Advance Detective

The Children

I wouldn't want to go on, if that was me, I keep catching myself thinking. And then I realise, shit, that is me!

This whole damn situation is just too fucking weird.

Karen brings the children, and that's weird as hell, too.

Tommy was only four when John Price was scanned, and Grace was just a faint swelling around my (his) wife's belly. Now my kids are young adults; I missed their whole lives. I can kind of recognise Tommy, the tilt of his chin or something. And I can see myself in Grace, too; our eyes are the same.

I try and imagine what it must have been like, watching them blossom and grow. I have access to a whole library of videos and photographs, birthdays and holidays and so on, but it's not the same, of course it isn't. I review these archives, try to feel some connection to these children, but it's like grasping mist; and I feel like I'm spying on them, too. Are they really mine? Sort of. Yes. No. I'm not sure.

Tommy holds John's left hand – they keep the right one under the blankets because it's horribly swollen and stiff, don't ask me why – and gets excited when the hand twitches back. It doesn't mean shit. I can see it doesn't mean shit. This poor bastard might as well be dog food, might as well be a fucking jellyfish for all the awareness of his surroundings he has. But all Tommy can see is that his Dad squeezed his hand, and suddenly there's a treacherous glimmer of hope in his face.

Karen strokes her/our son's head, and looks straight at me through one of my cameras. Her eyes are hard. What is that there? Defiance? Resentment? Hate?

I take my time to come to my decision – shit, I'm not gonna rush into killing myself, am I? – but there's only one way I can jump, really.

I wouldn't want this, and I'm based on him.