Cold Storage

by Daniel Stephens

He couldn't quite understand why this room was so empty and uninviting but its clinical white finish was cold, displaying nothingness, a picture of his undecided mind. He was seated at a chair staring at a halogen light on the ceiling. It hurt his eyes. A harsh stab of pain tunnelled inside his head searching for anything that might be there but found only a foreboding ache that was growing and clouding everything. Everything, but the room.

Beneath his feet was an item that moved as he pressed against it. Looking down he could see that it was a white envelope, sealed shut and addressed only by name. Reaching down he picked it up. ‘Derek' was the name, handwritten in neat black ink; the curls and nuances of the letters a stylish remark of its writer. ‘Derek', he said out loud registering that it was his name. Did he know that before, he couldn't tell? Turning the envelope over, he ran his finger through the paper, breaking it open to see a pale yellow card within.

‘Our grateful thanks to you,' he said through hoarse whisper, reading the gold printed lettering indented on its surface. ‘Dear Derek, thank you for your participation, we owe you our eternal thanks.' That was it. He stared curiously at his name. It was only handwritten word on the card, standing out against the clear computer print. The handwriting, he noted, written by the same hand that addressed the envelope. What did it mean he thought, as his eyes drifted across the empty room once again?

What was that in the corner? Against the wall was something shiny; metallic perhaps? He struggled to his feet and began to edge forward. Each step was deliberate, slow, careful. His muscles were not obliging their presence as if his legs wanted ‘leave' from the excruciating endurance of walking six feet, but finally he was there.

Blinking three times he could not quite understand. Could this be? Before him stood himself, staring eye to eye, the other Derek as perplexed as he. While he knew immediately that it was himself, it wasn't until he actually saw this person that he knew what he looked like. The brown eyes, the thick eyebrows, the pale skin. Both men reached forward at the same time placing their hands together against the wall but this wasn't right? It was a mirror.

He looked at his reflection: An old man, Derek thought. How old was he? He felt his dishevelled beard. It was somewhat shaved but the thick stubble grazed his hand like sandpaper with a vendetta. Yet the physical pain diminished because it was comforting to know that he at the very least had a body and a face.

He couldn't remember his birthday but the odd grey hair dotted around the edges of his predominately dark brown mane, and the lines around his eyes told him he wasn't in his twenties anymore. Even though the physical attributes of his face indicated to him an inkling of his age, he couldn't help but feel so much older. His back arched forward as if needing a walking stick and his legs didn't want to move.

His eyes wandered down to his feet. They were bare and clearly overused, his toes like aged tree branches, thorns protruding from their wicked ends. It was like staring into the past. A reflection of his former self; his present that of a struggling, weak old man.

What was that at the other side of the room? He could see a frame or clipboard of some sort, reflected in the mirror. He could see no doors, no windows. There were no means of entry or exit, no means of escape. Whatever this was, it offered at least some hope. He began to amble toward it having to motivate every movement as if they were his first.

‘I worked in an office,' Derek said aloud, the thought just appearing in his mind. It was no ordinary office. It had machines of some kind, but they weren't computers. He searched in the dark recesses of his memory for any shred of evidence as to his occupation, but it was like fishing without a hook. It was useless.

It was a cork notice board placed on the wall, Derek could see that now. It had many pieces of paper and other items pinned to its surface. The first thing that caught his eye was a brightly coloured ticket, painted in deep red with a strange logo at its corner depicting what looked like a horse being stabbed by a spear. Pulling the ticket off the board, Derek examined the writing on its surface. Printed was the name: ‘Geroeg Shub'. Underneath it read, ‘Geroeg Shub Theatre Company Presents, The Knights in White Armour: A heart-warming recollection of the battle of the White Knights against the evil insurgents of the Dark Kingdom .' Would I want to watch such a thing, he thought. The ticket was used, its perforated edge delineating the stub having been ripped off. Derek dropped the ticket to the floor, his hands already readying themselves to pick something else off the board. This time it was a handwritten letter addressed to him.

‘Dear Derek' read the letter. ‘I'm writing to you to offer my condolences for the loss of your dear mother. I knew her well, a beautiful woman, both in her appearance and in her personality. She lit up the lives of so many that crossed her path. Her work at the retirement home was that of compassion, of enlightenment and of an enjoyment and zest for life itself. She will be missed by not only those that worked alongside her, but those that were blessed by her work, her sense of optimism, her smile and above all else, her attitude to make our lives better, even in the smallest of ways. I know this is only a piece of paper from someone you never met, but I hope it reminds you that there were so many that will miss her, and that she will always have a very special place in our hearts. Yours truly, Margaret Atherton.'

Derek starred at the letter for what seemed like several minutes. It hadn't crossed his mind that he had any family, the mere existence of his mother not registering at all. It wasn't the idea of his mother's passing that made his eyes begin to water, it was the fact he could not remember what she looked like; the fact he couldn't recall one conversation they had together, a loving cuddle or a moment of proud appreciation. He couldn't remember her smile or the colour of her eyes, the sound of her voice - all just an empty void; a vacant space wishing to be filled.

Almost like his first day at school, he mused. Wait. It just occurred to him that he went to Ellington Junior; he played Little League baseball and kissed Stacy Brody behind the left-field wall the day after his eleventh birthday. Yet the memories were a wave of emotions. The sadness of his mother's death, a death he could not recall, coupled with the elation of winning a junior art competition for drawing a painting he entitled ‘The Hope Tree'.

He looked down at his feet, they looked pale. The bottom of thin white cotton trousers sank over his ankle. Derek could see the trousers matched a similarly coloured white shirt that was loose against his skin, the V-neck showing sporadic dark hair across his chest. Who am I, he thought. He knew his name but he couldn't find in his memory the things he liked. The food, for instance, he craved from his favourite restaurant, or his favourite film, or what he liked to do to pass time. The things that made him exist were in his reflection, but his presence, the very things that gave him a personality, he could not recollect. The theatre ticket was merely broken card: a sign without connotation. Photos, newspaper cuttings, more letters, more tickets – was there anything that would shed light on his situation?

Derek's eyes began to motor over the board, looking at each individual piece; allowing only a second to take in a face in a picture, a line in a letter, a headline on a newspaper. He could feel his heart beginning to race, beating faster, each individual breath quickening and beads of sweat starting to run down his face. The scorecard from his teachers to his parents meant nothing to him, much like the photo with his arm around a woman and the newspaper cutting with football results printed on it. He was good at English and bad at maths, his grades proved that. They meant nothing though. His clouded memories were distant and deep, refusing to come to the surface. His wandering eyes did not stop however, travelling like busy bees around the hive, striving desperately for evidence. His wonderment of where he was now lost to the frightened child within him desperately searching for his parents, desperately searching for who he was. Then his eyes stopped moving.

Lodged slightly behind another photo, and covered almost in its entirety by a picture drawn in crayon, sat a face staring out at him. Derek recognised it. It was his brother. He looked much like him, but a few years younger. There were no grey hairs to be seen on his head, and his strong, athletic build put Derek's slight, thin frame to shame. ‘My brother', Derek said, his voice refusing to go beyond a strained whisper.

He realized that while this man was clearly younger than him in the photo, this was indeed his older brother. ‘Yes, you were older than me by four years' he said. ‘You died in a car crash when you were forty-six and you were with our mother. She died also.' Almost like the car veering off the road, crossing two lanes and slamming head first into the twelve-wheel truck, its occupants all instantly killed, the memory of the day his brother and mother died crashed into his conscious. Now he could see his mother's eyes, they were green, and her hair was light brown with a reddish tinge. Her voice was soft, it was always so soft. She didn't smoke, she loved fresh warm bread and baked it herself, and she worked as a teacher with a part-time job at a retirement home.

Again Derek's eyes began to fill with water. His happy recollection became sadness in one simple sigh. He felt the pain of his mother's death, because now he knew exactly who had died.

He began to remember the sense of shock had dwindled rapidly after her death. Derek set to busying himself, trying not to dwell on the past. But it was like a black veil over his life, covering his morning breakfast, the coffee in his cup and the cereal in his favourite bowl. The sadness that preceded his every action, faded into the question of ‘why?' Why did his brother have too much to drink on the day they died?

Why did I help him steal the money, Derek suddenly thought, the memory coming into full view? He needed to pay debts, so he used fake passports to create new bank accounts. Derek knew immediately he hadn't done it because he wanted to help his brother, he'd done it to help himself. They were able to hide some of the money before the courts put them in jail for 15 months. His brother had said, ‘Don't worry ‘D'. We serve some chump time; let them have their pictures in the paper. When we get outta here, I've got plans that'll set us up for life.'

Was his brother trying to escape the police when he crashed?

A strange old family friend came knocking at Derek's door sometime after the funeral. Derek didn't know the old man very well. He was a friend and neighbour of his mother's more than anything, but they'd shared a brief conversation at the funeral. The man, the local kids nicknamed Granddad Noah because his house was like an animal sanctuary, knocked at the door for quite a while.

‘Sorry to bother you young man,' said Granddad Noah, propping himself up with a glazed wooden cane, smiling. ‘I've seen your curtains closed all day long. You never come out. Never see the light of day.'

Derek was in no mood for a lecture. ‘Look sir, I know you mean well and all, but I'd just like to be left alone.' Derek offered a smile but it was forced and obviously fake.

‘I know, I know. I really don't want to take up any of your time, if you would just give me a minute?' He looked around, his eyes wandering the neighbourhood before returning to Derek. ‘They all think I meddle in their business round here. I'm not nosey you know, I just look out for people. Sometimes I just see things a little differently. Sometimes I can just point things out that weren't there before. Life's like a work of art, a painting if you will, that we're all trying to escape from. We want to find those brushes and paint in a new cloud here, or lots of pretty flowers in the corner. Well...that, or just some money, and a fancy car.'

Granddad Noah shifted his weight, his weak right leg clearly causing him some discomfort. ‘I was devastated when your mother passed, it just didn't seem right. When is death right anyway, that's what I say.'

He leaned forward a little and said something that made Derek's blood go cold. ‘I know you're thinking of committing suicide!'

Derek wanted to say something, anything, to ask this man why he thought he could speak to him this way, but he couldn't. His hand on the door might have wanted to slam it shut, but this man was right, he was thinking of committing suicide. ‘That's none of your business,' was all Derek could say.

‘Listen sonny, we all got rights and we all got desires it's just sometimes they can get muddled in society's moral fibre. I say lets forget about moral values, they don't stop good people dying in horrific ways.' Again Noah looked around the neighbourhood, arching his head to see past a great oak that sat protruding out of the sidewalk. ‘Derek, there's no need for you to be so down, your mother would have none of it. I knew her too well, she would want you to move on. The loss of her life doesn't mean the loss of yours.'

Derek's ears listened contentedly, for what the man was saying hardly seemed wrong. He was far too tired to do anything drastic like just closing the door, or even to speak out.

‘Your mother spent many of her hours at the retirement home. If you ask me, she was wasting her time with all those old fogies. They weren't like me – getting their meals hand fed to them, sitting on their arses watching the world go by waiting for death to come knocking at their bedroom door. You wouldn't find me in one of those places. I want to die with dignity, not stinking up the place with layers of perfume because my legs won't carry me to the bathroom for a wash. No, unfortunately she wasted her time there. Time she could have spent with you.'

He shifted his position again. ‘That retirement home – I'd call it a holding ground for the world's rotting undead – took your mother away from you. You can't get her back and do you think they care?'

Granddad Noah edged forward, his foot now preventing the door from being closed. Staring at Derek without blinking he cleared his throat, ‘they won't even know she isn't there. All those hours she gave them, all that help, and they don't appreciate it, they don't even know when she's not around.'

Derek was feeling uncomfortable, was he going to be sick? A movement in his stomach signalled the possibility, as the churning acids turned over in his belly, undecided whether to explode out of his mouth or remain in their place.

Granddad Noah let out a strange, witch-like cackle as he proclaimed, ‘I'm babbling, sorry, sometimes I do talk too much. I've taken up too much of your time already, I must be going. Before I do, I trust you have sorted your mother's will. It's only because she discussed it with me and I'd hope everything gets sorted properly. If you need any help with the home's running, I'm sure I can provide a hand, even though I do hate the place.'

Derek's voice was finally driven into action as he was unaware of what the old man was talking about. ‘Sorry, what was that,' Derek asked.

‘The retirement home,' Granddad Noah replied, ‘it's yours, you own it now. Your mother inherited it from that Jacob Jackson who thought she deserved it after all the time she put into it. He was a rich man he was, it was shame when he passed away.'

Derek was unaware of his mother's will, he'd left it up to his attorney to sort out and hadn't seen the fine details. He never knew his mother owned the home. ‘I didn't know…er..'

‘You didn't know?' The old man's reply was quick and assured. ‘There's a lot of money in that place, I would have thought that was one of the first things you'd know about.'

‘I haven't...' Derek wasn't given a moment to reply.

‘Never mind, I'm sure you'll get a chance to look over it. Although, it could benefit us both if you would. Your mother gave me a small part of the ownership and I'm not really interested in keeping it. In my opinion I wouldn't care if that place burnt to the ground.' The old man moved closer, now inside the door, his wooden cane taking the brunt of his weight. ‘…If you know what I mean?' He stared at Derek without flinching, without moving a muscle.

‘I'm afraid I haven't got a clue what you're talking about, and I really need…' Again Derek couldn't finish his sentence.

‘Oh come on Derek. Like I said, we all have to go on living. That place isn't going to hand out money to you now is it? That's what the insurance company is for, after all, who'd really care if the place burnt to the ground?' The old man was smiling as if they were talking about a great football game or a family member getting thirty-seconds of fame on some cheesy game show.

Derek closed his eyes, trying to shut the ‘bad man' out. Recoiling back to his childhood, scrunched up under the covers, he remembered his eyes so tightly closed they hurt, his mind desperately praying a bloody-fanged werewolf wouldn't rip through the bottom of his bed and swallow him whole.

‘It's all logical,' said the old man, ‘kosher they say in some parts…tooth for tooth. Anyway, there's no need to worry about it now. Go rest yourself, I'll check on you tomorrow.'

Suddenly his arms had strength they didn't have before and he flew towards the notice board, snatching it off the wall and bringing it down to the floor. Why did his memory have to dig up meaningless conversations with such distinct clarity, but could not shed light on how his body wound up in this prison? His face now wet with tears, his sobbing reverberated around the room.

Looking at the board now lying on the ground, he prayed for it to explain what this was all about. It was like clinging to the edge of a cliff, every so often having the energy and strength to lift himself above the edge to see over, just not having enough to fully climb up. Then dropping back down and seeing a murky abyss offering nothing but a clouded sadness and a welcoming death. He could feel for the first time an increasing rage within him, not of anyone but of the situation – an all but empty room blinding his consciousness, his memory as empty as his predicament.

Derek's legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor. He immediately felt something poke him sharply in the knee. Wiping tears away from his eyes, he reached for his intruder and examined it. It was a pin from the notice board, and attached to it was a newspaper cutting.

‘50 Dead, 20 More Missing In Maryville House Tragedy' read the headline. Reading it was like tying a noose around his neck. Derek managed a coarse whisper to escape – ‘I'd been imprisoned before', he said.

Scanning the faded article he became aware that fifty had died in a freak fire that started in the basement of Maryville House. The police weren't ruling out the idea that it could have been deliberate. ‘The tragedy comes at a terrible time for new owner Derek Forbes, as his mother and brother had just died in a terrible road accident,' he said aloud. ‘Forbes' he said again, ‘Forbes, Forbes, Forbes!' A curtain lifted from his mind like the beginning of a Sunday matinee. He quickly turned back to the fallen notice board. ‘No,' he said, ‘it can't be.'

Derek forced his limp body closer to the bits of paper laid out in front of him. ‘It can't be. That old man did it. It was all his fault, he wanted it for himself. He wanted all that money!'

Derek ran his fingers feverishly over the board looking for evidence. Then his attention was taken by a flap in the wall, opening. It was no larger than the side of a pizza box, but Derek could see nothing but darkness on the other side of it. Suddenly, a small package dropped through and on to the ground not far from his body. ‘Hello,' he shouts, forcing his limp vocal chords into action. ‘Hello, who's there? Let me out of here.'

He pulled himself towards the package. His legs still weak but his arms feeling much stronger. Stretching out, he gripped the plastic protective sheet surrounding the contents and brought it close to him. On it read: The Future Is On Us. Ex-Plan-Nation Scientific Research. A logo and website address adorned the cover but Derek knew nothing of the name. Ripping the plastic sheet away revealed a small folder inside, tied together with a piece of string. Opening it, Derek was immediately confronted with something he could never have imagined. There before him was his death certificate.

The blood churning in his veins was causing a feeling he could not muster any words to describe. The hand holding his death certificate seemed to become as alien to him as his captive surroundings. The piece of paper, faded but in good condition, pronounced Derek Forbes dead from accidental asphyxiation, dated 1998. His eyes travelled down the page, seeking out detail. ‘Derek Forbes was found in his prison cell with bed linen around his neck. He was given breathing aids but pronounced dead at the scene…suicide.'

He wanted to shout, ask for help, ask why this was happening to him, but he couldn't. These were lies, a sick joke, a television stunt. In only a few minutes, after he were to break down in a fit of tears and rage, the plastic presenter would walk through the mirror on the wall and hand him a million dollars.

Little did he know that chubby twenty-two year old Bronson T. Montgomery, an east Texan with a penchant for pornography and cheap booze, was sitting behind the two-way mirror manning a video camera waiting for the moment to open the fake wall and release Derek to his fate. The chubby man, smoking a cigarette, was only doing this job as a cheap stop-gap to a career in the entertainment industry. For while Derek dismissed the notion he was on a TV show, Bronson wouldn't even consider the idea that what he was doing was entertainment. He was merely there to record Derek's awakening – to visually document the patient's reacquisition into life.

Derek removed the death certificate. Underneath were three items - another newspaper article, a handwritten note, and an ‘Ex-Plan-Nation' business card. In the centre of the business card was the name of a doctor and under it his profession: Cryonics - Preserving life through Vitrification. Derek didn't understand what it meant so he tossed it aside and began to read the note.

‘Dear Derek, you have been cryogenically frozen and should be reading this after you have been revived.' The letter was written in blue, handwritten ink. It was messy and difficult to read but Derek seemed to be coping with it.

‘It was difficult to come to this decision but I could not spend the rest of my life in prison. I regret what I did and whilst I take some responsibility for what occurred, I cannot take the blame. Four life sentences will see me live the rest of my life within these four walls and I'm going crazy. If only Noah had survived to see his plan come to fruition, then I wouldn't be taking all the heat for this. It was his idea to set fire to the home, and it was his job to get those people out of there, but he didn't. Then he has a heart attack a day later to leave me taking the fall.' He paused for a moment. Derek had already looked to see who had signed the letter so knew who had written it, but he wanted to take a second to collect his thoughts.

‘I didn't want those people to die just like I never wanted the car crash to happen. As I sit here in my prison cell with a noose lying on my bed, I wonder what life really is when you pay such a price for it when it's gone. I've been in prison for two months, so I've ninety-nine years and 10 months to go. I won't do it, I can't do it. I've used all the money I had for this final little venture. I've made all the arrangements and they'll take me on when it's over. When I wake up, my sentence will be void and maybe I can rebuild. It's strange. In death I'm still paying for life. See you on the other side. Signed, Derek Forbes.'

Bronson T. Montgomery, listening to Derek read out the letter from a secluded microphone positioned in the room, knew this was the moment he was to phone his superiors. Dropping the cigarette from his mouth, his fat arms scrambled for the phone, picking it up and dialling immediately. ‘Hello. I know it usually takes at least four or five days for patient's memories to return, but this guy is ready. You guys put the right stuff on his notice board, all right!'

Standing up, his large frame awkwardly moving in the small space he found himself, he shoved the camera out of his way and exited through a small door to his left. Taking keys out of his pocket, he placed them in a flap difficult to see if you didn't know it was there. Unlocking the lock, he opened another door, this time a fake wall which slid out and opened up Derek's confined room. Derek's eyes lifted to see the man standing there. ‘Who are you,' he asked.

Bronson knew he wasn't to say a word, as several people could be heard rushing down the corridor behind him.

‘Where am I,' Derek said, his voice strained and without delineation of syllables.

Bronson swallowed and stood back to allow four people to enter the room, all wearing security uniforms. ‘Ah, Mr Forbes, we've been waiting a long time for this,' said one of the men. Two others stood either side of Derek and began to lift him to his feet. As they did, Derek dropped the letter to the ground and caught a glance of the newspaper article just as the two men lifted him up. On it was the headline: ‘God is dead as Doc cures death'. Derek stared at it as long as he could before he was dragged out of the room. ‘What are you doing?' were the only words he could muster. One of the men laughed. ‘We're taking you back to your prison cell buddy; you haven't quite finished your sentence.'