Charles picked up the piece of paper again, lifting it off of the keyboard where he had left it. His belongings still littered his tiny apartment - both his bag and the small sand garden given to him during the trip lay strown over his couch where he had left them, momentarily, to check his voice mail.
BEEP"Charles, this is your father. Your mother and I have just sent you an email, that we think you should read."BEEP.
He looked down at the printed email, printed off after he had read it once - the printed paper always held more for him than the phosphorous screen of his monitor.
Charles,
You should know that your mother and I are proud of your for your imminent graduation. But you should also know, by now, that your mother and I are gravely disappointed. When you came to us, four years ago, and told us you were switching your major to history, we tried to talk you out of it. We tried to convince you that this wasn't the right decision for you - that there was no future in what you were doing. In the end, we failed. We convinced ourselves that this was a phase - like your calligraphy phase, and your writing phase. We were convinced that, given enough time, you would realize that you should follow us into engineering.
Its now four years later, and you're still on this road. Charles, this is a mistake - being so close to your graduation you should realize it by now. Do you have a graduate school yet? Or a job? Or any plans beyond what you're going to do next week?
We tried to convince you this was a bad idea, and we tried to tell you where this choice would leave you. Since we failed, we feel we cannot support your foolish decision any longer. Your mother and I will not be attending your graduation, Charles. And after your graduate, we will not help you - if you're going to disobey us like this, you're going to disobey us on your own.
There is, in the end, one final way in which we will help you - change your mind. We will help you get through college for a real degree, Charles, in something that will have actual meaning - not this history crap that you've wasted four years on.
Make the right choice, Charles. Don't ruin your life, please.
Michael Danforth
He put the letter down again. It didn't really matter - by now he had memerized every turn of phrase, every letter, right down to the jagged font that his email program printed it in. He had but to close his eyes to read of his parents disavowing him.
Long steps took him from the computer, to the bookcase. His eyes perused it, fingers reaching out to touch spine after spine of history titles, fantasy titles, literature titles. Deftly, they plucked one book from the shelf: A History of the Renaissance. The first history book he was ever actually given. He had no idea, at the time, that there was Glamour in the book, waiting for him to read its pages and Chrysalis. He learned that later, while being tought by the Professor. His parents could never know of what had happened - they wouldn't understand. Their science minds would simply reject it, the Mists would cover up his breach, and he would disappear into a mental institution.
He lifted his eyes up once again. They scanned the titles until, once again, fingers deflty reached out to pluck out a much heavier book: Calculus. His father's book - given to him to try to give him a sense of tradition that he had never really felt. His father had tried - but he had never understood the value of the traditional in the face of the modern. Charles had never even understood why he had kept this book so long, in fact.
To the kitchen then, the tiny little kitchen. His sink was, miraculously, empty - he had done a large load of dishes right before leaving for Boston. One book went into each basin of the sink. A little more fumbling produced the long matches that he had always used to re-light the pilot light of his stove.
And then he stared, eyes passing over both book. One book would lead to adventure, to history, to writing down a tale that had never been written before. But it would also lead to the loss of his family, to some very, very hard times while he tried to get on his feet, get into school, and fund it all on his own.
The other? Science. Reconciliation with his family, parents who loved him both for the accident of his birth and the fact that he was doing what they wanted. Money - his parents were right in that, the career they wanted him in would pay well. That book, though, would lead to Forgetting, to putting aside his dream for the sake of expediency.
He tried, very, very hard, to decide which book he wanted to be rid of. And as he thought, he flickered, his chimerical reality in turn fading and then coming back once again as he passed between decision after decision.
---
Ten minutes later, the smoke detector went off. For thirty whole seconds it filled the apartment with a strident warning of immeninent fire, of the need to evacuate immediately. Until long, slender fingers reached up and pulled it off of the cieling, severing its connection with the apartment power. Charles placed it on the battered wooden side table he had gotten at a garage sale for $5. Next to it, he placed a book.
In the kitchen, the flickering remains a book slowly died out. The title, half burnt off of the front cover, read --lus.
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