Wednesday, 4/17/2216, Part 2

“She was using me.” I muttered to myself from the bench of an empty park. The park was one of those afterthought parks, a triangle space leftover after three streets crisscrossed around it. It was dirty and small and dark. It was where I needed to be.

There had been a rally here this morning. I had seen it on the news. The participants had projected an image of an anthropomorphized Earth spanking an anthropomorphized Mars with the slogan “Mama, knows best,” while they smashed some old Edison cars and gadgets. Representatives from each of the Big 4 gave speeches about the innate goodness of earthlings and vowed to stop fighting each other until the war was won.

“We’ve done everything for them, and what did we ask in return? Nothing. Nothing but to push the boundaries of humanity as we look to the stars.” A representative from Macrohard had passionately proclaimed. “What did they do? Certainly not continue outward as they promised. No. They turned around and spit in our face. It was a mistake to trust them, a mistake caused by the boundless kindness in our hearts, but a mistake nonetheless. We must realize now that colonization has always and will always come from Earth! Our mother world produces explorers, entrepreneurs, and dreamers. Mars has made nothing but entitled cowards who we’ve sheltered for far too long!”

Blah blah blah, total media circus. They slapped their cartoon on a missile and launched it off. I couldn’t stand it.

I wonder if dad felt the same way.

A tear rolled down my cheek as I looked at the smashed remains of the Edison vehicles. The city would probably clean them up tomorrow. A junkie was scanning the wreckage to see if any of the components were still functional. I sighed and wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. I didn’t even have the energy to be sad.

I should’ve been shocked. My whole world should have been in disarray. I should’ve cared, but in all honesty, I just didn’t. In hindsight, the fact that my dad wrote revolutionary literature wasn’t all that surprising. Not that I suspected anything. It was the sort of revelation I could’ve gone my whole life without (and probably should have) but it fit things perfectly in place after the fact.

Despite having a new understanding of my dad, my mom, my friends, my life, nothing fundamentally changed. I was still here. I still loved my dad. He was still dead. What hurt me more was Ontivia. How long had she been playing this game? Did she know who my dad was when she first reached out to me? I need to know.

I send Ami a message.

“Ami, is T there? Tell her to stay.”

“She’s long gone. She told me to tell you she apologizes, I told her to fuck off, so she did.”

“Oh. Ok.”

“So, uhhhh, I don’t want to be like this, but, I told you so?” Little devil. I smiled. Ami always did cheer me up in her own way.

“Shut up. I’m gonna ask her to come back.”

“What!?”

“You be polite.”

“…”

“Will you?”

“Fine, whatever. But I will tell you so again.”

“That’s fine, thank you Ami.”

I really liked Ontivia after all. Maybe it’ll be the same as it is with dad. I don’t care if he was a revolutionary. Her friendship…

Was she ever really my friend?

I fought back tears at that thought. That’s stupid. I should cry for my dad, not for her.

Select main menu, select neural network, select memories, select favorites, select ‘3/6/05 dad’, open file? Select yes.

The scanner on your childhood home recognizes your permissions and the door slides open. ‘Give me one second Kriss’ your dad messages you as you walk in. You kick off your shoes and walk through the familiar hallway, past all the recognizable scrapes and scuffs that accumulate when a home is lived in. You lived in this home once. You sit down on the couch and sink in. The feeling is the one you experienced as you came home from school and collapsed there as you had done many times before. You stare out the back window at the little yard that used to be so big. You used to have to jump to reach the first branch, and even then it wasn’t a sure thing. Now it barely came up to your shoulders. You do not notice the scrapes and scuffs. You do not remember the feeling of the couch. You do not measure the height of the first branch. You do not know this will be your last opportunity to do so. You hear a door shut and your dad shuffles over from his office. ‘Hey Kriss, how’s it going?’ He says as he plops down next to you and embraces you with one arm. ‘Eh, it’s ok.’ You respond. His arm pulls you in tight for a moment before retracting. ‘I’m sorry about the job’ he says. You are also sorry about the job, but you say ‘it’s ok. It wasn’t a forever thing anyway’. You feel him looking at you as you look out the window. ‘You can always move back here’ he says. You feel a lump in your throat. You suppress it. ‘No, I’m fine, I still have seven months on the lease. I’ll find something else by then’. You know this will be difficult. So does he. ‘I know you liked your job.’ He says. ‘It’s not right’. The lump returns to your throat. You stand up. ‘It’s fine, I’m only here to pick up my blazer. I’ll need it for interviews’. He stands too but you can’t bear to face him. ‘Well, it’s over on the counter. I washed it and ironed it for you’. You walk over and grab it. ‘Thanks dad’ you say, walking towards the door. He shuffles after you. ‘Knock em dead Kriss,’ he says. ‘Yeah yeah, I will,’ you say. ‘Tell me if you need anything,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back in a few weeks,’ you say. ‘Call me,’ he says. ‘Ok dad, bye,’ you say. ‘I love you,’ he says. You do not say it back. You do not know this will be your last opportunity to do so.

My vision came back in time to see the junkie dig out a circuit board. He looked at me, perhaps worried I want to take his prize. After a moment of eye contact, he nods. I nod back, sending tears spilling onto my lap.

“I’m sorry.” Ontivia messaged me.

“It’s ok. Come back. I’ll help.”

I don’t care if he was a revolutionary. He was my dad, and that’s more important to me.