we depend (I depend) on you • jayvik

Jayce - Year Thirty-One

The sixteenth day of spring marks the last time the door to our home lab is left unlocked.

Little Lyra had grown too curious. Inspired by a sudden urge to peek at what is hidden inside Melora's frame, she tiptoes into the lab to find a flathead screwdriver to undo the four bolts that hold her together. She isn't supposed to be in the lab without supervision – this is something she's been told since she was very young. She continues inside anyway.

I assume she thinks that simply retrieving a screwdriver isn't important enough of a task to warrant asking for permission, and still young, and only 132 centimeters tall, her hands search where they shouldn't be, and the handsaw in the toolbox is too high on the shelf to see. What begins as an innocent search for a screwdriver quickly turns into realization and panic, lots of tears, and a quick trip to the hospital. By the time she returns home with her father at her side, her left hand is bound tightly in white gauze, concealing the thirteen stitches holding her skin together. After that, you glance toward the hall and quietly ask me to shut down what's left of our lab. When it's done, you tell me to close the door.

The familiar buzz and hum of generators and machines – the sounds that once meant we were home – fade away with the flick of a switch, until all that remains is an eerie, hollow silence. One by one, the control panels dim. One by one, they retire from their former duties. When the last machine goes quiet, I turn off the overhead lights. I slide your old stool back under the workbench where it belongs. I say goodbye to the awards and diplomas lining the walls, echoes of a past life... and then I close the door to the lab.

Minutes later, Steb steps from the bedroom, a silver key in hand. He offers me one of those small, polite smiles – the kind meant to soften a blow – before sliding the key into the lock. With a soft click, the door seals shut.

I hate every second of it and every second that comes after.

It feels like yet another part of us that we are laying down and leaving behind, and neither of us have the strength to undo what's been done.

We have to lay down. We have to leave it behind.

I can't.

The nothingness swims in my core like nausea. It lingers like a stomach ache.

If I possessed a body I would have surely vomited up my distraughture by now.

But maybe it isn't all a loss. That door has stood open for so long that a thin film of dust now settles over every shelf and surface. You haven't stepped inside for years. Now and then, I wander in to hunt for grease for my axles or a rubber part to mend my tracks when they crack. But to everyone else, including you, the room has faded into disuse. Half the shelves are crowded with boxes of holiday decorations and old supports and braces that no longer fit your body. They hold things we no longer need.

Even so, closing that door doesn't sting any less. It marks the quiet end of our era of creation. It marks the end of my evolution . From here on, I stay as I am – never changed, never amended. From here on, years of work and years of memory are folded away onto shelves and into cabinets, locked behind a door in our home.

And I know this time for certain, that we will never go back in time.

Perhaps we could sell the tools and refurbish the space into a playroom for Lyra, or a real sitting room for Steb. He's always dreamed of a library, and that room gets wonderful light. It could make a beautiful sunroom, too. Maybe it's time we fill the space with something softer, something warm. I think you would like that. I think it could be something you'd quietly appreciate.

∘ ∘ ∘

You and Steb have taken up reading together again. Every evening, about an hour before sunset, he gathers you gently into his arms and carries you out to the porch. When his back tightens and fails him, he brings the wheelchair to your bedside instead. The old rocking chair you once loved is gone now, replaced by something steady and still – a long, padded chaise meant to weather the outdoors, layered with pillows and blankets to ease the strain on your back and hips. It's not the best seat in the world, but being out on the porch again has been good for you. So you let him wheel you out, and you let him lift you into the chaise, even if begrudgingly. The reading has been nice. It's been good for your marriage, too.