Socket 3 - The Legend of Socket Greeny (26 page)

Fetter never was. And is no more.

And I bathed in that light, in the message,
until I merged with it. And then realized, all along, I am the
light. I always have been.

The light consumes my mind and thoughts, my
very existence, and yet I’m still here. But what am I, without a
body? Without a name?

I have no wish to move, no desire to go,
because there is nowhere but here, this very moment. In parts of
the universe time appears to move from past to present, side to
side, even backwards. But here, where I am, it’s just light. Time
does not move. There is no measurement of how human time is
experienced compared to my timeless existence.

None of this makes sense to an ordinary mind.
This reasoning, this rambling of paradoxical thoughts, has no place
in the physical world. How can there be only now when the past and
future exist? Do they? Or are they just thoughts?

Words can only point to that realization.

But in this existence, in this totality of
luminescence, I have thoughts. And these thoughts sometimes stretch
out over time and space.

Pivot.
I send the single thought out,
resonating through the endless light.
Is this it? Is this the
end?

He does not answer. But his presence is
strong. Perhaps the non-answer is the answer. That existence could
not be explained in words, could not be found in a book or
summarized in thought. That existence is pure experience.

At times, I feel the tug of thoughts. I even
experience movement like I’m being pulled through the bodiless
in-between toward a body, but then I return to the timeless
experience where all is one.

Thoughts occasionally arise, piecing together
the thread of my past life. Pivot’s masterful plan is unfathomable.
A feint within a feint within a feint… so much hidden deceit, so
many complex moves, countless pieces in place, each of us
unknowingly executing our parts with perfection.

Even Pike.

The game of Reign was, indeed, the answer to
my question. He told me that nothing was what it seemed. Was he
part of the plan? Did he assume the unsavory role of pure evil,
with no regard for life, to be there at that moment to release
Fetter from my body? To embody Fetter? To fool Fetter that this was
not a trap, was that it? Did he absorb the life from all the
Paladins like a gluttonous villain to deprive Fetter of such
strength, to further convince Fetter his body was safe? And was the
relief he expressed that of a condemned soul or a weary soldier
asked to do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, for the sake of all
existence?

Perhaps, in the end, he just wanted it to be
over.

I return to sleep in pure light. Each time
I’m moved by thought, another piece of my life wants to be
remembered, to be cherished and recognized. I remember it all,
memories of a good life. But each episode of remembering brings
fewer details.

My father was an honorable man. I tried to
keep up with his long footsteps, even after he died. His unshaven
face and silent laugh brought comfort and peace. But then the
details of his face become gray and I remember just a man with
whiskers.

My mother was asked to carry on, to serve
life without the things that mattered most. She loved me, even
though she knew I was a duplication of her only son. Eventually, I
recall a worn woman with short hair. And then I remember just a
woman.

Streeter, a true friend. A genius. He was
always there for me. I recall all the trouble we got into, all the
times we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. The times he was there
to listen to me. There was a lot to remember, but then I just
remember a short boy that used to make me laugh, someone I once
knew in my younger years. Then, just a boy.

But of all the thoughts and memories, it’s
Chute’s that returns frequently. I can see her in great detail, the
freckles on her cheeks in summer and the way her skin wrinkled
between her eyes when she laughed. Her smooth complexion, blue eyes
and strawberry red hair waving past her shoulders. I felt so close
to her.

None of the memories fade easily, but they
all vanish. In the end, I only remember Chute. After I can no
longer recall a mother or a father or a good friend, when there is
no recollection of anybody or anything that matters, when I can no
longer remember that I was once a being with a name, a name I can
longer recall, I can still see her face. I can still feel her
heart.

But then I cannot recall her freckles.

Her eyes become gray. Her hair colorless.

In the end, I cannot see her face at all,
cannot recall one aspect of her beauty, but I cling to the beating
of her heart, listening to it play out her life as if calling me
back, begging me never to forget. To never leave.

Bum-bum. Bum-bum.

Bum-bum.

Bum.

And then it is only the light. No thoughts.
Nothing but awareness.

Pivot is still present, his essence
intermingles with mine, but even that becomes indistinguishable
from the light. I recall, in the final moments, I’m artificial. I’m
not real.

But in the final moments, I don’t know what I
am. I only know the light.

“Socket.”

There’s rough fabric against my cheek.
Something rustles next to my ear, but my body is too heavy to move,
my eyelids sealed shut. The roughness fades.

“Time to wake up, Socket.”

A hand grips my arm and shakes me. My breath
is hot. Sensations return to my body, still too heavy to move, but
I’m lying on a soft cushion. My eyelids crack open just enough to
see the green fabric of the couch only inches from my nose. My eyes
close, once again, but the hand shakes me and feeling begins
rushing through my body with pins and needles.

I roll onto my back, see a ceiling above. My
lips are sticky, my throat swollen and tight. I take a deep breath
and loosen the stiffness in my chest. I’m stretched out on a couch
and across from me, over a coffee table littered with empty pizza
boxes, is an identical couch with a short boy sitting on it. He has
one leg crossed over the other with his hands folded on his
lap.

“Take your time,” he says.

The room is familiar. A television is above a
fireplace, a news reporter discussing a protest that’s going on
behind her. There are two doors behind the boy. The one on the left
is my mother’s bedroom. The other is mine.

“Can you sit up?” he asks.

My skin is tingling, but I’m able to move my
feet. My right foot thuds on the floor and I’m able to push up on
my elbow. My head is like a sandbag. I let my left leg drop and use
the momentum to sit up. My balance sloshes between my ears.

“That’s good,” the boy says. “You’re doing
good. Now, when you’re ready, stand up and look around.”

I move my lips but the words won’t come out.
Who are you?

“Don’t force it, it’ll come. Give it some
time. For now, just look around and let things come back. And when
you’re ready, tell me your name.”

My name?
I… I don’t know my name.

The house feels empty. I’m staring at the
bedroom doors. My mother’s door is closed, but mine is partially
open. I ease my weight forward, slowly, letting the balance shift
and settle. My long hair falls over my face.
White hair. I’ve
got white hair.
My legs are still slightly numb, and my bones
made of lead. I squeeze the armrest and stand up like I’m a hundred
years old. Blood seems to crash into the bottom of my feet and I’m
standing on nails. I close my eyes and remain still until more
feeling comes back, enough that I stand upright.

The kitchen is behind me with dirty plates
piled in the sink and books and papers and cups with dried orange
juice covering the kitchen table. I look back at my bedroom door
and slide my foot across the carpet. The next step is a little
bigger, a little higher, and I let go of the couch. I go around the
clothes scattered on the floor and grab the doorframe and peek
inside. It’s more of the same, with dirty clothes and magazines.
The walls are covered with rock bands. A skateboard is upside-down,
half under my bed.

I haven’t skated in forever.

“Soc…” The first syllable scratches my
throat. The boy turns on the couch, his frog-face peeking over the
back. “Socket?”

He smiles. “That’s right. Your name is
Socket.”

I’m not convinced, but it sounds right. And
my mother, if I open her door, she won’t be in there. She’s rarely
there. Always at work.
Where did she work?
I remember a
mountain, that’s all.

The house feels empty, the walls saturated
with loneliness. And even though light fills the room through
several windows, it feels dark. I’ve been here before, but now it
all feels new. And if my mother’s at work, where’s my father?

I grab the door and take a deep breath.
Another memory is coming, that of a funeral. He’s dead. He’s been
dead a long time.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Let the answers come back.” He stands,
gesturing to the fireplace. “Walk around, explore. See what you
remember.”

The mantel is filled with pictures, all in
different frames, big and small. I take my time walking around the
couch, sliding my hand along the wall until I touch the ledge of
the mantel. They are family photos. It seems I’ve seen family
photos on a wall, once, but it wasn’t this home. It was another
house I once lived in, like another life. These photos have a
little kid with short white hair.
And that would be me.
But
the other people, a woman with short brown hair and a gruff looking
man, both smiling.

“Mom and Dad,” I whisper.

I go down the line, pausing at each of them,
but it’s the one at the end that I pick up. We’re at a carnival and
I got this giant pink cloud of cotton candy and I’m holding my
father’s hand and my mother’s laying her head on his shoulder. I
can feel the humid night air, remember the lurch in my stomach when
we go on rides, and seeing my parents hold hands like teenagers. It
wasn’t long after that…

“Do you remember how he died?” the boy
asks.

I shake my head. I’m not sure I want to
remember because that’s when the happiness died. When life became
work. When my mother stopped smiling.

“You remember?” the boy asks.

The boy’s face is clearer, now. I’ve seen him
before, like a thousand times before. I remember when he was
smaller than that, a little kid. I remember him…

“Let it come,” he says. “This is a memory
boot, like a computer. It just takes a few minutes to reload, but
you need to stay open.”

Computer?

Something jars loose a tangle of thoughts,
releasing a wave of sadness. Something I can’t quite comprehend,
but the answer is in the room. The answer is the short kid, now
standing next to the couch, staring at me expectantly. My head
shakes and a chill starts somewhere in my chest, shockwaves
reverberating outward. I grab the mantel, pictures crash on the
floor. I hold on with both hands as the room begins to turn.

Images flood through my mind, of mountains
and jungles, weapons and sterile white rooms. My mother is there.
Kay. Kay Greeny.
She has a name, she is there, with me. I’m
stretching open, about to burst. The mantel creaks in my grip.

“Stay open,” the boy says.

The room is spinning like a carnival ride and
I don’t know if I’m still standing or pressed against the wall.
There are faceless mechs and men with white eyeballs and colorful
little dragons and flying discs…

“Hold on, Socket.”

Outer space. A black planet. The Paladin
Nation.

I was one of them. Am one of them. But
something else. What am I?

WHAT AM I?

I’m not real.

I barely hear his voice this time, it’s so
distant. I’m fading away, my body becomes heavy again. The world
crumbles. The television trails off. I’m going somewhere else,
again. And the images of my past follow me, asking me to return to
my body, next to the mantel. It’s Streeter, that’s who that boy is.
My best friend. And then I remember everyone else. Mom and Dad,
Spindle, Pon, the Commander… I remember. But I’m leaving my
body.

“
Stay open,
”
Streeter shouts from a million miles away.

The tunnel is closing on me, and I remember,
like I’ve done this a thousand times, that I’m going back to sleep,
going back to the light. Until one voice and a single word stops
me.

“
Socket,”
Chute says.

My eyes flutter open. I’m staring up from the
floor; Streeter’s face is over me, his hands on my cheeks. A
hopeful expression relaxes on his face. He waits.

“You did it.” He backs away, gives me space.
“You’re back.”

The heaviness has left me, and my senses have
returned. I smell the stale pizza crusts on the coffee table and
hear the flies buzzing around the room, feel the ache of an empty
home. I get up, feel the fabric of my clothes, the itch of my skin.
The room is in perfect detail, but something is wrong. Something
about the solidity.

Streeter latches onto me, throwing his arms
around my mid-section and picking me up in a bear hug. “YOU DID
IT!”

He knocks the wind from my lungs. I hold my
breath until he lets go and walks off, wiping his eyes so that I
don’t see his face. Memories continue to trickle back, the remnants
find their way in slow fashion, rounding out the details of my
life. My best friend is composing himself next to my bedroom
door.

I go to the kitchen, touch the table and feel
the memory of eating dinner with my mother, watching her sip coffee
with a plate full of untouched food. My mind expands to the filthy
sink, remembering the mess I made to get her back for ignoring me.
She hated me because my father died, like it was my fault. I
realized, at the end of my life, she rejected me for other reasons.
More than that, I realize what feels so wrong about the house.
These are not walls around me. This isn’t my skin.