Infinity Hall
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It was the witching hour, nothing so crude as midnight of course. Anyone can be a witch at midnight under a full moon. It was past 3 am and he had been awoken by a hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently. His eyes opened to an unfamiliar ceiling and the usual questions of “Who am I?” “Where am I?” “Am I wearing clothes?” filled his head and were promptly banished. A finger pressed against his lips and words were whispered into his ear barely above the threshold of hearing, the voice one of a distant memory his sleep addled brain could not yet recollect.
“I want to tell you a secret.”
His head turned to look for who was speaking, but there was a blackness in the room more absolute than anything he had seen before.
Though he was still struggling to get his senses, he still managed to ask, "What?"
"You can leave here, but I can't. You have to go. You have to get out of this room," the voice implored.
"What? What's going on?" he asked.
"Don't you know where you're from? Don't you get it? You can do it right this time."
"I'm sorry," he apologized. With his mind getting more up to date by the second, he managed to ask, "Why are you stuck here?"
The once pleasant voice turned to a harsh bark of fury. It sounded like the screech and crack of a car crash to the ears of the freshly woken and it sent a shiver down his spine.
"Shut up and leave you idiot! You have to get out!"
Too frightened to look for the source, he jumped out of the bed and dashed from the room under cries of "Get out! Get out!"
He slammed the door behind him; more than eager to shut out the source of the voice. Now that a sudden jolt of adrenaline hit his body, he was wide awake. One glance at his surroundings made it clear that this was not where he went to sleep.
He stood in a short hall of what must be the finest house he had ever been in, not that he really had any solid memory of such an experience. Five closed doors led out of it and each one looked different than the last. Someone had a very poor sense of style; that was obvious. The decorator seemed to have grabbed doors from just anywhere and they clashed with the dark red wallpaper.
The only other distinguishing features were two mirrors aligned on opposite ends of the hall. They were facing each other; casting reflections on reflections and making the small room seem to go forever. In those mirrors, he could finally see himself.
Relief finally waved over his body. He recognized what he looked like at least. He walked to the end of the hall and examined his tall, brown and black ears, as well as his black and tan furred tail. He was a handsome and dignified German Shepherd, though his outfit wouldn't lend itself to this description.
He turned this way and that, looking over his slightly bedraggled clothes and how they just didn't seem to fit quite right. Each copy of himself did the same in the mirrors. He felt that his pockets were empty, but while doing so, a small flash of light blue caught his eye.
He lifted his wrist to look at the small, plastic band around it. It read:
B. Kennedy Jr.
Male
11/09/85
J700-9500-2520
He thought of a few possibilities that came to mind. The band didn't look particularly permanent; it could easy be clipped off with a pair of scissors. The fact that his sex was listed made him think that it was for a hospital, but that was an obvious answer. It could be from a jail, sporting event, insane asylum, or rock concert. Regardless of origin, it gave him his name.
"B. Kennedy," he said out loud, "I'm B. Kennedy."
Though he had no idea of what the "B" might stand for, just knowing something about himself was a start. But, who he was didn't bother him nearly as much as where he was. The hall and fancy mirrors where that of a high class mansion, but the doors… the doors seemed like they were taken from anywhere.
He picked one. Obviously, he couldn't spend his whole life sitting in the tiny hall trying to figure out who he was. He had to find out. B. Kennedy thought that there might be a chance he'd find someone who knew where he was. His hand rested on the handle of a very fancy door. It almost had a regal feel about it. And it had an old smell.
The way old things acquire an old smell is a mystery, but you can just give it a whiff and tell that it's old. To some it's comforting and it reminds them of home, while it gives others the sniffles and makes them want to buy furniture from a catalogue. Kennedy's nose detected that the door was ancient. From the dawn of time, even.
He gave the handle a twist and stepped inside. The first thing that he became aware of was a very soft and calming light that filtered down through a skylight. The rest of the walls were coated with books. Thousands upon thousands of tomes lined the room and they probably contained eons of history and stories from cultures around the world.
All of the books had the same author. No matter which one he picked up, they all read, "Grod," on their covers. He couldn't believe that one man could write so many books. One would have to write every day for a lifetime! Regardless, he put the books back and continued to explore.
The room still had an old smell, but there was a sharp and sickly scent of something else. The whole room was fairly dark save for the light from the skylight, but he could see what the source of the smell was well enough. A dog was on the couch, the kind with four legs of course. However, Kennedy was well aware that it was unlike any dog he had ever seen before. It was more of a puppet than animal.
He wasn't sure if it was dead or alive. Mentally, Kennedy was praying that it was in fact, deceased. If not, it must have been in an enormous amount of pain, if there was anything left on its body that could even register pain.
The poor dog seemed to be falling apart. The fur was patchy at best, the flesh was practically rotting off the bones, and the eyes seemed to be false. It was as if the dog died on its favorite spot on the couch and someone was just too distraught to do something about it. They sewed him back together when bits fell off, brushed his fur regardless of whether or not it was growing anymore, but just said "screw it" when it came to fixing his mouth. This meant that the dog wore a lipless and permanent snarl.
"Oh god those eyes!" Kennedy thought, "Are they even real?"
He walked closer to the animal's body, not wanting to know, but having no alternate activity in mind.
There was a sickening crack as the dog looked right at him, snapping its head to the source of the footsteps like a bird.
Kennedy shouted as he fell onto his backside and scooted away from the monster.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," the dog wheezed, "Please don't go. I know I must look so horrible. Really, I must apologize."
In his mind, the fact that Kennedy was dealing with a talking dog was eclipsed by the fact that he was talking to a polite, taxidermied zombie.
"You… you're even alive?" he asked, thoroughly stunned that such a sack of bones and meat even had functioning lungs.
"Oh yes. Unfortunately, I am. And I'll continue to be alive, even after you leave this room. How I wish time just stopped and restarted for me. Life would be like watching your favorite part of a movie over and over. An ageless routine. Sure there is variation when someone new appears, like yourself, but you forget all about it when they leave. Sometimes, I envy Marco and that girl just a bit," the dog admitted, "I'm sorry you find me so… well… vulgar, but you can fix that."
The breath of the animal hit Kennedy's nose and sent a torrent of nausea through his whole body. He shuddered and almost retched at the smell. The dog must have seen this and licked his chops with some semblance of a tongue before he continued, jaws clacking away.
"My yes, that does smell bad doesn't it?" he asked, "I'm not at fault for that, really I'm not. So sorry."
Kennedy coughed and hacked, "Oh man. How do I fix this?"
"Spend some time with me," the dog suggested, "The longer you stay and the more you care, the better I'll be!"
"You feed off of time?" asked Kennedy as he tried to divert his eyes as a single strand of drool fell from the dog's mouth. It was probably the only moisture his body contained.
"No no," corrected the dog, "I feed off of love. You can see how I'm all patched together, someone loved me very much. They're long gone now; I don't even remember what they looked like. I think his name was... oh, I shouldn't tell you that. Regardless, they lost interest, I suppose you could say, shortly after I… well… I'm dead really. Well, now that I'm dead, I subsist on people's memories of me; how much they care about me."
"And no one cares about you?" asked Kennedy, brushing himself off as he stood.
The dog's spine and neck creaked and there was a mechanical clank as he placed his head on his degraded paws and looked forlornly at the floor.
"No," he sadly moaned, "No one cares anymore. A few new people came in before you, but they couldn't even look at me. They all think I'm horrible and evil I'm sure. I can't blame them. I'm falling to pieces! Meeting a dead person must be so strange. I mean, if the first one really did care, I'd be burnt to a crisp or under a grave by now. Bringing me back was very selfish of him. I used to be a nice dog, a really good one. Now I'm just a wind-up bag of bones. If only someone took the time to be with me, even just for a bit. Why… that would just make me ever so happy."
Kennedy almost shed a tear as he heard the story. The dog must have been sitting on the same spot for centuries just waiting for someone to love him. Over all of those years, his body fell apart into the pathetic and disgusting shape it is now. He just wanted someone to care about him enough to fix him.
"What's your name?" asked Kennedy.
"Grod," happily responded the dog. Kennedy could even see some muscles attempt at a tail-wag somewhere under the taught skin and fur. "And what are you called?" asked Grod.
"My name is B. Kennedy" he said.
"Oh wow, a Kennedy!" happily exclaimed the dog, "It's been ages since I've met a Kennedy! This is turning out to be such a good day! Kennedies are always my favorite. Beeeeee Kennedy!"
"What do you mean?" asked Kennedy, "You've met people who have the same last name as me?"
The dog thought for a moment and answered, "Yes, you could say that I suppose. And you just did. So... yes."
Kennedy was trying to wrap his mind around how Grod talks. All of those years lent him to take on a confusing and verbose way of speaking. He was distracted by the sound of a spring snapping and a slight whine from the dog.
"Oh dear, I seem to have broken something," the dog said, "My ticker is running out. Mr. Bee Kennedy, you simply must wind me up again. The key's on the table and... oh… oh... my chest... good... … ness."
Grod let out a final huff of breath like the last chug of a stopping train before he ceased moving altogether, his sad and mismatched glass eyes fixated on a shining key on a table. Kennedy momentarily considered just leaving Grod, but he just couldn't. He had already started to care about him. He approached Grod and picked up a key from a wind-up toy from the low table in front of the couch.
He held his breath as he approached the dog. Kennedy slowly hissed through his teeth as he slipped a hand between Grod's now rigid body and the cushion. He was horrified at how unsanitary it was.
Once he got the dog turned on his side, he could see that his chest wasn't much better than the rest of him. There was a fist sized hole in Grod's ribs. Since there was no obvious place to put the key, Kennedy groaned as he stuffed his hand inside the dog's chest cavity in search of some kind of machinery.
He had to gently move Grod's dry lungs and a few other functionless organs he couldn't identify before he found some metal. It was by pure luck that Kennedy found the dog's "ticker" mechanism. He stuck the key in and gave it a few good twists before Grod's lungs filled and Kennedy pulled his hand out and gasped for air, regardless of how fetid it was.
Grod twitched and cried for a moment, writhing in the pain shooting through his dull nerves and anguish of being reminded that he was unable to live on his own. He panted for a bit until he finally calmed down, fixing his empty eyes on his savior.
"Thank you Kennedy. Thank you," Grod wheezed, "This is why Kennedy's are my favorites. That was a little embarrassing, wasn't it? I guess it can't be helped. You were just rooting around inside my chest were you not? Did you find a heart in there?"
Kennedy shook his head. "No," he said.
Grod whined and moaned again.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry you had to see me like that. I hate it. I just hate him, myself, this... body he gave me. I've died hundreds of times, but I've only really died once. You have no idea what a gift that can be for some people," he whined, "Please, don't leave me here Kennedy."
Kennedy turned his brown eyes away from Grod and his pathetic and whimpering cries of,"please, please, please..."
"I'll help you," Kennedy finally said, "I'll help you get better."
Grod happily yipped, and his tail did manage a wag. Had he been a normal dog, he would have jumped off the couch. But, as he was, his thin legs where stuck still from centuries of being set in the same position. Half of his body was still in a living rigor mortis.
"Now, can you do me another favor here Mr. Bee?" he asked.
"What is it?"
"I want you to fix me up. Now don't worry; it's simpler than you would think. All Kennedies are good at fixing things. Now you could feel that I'm a little... degraded. Therefore, you might want to spend some time with me first before you go reaching around my guts again. Winding me up is one thing, but what you'll have to do next is a little more involved. I'll walk you through it, but I'm not very good at walking. Anyway, you'll have to spend some time with me first so I'm not quite as nasty."
"What should we do?" Kennedy asked.
"Your choice," said Grod, "I'm a captive audience."
That he was. Grod had apparently snapped something important as he could do nothing more that lie on his side and talk. Though the room laws filled with books, all of the reading appeared to be a little on the dense side. Kennedy couldn't spot a single title under 500 pages. Besides, would someone really like to be read a book they wrote?
"Why don't we just tell each other about ourselves?"
"But Kennedy," interjected Grod, "You don't even know you're first name."
"I can make something up," he suggested.
"There you go!" exclaimed Grod, "That is how you do it. Even made-up stories are far better than nothing stories. I've made so many made-up stories while sitting here, I just might tell you a few. Now don't just stand there, come and take a seat!"
Though his eyes frantically searched the room, there was no other choice but the couch. Kennedy clenched his teeth as he approached, terrified at the prospect of inhaling some foul scent. Luckily, the heavy mustiness of the room was enough to ward off anything else for the most part. He carefully sat and the couch creaked and groaned as if it could fall out from underneath him at any moment.
"You're so warm!" said Grod, "Oh gods! I can fell your heart pumping hot blood all around. If you get cut, you would bleed. If you were hit, you would bruise. You can't feel it, but it is so nice to have someone so warm right next to me. Don't leave me Mr. Bee Kennedy, please don't."
Kennedy was a bit embarrassed. Grod was enjoying his company a bit too much for his liking. Grod did seem to have a bit of blood envy. But, he considered how he would feel if left alone for a few centuries.
"Don't worry Grod," he comfortingly said, "I'm not going anywhere. Why don't you tell me about yourself, and uh… don't do a day-by-day summary."
"Oh goodness, no. What makes you think I want to hear myself talk that much? I mean, I've been talking to myself for years; the novelty has worn off. Anyway, I was born a normal dog. I barked and woofed and ate anything if you wrapped it in cheese first. Like all dogs, I died eventually. My master or owner or doggy-daddy or whatever trips your trigger, well he just couldn't accept that. At first, I think he wanted to just stuff me. But, he was so handy with mechanical things, well... I guess he got carried away."
"So you're like Frankenstein's monster?" Kennedy asked.
"Not really," said Grod, "Frankinstein's monster was all cobbled together from different bodies. I'm still me, for the most part. And so was he. What you see here is similar to what he did to himself. I was his prototype. He wanted to live forever, but I didn't. You see, there's a test to see where you go when you die. I don't know how it all works, but you go where you need to in the end. He pulled me out of my test Kennedy, I'll never be able to go to heaven if I live forever."
"That's terrible Grod," said Kennedy sympathetically. He wanted to ask whether he was dead, but he thought better of it. Kennedy didn't feel dead after all.
"What he did to me was evil and selfish, Kennedy. Please understand that. He was a sick man."
"I agree. I would never do that to someone."
"Well, we'll get along then, won't we?" said Grod, "I wanted to kill him Kennedy. My chance at heaven was blown and I couldn't bear to live with him like wanted."
Kennedy shifted in his seat uncomfortably at the talk of murder. Grod apparently saw this as him preparing to stand up and leave. Understandable, as he couldn't turn his head.
"Oh god no!" came Grod's panicked voice, "Please no! You don't know ho horrible it was to re-enter this world of pain and to see his gleaming face over my dead body! I couldn't stop myself! Please! No no no!"
"It's okay. It's okay," said Kennedy as he rested a hand on Grod's skeletal hindquarters.
Grod sobbed and shook horribly at the contact. It could have been because he was so upset over his master, but his outburst was because he hadn't been touched in a thousand years. Once Kennedy removed his burning hand, he was able to continue.
"Now I can only live off of his left-over gadgets. My ticker runs for 314 years and 59 days. After that, someone has to wind me again, like you did just now. I mean, obviously it will run out faster if I'm running around. You will be leaving here, won't you? Once I'm walking again, will you let me come with you?"
"Of course," said Kennedy reflexively, "I wouldn't leave you here."
"Oh... so your care about me enough that you're not going to leave me here?"
"I guess you could say that."
"You guess?" asked Grod.
"Yes," said Kennedy, "I will take you with me."
Grod's tail actually managed to wag once more as Kennedy agreed to take him along.
"That's marvelous, simply wonderful!" he exclaimed, "Look! Look at me! Aren't I better?"
Kennedy looked over Grod's body and could tell that there was a subtle, but still noticeable difference. His ears weren't as moth-eaten, fur a little fuller, and he did seem to be a bit more filled-out.
"You're certainly... fresher," he said.
"That I am!" agree Grod, "And now, you can fix me up! So pick me up and to your left is a work bench."
Kennedy did as he was told was relived that the stench was gone. He placed Grod's light frame on an old workbench and waited for more instructions.
"That's it, flip me on my back like a turtle. There you go!" said Grod, "Now the shears should be second to the right, yes, there."
Kennedy retrieved the scissors and waited expectantly.
"Okay, just like a frog in science class. Don't worry, you won't hurt me, it's more like dog leather than dog skin at this point. Just make a big 'Y' from gut to chest."
His hands froze over where he was to begin his cut. The act of cutting someone open, while they talked you through it, was just so strange to Kennedy.
"Grod is still awake! What if I hurt him?" Kennedy wondered.
"Go on now," Grod urged, "It will be naught but a little slice. You can always stitch me back up."
Kennedy nodded his head and quickly clipped away in the pattern that Grod had told him. It wasn't like cutting skin, but more like canvas. Not much held Grod together anymore. It was really almost an artificial skin, though it had been real at one point in time. Once the cut was made, he set the scissors back where he found them before moving the skin aside.
"Oh yes. That's it. Good to air things out. You should try it sometime!" joked Grod.
An un-bleeding, unfeeling dog with his chest wide open was the last one Kennedy would have expected a glint of humor from.
"Okay my Kennedy Bee Mr. Kennedy Bee Bee, there's a hinge on my chest there, right in my sternum, you know what that is right? Just go ahead and pop that open before you spread my ribs. It won't hurt me a bit, I promise."
This time, Kennedy was in a hurry to get it over with. He opened the catch and threw Grod's ribcage wide open to many cracks and creakings.
"Goodness!" Grod yelled, "Oh now that felt so good! You have very warm hands Bee. It's like going to a chiropractor! You really should take up faith-healing sometime. Just the heat from your hands alone would make someone feel better." Grod panted his wheezing pants for a moment, and Kennedy could watch his feeble lungs lurch and puff-up with air before he exhaled. He could also see the quietly ticking clockwork that kept Grod alive for so many years. "My my my," said Grod, "That's so much better."
"What do I do next?" asked Kennedy.
"Oh right. Yeah. Well, you should see a broken thingymabob on my left side. Just look through the drawers until you find another and then switch it out. And when you're done with that, would you mind greasing me up? It just takes a minute."
"Yeah sure," said Kennedy and he searched the work bench. He sifted through springs and bolts and other parts until he finally found the bit he was looking for. He removed the broken one from Grod's chest, and dropped the less ancient one in.
Grod gave his legs a few stretches while he was on his back, and Kennedy watched in horror at his insides writhed and whirred away to do the motions. It was alien to him to watch this creature test out his legs. A bit of Grod's flesh became caught in the mechanism, and it tore away before Kennedy could fix it. But, there was no blood, or cry from Grod. He didn't even notice his own body anymore. He was numb to the world. Kennedy's stomach lurched and he had to wrap a hand around his muzzle. Grod caught him and seemed a touch angry.
"I'm sorry, is it that terrible? Do you find me repulsive? It's just how I work, Mr. Kennedy. I'm certain you don't look so good inside-out yourself."
"I'm sorry," apologized Kennedy, "I can't help it. It's... why? Why would someone do that?"
Grod's lungs huffed out another sad breath before he answered.
"Love, Mr. Bee. It was love. It's the finest of emotions, but there was just too much. Too much, Mr. Kennedy. Do you see now why I wanted to kill him?"
"Yes," was Kennedy's quiet answer, "yes I do. I'm sorry Grod. I'm so sorry."
"Memories live forever. But, making a body live forever… I had a body Kennedy Bee. It was mine and it was warm and just wonderful. And then I had to leave that body, like all should, but he kept me here. I'm a shell now. I'm just a toy. Please. Oh please… I want it back. I'm so ugly."
Kennedy felt his eyes fill with tears, but he couldn't hold them back. They streamed down his muzzle and into Grod's cold chest. He couldn't imagine not being real anymore. Not feeling anything anymore. He understood Grod's fascination with warmth. It reminded him of what he used to have. And just a bit of it, the lightest touch, felt so good to him.
He wanted to give Grod a gift. Kennedy frantically rubbed his hands together before placing them inside the dog's chest. He held his organs and warmed the metal with his body's heat. Grod closed his eyes with worn away lids and let his tongue loll out of his muzzle.
"Oh god," he said, "Oh Kennedy. That's so nice of you, really. Oh my. That feels like home. Oh, how I miss it. I miss it. Let me feel your heart beat. Make a fist and put it between my lungs."
Kennedy did as he was told, and the effect it had on Grod was instant.
"My my my. That's what it felt like. I remember it now. That's my heart. It's back. It's back and that's what it feels like. Oh, and blood. That's what it's like to have a heart that beats and makes blood flow around. Ba-boom ba-baoom ba-boom…" said Grod.
He quietly repeated his mantra for a bit, before Kennedy removed his hands. Grod sighed and looked up at him.
"You didn't have to do all of that Kennedy Bee. But, I guess that's why I like Kennedies so much. You're so nice. Thank you for being nice. That felt so good. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," said Kennedy, "Now, where did that grease you wanted go too?"
Grod pointed him to the grease and it was just a short time later that he was sewn up and helped to the floor. The mechanical dog stood proudly on his feeble legs.
"So much better!" Grod exclaimed, "And finally off that damned couch! Oh thank you Mr. Bee Kenny-dee!"
"No sweat!" said Kennedy, "I'm glad I could help a friend out!"
"I'm your friend?" asked Grod.
"Of course!" assured Kennedy, "You're the nicest person I've met so far!"
In the dim light, Kennedy could still see an improvement in Grod. The hand-warming really had an effect. He almost looked like a normal dog. He certainly made for a cute wind-up one at that point. His ears were less like a stuffed animal's, and more like the floppy and expressive ears they should be.
"Let's get going Grod," said Kennedy, "I want to know where I am."
"I couldn't tell you," said Grod, "I've pretty much lived in this room my whole life. I know about the others though. Where do you want to go? Marco? The crying girl? Or maybe the old man? I think he's still around…"
"Let's just go in that order," said Kennedy, "That sounds good to me."
"Marco it is!" said Grod, "Follow me!"
Of course, being a dog of the four-legged variety, Kennedy had to open the door to the hall for Grod. Once there, Grod made a line right to what appeared to be a hotel door.
"This is Marco," he said, "I think he's a criminal or something. I don't know. Time restarts for him, so you can do anything. Tell him his mother is dead. That's a fun one I've found."
"So we can't hurt him?" asked Kennedy.
"Nope. But remember, he can hurt you. He has a gun in his right coat pocket, so you should be careful. But, he'll be right back up to his usual antics once we leave the room. I usually kill him just to... to feel the warmth," admitted Grod.
"Let's not do that this time," suggested Kennedy, "I think I just want to meet him."
He turned the handle and extended his hand to shake, but it was instantly seized in a vise-like grip. Kennedy was able to look into Marco's bloodshot eyes for only a second before the powerful badger threw him across the room.
"YOU FUCK!" screamed Marco in a Philly accent, "You fucking asshole! I'll fucking kill you!"
"What the hell? What did I ever do to you?" asked Kennedy as his head reeled from being thrown.
"Shuddap!" commanded Marco, "Just shut the fuck up and give me one reason not to blow you're fucking brains out you… you fucking Kennedy!"
Grod watched from the door and commented, "My, he does seem to be angry."
Kennedy observed as the wide-eyed badger turned to look at the dog.
"What the fucking shit is this?" he asked, "Are you serious?"
"Go on," said Grod, "say it Kennedy! It's fun!"
Marco turned his striped back on Grod to look back at Kennedy who was still sprawled on the bed.
"Fucking say what?" Marco challenged, "Go on sheppy! What is it?"
Kennedy looked from Grod, to several bags of what appeared to be cocaine, and finally right into Marco's eyes. He was already pissed, and Grod said they could leave. He was very much ready to.
"You're mother is dead," he blurted.
Marco looked away before he fell to the floor, screaming like a child throwing a tantrum. It was so awkward to see a grown man throw a fit like an infant. Kennedy slowly stood and joined Grod at the door before firmly closing it, and silencing Marco.
Grod looked up expectantly and asked, "So? Fun?"
Kennedy looked back and saw that Grod had changed back into a mangled form. His deranged sense of humor had gotten the better of him. He wanted to teach Grod a lesson.
"No," said Kennedy, "that was not fun Grod. Don't do that again."
"Oh but it was kind of fun wasn't it? What about getting thrown? Was that fun?"
"No. That hurt."
Grod attempted what appeared to be a dog's version of a shrug.
"Well, you'll learn to have fun. Can we kill him next time? I mean, he's obviously not a nice guy. I bet he has a strong heart. Can we kill him, and then you could put his heart in me?" asked Grod.
"No," said Kennedy, "I'm not going to do something like that."
"Oh please," begged Grod, "please please please?"
"NO!" shouted Kennedy, "No killing! No mangling of bodies or any shit like that Grod! That is not my idea of fun! Okay? I'm not the man who fixed you! Cutting people up is not a good time for me!"
"Oh, but you did cut me up and fix me, did you not? And didn't you feel good when you warmed my insides with your palms? Didn't you feel better about yourself? Didn't you feel special? What's so different with someone else's body?"
"They can feel pain!" said Kennedy, "You can't! You're a fucking machine Grod! You're not even alive!"
Grod sat on his bony haunches and looked at Kennedy with his glass eyes. They were empty and unfeeling like the eyes of a doll. They just stared at him and through him.
"I know," he whispered, "I know this Mr. Bee, my Mr. Bee Kennedy. I know this. I have thought on this for longer than you have been alive or will ever live. I stopped caring. You will stop caring after so long. I know I can't feel, and that I don't think like you do. But, I have thought on this for so long. I may seem simple to you, I may look like a dog to you but, I have thought on things Kennedy Bee. I've been trapped in my own body for a long, long time."
"I'm sorry," quietly said Kennedy, "I'm sorry Grod, but you just can't hurt people-"
"Please," he interrupted, "do not worry about it. It's over now, and we never have to see Marco again, now do we? It's your choice, but you never have to go back."
"Okay," said Kennedy, "Okay, I understand now."
"Thank you Bee. Thank you," said Grod, "Kennedies are so good at understanding things. Thank you for being a Kennedy, Mr. Bee. That's why I like Kennedies."
Kennedy sighed and asked, "The crying girl? Where is she?"
Grod stood and gestured with his snout, "This-a-way. It's the bathroom door."
Kennedy looked to see a blue door leading to a women's room. It clashed the worst out of all the doors. It had a new smell, and the door was seemingly plastic or metal. He gave the handle a turn and slowly opened the door. Across the linoleum floor was exactly what he expected.
A crying girl was huddled underneath a sink, hiding her face. She was a human from what Kennedy could tell, no more than six years old. He didn't remember any humans from where he was from, nor did Grod, but this sight didn't disturb either of them. They simply were able to look at the girl and know what she was. Kennedy looked to Grod, but the dead dog just stared on at the girl.
"See what I mean?" Grod said as he stared with his doll eyes, "See what I mean about the girl? This is all she ever does."
"Have you ever tried cheering her up?" suggested Kennedy through the cacophony of cries.
"Why would I ever do that?" asked Grod, "She's perfectly fine. Look at her. Her lungs are working, she's well hydrated, she doesn't appear to be handicapped in any way…"
"But, she's sad Grod."
"Well, that's just an emotion. A sad body is no different from a happy one really. Why make a distinction?"
Kennedy thought for a minute before saying, "You like to feel happy, don't you Grod? Why not make her happy too? You may have forgotten what it feels like, but I haven't. It feels like your insides being warmed by someone. So, why not make her happy again?"
"Well, I suppose you do have a point there. Does it feel good to make someone happy?"
"I couldn't live if I didn't have the ability to make someone else happy. You should try it Grod. You might feel a little more alive yourself," said Kenndy.
Grod nodded and approached the girl, his mechanical claws clacking on the floor. It was the only sound that interrupted the crying of the girl until he said, "Hey. Hey you young girl. Why is your body sad?"
She kept crying so Kennedy walked a little closer and asked, "No really, what's the matter kid?"
Though the language of a crying child is almost unintelligible from English Grod and Kennedy were able to piece together something about being lost and waiting for mommy. Since "mommy" was the source of the problem, and neither Grod nor Kennedy were much of a "mommy", they attempted to solve it as best they could.
Kennedy started by saying, "Do you have a dog at home? You haven't even looked at us, have you? See? We're both doggies."
The girl did finally look at the strange beings in the women's room with her. To her, they were dogs. Different kinds from the sort that she was used to of course, but she didn't really judge the fact that one seemed to be a little ridged and the other walked. She was in that never ending stupor of being young where everything makes perfect sense and doesn't require investigating.
She crawled out from under the sinks and put a heavy hand on Grod's head. Though tears still streamed down her face, she managed to coherently say, "dog".
"That's right," said Kennedy, "he's a dog and his name is Grod. He's very, very old and I bet he's the smartest dog you'll ever know."
"Toy dog."
"Well yes, I am a toy I suppose. But, I was real once, just like you," said Grod.
The little girl gave a giggle and petted Grod's head a little more. Kennedy was relieved that all his fur was staying on and any sort of smell was long gone.
"He's sticky!" said the girl.
"What do you mean?" asked Kennedy, worried that Grod might be decomposing.
"He all hard in his head!"
"He's not the most cuddly toy dog you'll ever meet, but I'm trying to help him with that," said Kennedy.
Grod looked past the fingers that poked at his face and at his rubbed his nose to say, "I know something that might cheer her up Mr. Kennedy. I can growl!"
Kennedy felt a shot of horror go through his heart. Their work would be ruined! Grod might even end up killing the girl once she became frightened again! But, he was relived that the low and feral rumble that would normally come from Grod was replaced instead with the shrill and happy chimes of a clock.
The girl bounced and stomped her feet in delight. Having a dog that sounds like an alarm clock was apparently a life long dream of hers. Grod saw her apparent joy and growled some more, filling the lonely room with happy sounds.
She giggled and clapped her hands as Grod continued to chime, and the more he chimed away, the happier Grod became as well. Kennedy could see a rapid change in the dog. His ribs were no longer visible, his hips no longer displaced, and he just seemed fuller and healthier.
Grod abruptly stopped chiming and fell on his side. Though his ticker runs for centuries, the ringing and walking made it go out far faster. The little girl stopped giggling and clapping and looked up and Kennedy concerned.
"Is Gwod okay?" she asked.
"Oh, his ticker just ran out," said Kennedy, "don't worry, we can fix him up!"
He was worried that the sight of Grod's insides might frighten the girl, but once he was turned over, Kennedy saw a vast improvement. Grod's patchy chest had been replaced with a finer one, with a zipper for convenience. And the frightening, fist-sized hole was long gone.
Kennedy opened the zipper and saw that Grod's organs and horrible machinery were replaced with the same stuffing and batting material found in a child's toy. He moved it aside and saw Grod's shiny new mechanism. Though he still lacked a heart, he was much better off.
With a few twists from the key, Grod starting ticking away once more. Kennedy zipped him back up and he stood proudly on his new legs.
Grod's wheezing voice was even replaced with a new and comforting baritone. He shook his head with a "whap whap whap" due to his floppy ears and said, "Oh my! Mr. Kennedy! That is so much better! It's like being real again!"
The little girl gave Grod a hug, probably the most contact he had ever had in centuries. Grod was surprised for a moment, but he eventually rested his head on her little shoulder comfortingly.
"I love the toy dog," she said.
"Thank you little girl," he said, "Thank you for making me happy again. It's been so long that I forgot what it felt like. I get it now Kennedy. Grods aren't so good at understanding things, but I've got it now. This is good, this is right."
Kennedy wiped a tear from his eyes and he hoped that neither Grod nor the girl would notice. Grod was as he should be, he wasn't complete, but so few people really are completed anymore. Grod was getting there. He was beginning to be more of who he was meant to be. He wasn't just some wind-up bag of bones; he could bring joy. He wasn't a dog, he wasn't who he used to be, but at least he was something. He had a value and he meant something to people. For the first time in so many decades, so many centuries, he was himself.
The little girl released Grod and both he and Kennedy promised to return and check up on her until her mother arrived. Once they were back in the hall, Kennedy turned to Grod and asked, "Will her mother ever come back? Does time reset for her?"
"It pauses," answered Grod, "She has it best out of all of us here. We can come back whenever we want, and we'll always arrive right when she wants us, forever. At least, forever until her mother comes back. I do believe I will miss her, but maybe, maybe there will be someone else."
"Now for the old man?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes, the old man may want to see you. I think you might like to meet him, and I'm sure he'll want to see me again," said Grod.
Kennedy followed to the final door. It seemed to be not quite as solid as the others, perhaps laminated with wood. It seemed newer. To Kennedy, it seemed much cleaner than any of the other doors, as if cleanliness was really important to the occupant.
He calmly opened it and his ears were greeted with a consistent "beep beep" of a hospital machine he recognized. Kennedy didn't remember ever being in a hospital, but he knew the sound well.
In a small bed was a very old dog. He looked familiar, but his muzzle was grey from years and years. He wasn't nearly as ancient as Grod, but compared to Kennedy, he was much older.
"My my my, just look at you two. Just look at you!" said the old man.
Kennedy and Grod solemnly approached the bedside. They knew the man wouldn't die on the spot, but it wouldn't be long for him.
Kennedy was finally able to get a closer look. The old man was a German Shepherd, like himself. He had a wizened, but comforting look about him. Kennedy could remember him from somewhere; he just couldn't place his finger on it.
"Who are you?" Kennedy asked.
"What?" asked Grod who had raised his front paws so that he rested on the bed, "Don't you recognize him?"
"No. Who are you?" Kennedy repeated.
"It doesn't matter," said the man, "it really doesn't matter at all. I know you though. You're doing much better than I was. And would you look at this! Just how are you Grod? Looking much healthier I see."
"Oh my yes," said Grod, "Mr. B. Kennedy has me feeling much better. I learned much from him, but I thought I was supposed to be the smart one! He's the best Kennedy I've ever met!"
"Oh, why that's wonderful!" exclaimed the old man, "Now, Mr. Kennedy, what would you like to ask me. I'm sure you have many questions."
Kennedy thought for a while. He did have many questions. Where he was, what his name is, if he was dead; all of them where important. But, most of all, he wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, though he had no memory of it.
"How do I get out of here?" he asked, "I… I just want to leave. I've met so many people, but they are all trapped in there rooms."
"No no, I couldn't tell you that. You are the one who is trapped Kennedy. I now realize that I should have stayed on the inside, in that mirror hall. That's where you will find happiness. I remember when I got out, I couldn't do that to you, and I can't tell you how. The only reason I'm here is to keep you in."
The old man scratched his head and Kennedy saw a flash of blue on his wrist. Kennedy lightly grabbed the old man's hand and moved his sleeve aside. But what the bracelet said was exactly what Kennedy feared most:
B. Kennedy Jr.
Male
11/09/85
J700-9500-2520
B. Kennedy dropped the wrist and sat in a chair, staring at the old man, staring at B. Kennedy. Grod looked back at him with his fake eyes and said, "Oh no, you shouldn't have done that. You really shouldn't have done that…"
The old man reached into a drawer and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief. He frantically shook it at Kennedy.
"Take this! Take it! I've been working on it for a long time; it's for Grod. He needed this, but not anymore! Please just take it and get out of here! You have to finish him!"
The old man's command was somehow able to pierce through the horror Kennedy was feeling. He grabbed the handkerchief and saw the initials "BK"
"ARE YOU ME? What- WHAT ARE YOU!?" screamed Kennedy at the sight of the initials.
"Why, this is a Kennedy," calmly said Grod, "He's B. Kennedy. Mr. Bee Kenny-dee. I sure do like you Kennedies…"
Kennedy felt as if he had been thrown into an icy river. He was struggling to breathe as the torrent of fear rushed over him. It wasn't fear of an unknown, or fear of something dangerous, but the fear of life at its very core. He finally felt what Grod had been feeling for centuries every time he was wound-up again. He didn't feel real. He was a replaceable toy.
He threw himself into a chair and held his head, pushing on his temples until they pounded.
"Grandpa," a small voice interrupted, "Who is this?"
Kennedy looked up to see a short German Shepherd. It was him. It was him when he was seven. He remembered visiting his grandfather in the nursing home, and the "beep-beep-beep" of the machines. But, there was a strange man there, with an even stranger animal at his side and they both left before his parents came in.
Kennedy choked once before the old man said, "Don't worry Ben, he's just a man who talks to me every now and again, you were just leaving, weren't you?"
Not wanting to destroy the illusion, Kennedy nodded his head and left. He closed the door behind him and sat in the red hall of mirrors and doors, defeated. He looked to see all of the infinite Kennedies doing the same, looking back at all the other Kennedies.
"Are they reflections?" wondered Kennedy, "Or are all me?"
Grod used his forelegs to push against Kennedy and snap him out of his trance.
"Stop it!" shouted Grod, "Stop doubting Kennedy! Sure there have been others, but you're my favorite! They were all the same, but you are different! See? Don't you get it? You're already free! You were never trapped to begin with! This is where you are supposed to be!"
Kennedy pulled his arms and legs close as he cried. His life had just ended. He knew that. His life was over and he was stuck in his test, but he couldn't figure out the answer.
"Am I even real Grod?" he sobbed, "Do I even exist anymore?"
"I don't know, but it doesn't matter! You're here with me! You're real enough to me! You are the only one who has ever fixed me! All you have to do is finish me! You've won Kennedy! You've won!"
Kennedy felt a burning in his leg. He looked to see his pocket wiggling and ticking away. He reached his hand down and felt the intense heat radiating off of the handkerchief he had just given himself. It was like a wiggling, happy little animal.
Kennedy unwrapped it to find a ticking gold and silver bauble and a note:
Dear B. Kennedy,
I had to go into so many rooms over and over to make this. But at last, Grod will be finished. He'll be real again. This is the very last piece. I should have put it in the first time, but, I suppose it's too late for that now, you'll just have to do that for me. Tell Grod I'm sorry that I couldn't put it in sooner. And tell him that I'm sorry for being so selfish.
~BK
He took a closer look at the little device to see that it was a small, heart shaped watch. It was incredibly ornate and it radiated heat. He knew just where to put it.
"What is it?" asked Grod.
"It's for you," said Kennedy, "It's your missing piece."
"My… my..." Grod stuttered, "…my heart."
"Yes," said Kennedy, "I guess he made it for you-"
"No" interjected Grod, "He may have made it, but you taught me how to use it. I already have one. Look in my chest Kennedy."
Grod rolled over so that Kennedy could unzip his chest, but the zipper was gone. Grod's ribs moved up and down naturally. There was no patchiness to his fur, or taught skin on his bones. Grod proudly looked up at the last Kennedy with real eyes, his first eyes.
"I don't need that heart, Kenney-dee. I already have my own again."
Kennedy couldn't help himself. He wrapped his arms around Grod and hugged him as hard as he could. He could feel the heart beating in Grod's chest, it was the heart he had given him.
"I'm real!" Grod cried, "You're real too! We can die Kennedy! My god, we can finally die! It's over, it's all over! I had to wait, lord did I wait, but you did it Kennedy! You've finally done it right this time!"
Kennedy felt a warmth in his soul that he didn't think was even possible. It felt as if someone was heating his insides. It was the burning smolder of love, of success, of confidence. He had felt it before, but it really meant something that time. It was as if all of the good deeds in his life hit him at once, and poured down his body and out his toes.
"Do you feel that, Mr. Kennedy?" Grod asked, "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," said Kennedy, "Yes I feel it."
"That's what it feels like to make someone happy."
