!
The crippling vibrations paralyzing his hands didn't result in a single dent in Object X. He'd wound back and slammed the bat into the front of the rectangular black device, expecting to gain something from his willingness to lose feeling in all ten of his fingers for the foreseeable future. Yet, he learned absolutely nothing other than a harsh reminder of his role in an unpredictable world. Object X didn't care about him like the way he cared about it.
A bat wasn't enough. He had to think. He had to use his brain. There was a way inside it, and he wouldn't stop until he cracked the code. He was smart. He just had to figure it out.
*****
The power grinder was equally as useless as the handsaw, and the chainsaw didn't do any damage whatsoever. He owned an entire garage full of tools that didn't serve any purpose to him. Why bother trying hedge shears when a chainsaw did as much good as throwing a lawn rake at a brick building? Physicality wasn't the right approach. He was positive of it.
So, he took the scientific route.
He currently applied a fourth coating of hydrogen peroxide, white vinegar, and salt to the front of Object X with a spray bottle. He remembered performing this exact experiment back in his high school chemistry lab. The powerful combination created a corrosive acid that rusted metal almost instantly. Would it be enough to help him chip away at Object X with a little help from one of his power tools? He didn't know for sure, but it would at least prove that he dealt with something on the periodic table of elements.
Nothing happened.
He applied a fifth layer and waited.
Nothing.
A sixth layer.
Nothing, except frustration this time.
He felt teased. It was all so close. It was here, yet it wasn't. Greatness, fame, a sense of self-worth in a world that had labeled him as average: he could change it all. There was more than just his superficial greed and yearning for power and respect, though.
Something like Object X contained answers. Not run-of-the-mill answers either. Important ones. Ones that people actually wanted to know. In it. Through it. Below it. He didn't know how to do it, but he was certain that he looked at something truly unique.
The pine trees secluded him from the rest of the world as he found himself in his own private outdoor laboratory. Did society even deserve his discovery? Would the useless feeders inconveniencing him at every turn appreciate it like he did? They would try to break it apart for reasons different from his own. They would attempt to destroy it because they didn't understand it. What if Object X didn't only appear in his backyard to provide him with answers, but to seek his protection as well?
He looked back at his house to observe all of Wendy's colorful plants on both sides of the deck. A wasteful hobby. He noted Tommy's tennis balls and baseball glove with similar disgust. Pointless. He preferred being alone. It made him feel more alive. More connected with what he saw.
This was his moment. He stared at a riddle that would not only change his life, but the lives of all those around him. Even his mediocre family would appreciate what he'd done for mankind. And who the hell was Wendy to lecture him about anything? She should be down on her knees, thanking a higher power for somehow bringing him into her life. Otherwise, she would be just another woman with a disappointing husband.
He was ready. He would solve this riddle. He would do his part to change the world, and then the world would do its part to change him. Nothing would ever be the same in only a matter of minutes.
*****
Sam propelled his clenched-fist forward, his anger and frustration getting the better of his typically steady mind. He knew that he would break his hand. He couldn't move Object X, let alone solve its taunting puzzle, so he couldn't explain why he decided to vent all of his rage on an immovable object. The simple reality was that he did. Displaying his physical prowess reminded him that he still had some control in this world. It may not have been much, but that split second of masculine energy felt worth it.
He waited for the stinging pain after a dull thud echoed throughout the backyard. He'd treated Object X in the same manner as a young boy who'd finally snapped and confronted his bully after years of painful torment. There was real purpose behind his punch. Why? He didn't know for sure. Object X never did anything to him. He still wasn't sure what he dealt with. Although, deep down, he knew that they were meant to be together, and that the spectacular mystery in front of him would forgive his immature blunder. His punch wasn't done with intent to harm. Rather, he just needed to let off some steam.
There was no pain. There was no numbness or tingling in his funny bone either. He felt great. In fact, he felt fantastic. He was simultaneously relieved and free from injury, and he knew who to thank for the surprising turn of events.
Still, the lack of pain didn't solve his conundrum. He refused to stop until he took a step in the right direction. He had to figure something out before Wendy returned home from work with a million different questions and complaints. Why are you still out here? What are you doing with all these tools? Why won't you call the police and let them handle it? Nonsense. No one would touch Object X except him. The answers were here—obvious yet hidden. He just had to find them.
The realization that he bled from the knuckle of his middle finger caused him to instinctively wipe his hand on his shirt. So, Object X could hurt him. Or could it? He didn't feel any discomfort, but the consequences of his actions showed visibly. It was further proof that what he stood in front was in fact real.
And then he saw it.
Something happened. Object X moved, but it didn't. It changed, but it remained the same. A shift occurred, yet he couldn't explain a single thing about what he claimed to have seen. He couldn't be more certain of what he felt, though. Everything was different. He felt one with what he looked at. Suddenly, this complex mystery didn't seem like such an enigma.
His brown eyes trailed the drop of his blood that descended the flawless black surface at a snail's pace. That small dash of red may as well have been illuminated by a spotlight despite the tall pine trees blocking the sun from where he stood. It was all that mattered. It was why he felt the way he did. His blood had done something to Object X. What exactly, he didn't know, but he was sure that something was different.
He rotated his palm to his face and extended the back of his hand in the direction of Object X. What if he could connect with the faceless black sheet of unidentifiable material with something as surprising as his blood? It made sense in a strange way, though, didn't it? He was special. He was different. Part of him had been transferred to Object X, and now it reacted to him in ways it wouldn't for anyone else.
The towering black door-like structure shook marginally after he pressed his bleeding knuckle against the cool surface. While not overwhelming, it was enough to verify his initial instinct that something unique took place in his presence. He had a certain power over this thing. He could make it react. He could bring it to life.
He withdrew his hand, but Object X continued to shake ever so slightly while his blood remained on the smooth surface, smeared at the top, but the remainder still dripping south. He knew what he had to do. He didn't have time for silly games or bouts with logic. His blood had brought a reaction from the previously inanimate object—something that both his tools and his failed science experiment couldn't claim—and he had a responsibility to pursue the truth. It was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. A lasting scar to serve as proof to anyone with the audacity to question his story. Today, in his backyard, Sam Ellison would do something that few others possessed the backbone to do themselves.
He slid his palm across the sharp blade of his handsaw.
Pain surged through his veins, reaching his toes with equal proficiency as it did his forehead. He was a mere man tasked with the burden of carrying eight billion souls on his shoulders. Would it be outlandish to compare himself to Christ? He wouldn't have Five Holy Wounds after a six-hour crucifixion, however. Instead, he would only have one scar, but it was a self-inflicted wound. His willingness to endanger his own well-being made his story even greater than the one he'd grown up hearing in church on Sunday mornings with his parents. Jesus experienced doubt. He'd questioned God. For a brief moment, however long it lasted, Christ didn't know if his sacrifice was worth it, but Sam never felt that same sense of uncertainty.
It was his job to save the rest of humanity—with its constantly growing population of people too dumb and distracted by the latest TV shows and technological gadgets to ever make a real impact on the world—and the rewards would be rich and endless for his efforts. Nothing about Jesus ever felt selfless to him. Christ was a revered figure in history. Worshiped. Praised. At the forefront of minds and conversations for thousands of years, never to fade from human culture.
And Sam didn't see why he couldn't be the same.
He pushed the pain away and gazed down upon his palm, dark fluids gushing from his broken skin. He raised his hand to the perfectly rectangular wall of blackness in front of him and pressed his palm flat against the surface. Suddenly, his pain vanished. His angst disappeared. He was one with the world, but what he touched didn't represent the planet as he knew it. It was something else. Something different.
An unmistakable energy surged through him for the very first time. He felt a power that he struggled to comprehend. He grasped the importance of what he participated in, but lacked the understanding to see the situation from a perspective other than his own. Why couldn't he step outside himself and understand what he felt? Why couldn't he recognize the electricity surging through his veins?
And then everything made sense.
But didn't make sense at all.
Object X opened. Slightly. Faintly. Barely at all. Yet, it opened.
A crack formed directly down the center of the black wall. It was so narrow that he couldn't fit his finger through it, but it was enough to reveal separation—as minimal as it appeared. Its steady buzz remained despite him withdrawing his hand from the surface, but the rumble gradually faded right before his eyes. His bloody handprint disappeared along with any movement from the mysterious wall in front of him.
Then, it closed shut.
Sam looked down at his bleeding hand. He looked back at Object X. He raised his hand, studied the gruesome wound, and pressed it against Object X once more.
It started to rumble again.
He didn't need his eyes to see Object X part down the middle, because he felt it. Blood changed this thing. It brought it to life, for however briefly it may have been. He also didn't need further proof that he was the only person capable of connecting with Object X in the manner in which he had. He shared a bond with the mysterious structure in his backyard.
But he only had so much blood to give. Like usual, he was expected to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he needed help this time. Well, maybe not help, per se. Rather, he needed a sacrifice. Something far less valuable to the cause than himself. For once, Sam couldn't do it all on his own.
He walked without a second thought. Instinct carried him, his feet leading him past the many towering pine trees occupying his yard. His mind returned to the one thing that made sense to him.
He needed a sacrifice.
Sam passed the edge of his property, slipping through several bushes before emerging on his neighbor's long driveway. He took a long look around despite the knowledge that the house was vacant. Why was it empty? He didn't know for sure, but he was positive that no one had stepped foot on this lot in months. Still, he used caution. He simply refused to attract unnecessary attention to what awaited him back in his yard.
The large lake was still. The wind died down, the sky motionless above him as he failed to identify a single bird for miles around. Silence. Deep, raw, eerie silence. It was the serenity of an upper-class neighborhood on a weekday afternoon. Lawnmowers were tucked away neatly in sheds, high-end sports cars and SUV's were stationed in work parking lots or garages until evening, and children currently occupied school classrooms instead of their yards. Hours remained before the neighborhood once again came alive.
He listened. He knew they were here, the numerous droppings acting as unmistakable evidence of their presence. He'd seen them before, never irked by their existence, but too occupied by his endless number of responsibilities to pay them any attention. That had all changed, however. Now, they served as his main priority.
The overgrown grass—reaching the middle of his thighs—didn't provide him any help in his search. Once again, the slovenly ways of those around him stifled his progress, burdening him with a job significantly more difficult than it should be. Didn't the rest of society understand that he had more important things to worry about than the mundane routine of daily life? Every minute spent wandering his neighbor's yard was a minute away from his real purpose, and every minute away from his real purpose was a minute wasted.
The landscape dipped, his sneakers descending the slight slope that led down to the edge of the lake. No geese. No fish. No sign of life whatsoever. Even the reeds remained paralyzed in the cool spring air. The water wasn't his answer. Neither were the many impressive houses spaced out evenly along the water's edge, following the circular shape of the lake. He needed to look elsewhere.
He climbed up the slope, making his way to the backyard of the vacant house as he noted how much work it would take to get this place back into shape. Two months without proper maintenance was a death sentence for an upscale property. It was an accurate representation of life, though. Lower your guard even for a brief moment and the world will snatch you up, spit you out, and move on to its next victim, but he wasn't one of those people. He wasn't weak like the rest of humanity. He always watched his own back.
And then he saw it.
It resembled a patch of dead grass. Brown in a sea of green, sticking out like a sore thumb to his keen eye. He bent at the waist, lifting the mixture of grass and fur to reveal five tiny cottontail bunnies nestled safely in the tidy nest. Big black eyes. Long and high ears. Light brown fur with streaks of black and gray riddled throughout. They were as cute as they were innocent.
Sam removed one of the baby rabbits from the nest and immediately recognized how easily it fit in the palm of his hand. This little creature—whimpering from its fear of the unknown—couldn't even begin to imagine the impact that it would have on the world. It lived such a simple existence, eagerly awaiting to suckle from its mother after she returned to the nest later in the day, but it unfortunately wouldn't share the same experience as its siblings. Why? Because today, the little bunny in his hand would serve as the ultimate sacrifice.
Sam snapped its neck.
He didn't feel remorse as he headed back to his yard. He slipped through the bushes and soon found himself beneath the familiar shade of pine trees, undeterred by the dead animal in his hand. Once upon a time, not so long ago, such a deed would leave a lasting impression on him. He would be rattled, changed in ways few men could relate to. Yet, he didn't feel a thing. He was too focused for emotions. Too determined for sensitivity. He was a man on a mission.
And he didn't have another second to waste.
The bunny thudded against the freshly cut lawn after it fell from his hand, Sam quick to follow as his knees met the grass with a unique sense of urgency. He was so close. Everything was right in front of him. Mere seconds—precious to some but overlooked by most—were all that kept him from unlocking the secrets that Object X kept from him.
He reached for his handsaw. He pressed the sharp blade against the midsection of the little animal, meeting minimal resistance from its warm body. It was too fresh to be cold. It was too young to be tough. Its soft fur and delicate skin failed to put up a fight against the knife-like edges of the tool in his hand, the blade sinking deeper into the lifeless bunny which resembled an offering placed at the altar of Object X. He knew better, though. The ground wasn't an altar. No, the ground was a waste.
