Moby's Redemption

He walked down the street with a feeling of lost purpose. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was here, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave either.

He walked past the abandoned buildings, the winding skyscrapers stretching to the sky. It was black everywhere except for the tinted light of spaceships flying in the sky, shining down on the world below. There was a slight stench in the air, but he simply ignored it.

He felt as if there was a reason why he’d come here, but he has long forgotten it. He did not feel like himself; he felt as if he was viewing himself from outside, like his body was not quite his. He wandered down the barren sidewalk; there was a strange mix of emotions embedded in his chest. He couldn’t identify what they were, but they burdened him like weights, an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a disease that couldn’t be cured. The tangle of feelings drove him crazy; he wanted to rip it out of himself and toss it in the street, beat it to a pulp. He felt like screaming; he wanted to punch something.

That was when he saw the dog in the street. Its fur was matted, its skin draped loosely over its bones. It staggered toward one of the buildings as if to beg for scraps. It whimpered once, then collapsed.

He looked at the dog. It desperately needed help; it would die soon.

He could care less though. He felt an overwhelming urge to destroy it, to rip its insides out, to vent his everything at it; what pleasure it would bring! He could almost taste it, the relief, the satisfaction, the shock of emotions that so rarely came to him.

The dog whimpered as he ran toward it with eager eyes. He moved his right foot back, winding it up for a kick. The dog retracted, fearful of the twisted man.

Just as he was about to land the blow, the door of the building next to him opened.

“What are you doing?” Exclaimed a terrified voice.

The man froze, then quickly righted his feverish disposition before turning to face the person at the door. She was a relatively older woman, glaring at him with fierce eyes.

“I was only trying to help the poor thing.” He lied smoothly, gesturing impassively at the weak dog.

The woman frowned at him. “I’ll do it. Get lost.”

“Wait!” The man said. He stopped. Why did he say that? “I don’t know this place or why I’m here.” Why was he so unconfident? Where was his usual charm? He suddenly felt… not fear, he was never scared, but a sense of desperation.

The woman shook her head. “Find someone else. I need to help the dog; it seems malnourished.”

“It also has a fracture,” he blurted. “In two of its right rib bones.”

The woman frowned again. “Do you work with dogs?”

The man paused. “I… I’m not sure.”

“Well, you seem to know them pretty well.” She opened the door reluctantly. “Come in. Bring the dog with you.”

The man scooped up the whimpering dog reluctantly and entered the room. It was small, a metal table in the middle and shelves filled with medical supplies lining the walls. There was a rickety elevator in the back.

“Lay the dog on the table,” the woman instructed, taking supplies off the shelves.

The man nodded, then sat down on a chair nearby.

The woman set the supplies down, then paused, turning to the man. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

“Ah,” the man said, resuming his usual charming demeanor. “I’m Moby Doverman.”

He frowned upon saying that - he couldn’t remember how he knew that; it was more of an instinct than a piece of information to recall. He realized suddenly that he remembered nothing about himself.

The woman nodded approvingly, turning back to the dog. “I’m Dr. Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Beth.”

“What is this place?” Moby asked, looking around at the archaic interior.

“My veterinary clinic - or it used to be, before the Accident.”

“The Accident?”

“There was a toxic chemical leakage a few days ago from a nearby plant, and it leaked into the city. Now everyone’s evacuating, but I don’t have a spaceship, or the means to get one.” Beth sighed as she spoke. “Since I’m stuck here, I decided to take care of the abandoned pets. Figured it was my duty.”

“So that stench earlier was the leakage?”

“Yes… it’s not too bad now, but it will be in a few days.”

Beth looked up from the dog, putting away her tools. “I put a cast around his ribcage that needs to be checked later. He’s in desperate need of food too.”

Beth turned toward Moby. “I know you were going to kick that dog.”

“Of course not,” he lied easily.

“What made you want to do it?”

“I said I wasn’t going to!”

Beth scoffed. “When you’ve lived as long as me, you start to get an intuition - not that you were being discreet about it either. So just tell the truth, if you even know how to.”

Moby felt rage rise in him. Why was she speaking to him as if he was a baby? “Of course I know how to tell the truth.”

“So tell it! Or else I’ll kick you to the streets - good luck with the toxic gas!”

Moby sighed - he’d been trapped. “... It gives me relief and a good feeling that I can’t get anywhere else.”

Beth paused. “Are you sure you can’t find that feeling elsewhere? Have you even tried?”

“Of course I -” Moby stopped. Had he tried?… Then again, he owed nothing to this strange woman - it didn’t matter whether he said yes or no. “Of course I have.”

“You hesitated. That means you haven’t.”

She walked toward Moby, leaning so that her face was in front of his. He did not budge, feeling no anxiety as she stared at him.

“Why don’t you try?” Beth asked gently, softening from her harder disposition. “See what happens when you’re nice.”

Moby paused. He’d say no, but then again - what other option was there but to be left on the street to die? He needed to stay, so he had to please Beth.

But there was something else too: he could not make sense of these emotions that clouded his heart and mind - there was guilt, a desperation for something…. He felt like a stranger to his own body, and he had an odd conviction that he could resolve this by following Beth.

“I’ll try,” he decided. “I’ll help you take care of the animals.”

He flashed a charming smile in an attempt to win her over.

“Take the dog to the second floor,” Beth said. “Bring her a bowl of dog food too.”

~~~

Moby didn’t know how long he’d already stayed, but what he did know was that he had slowly, gradually, devoted his life to these animals. At first, he had felt indifferent - no, he’d loathed them, though he’d tried not to let it show. Perhaps all the play-pretend around Beth had infiltrated himself? His being, his mind; had he begun to develop an affection? Not quite, he thought - but the hate had certainly begun to rub off.

It started because the dog was warm - so warm, in the frosty air. He was unable to stop petting her - she warmed his cold body, and that was one of the few comforts he could find in this derelict town. Her fur was soft too, he discovered - another comfort. It was hard at first to get used to touching the beast, but he quickly adapted. Before long, he found himself hugging her to sleep on the icy-cold floor, slumped next to the cage.

Next was the name - Beth had chosen to name her Milky, after her cream-colored fur. Names, how funny - put one on something and it would become that much more human. Now Moby had a hard time differentiating the two, Milky and humans. She ate as ravenously as he (Moby was starting to have terrible hunger pangs; no matter how much he ate, he could not feel even the slightest bit satisfied, and it was getting worse as the days passed), she whined like a child whenever she had a complaint, and her eyes! They were more beautiful than Moby could’ve ever imagined, containing within a panoply of emotions and thoughts. Moby surprised himself at how much he was discovering, and slowly the hate deep inside him had begun to chip off, dissipating into thin air.

He was learning more about himself too - there were new emotions that he felt now, things he only felt around Milky. He felt a deep, intense sensation in his heart that spread outward like a tingle whenever he petted her - this was “happiness,” according to Beth. Or sometimes Milky would play with the other dogs instead of him, and he would feel a painful twist in his chest, a pressure in his mind - this was “jealousy”. He felt sadness too now, a numbness in his limbs and a deep weight in his heart and stomach, the tingle of tears in his eyes. He felt this often now, ever since Milky started pushing away her food. She was growing weaker and weaker, shrinking into the corner of her cage for hours. It was likely the pain, Beth’d said, that made her lose her appetite.

But no emotion compared to what Moby felt when she died, when he found her shriveled body in the corner. What was this terrible ache in his chest, this unbearable restlessness? He felt as if his heart had been beaten up, chewed and spit out by some ravenous beast. He wanted to scream, but not out of rage, out of… something else. He wanted the world to see his pain and apologize; he wanted Milky back - he was aware she was just a dog, but he could not bear to never see her again. He spent hours crying until he’d cried everything out, leaving a hollow husk of himself laying on a bed.

“It’s called grief,” Beth said, coming into his room on the third floor. “Painful, isn’t it?”

Moby sat up on the bed beside her, eyes puffy from crying. “How can you not feel as bad as I do?”

Beth looked at Moby for a moment before speaking. “Grief takes many forms. I grieve her too, but not in the same way you do.”

There was a silent pause until Beth broke it. “You’ve come a long way, considering how you once wanted to beat her. You were Milky’s greatest joy, you know.”

Beth turned to Moby. “I’ve been a veterinarian for many years - I can tell when a dog loves someone. She loved you. She loved your petting and the words of comfort you spoke. Even in her last moments, she was looking for you.”

“... You could tell?”

“I can tell.”

They said nothing.

~~~

He continued to care for the other animals in the building. He saw Milky in all of them, their cocked heads, their panting tongues, their questioning eyes. It pained him yet brought relief too, to see her shadow everywhere.

Lately he was feeling more like himself - before he felt like he was taking up only a fraction of the space of his body; now, he felt in control - he was no longer an observer of himself, and the strange clump of dark feelings sitting in the base of his stomach had dissipated.

Yet perhaps he had a more pressing concern. His hunger had been getting worse, and although he’d eaten plenty, his hunger could not be alleviated at all. There was even a foul stench now that followed him wherever he went. It smelled like something rotting, with a sickeningly sweet undertone he couldn’t name. He’d put on a mask, but it hadn’t quenched the smell at all. Strangely, it didn’t seem to come from around him - it came from a distance, from a place he couldn’t pinpoint.

The smell had become unbearable, and he was about to complain to Beth again when he heard a doorbell ring.

“Beth,” Moby called. “Did the doorbell ring?”

“Doorbell?” Beth asked, coming down the elevator. “I don’t have a doorbell, and I didn’t hear anything just now.”

Moby frowned. Just like the stench, the bell had been especially loud, perfectly clear, yet at the same time distant… What was going on?

There was a sound of banging on a door, with the same qualities as the doorbell. Then again, more banging, but different - it felt as if it was happening right in front of him. Moby realized this second banging was real - it was happening at his front door!

“Looters.” Beth said, frozen to the spot.

There were a series of thuds, and the door fell down with a bang. Moby and Beth immediately slipped into a corner hidden by some shelves as three men entered dressed in black, makeshift equipment. They flurried through the room like a blizzard, toppling shelves, grabbing whatever they could. Moby peeked his head out slightly from the corner.

There was a spaceship parked outside. It appeared to still be on, perfect for a quick getaway - all one needed to do was hop in and drive away.

Moby turned to Beth. “Is there a back door?”

“Behind the elevator.” Beth whispered, pointing to a small hallway next to the elevator that snaked behind it. Moby sighed silently - they couldn’t get to the hallway without the looters noticing. Someone would have to distract them.

There was a short pause before it fully hit Moby: he would be that someone. Who else was there? Beth was too old, too frail, to stall the looters; it was inevitable then, it had to be him. But there was something else too - it was a genuine desire to save Beth, the woman who had given him shelter, who had taught him how to feel.

But he would die. Moby knew it. He was not trained to fight, and the looters were certainly formidable opponents. He would lose, and it would mean his life. Yet he was left with no choice - how else to do it, how else to save Beth?

“I’ll go out and stall the looters. You go through the back door while they’re distracted and steal their ship and evacuate.”

“What about you?”

Moby nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just go.”

“Moby…”

“Trust me and go.”

Moby slipped out of the shadows before Beth could protest. The three looters turned and charged at him; Moby quickly grabbed a scalpel and slashed at them. He felt a rush of wind behind him as Beth slipped out, dashing into the hallway. She traced her hands on the walls to feel her way around as she reached the back door. She found a doorknob and grasped it, flinging the door open. Sunlight filled the hallway, tinted by the ever-growing, now reddish-colored fog of toxic gas.

Beth covered her nose with her shirt collar as she dashed into the street, running around to the building’s front where the ship was waiting tantalizingly.

She ran and hopped in unhesitatingly, grabbing the steering handle in the center and zooming forward. The looters in the building turned, surprised.

Moby watched as Beth zipped into the sky, following the last trickle of ships evacuating. The looters turned back to Moby, ever more vengeful. Moby’s heart sank - for a moment he’d hoped that they’d leave to chase their ship, but even they knew that endeavor was hopeless.

One looter grabbed a metal tube, then lunged at Moby. He raised the tube over his head, then brought it down. Moby saw the tube growing closer to him and scrambled back; it was going to hit him, it was so close to him now, just over his head -

Everything went black.

Was it over? Had he died?

Moby felt something get ripped off his face; light filled his eyes. “What the…”

~~~

A man in an orange jumpsuit marched down the hallway. His hair was matted, bald and scabbed in some spots where he’d ripped his hair out. His eyes looked fractured; he seemed to be flitting between many different states of mind, or perhaps even experiencing them simultaneously. His head twitched; he was not present in the moment.

The prison guard behind him unlocked one of the many jail cells, throwing him in. He staggered in, then collapsed in the corner, rocking back and forth. He was crying, to the guard’s surprise.

“He’s mental,” another guard standing in front of the cell commented.

“A lot of them are,” the first guard replied casually.

“Yeah,” the second guard said fervently, itching to spill the gossip. “Apparently he was a dog trainer, but then he got caught abusing the animals during training. He got put on house arrest while awaiting trial.”

“We’ve had worse.”

“That’s not all,” the second guard interrupted. “He lived with his mother, and during his house arrest, his mother died from neglect. She couldn’t care for herself, so she relied on her son, but he just played VR games for days on end. He didn’t even notice when she died; neighbors complained of the foul smell of rotting meat and the police came; they rang the doorbell but no one answered so they barged in to find the body.”

The first guard sighed. “How pathetic.”

“The psychiatrist diagnosed him with a bunch of disorders; I can’t remember them all.” The second guard continued. “He’s a psycho, plus rumor has it he has some kind of amnesia and something called ‘DPDR’... like, he’s not connected to reality or his identity. The story’s all over the news now.”

“Really? Let me look it up,” the first guard said. “What’s his name?”

“Moby. Moby Doverman.”