Beyond Imagination - 2. Chapter 1

September 10^th 1990

(Elliot Taylor)

And so it begins, whatever this is. I’ve just been living my life, keeping a low profile and hiding the fact that nothing seems right. I want to tell everyone what I remembered before the world changed, but the idea of men in white lab coats dragging me away or being locked in a government vault somewhere haunts my dreams. While I want to believe everything that happened eight years ago was real, including the promise he made to come back for me, I’ve had to compromise my beliefs. As I grew up and the promise seemed emptier by the years, I chalked the experiences as being part of my imagination. Every kid had an imaginary friend, so maybe he was mine. If everyone else in the world appears to think everything is right, then maybe I am the one out of place. I do the same thing for other facts about me and my life that don’t fit what the world wants.

Why am I so introspective? It’s my first day of freshman year in college, I should be happy and enjoy being an adult. Staring in the mirror of my residence hall’s shared bathroom, I made sure that my hair wasn’t sticking out and my red hoodie was on right. I haven’t changed too much, since I was ten. I’m taller, but I am still skinny and lanky. I still like comic books and science fiction. Though, not much of science fiction is left with all the censorship and bans having pulled series like Star Trek and Quantum Leap out of circulation, except for old VHS tapes. I still bike everywhere I go, because neither my family nor I could afford the cost of buying a car.

I force a smile at my reflection in the mirror and repeated the mantra in my head, “Everything is the way it always was and will always be.”

And as usual, a familiar broken voice replies in my head, “Elliot...sad...come back”

I used to be happy, when I heard that voice in my head, thinking it was what he meant by always being with me. I wanted to believe that he was there with me, advising me about the various things in life that were unhappy or unfair. However, as I grew older, I knew better. When I was sixteen, President Robertson won the election and the first GRID camps were built, my life changed. A part of me had to be hidden away even deeper. For some boys I was close friends with, I had to cast them away due to others’ false fears and ambiguous intentions. Unlike them, I can hide. My interest was fluid and I settle into routines with girls. Despite the voice in my head occasionally asking me to say something or do something, when those boys were bullied, injured, or taken away to those camps under false accusations and pretenses, I kept quiet. My fear of being singled out, imprisoned, and tested on like I was in those memories of another life kept me from being brave. They kept me from doing the right thing. Without him by my side, I was consumed by fear like I used to be when my older brother Michael bullied me as a little kid. Worse of all, I knew being sent to those camps was a death sentence, because the virus would eventually get them. I don’t sleep without guilt and regret.

Life must go on despite my regrets. I left the bathroom and my residence hall, heading to my first introductory classes in moral civics.

As I gaze at the wide-open campus and bountiful green grass fields, typical of California, I notice something atypical. There is a section of the grass field cordoned off with caution tape and three massive lightning rods, like you’d see in those old science fiction movies, are placed in a triangular formation. I stare up at the sky and it is cloudless, but it is humid, so maybe a thunderstorm could form. While I might be late for my first class, the unusual setup captures my imagination with its Frankenstein-like equipment, conjuring my imagination of an experiment by some mad scientist. So, I walk closer.

I look around, trying to find someone with a white lab coat or crazy eyes, but I found a normal-looking man several feet away from the cordoned-off area, sitting underneath a tree. He appears to be around my height and built, he wore a ruffled T-shirt and jeans. He is probably a senior or a graduate student since most of their classes do not start until the afternoon. As I approach, I can make out his facial features, he isn’t traditionally good-looking, but he possesses symmetrical sharp features that seem to provide endless contrasts. He seemed out of place with the large lightning rods and electrical equipment several feet away. If I must sum up why he is attractive, I’d say it is curiosity. He is concentrating on scribbling on his notepad, so he doesn’t notice my approach.

When I am standing right beside him, I glance at what he’s working on in the notepad. It is a detailed drawing of an odd alien landscape with spiral buildings and flying tear drop shapes vehicles. There were beings of various shapes and sizes, including the form of my imaginary friend in the background. It is a beautiful and rich panorama, something I’d imagine a science fiction author like Isaac Asimov or Robert Heinlein would have imagined.

A word bubbled into my mind at the image, which I could not help but speak out loud, “Phaelon…”

He stops drawing and his attention redirects to me. In his expression, I can see a mirror of myself, asking a question and confirming something. He is the first person, who has reacted with recognition to what I’d consider purely my imagination. Does he know what the other reality was like? Is he someone I can confide in? Am I no longer alone?

I stand and he sits in silence, both unwilling to make the first move and unwilling to move away for what seemed like eons. I’m probably missing the roll calls of my freshman moral civic class, which is a big deal as it is a core requirement under the new American curriculum for science majors. For me, standing here and contemplating an existential reality shift was more important than a good impression from the lecturer.

Most science majors didn’t want to take the stupid course, where biblical scripture and traditional Christian worldviews are repeated like a weekly sermon. None of that is useful for the study of biological processes, chemical reactions, or the applications of various forces on the material universe. There’s nothing to be gained from repeating the concept of obedience to a higher power or applying stories about whales and plagues with fantastical plots. People can learn more about the world and even God if they just studied reality rather than live inside fantasy. As Einstein would say, “The Bible is a collection of honorable, but still primitive, legends which are nevertheless pretty childish.”

At some point, the man’s facial expression turns steely and aggressive. The wonder and recognition disappear, replace by coldness.

His voice is quaking in anger and frustration as he snaps at me, “Stay away if you don’t want to get hurt.”

The cold reaction and fear of admitting a part of myself that I never revealed to anyone caused me to run away from him. I was of course late for my class, resulting in me having to recite the Book of Acts. After the torturous class, I spent most of the running from classroom to classroom, picking up syllabuses and reading assignments. I noticed throughout the day that the clouds were gathering and the environment had gotten more humid, perfect conditions for a thunderstorm.

Despite the warning from the other guy, I couldn’t ignore the pull I felt towards him. There was a forbidden attraction and answers to questions I haven’t asked since I was ten. If I was wrong about him, he could accuse me of perversion. It happens all the time, some people would use it as an excuse to beat someone up or even kill them. Lawyers have called it the “gay panic” defense. Worse still, there was the possibility of being sent to the camps, a slow torturous death of neglect and disease. Despite all those real threats and fears, I headed back to the field as the sound of thunder boomed in the distance.

(David Freeman)

This is my only chance, even if there is an infinitesimal chance of success. The weather forecast is predicting thunderstorms, which should pass by this area in less than ten minutes. I need a lightning strike to generate the 1.21 gigawatts for this work. The lightning rods are calibrated to create an electromagnetic field that will produce electromagnetic radiation, the oscillators are adjusted to match certain wavelengths that would enable the manipulation of weak forces. The combination of both will generate a temporal field for less than 3.2 seconds. If the energy release is stable and I survive the transit, I should be sent back to July 4^th, 1978. The odds of success are one in ten to the sixty-fourth power.

My old friend Pick is in my backpack, he’s quite intelligent and understands why we must risk everything for this small chance of success. I’ve tried other means, including sending out radio messages to the area where the planet Phaelon is, hoping to reach Max or Trimaxion race that created him. They didn’t respond. I sent other messages to other spacefaring civilizations that I knew had visited Earth and could assist, but they also didn’t respond. I can’t go to the government with my knowledge, having seen one timeline of what unscrupulous men would do to me. The last twelve years have hardened my stance on revealing information to other human beings. With the loss of my little brother and the horrors of the GRID camps, I don’t trust human beings to use the advanced knowledge I possess for any means except destruction. Thus, I am the only one, who can apply what I know into practice.

That is until today, who was that boy in the red hoodie? He seemed to know the image I was drawing was an image of the planet Phaelon. Did he have an encounter as well? At first, I wanted to speak to him, wanted to ask him so many questions. Then as we remain silent, I began to see him. He looked young with inquisitive eyes darting back and forth, like a child seeing his first car. I knew from those stares that he did not possess my innate knowledge from the Trimaxion, so he would not know exactly what I was doing. Yet, he knew what I was drawing, so he had an encounter of some type.

At some point, my analytical mind shifted to a part of me that I hid away, the part of me that I did not want to validate existed. I knew I was attracted exclusively to members of my gender, but I hid it. My desires were mixed with the knowledge of my brother’s death at the hands of someone, who did all the things that I found pleasurable before murdering him. I can’t avoid feeling both guilt and hate when I have those feelings.

With the boy in the red hoodie, I was interested in the idea of someone with shared knowledge and experience. Then, physically, I can see similarities in our bodies and our expressions. My mind wandered into the realm of sexual pleasure and what we can do together until the old guilt and hatred rose in me. It was better that I pushed him away, if I succeed, we may never even meet in an alternate timeline.

The sound of thunder is getting closer and the winds have picked up. I can see lightning strikes in the distance. It is now or never, so I turned on the oscillator and situated myself in the center position between the three lightning rods. I waited for the inevitable lightning strike to hit one of the rods. I elevated the rods with copper bases and connected them with copper wiring.

Pick squirms in my backpack, I know he wants to see what I am doing, but I can’t risk him being seen by others. In Florida, he’s been mistaken for a Chupacabra several times, when I let him out in the wild. It doesn’t matter that he’s a vegetarian, human beings fear the unknown.

Finally, a lightning bolt strikes one of the rods. An electromagnetic field forms around me with a bright flash of what appears to be multi-colored lights, probably from various electromagnetic radiation wavelengths that manifest themselves in the human visual spectrum. However, what I want to happen did not occur. I sat there looking down at charred copper wiring. While copper is the best conductor of electricity available to me, it still has natural resistance. I knew of materials that could bring down conductive resistance to absolute zero, but I just needed a temporal field for a few seconds, so I thought sacrificing 2-3% efficiency was possible.

As I sit cross-legged in the middle of charred and smoky copper wires, which I pray would ignite the grass and kill me quickly, rain begins to pour. I had hoped that if I failed, I could be consumed in the fire created by the lightning strike and poor grounding, just to end my miserable failed existence. My luck is as bad as it has always been and my body was drenched in water.

At some point, I notice the rain was no longer hitting my body and I lift my head to see the boy in the red hoodie standing above me again with an umbrella. He was staring at my failure all around me, but never utter a word.

I am angry at this act of kindness and connection with someone I didn’t know, so I tell him again with a dangerous threat, “I told you to stay away from me. Leave me, or else I’ll report your unwanted attention.”

Most people would walk away after being threatened with being reported for homosexual advances. People have been sent to the camps for far less, or worse murdered in cold blood without any repercussions. Yet, despite the apparent fear at the mention of being reported, he stands his ground. I want him to get away from me, I want him to not be so enticing. In a fit of frustration, I grab his free hand, pull up the sleeve from his red hoodie, and bite into his forearm. I want him to feel part of my pain. I want him to know I am not someone he can rely on. The taste of his blood was metallic and warm, but despite the momentary moan of pain, he didn’t pull away from me as I bit hard into his flesh. After my frustration subsides, I stop biting him. I start sucking and kissing the wound gingerly while holding his hand. He makes a different moan, but this one is of pleasure at the sucking and caressing of his wound with my tongue. I realize what I am doing and stop, but I continue to hold his hand. I had revealed my true desires to him, more than enough for me to be sent away. Yet, he didn’t say a word and didn’t pull his hand away from mine.

I sat on the ground silently as he sheltered me until the rain ceased.

I pull my hand away from his and stand, then tell him, “We shouldn’t meet again. I don’t know what you think you know or do not, but it’s too dangerous for both of us. Too dangerous to speak any truths.”

He whimpers out a question, “Was it all real?”

Rubbing my fingers around the bite mark I had created on his arm, I whisper, “We were somewhere between reality and dreams. Forget what you remember about that life. Forget about me and what happened here today.”

I didn’t want to leave him; I want to share so much more with him. I want him to know more of my pain, and more of my hidden desires, and share his pain and desires. There is no hope for that in this reality, no hope for the truth of our experiences, and no hope for the type of attraction that we both may share. He should forget everything.