Alistair Caligari // WATTY'S 2018 LONGLIST

III. OPENED MINDS

The drive home was silent. Ford would normally have music playing softly from the speakers; gentle waves of classical music written centuries before his time. This time there was nothing but the rumbling of the road beneath the tires and the swipe of the wipers as rain pattered quietly upon the window. He'd been drowned in thought since he'd left the hospital, drowned in consideration over what his patient had said. There were some things that made no sense to him about Alistair Caligari. That wasn't at all surprising, the man was mentally unwell -- and not just on a basic level. He needed a lot of help. But it was the logic behind his belief that had Curtis foiled like his plans to help the man were somehow villainous. He reasoned everything out like a scientific study. Everything made sense, everything had backups and facts. They were things he couldn't argue, or couldn't deny without plainly being in the wrong. Yet it was still wrong, in every way. The thinking was like a skewed perception. It was like introducing a catholic to an atheist. The words rung in his mind still, playing over and over, repeating themselves.

"Do you know what the point is in living?"

The question had backfired against his his own, almost like a deflection, but once the confusion on Ford's features became apparent to Alistair he'd continued.

"People think the point in living is to be happy. Enjoy your life, get a job, have a family, raise a child, and then die. Some people think it's to leave behind a legacy or a story, something people can remember you by. None of that is true! What will any of that achieve at the end? I'm not talking about death, I'm talking about the very end. When the Human race as a whole is defeated, whether you run out of time and the sun destroys us all or whether you simply destroy yourselves, what does it matter what you did? There's nobody left to remember it. There's only one way to avoid that permanent end and that is to progress fast enough that we can avoid it. There's two ways that can be done: with enough understanding and intelligence to achieve world peace, and with enough advancement to create a way to escape the eventual destruction. The only point in living, and the only thing that matters in life is progress. That's why I did it. I figured that out by myself. I had to do what I could to progress myself before I could progress the species. Especially in a world that likes to limit potential."

Ford had argued with him over it, or debated with him, in any way that he could. It was just argument for the sake of it, however, because the logic was impenetrable. He'd argued that evolution existed for the purpose of helping us survive, only to be struck down with the unwavering reasoning that the human race no longer evolved naturally due to the inventions of medicine. The human race broke natural selection with intelligence, and so it was up to the intelligent to create a path. All of Alistair's reasoning had been based on intellect. There was more to being alive than to help the future. There was emotion and creativity and love and warmth, that was the purpose of life and he knew it. He was a happy man, a happy man with a wife and a child, with two loving parents and two elder brothers. He had nieces and nephews and there was nothing more important to him than his family. He had a good job, one he enjoyed, one he wouldn't give up for the world. Alistair's reasoning had made that all worthless, he'd made it all into nothing.

He pulled into the driveway of his home now; a three story building with an overhanging balcony. The front walls were made of glass, and there was a small paved path leading up to the doorway. It was a very clean looking and organised building, but it didn't lack a personal touch. There were flowers lining the front porch; roses and lilies and daffodils and other kinds that Curtis was not informed enough to name. His wife was the one who enjoyed spending time in the garden. The front room was dark, being late at night, but it was open and warm and inviting; like every corner was a pair of outstretched arms ready to embrace. There were photographs on shelving units and mantlepieces of his family, one of his particular favourites hung on the wall just above the kitchen. It was a photograph of himself with his wife and son on the edge of a precipice that they had once visited on holiday. It was raw happiness there, just enjoyment and excitement and nothing more. Curtis was placing his bag at the foot of a coat hanger and shrugging out of his jacket when his wife walked into the room. She walked quietly as though afraid to wake someone, but she wore a nightgown like she'd been waiting up for him to get home. Her dark hair curled around her shoulders to her back and there was a faint smile stretching her red lips upwards. The two of them had been friends since they were young; childhood sweethearts some would say. Her family had moved over from China when she was still a baby, and they'd both frequented the same schools since primary. There was nobody that Curtis trusted more in this world than her, and he doubted that would ever change. When she approached him he smiled warmly then turned a little to bend down and wrap his arms around her. It was how they greeted each other every night, every time he came home, it'd become a habit now more than anything but it was hardly a bad one.