On the corner of First and Richards, a man stands still, an oddity in the ever moving crowds of Memorial City. His face is illuminated by flashing televised advertisements and neon sign posts for local drinking establishments. Despite the intense heat of summer accompanied by the heat generated by the amount of the crowds and electronics, he wears a large overcoat. It is buttoned up and covers him down to just above his knees. Sweat is slowly seeping out of his body. He is worried that the moisture will damage the bomb that is strapped to his chest. 

The man thinks of the odd situation that he’s in now. He reflects on how it came to be that he has the option to destroy things that he never questioned to be nothing but permanent. The jewelry store that he’d taken his cracked wedding band to, Mr. and Mrs. Kierick both commenting on how cheaply crafted precious metals were nowadays. The movie theater where the man and his wife had gone on their first date. The cafeteria hall filled with happy laughter, awkward conversations, and absolute silence between him and his daughter. All of it at the mercy of the man’s thoughts and whims and resolve. All of these things could never be destroyed. Yet here he is, in possession of the capability to now obliterate these things, snatching away not only the physicality of the buildings, but begin the process of their end of life cycle via memories.

And in this process of destruction, he would reset every felt and perceived aspect of himself to zero. The thought of such erasure fills him with a bitter pleasure. 

He looks at the people passing by. Though he can’t recognize any of them, he can see them smiling, hear their chatter, taste the scents they use to cover their odors, smell the odors that fail to be covered, feel them brush past him. He wonders if they have such a focus on him, if they perceive him as he does them. Then, he reminds himself that at best he is nothing but an obstacle to the distraction of their existence. The more likely perspective, and the one he dreads the most, is that he doesn’t even exist to them.

A rush of anger takes him over and the answer to his dilemma becomes more apparent. Why shouldn’t he perform such an atrocity? These people, too busy to see him and help him, too absorbed in their lives, ignoring him when he was clearly suffering. Why shouldn’t they suffer a fraction of what he was? And the city, the government that was supposed to prevent such pain, why shouldn’t they have to face their failure of him? Besides, his interference of the stability all of them felt wouldn’t even leave a permanent mark. Memorial would recover from it – nothing but a prick in their infrastructure and businesses. The first World Administration is always quick to quell and heal anything that harms the peace that they had forcibly injected and cultivated. So why not gain from them, the very entity that had taken away his daughter, especially if no real harm would be done anyway?

He runs his fingers over the bomb on his chest, gliding over the button then to the switch on the side that needs to be activated simultaneously. It soothes him, knowing that he can do something about his grief. 

He thinks more and more of the choice that he’s attained, becoming more reluctant to follow through. He thinks of his daughter, being led out of his assigned apartment after the divorce by Child Protection agents, having to bring binoculars to her basic education graduation because of restraining orders, the threats from her mother despite their daughter being an adult and allowed to speak with him if she wanted him back in her life.

His daughter, taken away because he’d only done to her as had been done to him growing up. As a child, he’d convinced himself that it was the right way, the only way that people learned, that it was how he’d managed to make it to where he was now. But no one else understood that. They’re all sheep, blinded by ideals touted by wolves who only accepted absolute obedience or absolute death. The amount of pain that he inflicted on his daughter was only a fraction of what the world would do to her. It was the better option. Why couldn’t anyone see that?

The wave of rage swelled in him and his touch on the bomb became firmer. 

His thoughts move to his ex-wife, spreading slander about him. That he cared only for himself, that the only time he spent with his family after his daughter had been born was to degrade and beat them. She didn’t understand that time was limited and the time he had with them had to be spent teaching them harsh realities of life. That things hurt, that pain was real, that pain had to be endured in order to strive.

The image of his ex-wife raising and nurturing his daughter, the one thing that he loved with all of his heart, flashes through his head as he pushes the button and flips the switch on his chest. He lets out a seething scream and the people around him startle away. He looks at them, their faces partially covered by phones. But the part of their faces he can see are twisted with terror and anger. He recognizes their gritted teeth, brows furrowed, tears welling in their eyes. They make the anger crash and roil in him. 

“They all did this! If only someone would have been able to understand, but it’s too late!” He tells himself. 

“Dad?” He hears among all of the chatter. He looks to the source of the voice. It is his daughter, holding a baby. She looks like he remembers her as a child, her mother’s nose, eyebrows, hair color, even head shape. But her eyes are his, but at the same time, they’re not. They are gentle, full of conviction. They are brave. The waves of anger that filled his heart are transformed into suffocating terror and dread. 

He tears off his overcoat and lets out another anguished yell. Screams fill the air and people run away. But rather than running, his daughter stands still. She holds her ground, staring him down, showing him that he did right, that the lessons he imparted on went through loud and clear. The transformed terror and dread clear away from inside of him, replaced by ecstasy and joy. He was right. He was right and his daughter and her daughter were proof that he’d made proper decisions with her. They were proof that he had done something correctly in his life. 

The bomb beeps, waking him from his amazement. He looks from the bomb to his daughter. She is still standing there, waiting for him.

So, he runs. It is the final thing that he can offer to his daughter, the reward for enduring the harsh reality that he had shown her. The screaming becomes more frantic, but he doesn’t care. He had been right all along and his daughter was proof of that. She was going to be proof that he’d done something right in his life. He pumps his legs like he used to on the basic education facility’s track team. Except instead of pushing himself to prevent his own parents from beating him, he exerts himself for someone else. He hears the familiar screams of delight that would fill the air as he  approached the finish line, egging him to push himself past his limits. Perhaps they’re screams of terror, but he doesn’t care. There’s only joy in his heart. 

“I did it! I won! I didn’t fail!”