The heartbeat is the world, warmth its sign—
—abrupt cold, a wash of painful light, and warmth again.
…eleven, three, ninety-seven …
—sucking, a thick warm sweet cloying substance in the throat, sending it up again, the smell, acid—
…four-three-one-two …
Dark, light, both smaller, dark, light, smaller still.
Dark forever and ever.
… twenty-four forty-two and a bright color …
A sound; steady, monotonous as it grew louder and louder still. A never ending scream, a lump of trembling tissue crying for help to a very small universe.
Stillness.
A song, meaningless words, gentle touches.
Light, dark, movement, light, dark.
Endless.
He opened his eyes.
The dream, the deadly ages of light and dark, haunted the shadows. He tried to turn his head to the left, and it was difficult, his neck weak.
The darkness was a smear of forms, yellow from below, cool white from the left. Wiping his eyes with his hands, he found them full of tears. He looked at his hands, confused by the wetness, the softness, the size, the shape. The smell. A really bad smell.
The tears cleared from his eyes and he could see a window, a tree beyond, lights, and a squat gray building. There was a night light on a dresser next to the door, a fat clown with a red hat and nose glowing from within. He looked back at his hands. Something about them was wrong. Everything was wrong. And that smell.
His breaths came rapidly as panic filled him.
He wasn’t where he belonged, but where he belonged he couldn’t remember. He was lost and everything was all wrong.
With effort he turned his head to the left. He saw bars. A row of vertical bars. He felt his heart move into his throat, then he looked again. A row of green, yellow, red, and blue beads were strung on a metal rod and set into the middle of the bars. The bars were made of wood.
“Where am I?” he cried, the squeak of his own voice strange on his ears, the feel of his mouth speaking bizarre. He tried to remember the day before. How had he been brought here.
He closed his eyes and tried to squeeze the memories out. There was nothing but numbers.
Eleven, three, ninety-seven.
Four-three-one-two.
Twenty-four forty-two and a bright color …
He held his hand to his mouth and felt the tears dribbling down his cheeks. He knew he was the numbers, except they meant nothing to him.
A scream was coming.
He could feel it building in his throat, and he didn’t know what to do with it except hide it. He knew he had to hide it. He couldn’t afford to attract attention until he knew where he was, who he was, what was going on. He picked up a blanket, stuffed a corner in his mouth, and screamed. Again and again he screamed until he was too exhausted.
No whimpers, no cries, nothing to be heard outside the room.
He was alone.
Alone, frightened.
There was something lumpy, wet, between his legs.
The smell.
It was a diaper .
There was a mess in it!
The horror of that drove other fears before it. He couldn’t deal with any of the big issues right then. He was scared, tired, and confused.
He shook his head, the weakness in his neck making the gesture an effort. Issues for another moment. Right then his crotch burned and the smear and the smell of the bowel movement in his diaper were making him ill.
He moved to the side of the crib and looked for the locking mechanism. Finding none, he reached out his hand and froze as he saw it again.
So small. The hands and fingers, so tiny.
He reached through the bars near the bottom and felt around. His fingers touched a thin metal bar and he pulled on it. When that had no effect, he pushed. The entire side of the crib slid down with a bang, not falling quite far enough to guillotine his arm at the shoulder. He rolled onto his belly, moved his legs over the rail, and slid to the floor, his toes touching the short pile of a carpet.
Teetering for a moment, he held on to the rail and tried to remember something very important. He felt the tears rising again, and he forced the feelings of panic down. He didn’t know if he knew how to walk. He took a step back, turned, released the rail, and began wobbling toward the door, reeling from one leg to the other, terrified that he would lose his balance and fall down on his bottom and its filthy diaper. He made it to the door, reached up with both hands, turned the glass doorknob, and slowly pulled it open.
There was a dark hallway illuminated by a dim night light on a small narrow table. On the wall were framed photographs of enigmatic faces, one of which he thought he ought to know. It was a man with light colored hair and an engaging smile. He was standing next to a woman whose identity was a total mystery. The hardwood floor was cold on his feet as he passed the stairwell going to the floor below. There was a dim light on down there, as well. Through a window in the very top of the door he could see the reflections of a porch light. All left on for someone who was out of the house working late.
He passed a closed door that muffled the sounds of gentle snoring. The space beneath the door was black. He turned the knob and pushed the door open enough to see inside. The room was dark, no night lights, the curtains allowing almost no light in from outside. Whoever was in there was dead to the world. He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.
The next door opened onto the upstairs bathroom. It was warm in there and he closed the door behind him. He turned the lock and snapped on the lights. The bathroom was modern, all pink enamel and blue and pink tile. There was a full length mirror attached to the wall and he walked over to it and beheld himself.
A small boy, five or six years old, looked back. Tear-reddened eyes, tousled black hair, with the look of a frightened rabbit. He was clad in powder blue pajamas with snaps that ran up the inseams of both legs and the crotch, enabling the diaper to be changed without making it necessary to remove the garment, which stank of feces and Johnson’s Baby Oil.
The snaps at back of his neck were impossible to reach and he undid the crotch snaps. He was shocked to see how thin his legs were. Putting that aside for the moment, he pulled the pajamas off over his head and dropped them on the floor. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and pulled away the self-sticking tabs on the sagging disposable diaper. Gasping at the odor, he pulled the diaper away from his bottom, used it to wipe up what he could, then, holding it with both hands, he looked for a place in which to dispose of the thing. There was a blue plastic pail in the corner and he teetered over, lifted the lid, and found the mother lode. He dropped the diaper in, replaced the lid, and didn’t give a thought to trying to clean himself up with toilet paper. He headed for the shower.
He pulled the knob on the faucet, turning on the water. After adjusting the temperature, he climbed in, grateful to soap up and wash away the feces, the urine, the baby oil and powder, and the stench of something else. It was more a feeling than an odor. It felt like an old life; a past. As the steam filled the air, he felt himself relax a little.
After soaping his bottom and crotch, he soaped his genitals and looked down. The size, the shape, astonished him. Something very old inside saw and the boy said, “I’m new.” He reached his hands to his face, felt his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his ears, “I’m brand new.”
He felt as though someone was looking over his shoulder and he turned to see nothing but a back brush dangling from the shower head by a plastic cord. Feelings of fear, sadness, regret, and guilt bubbled up in him. “Maybe it’s a dream.”