[00] The Teleporter

[DA 2009]

Alexander Trafford awoke for the first time in a long time without the feeling of pain racking his body. The gentle bliss of the morphine had long since dissipated from his veins, but he felt like a brand new man anyway. He sat up, patting his pockets for a cigarette despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the far wall near the door. The street entertainer found a pack of trusty Marlboros right where he always left them, pulled out a thin cancer stick, put it to his lips, and lit it with a wink. He took a deep drag, instantly reveling in the nicotine dose as it leveled him out and calmed his nerves. Some scars were no visible to the eye. The wounds he still carried ran a deep river through his shredded soul, his heavy heart. He sat for a long time, contemplating life, and the horrors he’d just endured. A part of him realized that he had failed, that there was nothing left for him. Trafford remained consumed by the same emptiness that plagued him before the start, only now, the boy’s hands stained with blood.

He glanced around the room, realizing that sooner or later he’d have to get up, and the boy was tempted to use something stronger than a cigarette to ease his pain. He noticed a small metal table next to his hospital bed with a conveniently placed marble ashtray. The cigarette was moved over the tray, and Trafford flicked the end to send bits of burnt tar and tobacco leaves into the awaiting receptacle. Beneath the ashtray lay a white envelope that starkly contrasted against the bright, polished metal surface of the table. Having nothing else to do, Alex pulled the envelope out and tore through the sealed flap with a bony thumb. He slipped the letter out of the paper container and perused its contents. It read:

“Dear Alexander,

Truly, you are exactly what I looked for in a competitor for this tournament: your drive, your skills, your sheer propensity for the grandiose. You burned through your competition with a ruthless efficiency. Sadly, I am sure that it took its toll, for the only thing you lack is the vacuum within which to seal the moral qualms of a distempered soul. I can sympathize with someone thrust into a situation of circumstances far beyond their control, and yet they rise to the challenge with a determined spirit, no matter the cost. It was merely a shame that you were matched with someone whose drive exceeded your own. In this sense, you have lost, and I cannot change what is done.

What I can do, however, is grant you the thing you seek the most, the absolution that you crave with hopeless abandon. I see in you something I have seen in no one else in this entire competition. You may have lost, Alexander Trafford, but I will give to you what you would have received if you had won. I have no gift to give of mere materialistic value. I cannot give you guns, or bullets, or drugs, or cigarettes, or any other silly trinket that may appease anyone else. I attempt to give you something far greater. I know you want to see her again, and I can make that possible, if only for a short time. I can grant you a few hours with the one you want to see the most. Perhaps then you will find your closure. I admire you, Alexander Trafford, far too much to see you succumb to the darkness. Enclosed in this envelope are instructions on how to bring her soul back to the mortal plane. It won’t last forever, an hour, maybe two, at most. You may choose to do this, and find your closure, or you may choose to discard these instructions and cultivate the strength yourself. I only hope that this decision of mine does not bring you pain.

For your exit, simply enter the location of your choice into the keypad of the teleporter, and it will take you anywhere you desire. I should also inform you, if it may lift any burden of guilt that weights upon your shoulders, that the people you killed in this tournament are alive and well. Their souls are not on your conscience.

Vir vultus suus fatum, Alexander Trafford.

Regards, Your Humble Host,
Damon Dukes”

As Alex concluded reading the letter, he had realized that the cigarette had fallen out of his mouth, and was now burning a hole through the blanket.