Page 31 of The Omega Trials: Part Three

Immediately, I scan the field for their child. I spot him right away. There’s no doubting who he is. One of the taller kids, he’s lean with long legs and arms. His short hair is an intricate mix of tight ash-blond and brown curls. His light brown skin has warm, amber undertones that appear even more golden by the bright blond coils at his temples. He has his mother’s piercing eyes, dark blue-green, almost teal, but the rest of his features are one hundred percent Bishop. And he plays like Ecker. Bold, aggressive, and confident.

He zips around the field like he belongs everywhere, going after the ball even when his own team has it. He misses a goal and is completely unbothered, ready to keep playing and having fun. He’s not even embarrassed when he slips in a muddy patch of grass and lands flat on his butt. Instead, he sticks his fingers in the mud and paints streaks on his cheeks like eye black.

A painful memory strikes my chest. Bishop, Ecker, and me as kids doing the same, making war paint out of mud before chasing each other all over the park in an intense game of tag, one where instead of just touching the person, you had to tackle them.

Tackle tag we called it—not very creative but we had so much fun. We came home completely covered in mud. So, why does the memory sting so bad? Why do I see their son do the exact same thing and feel like I’ve lost something?

Why are they so happy without me?

The question circles my mind as the darkness comes for me once more. The voice returns, only this time its words are cold, crisp, and clear:

Why did you think they’d want you?

Swirling black surrounds me, and lights and colors flicker like an old-timey slide projector. The spinning slows just enough for me to make out the flashing images.

Bishop leans over a young blonde girl at a table, helping her with homework.

Sinclair’s asleep in a chair with a book open in her lap and glasses on her nose. Ecker comes and picks up the book, sliding in a piece of junk mail as a bookmark. He removes her glasses and drapes a blanket over her.

Ecker is cleaning a sink full of dishes, and Sinclair stops by with a baby on her hip to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Bishop makes pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse and brings them to Sinclair in bed, but before he can deliver the tray, three kids dogpile on top of her. Ecker jumps on top of them next, laughter everywhere.

A sea of graduation caps while Sinclair, Ecker, and Bishop look on proudly. She sits between the two of them, and they each hold one of her hands. She squeezes them as the caps are thrown into the sky.

The spinning comes to a slow halt. For the first time, I’m not thrust somewhere new. I trickle into existence like pixels trickling into place. I’m in a hospital hallway. I know immediately by the sights and smells, distant machines beeping and antiseptic strong in the air.

The blinds to a room are open in front of me. A family gathers around an old woman in a reclined hospital bed. Her hair is white and thin and her cheeks are loose and lined with wrinkles, but it’s Sinclair. I know it is.

Just as I know the two old men sitting on either side of her are Bishop and Ecker. My heart grows heavy as I recognize their adult children. The boy from the soccer field is tall and handsome, just like his husband, and their daughter is thespitting image of a younger Bishop. The girl who was doing her homework has grown up and has two toe-headed kids of her own. Their youngest son is trying hard to be stoic, but he wears his emotions on his face just like Ecker.

She knows these are her last moments on earth, but instead of a tearful goodbye, she smiles. Her eyes are just as bright as when she was young, her smile soft and beautiful. She’s lived a good long life, a happy life full of family and love just like her hospital room is now.

Her eyes gently close and wetness coats my cheeks as I watch her take her last, slow breath. Peaceful.

When I turn around to wipe my tears, I see there’s another room across from hers. The lights are on, but the blinds are down. I don’t know what compels me to let myself into the stranger’s room.

It is mostly dark, save the weak, fluorescent light on the side table and the faint glow of the vitals machine. But it’s enough for me to make out the elderly man alone in the bed.

I recognize the scar above his eyebrow, and even though his eyes are closed, I know they are an icy gray. Just like mine. Because he is me.

Dark stubble shades my cheeks and chin, like no one has visited me to shave it in a while. There are no flowers or books or cards, no chairs pulled up to the bed or coffee cups on the side table to indicate someone ever sat with me.

My chest rises with a raggedy inhale and wheezy exhale, the only sign I’m still alive. I may not be dead yet, but there’s no life left in me.

I don’t think there’s been any for a while.

My throat constricts as I step closer to the bed, pulling a pillow out from behind my future-self’s head. My hands shake as I hold it over his face. His weathered hands claw at the pillow as I holdit down. Sobs wrack my body, but I don’t let up. Even as tears fall and wet droplets shade the pillowcase, I keep pressing firmly.

The old man stops fighting eventually, and I collapse on top of him, crying harder than I ever have.

We find ourselves on the same patch of lakeshore just like after the first Fortitude Trial. Also like last time, Ecker is the first to ask what we saw.

“It was the future, and we were happy,” Bishop says hollowly. “I was working from home when the doorbell rang. I answered it and two cops were standing there. There was an accident. You were all dead.”

“Same,” Ecker mutters. “Except it was a fire. It burned the house down. Everyone was inside but me.” He snaps a stick, and I dread the question I know is coming. “What about you?” he asks me.

My stomach sinks, nothing but emptiness because while we all share the same past, we don’t share the same future. Ecker and Bishop’s worst fear is losing each other and Sinclair because it’s inevitable they will be together. But for me, it’s inevitable that I’ll be alone. Deep down, I know they are better off without me.

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