Past Imperfect
The train with its granite-grey carriages rattled above as Luke strode down the pavement, his father’s hand steering him from behind. Graffiti whispered innuendos across the walls of the bridge; the light beyond remained a dot in the abyss.
“How long will this take?” he asked.
“I just want you to see this,” his shepherd replied.
They emerged out of the darkness and into the rest of the street. Silence hung in the air: a suffocating vapour that stalked the squawking birds, the churning machinery in the distance and the humming boats that drifted blindly out on the river. Leaves succumbed to the wind and began their twisted dance. The skeletons of buildings remained unmoved, grim mausoleums to the turmoil that had besieged this part of town, and cast their shadows over the pair. Luke shivered.
Wending their way past the burnt-out coffins of cars, smashed windows and smouldering rubble, they arrived at their destination, a shell whose spirit the tragedy had long sucked away.
As they passed through the entrance, their eyes fell upon a mass of chrome and glass. A chandelier gleamed above. Pictures depicting dead memories of Mediterranean villas, beach paradises and spectacular breaking waves adorned the walls. They paused, gazing at the wonders he had never before encountered, if only in two dimensions.
A receptionist rose from behind its desk. “Please identify yourselves.”
“Samuel and Luke Shepard,” the older man replied. The employee punched some keys on a keyboard.
“Who will you see today?”
“Miles Drayton,” Samuel answered.
It tapped some more keys. “Your arrival has been confirmed. Mr. Drayton will see you now.”
A pair of doors slid open. The receptionist directed Samuel and Luke inside; the chamber ferried them to the basement below. When the correct floor emerged, the two figures stood before a balding, bespectacled man in a white coat. He introduced himself as the man they had come to visit.
“Nice to meet you both,” he said with the faintest of smiles.
“This is Luke,” Samuel indicated.
The gentleman tried to manage a widening grin. “Hello, Luke. I’m Mr. Drayton. How are you?”
He offered his wrinkled hand; a cold glare met his gesture.
The boy’s father defended him. “He has these episodes every now and again. It’s his birthday today.”
“How appropriate. How old is the child?”
“Seventeen.”
“He must enlist in the armed forces soon. Such an awful world out there… in my opinion, an abomination. You young men ought to do something about it… but please, do follow me.”
Drayton led his visitors as two gargoyles peered at the aliens, their dead eyes wide with discontent. Through the archway a long, narrow vault lay before them, with rows of square doors that dug themselves into the creaking rock. Luke felt a sliver of water run down his back. He looked up, trying to find the source of the disturbance, only to meet another statue, its wings spread across the stone as if to pounce. He stepped back, startled, before striding on to keep up with the others.
Mr. Drayton continued to lecture the boy’s mentor. "Do not fret… it is all very safe... you should not be concerned at all… Ah, Luke. This is what you came here for?”
His patient looked bewildered. “What was I meant to come here for?”
The man returned his blank expression. “Your father has not told you?”
“Told me what? What should he have told me? What was he -?”
One of the doors hissed open. A blanketed body faced the young man. Mr. Drayton lifted the sheet. Luke’s speech had left his soul. He simply stared at it.
It appeared to be a young male, no older than the boy himself. His blond, closely cropped hair, his blue eyes, even his acne, seemed identical to the person examining his features. His frozen eyes gazed skywards, right into Luke’s own. The boy grasped his head and caressed his skin. Thoughts of the past that might have lain before him ran through his mind. Did he enjoy fishing, swimming, modelling and football like he did? Did he once own the bedroom that he now claimed for himself? Did he explore the same junk-filled wastelands that he did, eat the same food, share the same fears? Most importantly, who was he?
His father put this question to him. He asserted that the dead boy was his identical twin.
“No,” Drayton refuted. “He is much more than that. He – and you – represent a new dawn in science.”
He froze. Then, half-sprinting, half-wailing, he burst out of the room. His father had hinted at the accident that his twin died in – or so he said. His parents should have told him earlier. Told him when he was born, in fact. They should have told him the absolute truth. He had given up his birthday for this: the truth that he had lived seventeen years of his life blissfully unaware of, the awful reality that governed his entire existence. He stampeded out of the building and away to the only place he knew he could be safe.
He wished he hadn’t gone. Little did he know that he would soon join his twin on that slab.
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