FICTION
Thank You
Today is the day.
How appropriate that it should fall on my 18th birthday.
Today I am what the old world would have considered a man. An adult.
To be honest, I don’t feel any different from yesterday … you know, except for the understanding of today’s impending doom.
I am the youngest person on Earth. At least as far as I know. I would assume that if my parents managed to hide me, others are probably out there. Living in the woods and mountains like my parents and me.
A bit over 18 years ago, the Sovereign United Nations made childbirth illegal. They deemed it cruel to raise children in this environment. I find it almost impossible to understand. The end of the world was staring them in the face. The inevitable destruction of Earth loomed. Instead of fighting, the world collectively gave up. Instead of seeking solutions. Instead of using the last 18 years to find a way off-world, they legislated the death of our race. The only billionaire trying to colonize other worlds was imprisoned, his wealth re-distributed. I bet people loved the stimulus check.
Sure, there was opposition at first. My mom and dad both fought in The Resistance, at least until my mom found out she was pregnant. The forced abortions were in full swing by then … so they ran. I guess we ran.
I was only 5 years old when my parents explained that life was precious because it was short. Possibly very short. They assured me they would do everything possible to give me a good life. A happy life.
I cried all night. My 5-year-old brain panicked trying to wrap itself around the fact that I was not going to be forever. That they weren’t either.
I was 8 years old the first time one of them apologized to me. It was Dad. He had just broken his foot hunting. Mom had to go out instead. I went to check on him, take him a cup of water. That’s when he did it. I’ll never forget his words.
“I’m so sorry, Adam.” His voice was monotonous. Devoid of any emotion.
“Sorry for what, Dad?”
“I’m sorry we brought you into this mess. We thought there was hope. We should’ve let them …”
He never finished the sentence, but I knew what was left unsaid. That night I cried too, but silently. I tried not to make a fuss. That night, my father regretted my life.
My mom apologized to me too once I was older, but it was different. She never hoped they had taken me. She apologized for letting hope die. She apologized for her generation’s weakness and cowardice.
I was 10 years old the first time Dad took me hunting. We had practiced archery since I was barely able to walk, but I had never shot an animal. I remember the turkey falling from the low branch it had managed to climb. Dad took me over to it.
“Life is precious, Adam. All life. Our Creator gave us dominion over animals like this so that we may feed ourselves. We should be grateful to Him and the animals.”
We stood over the turkey as it gurgled weakly, flapping its wings at us.
“We don’t want it to suffer.”
A swift swing of his knife disconnected the bird’s long neck from its body.
“Is that why they did it?” I asked.
Dad was silent. He didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need to.
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
I saw anger flash across his eyes for a split-second before pain took its place.
“Life is precious, son. We don’t let it suffer because its purpose right now is to feed us. We let you suffer and struggle. We brought you here, son, because your purpose is to experience. To live, to hurt, to laugh, to cry, to love. To be.”
I grabbed the turkey by the feet and hugged my father.
I can see a pinprick of white light now. Ripping through existence, deep over the horizon.
I remember stargazing with Mom and Dad. We would make our own constellations, tracing the shapes across the sky with our fingers.
I remember Mom holding my hand all night the time I caught some sort of infection. She muttered prayers, trying to see if God wanted to make a deal while I flew through the cosmos, courtesy of my fever.
I remember Dad walking up the hill, a week after he had left, mud made of dirt and blood plastering his legs. A plastic bag with azithromycin under his arm.
His eyes were boring into infinity, and then he saw me. I was still there. Life returned to him immediately.
I remember Mom’s sweet voice singing songs whose artists I will never remember. My mother’s voice was the only way I knew them. The only way I wanted them.
“La Vie En Rose.” “Yesterday.” “Wonderful World.”
She sang “Love of My Life” the day Dad died.
We don’t know what did it. We just know he started getting tired. Weaker.
That was the second time he apologized to me. Funny enough, his second apology was for his first.
“I’m not sorry, son. You are the greatest thing I ever did. You are the best decision I ever made.”
We buried him with his favorite tree as a marker. We sang songs and shared memories of him, retold his dumb jokes, all as we took turns with the shovel. I did my best to extend each of my turns, establishing my new role as the hard worker, the protector. Trying to make Dad proud.
It’s a second sun now. Like what Dad said Tatooine had in the Star Wars stories he would tell me to help me sleep. I wish he were here to see it. Is that selfish?
I took good care of Mom. I hunted, maintained and added to the garden. I even made improvements on the old man’s designs. I think he would have been proud.
Mom is here now. She’s holding my hand. I can’t see her. The light is far too bright, but I feel her skin. It’s grown so thin. I’m glad I won’t see her get old, truly old.
She begins to speak.
“Adam … I’m … I’m so … so—“
“Thank you,” I interrupt. “Thank you for letting me live. For letting me feel the rain. For letting me hear you sing. For letting me meet Dad. For letting me know his stories. Thank you for letting me know what it’s like to hurt. For letting me know the relief when the pain goes away …”
She’s kissing my hand now and I know she must feel the scorching heat like I do.
“Thank you for loving me. For giving me a chance to love you and Dad back.”
She’s hugging me now.
I can smell the rosemary oil in her hair.
“Thank you for …
Ryan Gutierrez is a 33-year-old literature teacher, associate pastor, husband and father. He lives in Texas with his wife, two daughters, and their five cats. Ryan has been writing for most of his life and published a novel, entitled Scars in Time, in 2019.
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Photo: Enhanced Landsat 8 Image of Western Australia, NASA/USGS Landsat; Geoscience Australia. Source: Landsat gallery. Public Domain.
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