Inaccess

By John Edward Lawson

Martin figured that he no longer needed the pistol because, he assured himself, he was officially dead. Just ask anyone, his family in particular. Take a look at the mantle, or the walls, or any of their dressers or desks at work. You wouldn’t find any evidence that he existed, that was for sure. Not after eleven years in the inaccessability camp. Seventy-eight degrees south, ninety-six degrees east, seventy degrees below zero (Farenheit, mind you) and about a hundred degrees behind the ball.

No, no. Martin had agreed with himself this time. No more thinking about the past, no more dwelling on Polus Nedostupnosti. That was impossible! He was dwelling in a somewhat comfy suburban home outside Chicago, not Antarctica. The dog that Martin absently reached out to pet was in fact his own shadow, so he returned his hand to the keyboard. He’d served his time, right? He’d spent eleven years of his prime stuck in some foresaken Soviet-era scientific camp trying to extract as much vital information as he could, just like the goverment wanted. All those long years he’d dreamt of the hero’s return home. Instead he was snuck into the country just to live in his parents’ converted attic.

“Don’t you worry any now, son,” Martin’s father had told him. “We’ll make every effort to get you back up on your feet. You have our word.” Instead, the house had become an inaccessability chamber of a different sort.

During those long polarized nights dread had come to conquer him. It wasn’t supposed to conquer his parents, no, just him.

“Did they treat you well dear?” It had taken a week for Martin’s mother to get up the nerve to ask him that innane question.

Instead of answering he withdrew further into the haven he imagined the attic would provide. Instead, his room had become an inaccessability chamber.

Looking at the bottom of the bottle he was drinking from gave Martin a clear view of the words, “Pet is 100% recyclable.” This was enough to disturb his next two days so much that he could not remember them. Let it suffice to say he erred on the side of loyalty and did not recycle his shadow.

All those years he had sacrificed in that sub-zero Russian nightmare. Even the scientists who really were from the former Soviet republics stayed only a maximum of eighteen months.

One night he crept up on the ledge by the shakey ladder which led to the rest of the house. Without a doubt his parents were discussing the “possibility of sending him back there.” How could they send him back to Antarctica to spy on Russian scientific research? Only the United States government had the means or authority to execute such a plan. He wanted to tell them as much.

Instead, he found his tongue had become no more than an inaccessability ramp into the cordoned-off confines of his skull. The memory of white moving with a life of its own was petrifying; a small army of men dressed in white waited for his return. Facing the fact that his parents had betrayed him Martin decided it was time to put his shadow to sleep.

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