Clockwork

There’s a small joy in waking up before the alarm rings. The transition from dream to reality becomes soft, and special; waking from a dream without violence almost feels like a holiday.

I smelled the sea air coming in through the western window, motivating my eyes to open, albeit with some early morning difficulty. Our home wasn’t large- upstairs master and guest bedrooms, downstairs kitchen, dining/living room- but it was beachfront property, worth every penny. I took a deep breath, enjoying the smells of the ocean- for a moment, I caught a whiff of bacon, sneaking in through the master bedroom door, left ajar. 

In response, my body leapt from the bed. God, I loved bacon; the smell of it alone was a better stimulant than coffee. Just a whiff of it fires the starting pistol in my brain, kickstarting the morning routine.

I stretched, attempting to touch my toes, pulling my arm, rolling my shoulder- there was a flash of pain, and a soreness grew from the joint, spreading to my neck. With age, stretches become all the more important; and with age, stretches become all the more treacherous. 

Yesterday, this reminder of fading youth might have shaded the rest of the day; a melancholic artist, painting the ocean choppy and the skies gray. But not today. Tomorrow would not be another day.

Stretches complete, I fought the urge to sprint downstairs and meet the bacon. I knew that it was delicious, today- cooked just perfect, the grease heavy but not excessive. But, alas, the day wouldn’t be right without the ritual; I’d always been the type to stick to a routine. The bacon would have to wait, for just a moment.

Leaving the bedroom, I turned right, entering a bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth (yes, before eating, sue me), and grabbed several towels; all done as quickly as possible, to make certain the bacon wouldn’t cool. Swiftly, I made my way down the stairs, tripping a little- God, I always woke up so hungry- prompting a warning from the dining room.

“Careful!”

There was a clankering of plate on wood. How lucky I was, in that moment; a beautiful wife, a successful career, an incredible home in a stunning corner of the universe- and all the time in the world to enjoy it.

Beside the stairs was a closet, housing all manner of cleaning supplies and old knick-knacks. Generally the wife’s domain, but there was something of mine, scattered amongst the rubble. Rummaging through half-used Windex bottles and trash bags, I lifted my father’s shotgun from its place- an old Mossberg 590A1, black metal, pump-action, loaded. I left the towels on the floor.

I entered the dining room, still smiling at the smell of bacon. The western wall was almost made entirely of glass, letting sunlight- not direct sunlight, of course, would be terrible for the carpet- into the room, and allowing for a stunning view of the Pacific. The left half of the space was dominated by the oak dining table, and the right a few couches and a wall mounted television. 

My wife was setting down a couple mugs of coffee, curled brown hair running down her neck, threatening to loose a strand into the drinks. Next to the mugs were plates of bacon, eggs, and toast, the largest of which sat at the seat closest to me. The smell was intoxicating; she had outdone herself, today, and she knew it.

“Hungry?”

She asked, confidently, playfully.

There was a boom, and she went flying against the window, five, six feet. Her blood coated the glass, tinting the Sun’s white light crimson, enveloping the room in the color of guilt, of betrayal. The scent of gunpowder mixed with eggs and bacon flooded my senses; a morbidly pleasant smell, if I’m being honest, but one I felt shame in enjoying. 

I heard a croak, snapping me out of my olfactory stupor, and looked down to see Beatrice reaching weakly toward me- realizing my mistake, I met her plea with a second, fatal slug, tearing a hole through her heart to match the one in her stomach. The second slug shattered the weakened glass, and it fell with a crash, returning the room to its usual color palette.

I did not look back down at her; instead, I turned back, and retrieved the towels from where I had left them. Returning to the room, I covered the shattered glass, as well as the corpse. While not a very thorough destruction of evidence, it would last, for today.

There was one last component of my routine- walking to the television, I turned on the morning show. While I was never much of a morning show type of person (I find the hosts vacuous and the topics largely irrelevant), I made sure to always tune in today- after all, today, the morning show was going to interview the engineers behind the Clockwork.

I tried not to look down at the body, obscured by the towels, as I walked back to the dining table- I was always the type to quickly lose my appetite, even by a sight as familiar to me as my wife’s corpse. 

Sitting down, I heard the hosts begin their introduction, and I began my breakfast. The meal was as delicious as it always was; hell, it almost made the mindless banter coming from the television bearable. 

“Thanks, Beatrice.”

I immediately regretted the joke. Despite my comfortability with the routine, I did still love my wife. Maybe I would ignore the routine, tomorrow- make up for the insensitive humor. Or maybe I wouldn’t. It didn’t matter, anyway.

After what felt like an eternity, the hosts began to interview the scientists. I had seen this interview an obscene number of times; I could repeat each line of dialogue by heart. Despite this, it felt wrong to proceed with my day without again experiencing it- like beginning a story in medias res, whilst refusing to provide context.

“Now why don’t you explain to the folks at home what your machine does, Dr. Brandon? God knows I’m not qualified!”

The host leaned back in her chair, smiling, product-tamed auburn hair following suit. 

“Well, put simply-”

“I’m afraid that’s the only way I’ll understand it!”

“Yes, well, it’s a virtual simulation chamber-”

“I love those!”

“-that generates alternate lives.”

The host leaned in, making a show of her interest. Dr. Brandon, a relatively young Asian-American man (wearing what seemed to be a studio-provided Party City lab coat) continued.

“It calculates the effects of every decision made over a day- essentially, one could see how the day would have gone had they made any number of different decisions. We call it the Clockwork.”

“What a neat trick!”

“It’s not just a trick. It’s a marvel of quantum computing.”

That part is always my favorite.

“Of course, Doctor. I don’t mean to demean your invention! The first test is tonight, right?”

The host, bless her talents, was unfazed.

“Yes, yes. We have tested the concepts on smaller-scale machines, of course, but the main virtu-chamber will be tested for the very first time tonight, at 11:30 Pacific Standard Time.”

“Are you excited?”

Dr. Brandon laughed.

“Yes, you could say that. This is the culmination of a decade of research- my entire career. My team and I have created something truly special, I am certain of it.”

“Well, now I’m extremely excited! Remember, folks, 11:30 pm PST, on this very channel! Thank you for joining us this morning, Doctor!”

“Thank you for having me.”

* * *

The first time I saw the interview, I thought little of it. I remember Beatrice saying something along the lines of that’s neat!, and we promptly switched subjects- it was only after the first few loops that I understood its importance. I remember when I finally put the pieces together; I dropped my fork, and explained excitedly to my immensely confused wife that the machine! That’s what put me in the loop!

That night, I watched the test, hoping for a way to escape Groundhog Day. At 11:30 the broadcast began, and at 11:42 the machine was turned on. 11:43 never arrived- the end of the loop. 

I spent the first forty or so loops in a desperate panic. I tried everything; tried to tell Beatrice, tried to stop the test, tried to end my own life. It never mattered. Tomorrow was never another day; it could never be another day.

The next twenty loops were spent hopeless. I curled up in my bed. Refused food. Refused Beatrice. The pointlessness of it all was crippling, mentally and physically. Tomorrow was never another day; death came in the form of an infinite, purposeless circle.

It was only until my loop count entered the triple digits that I went outside again. I’m not sure what motivated me- it was the same morning that it always had been, obviously. Regardless of the catalyst, I fled from home immediately; I ignored breakfast, ignored Beatrice, and just got in my car. I had nowhere to drive to, and yet I drove all the same- just another Californian drifter, looking for purpose on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Eventually, I ran low on gas. I thought about just ending the day there- turning onto oncoming traffic, or the ocean, or something. Then, I thought about what would happen if death wasn’t instant; that thought turned me into the nearest gas station.

There, I saw a man. He was pumping gas into his crappy sedan, wearing a collared shirt and tie; an office worker, and one not particularly high up the food chain. Something about him captured me- for a minute, I just sat in my car and watched him. He was speaking angrily, stressed, into his phone- a phone a few generations old, I think. I couldn’t hear what words he used, but I guessed he was speaking to his wife about missed bills, or his boss about his tardiness record- some kind of stressor, surely. I realized something, then. Even before the Clockwork, this man was trapped in a loop; devoid of freedom, devoid of opportunity, devoid of purpose. He lived as a cog in some cold, metaphysical machine, one that existed before him, and one that would continue to live far beyond him; his cog would be replaced with a new unremarkable man, and the loop would continue. At first, this thought depressed me; then, it invigorated me, freed me. Tomorrow was never another day; today was all that mattered. 

From hopelessness came hedonism; every loop from then on was a celebration of life. I ate as terrible a diet as I wished, I spoke my mind, I stole, I swam as far as I could into the ocean, just because I could. When you realize that nothing matters, the world becomes your playground- and play in it I did.

I learned early that Beatrice would be a problem. Explaining to her the loop, and proving it, spent several hours of my day; hours I couldn’t spare. Not to mention, of course, the monotony of doing it every day; yet, if I didn’t, if I just left, she would call me constantly, worried, contacting friends and associates. If I didn’t pick up, her efforts would double- sometimes she even called the police, worried that I might be experiencing some kind of break from reality.

So, I added a segment to my routine. I couldn’t handle the sheer brutality and uncleanliness of stabbing or beating- luckily, around my 115th loop, I found that my grandfathers shotgun had been stored loaded, and what should have been a terrible safety hazard became a terribly great convenience. The first fifty times were difficult- even now, I harbor some guilt over my routine, regardless of its meaninglessness. The thing about guilt, though, is that its easily forgettable; my life became a nonstop thrill ride, peppered with carjackings, police chases, strip clubs, and anything else I could ever want to do. And, best of all, age became nothing more than a slight inconvenience; the loop kept my body from deteriorating, and my mind was kept as sharp as ever.

Today, the pulled muscle in my shoulder (made much worse by the recoil of the Mossberg) begged for something a little more relaxing. I might sit on the beach, sip a glass of the finest wine in California, bought with a bank account that would reset a few hours after sunset; hell, maybe ill hijack a boat to drink it on. 

On second thought, actually, why bother? I didn’t need to spend the day in pain; I’ll just try again tomorrow, be extra careful with my stretches. Spend the day with the wife to make up for that joke earlier, maybe. 

Standing up, I walked back to the stairs, where I had left the shotgun. Bending over carefully (would hate to pull another muscle), I picked the shotgun back up, pumping it, watching a slug casing pop out of the ejector. Holding my breath, I turned the gun against my chest, planting the barrel against my chin, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

There’s a small joy in waking up before the alarm rings. The transition from dream to reality becomes soft, and special; waking from a dream without violence almost feels like a holiday. 

I smelled the sea air coming in through the western window, motivating my eyes to open, albeit with some early morning difficulty. Our home wasn’t large- upstairs master and guest bedrooms, downstairs kitchen, dining/living room- but it was beachfront property, worth every penny. I took a deep breath, enjoying the smells of the ocean- for a moment, I caught a whiff of bacon, sneaking in through the master bedroom door, left ajar. 

In response, my body leapt from the bed. God, I loved bacon; the smell of it alone was a better stimulant than coffee. Just a whiff of it fires the starting pistol in my brain, kickstarting the morning routine.

I stretched, attempting to touch my toes, pulling my arm, rolling my shoulder- carefully, this time. With age, stretches become all the more important; and with age, stretches become all the more treacherous. 

Stretches complete, I fought the urge to sprint downstairs and meet the bacon. I knew that it was delicious, today- cooked just perfect, the grease heavy but not excessive. But, alas, the day wouldn’t be right without the ritual; I’d always been the type to stick to a routine. The bacon would have to wait, for just a moment.

Leaving the bedroom, I turned right, entering a bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth (yes, before eating, sue me), and grabbed several towels; all done as quickly as possible, to make certain the bacon wouldn’t cool. Swiftly, I made my way down the stairs, careful not to trip. 

Before hitting the final step, I stopped. 

No plate on wood.

There was always the sound of plate on wood, as Beatrice set down our meals. Two, actually- the first is usually obscured by the sound of running water as I brush my teeth, and the second I hear on my way down the stairs. First she sets down her meal, then mine; I must have missed the first plate, and not registered the sound of the second. It’s happened before.

Ignoring my unease, I completed my descent, turning to the closet. I decided against ignoring the routine- I could always do it next loop, after all. 

Rummaging through the closet, I was struck with another anomaly- the cleaning supplies were moved, and some were missing. But most strangely-

The shotgun isn’t here.

I tore through the closet, confused, thinking that perhaps I had simply misremembered where it usually lies-

No. It’s not here. The loop-

It was over. The loop had ended- my wife had grabbed the cleaning supplies from the closet, maybe moved the shotgun-

Today is another day.

Leaping up, I walked, hesitantly, to the dining room. God, how I would explain this to Beatrice, I had no idea; she would think I was insane, completely and totally insane. My mind was swimming with explanations, composing justifications and evidences- before I even entered the dining room, I had planned out exactly what I was going to say. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times, and I’m imagining it a thousand more, and as I entered the room-

* * *

There was a boom, and he went flying through the doorway, five, six feet. His blood coated the walls, enveloping the room in the color of guilt, of betrayal. The scent of gunpowder mixed with eggs and bacon flooded my senses; a disgusting and wretched stench. 

I heard a croak, snapping me out of my olfactory stupor, and looked down to see Garrison reaching weakly toward me- realizing my mistake, I met his plea with a second, fatal slug, tearing a hole through his heart to match the one in his stomach. Truthfully, this was the least enjoyable portion of my routine, the hitch that threatened my enjoyment of the day entire- the killing of my husband was bad enough, but the cleanup job was even worse.

Sighing, I walked back to the dining room, grabbing the chemicals I had left there. Every morning, I set out a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast for myself- I learned early that I didn’t need to make Garrison one. The smell of my plate alone was enough to get him downstairs, the poor man. I always feel a little guilty- but tomorrow was never another day, and I only had so much time.