Towards a Theory of Eternity<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n He hated motels. He hated motels as only someone who had spent days at a time locked up in a single room, single bath could. He had come to understand that it was the \u201cm\u201d that was at fault for the poor state of motels; that droopy, frowning, lazy \u201cm\u201d. \u201cH\u201ds were upright, rigid; \u201cH\u201ds were the reason that hotels were places of luxury. One day he would live in a Hotel. One day he would have the money, after he wrote his bestselling theory of first letters.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n One day, however, was not today. Today he was busy, busy, busy; kneeling on the floor, the thick yarn-like fibers brushing his toes, his ankles, his shins; his fingers, always scurrying, the knuckles chewed raw, the nails worn down to uneven shorelines from the constant scratching and picking and the constant, constant scurrying were interrupted only by an occasional twitch \u2013 neck tensed to one side, shoulders pulled up in a shrug, which he only noticed because it would disrupt the rhythm of his search and he would be forced to begin again. Always beginning again. He couldn\u2019t actually <\/span>feel any <\/span><\/i>of<\/span> it<\/span> \u2013 <\/span><\/i>not<\/span> the<\/span> carpet, not the chewed fingers, not the intermittent twitch; the hunger was too loud.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The hunger wasn\u2019t a thing, not really; it, in fact, didn\u2019t exist at all most of the time. Until it didn\u2019t get fed; then it would make itself known as an oozing dribble, a slight nonsensical babble, but then it would jibber, then whine, and finally scream \u2013 scream itself into being like some ancient maddened god; it never got hoarse, it never got tired, it just kept screaming until it got fed. Then it would sink into oblivion as if it had never been.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n That was what drove him across the carpet.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He never wanted it to exist, that hunger. It was like birthing a monster, a monster which would possess his body and do monstrous things. Occasionally, he knew but rarely allowed himself to admit, he would become a monster to prevent that monster\u2019s existence.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n It was all very complicated.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The hunger had distracted him. What quadrant was he in again? He should start on the bathroom. He looked toward the partially open door, all was darkness beyond a slash of light from the window behind him which illuminated the orange-gray bathroom tiles \u2013 that odd color which he had only seen on motel bathroom floors and old cigarette butts<\/span>. Hm, maybe one more search in here first. <\/span><\/i>He surveyed his standard \u201cm\u201d room. The bed frame had been flipped up on its side and pushed, mattress side, against the door. A precaution. Just in case.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He fingered the tiny mole on his chin while he considered the possibilities \u2013 cops, \u201cfriends\u201d in need, the motel manager \u2013 no one yet though. No one yet. His attention turned briefly to the mole, he knew its contours even without being able to feel it, had spent many hours inspecting it in the mirror. The bathroom mirror. Not quite oval shaped with a small cleft in the top, like a deflated heart, the mole was an imperfection, a beautiful imperfection, perhaps his first since he couldn\u2019t remember a time without it. He had long since figured out that \u201cimperfection\u201d really meant \u201ca significant deviation from the norm\u201d \u2013 in other words: \u201cimperfection\u201d meant \u201cspecial\u201d. His special theory of imperfections was going to change the world. At the moment though, the hunger was screaming so he scrambled back to quadrant 1 in the far corner to begin his search again; properly this time.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Each carpet fiber was in fact three threads wound around each other and this time his scurrying, scurrying fingers untwisted each thread, peeling them apart, splaying them out to see if any treasure had somehow wiggled inside; any piece. His brain was a secret genius that not only developed world-changing theories, but also had a detailed map of every motel room he had ever lived in \u2013 divided into small quadrants to ease the inevitable search and rescue missions. Quadrant 1 was clear.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He was moving into quadrant 2 when there was a bang at the door; a single thunderous, hinge-rattling, fist-bruising bang.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He froze. His whole being stilled and rigid as an \u201cH\u201d.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The second bang shook the door, the frame, and the bed leaned against them. There was heavy breathing on the other side, a sort of wet wheezing, then a voice: \u201cYOU OWE RENT!\u201d. Another bang.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He wondered if he should hide in the bathroom; was afraid to move \u2013 everyone knew that landlords, debt collectors, and motel managers had preternaturally good senses. It came with the job.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI know you\u2019re in there! I can smell your rotten stink!\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Slander! He did <\/span>not<\/span><\/i> stink! Still, he almost sniffed himself before he realized the ruse. Very clever. The manager would undoubtedly hear, with his abnormally sensitive ears, such a distinctive sound as a sniff.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n A silhouette moved in front of the room\u2019s only window, paused there, and grew darker as someone moved closer, trying to peer through the dust, the grime, and the yellowed curtains. He hoped he would be mistaken for a table, or anything really. He simply could not receive any guests while he was so busy. The hunger was still screaming, so loud now, and he had so many important theories to get to \u2013 the theory of social physics; the principle of which was that any two bodies in conversation would, inevitably, cease motion in the narrowest point possible and inhibit any other bodies in motion. It was going to change the world. The silhouette moved on.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He very nearly breathed a sigh of relief.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Quadrant by quadrant his scurrying, scurrying fingers unwound carpet fibers; his eyes barely an inch away; his mouth testing every particle discovered within the correct spectrum of color: lint, dirt, a dead ant, a cast-off cockroach shell, a toe nail, more lint. The hunger was a constant, incessant scream in his head that cancelled all other thoughts not directly related to feeding it. The walls seemed to weep with the scream \u2013 massive shuddering sobs.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He had reached the end, the last quadrant, reached the bathroom door. Still nothing. He hadn\u2019t yet searched the bathroom, there were unknown quadrants within. He returned to quadrant 9. There was a nightstand, but it would not budge. It might as well have been a sealed lid or a thousand-pound slab of marble. Odd. It was probably bolted to the floor \u2013 to prevent its theft no doubt \u2013 but it didn\u2019t matter; nothing could be underneath. The hunger screamed.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n That left only the bathroom.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He approached the door, ever so slightly ajar, no light within. He squeezed himself against the door, gripped the frame with his scurrying, scurrying fingers gone still from clutching. He listened \u2013 nothing moved. The hunger screamed. There was a piece somewhere, somewhere in here, a last piece, there had to be. The hunger needed to be fed. The hunger screamed to be fed. He slid through the opening into the bathroom.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0A slant of dingy light from behind him illuminated a corpse slumped on the toilet. The hunger screamed. The eyes had receded into the thrown back head, a cockroach perched on the corner of the open mouth. The hunger screamed. A boot lace was tied tight around one blue-gray arm. A needle jammed just below the slack bicep, empty but for a thin film; he rushed over, leaned in close to inspect it. The hunger screamed. No, no it was definitely empty. The hunger screamed. He would have to conduct a thorough search of this departed soul.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He straightened, pushing back the hunger\u2019s screams, already dividing the bathroom into easily searched quadrants, when he recognized a tiny mole on the corpse\u2019s chin.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n A tiny deflated heart.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n “Towards a Theory of Eternity” was selected by Raul Palma as a finalist in the Distinguished Voices Short Story Contest\u00a0<\/strong><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n Lucas W. Whaley<\/strong> is a formerly incarcerated writer who owns <\/span>way too<\/span> many hats,<\/span> thinks Ben Affleck was an amazing Ba<\/span>tman, and <\/span>holds many other controversial opinions. <\/span>He <\/span>may<\/span> also<\/span> have a tendency to overshare<\/span>.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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