Uncovered Philosophies

DISCLAIMER: This story contains the theme of death / afterlife and vague scientific study on animals. With that in mind, enjoy!

The air had never sat as still as it did on February Eleventh, at approximately six-twenty-one past the morning, where the wind was utterly deceased and even the clouds sat motionless, awaiting their permission to move with the Earth, which also cowered before the hour and refused to spin, for the soul of man himself had perished on this day, with the pale body of Phil Torrance Macklimont.

Thomas Asencio, perhaps a dignified emotional man of sorts, experienced the drought harder than any. His hands quivered at a distance from the eternal bedside in which such a man rested, unsure if they were the cause, and his mind convulsed from the shadows intermittently, beckoning him to confess. But no, he must not, for he knows the consequence of doing so. He knows the crooked fingers and the cold directions they point to, as lifelessly as Phil Macklimont himself. Nobody insists on understanding but to conclude, and with that, they are satisfied. Disgustingly satisfied.

The pitch room began at the first door past the corridor, opposite to another in which a hearse awaited outside to bear Phil Macklimont’s body on its last ride. Supposedly. And beyond that corridor, down the steps and along a short path, the dead end met at yet another, where the peace would be gifted through interlocked fingers and knee-level offerings to which Thomas could never enter. The walls were adjourned with jot paintings: and the music, dreadful music, soared throughout the building like crows, squawking into the ears of presently vulnerable beings, wishing to drag out those final sobs for consumption.

And where his eyes couldn’t meet, were pews, parallel and a moist gray, with leatherette comforters and boxes of tissues dotting the midsections of each. Under them were footrests, possibly to aid with the weight on one's shoulders, or to meet weak legs that couldn’t possibly stand the ache that pierced their hearts. Thomas was empathetic, but from the opposite end of the room it struggled to reach him yet. At least, until he would move. Then he must combat it. To the breaking point of his will, he must.

Marie Macklimont approached from his right, her monochrome attire fitting her newly widowed status, although the blue tears rolling down her cheek were abstract. Thomas disliked such differences, but this wasn’t a debateful matter. She was distraught, and rightfully so, for one of a thousand had guilt inside for the passing of Phil Macklimont, and not the guilt of discovery.

“Bless you, Thomas, for arriving so properly. It is a horrible, horrible day,” Marie spoke tender, her lips trembling as the words seemed to flow as quickly as her mourning had. “It does not sit right in my heart.”

“Neither mine.” Thomas must have been just as jittery as he felt, for his voice was rolling up and down as he spoke.

“Yet here you are. Why do you resist saying goodbye?”

What an odd question. Thomas let the natural curvature of his lips do the talking, and as they shook, he formed the sliest reply a man could. “It pains me to look into his eyes. Not yet.”

Marie let her hand rest upon Thomas’s shoulder, and his pounding heart slowed with the ease of her touch.

“You have time.” Upon removing her hand, she slowly made her way towards the coffin, a bravery Thomas himself hadn’t mustered. Once a leg would rise, and follow the gathering assembly line of kin and close ones, it was that leg that would drop, hardly before creating the distance he needed to move on. No matter the truth, or the words of pity he’d receive for the next hour, two hours, years – it would never be enough. Not enough to warm the blood in his chamber that had incredulously gone cold, nor force the squirming in his stomach to settle, or silence the hostile words towards himself his mind was collating him to.

The crows were replacing the butterflies, and the pain they afflicted him with was unbearable.

Though he didn’t understand what property was making him suffer. It was not his fault, only his repercussion of an obligatory decision, that cost him the equivalent of the cold air he inhaled. Nothing. Simply a task, and yet just like Phil had reassured him, it was harrowing.

Almost as much as the mangled memory Thomas held so dearly, begging not to remember but pleading not to lose.

“It will develop inside you like a parasite, I tell you, and I wish that you do not take it lightly.” Phil scolded, from a place of love that only feigned anger. “This is something that is revolutionary, the change of more than this universe as we know it. And all I ask, of utmost importance, is that you complete it.” Phil lifted a cup to his face, stopping its ascent long before it met his rambling mouth. His body had melded into the table it leaned on, and his eyes didn’t leave Thomas for but a second, which was only to scale him downwards.

“And we wait how long? How do you expect me to remember such a thing?”

“What have I told you to do? Trust me when I insist you will not forget. It’s natural.” Phil finished the sip from the cup he’d just risen, and as the final gulp entered his throat, the man strained to the ground, as Thomas raced to conceive him, bellowing for help.

Phil Torrance Macklimont was a fiercely skilled psychologist, with knowledge Thomas had aspired to comprehend every day. From the cornices of his mind, that man could discover the reason a baby wailed to the wrinkle on a white smile, even the thoughts behind your eyes if you reacted correctly. The length of his research had bounded far more than just to himself and clipboards, but to distinguished scientists across the United States, where he’d been proclaimed to earn multiple awards and honors throughout his life regarding humanistic development and understanding. He obsessed with the mind after its death, moments before it, and even the acts in which it was aware of its passing.

His methods of study were practical in a way that wasn’t, and the results were inhumanely accurate. Once Thomas had begun from under his wing, Phil had been experimenting with the next step from human conscience, apes: finding the most intelligent specimen he could, and interacting with them in various ways to get the outcome he desired. Marking down facial expressions, the chemical output of different reactions, even the odor from sweat beads of different labors. This obsessive nature had consumed him, and Thomas fondly trailed behind, but never was that enough. The results were watered-down, according to Phil, and without a true ‘human’ mind, he would never reveal the truth about the mental capacity of man.

So, in a scrutinizingly selfish way, he chose himself as the first model. Thomas, who had hesitantly developed the testing habits Phil had wisely placed, underwent any procedure Phil desired.

It started small, by exposing Phil to different stimuli such as food, images, and activities. These got fabulous data, as Thomas recalled, showcasing the true difference between animal and man. Phil shared the works and had his studies published, and desired to continue the journey until there was nothing left to explore, and for mankind to universally understand itself and use that to exponentially develop the human race.

So he went bigger. He asked Thomas to add painful experiences to the mix, the depths of negative nerve endings that would finally hop the boundary of ethics. But he insisted – and Thomas felt the bulge from his stomach begin, even standing distances from Phil’s coffin, for the things he agreed to do that followed.

Thomas felt the growing weight of the remote in his hands, and the doubt swarmed like bees, stinging him all over the front side as if screaming STOP in buzzing unison. His finger was pushing off of the button, refusing to slam downwards and initiate the shock that would traverse through veins and meet at the sponge of Phil’s heart, and undoubtedly push it to the edge of longevity.

“You mustn't feel bad. This is science, and I am willing to put our future first, Thomas. Press. Record what you see, and rush those results to the laptop once you conclude them. Only then can you unplug it, and if you do any earlier, it will be ruined. Do you understand? Do it.”

Thomas nodded shyly, his supplies within an arm's reach behind him on the thick white table. He closed his eyes, beginning a countdown of his own, while his vocal chords began expanding inside, clogging his throat until he finally forced his finger down on the button and the bubble inside popped.

Thomas winced as he opened his eyes, staring down the aisle of pews and heaving deep, strong breaths that expanded his chest. The air still lied still, and it tasted thick, likely under the dryness of his tongue and mouth. He looked down at his proper flats, deciding it was time to face his fears. He knew what made him fear approaching that box, but nobody else would. Not in a million lifetimes or the million to succeed it. Marie Macklimont would produce more tears than the ocean could hold, and the rest would rather flood in red, the anger of the truth far stronger than the benefit of mankind.

He shoved his legs forward, snaking through the diminishing crowd that he’d been reclusively homing in for quite some time. They were all done exchanging their farewells with Phil, and only one had remained, and he was finally there. Looming above the cold atmosphere of a dead man, Thomas Asencio felt his cheeks flex and the eyebrows lower, two traits Phil would always say associated with sadness. He said that the body, as a reflex to unimaginable, mental strain and conflict, will tighten itself to handle the pressure better. But even now, it seemed too much to bear, no matter the physical shield his body could develop.

Thomas, as well as young Kingsley and Lucas Macklimont, aided in carrying the coffin into the hearse, having finally spared the last farewells and allowing the crows to devour his hope. They strut, in steps of two and three, sliding the box delicately into the hearse, reluctantly letting their fingers slip from its casing as it lied still. So, very still.

On the drive to the funeral, Thomas wailed out into his steering wheel as strong as his chest could spew it. He wore, underneath his fine suit and white collar, a tracker vest in which studied the rate of his heart, and it was the exact copy of the one under Phil's collar, even inside the tomb.

The guilt was there, undoubtedly, but it had been done just as Phil desired. The man had studied death, the effects, and Thomas had no blood on his hands, and yet he saw it in everything he looked at. Phil insisted that he would return, and that with the wisdom of afterlife and truth, it would be enough to resuscitate him. He promised Thomas that his plan would work, just as it should, and that the fruits they would harvest from it would be more plentiful than any sorrow could ever replicate tenfold.

Under no influence did Thomas know how he let himself murder Phil Macklimont; more specifically, how he allowed Phil to assign him to kill him. As mad as it sounds, Thomas was assured Phil would not be dead for long, and that under the right care and conditions, he would live on, with appropriate information about what happens to the human mind upon death and what significance it has to life. By properly dying, he would achieve what no other psychologist nor human had ever done: died and lived to tell the truth.

On the drive to the burial site, Thomas did not release a tear. He’d spilled enough, and no matter what happened next, the life of Phil Torrance Macklimont was what would keep him from being guilty. The shovel and defibrillator shook in the backseat, hidden under a cover which the bouquet of dead flowers Phil requested sat above, shaking with the shape of the forked road ahead.

Though no matter what, Thomas knew he’d successfully done it. The man in that closed coffin was breathing, or soon to be, and had officially done what he’d lived to do:

See the other side.