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Still Life · InkandNeon | Speculative Fiction Stories

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  my wife died three days ago this journal so i
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  can remember these days to try to ground myself
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  in this grief despite my wife's passing we are
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  still expecting our firstborn in just two months
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  time it was by a miracle that fern and i were
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  approved in the first place i work as a solar
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  engineer up on the dyson c grid And she is a
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  munitions handler. She was a munitions handler
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  for Flak and Shrapnel. It was Dennis. Dennis
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  Armitage. Ben's plant manager and her best friend
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  since childhood. We fudged the numbers on the
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  index forms and pushed our request through. Seven
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  months later and we couldn't have been happier.
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  We went down to the gestation app almost every
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  day just to watch our child grow. We had prepared
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  the nursery at home down to the minute detail
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  of the wallpaper colour, the safety diffusers
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  and everything we could think of. The staff told
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  us the baby had a 99 .9 % chance of coming to
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  full term. They had even commented on more than
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  one occasion on how resilient of a stock Fern
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  and I were. Our reproductive organs that had
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  been stripped since we were barely 10 years old
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  were said to have matured into some of the strongest
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  tissue that ever handled. Despite the cold, strange
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  language of the clinical staff, we were still
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  undeterred. Our child was everything to us. That
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  was until three days ago. Fern died in a freak
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  accident out at the plant. One of the line necks
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  had mixed the chemical compounds in the wrong
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  order, and I was told the whole manifold blew.
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  My wife was the only casualty. Dennis had come
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  to see me personally, not a day after. With corporate
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  approval from F &S, he handed me a heavy case,
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  packed with a large sum of ace and recompense
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  for the loss. A letter from The CEO and the co
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  -CEO heard alongside it, and I still remember
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  how his hands trembled against the latches. One
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  day I asked him if I could see my wife, just
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  once, just to say goodbye. Dennis only looked
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  down and whispered, nothing, nothing remains.
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  I hadn't hugged a man since my father died nearly
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  30 years ago, but Dennis and I held one another
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  close right there in the doorway. She was the
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  love of my life, and Dennis's oldest friend.
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  Those words hounded me the entire night. Nothing
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  remains. Every time I closed my eyes, the memory
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  of my caring, gentle wife, how she smelled of
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  gunpowder and oil. She would stroke my forehead
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  while we slept together, and the image kept invading
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  my mind of her face. A body torn apart, body
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  engulfed in roaring flames. A twisted horror
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  of the beautiful woman she once was. Two days
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  after the accident, I had taken up the courage
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  to return to work. The blinding gaze of soul
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  was beating down on my visor, and I was standing
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  just 200 meters out of the Dyson grid, balancing.
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  A titanium casing played over a dead panel. I
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  had Disassociated so completely that it took
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  minutes before I even registered the panic screams.
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  A supervisor, Martin, yelled. Kaelin, mate, speak
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  to me. I remember hearing the thick UV fabric
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  of his suit grinding together against the collar
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  mic as he scrambled onto the gantry. Grinding
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  fucksticks, mate, come down. Get back to the
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  Ehab. An apologetic look on his eyes. His face
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  warped before me as he dragged me through the
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  door. I'm sorry, he said, sliding a glass of
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  that wicked yellowish coolant -washed moonshine
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  from across the steel table. Sorry about letting
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  you suit up. For Fern, I thought, I thought maybe
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  it would help. But here, take something that
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  might actually do the job. I stared at the fluid.
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  My arms were still radiating residual heat from
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  Sol. But my chest felt like an empty freezer.
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  She's due in six weeks, I told him. Then focus
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  on that, Martin said. A grovelly voice coming
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  down as he rested his hand on my shoulder. When
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  he pulled it away, a cold handprint stayed. A
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  mark against my suit. What happened to Fern was
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  fucked, he said. Ain't gonna lie, mate. Probably
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  the worst thing that can happen to a bloke. But
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  your child is going to need you. We painted the
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  walls, I muttered. And her name. I don't even
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  have a name for her yet. You do, Callan. It's
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  just unsaid right now. Have you spoken to her
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  parents? Not since the funeral. The word felt
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  sour as I tossed the drink back. Feeling the
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  burns go all the way down my throat. Doesn't
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  make it better, Martin said. But you're not alone.
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  Your daughter will have a strong father, a strong
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  family. I don't know if I can be strong, Martin.
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  Although if you can't, you have options. You
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  can always set her up for adoption. There was
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  something in Martin's words that pulled me back
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  from whatever hollow grave I had dug myself in.
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  A revulsion hit me before he could finish that
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  sentence. A pure, guttural anger tore out of
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  my throat. No! I cried out. My mind immediately
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  flashed to the glass hab, the artificial womb
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  pulsing with the tiny life inside. For a split
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  second, the kitchen walls around me seemed to
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  warp, turning red and soft with fern's tender
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  flesh. I can't let go of that last part of her,
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  all that remains of her. Martin looked at me
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  for the longest time and then quietly unlocked
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  the door. Then go see her, he said. Take as much
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  time off as you need. Be there for her soon found
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  myself behind the wheel of my transport Driving
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  through a thick fog and heavy rain at Pacific
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  City the radio flickered on with the morning
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  news Mentioning the flack and shrapnel accident.
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  I do nearly pull the thing out from its socket
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  as I drove I felt every streetlamp corporate
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  billboard all of it felt like a million unblinking
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  eyes tracking me through the glass I pulled up
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  directly outside the gestation hab. My hand reached
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  for one of the door handles, pulled up directly
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  outside the gestation hab. My hand reached out
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  for the door handle, but I froze. I looked down
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  at myself. I was covered in soot and cooling
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  chalk. My overalls torn, greasy and foul. I couldn't
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  let my daughter see me like this, unborn or not.
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  So I turned around and drove back to our eerily
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  empty apartment. I spent hours getting ready.
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  I worried over every thread. Terrified who I
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  was supposed to be now. Terrified of who I was
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  supposed to be now that Fern was gone. Without
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  her I felt unholy. I put on my most expensive
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  black suit and tie and carefully combed my hair
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  in the mirror. Then I unbolted my heavy industrial
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  arms and mounted the sleek polished metals my
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  father had given me for my 30th birthday I looked
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  in the glass I was unrecognizable my heart was
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  shattered into dust and I felt on the verge of
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  total collapse but the face staring back at me
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  was staunch and unmoved a strange cold exterior
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  calm washed over me when I returned to the facility
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  I didn't hesitate I pushed through the front
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  doors. Other couples were waiting in the lobby,
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  some cradling newborns in blankets. Others eagerly
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  watching the cue boards for news. I ignored every
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  one of them. I was there for my daughter, and
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  only her. The clerk behind the intake counter
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  blinked, looked at me with hesitation. She had
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  seen me a dozen times beside Fern, but now she
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  looked at me with confusion. and what I thought
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  was a hint of fear. Hello, she asked. Kellen
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  Volante, I am here to see my daughter. I slid
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  my ID across the glass before she could ask.
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  She took it in her hands and scanned it, and
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  then scanned my retinas. Her posture immediately
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  softened into a polite, cautious deference. You're
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  cleared, Mr. Volante. Do you remember the way?
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  Yes, I replied, sharply. I turned down the bright
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  white corridor, forcing confidence into every
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  stride. I had to be strong, for Fern, and for
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  our baby. As I walked, I could hear children
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  crying from the wet nursery ward, just down the
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  hall, and the faint clatter of a rubber -wheeled
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  cart rolling toward a lone elevator at the far
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  end. Through the glare, I could just make out
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  the word. stenciled on the wall, incinerator,
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  took the right turn towards our observation room
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  and my heel suddenly slipped to what felt like
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  slick dried blood. I stopped for a terrifying
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  heartbeat, the sterile white coral twisted before
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  my eyes, engulfed in a fleshy boiling red mass.
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  I sucked in my chest and forced myself to march
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  forward. I violently pushed the thoughts of the
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  accident from my mind. I made myself remember
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  our first date instead. Our first kiss. Every
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  quiet, mundane second that had ever brought us
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  joy. The memory of Fern's body burning tried
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  to claw its way back to the surface, but I buried
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  it beneath ten years of her warmth. The radiance
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  she had given me in this life was a million -fold
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  more numerous. Then that singular blinding second
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  of her death. Then the hallway settled as I pushed
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  the door to our hab open. And there she was,
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  floating in that fleshy sanctuary. The tears
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  I had been fighting back the moment I stepped
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  into that building finally spilled over. I walked
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  straight to the tank and wrought my arms around
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  the acrylic curve. My father's chrome arms and
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  my own chin made a soft, sharp clink against
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  a cold glass as I pulled her close. The first
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  time in three days the burning in my chest went
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  quiet. The darkness of Fern's death would never
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  escape my heart, my memories, but I can choose
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  to give our daughter a remembrance that burns
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  brighter than the fires that took her from us.
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  Nothing remains, but they are wrong. You too,
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  my little brother.