Most of us know who Erwin Schrodinger is in one way or another. Either through internet reference of his Schrodinger's Cat equation or paradoxical experiments in school. It is the cat that lives and doesn't live all at the same time.
I thought about this concept when I wrote up this story as a part of a Writer's Digest contest which I unfortunately didn't win the first go around but I still stick by the tale.
It's the story of a man who is stuck in perpetual unlife after being accidentally exposed to foreign chemicals. What follows is the tale I try to tell of what life is like for him and how he copes with being and not being. Enjoy the story and comment like crazy.
“F*&k you, ok?! F*&k you!”
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, banging on the plexiglass walls of my cell as I shoot a death glare at my therapist on the other side of my cell for asking me the same grating question.
“You want to know how I feel? Why does it matter, huh? Why does any of this matter if you’re never going to let me free?!”
I slam my fist again and sparks fly off the wall. All the while she just sits there, Dr Elizabeth Hart, as impassive as ever. Scribbling her notes, she cautions me against touching the glass again, lest I plan to unravel my atomic structure.
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is and isn’t.
I sit alone in this cell, trapped by walls made of randomly spinning molecules with the intent of keeping me caged.
I was normal before the accident. Just your average scientist until I made one simple miscalculation. I sought to transverse time and space until something went wrong. Now they tell me I’m dangerous. They tell me I did something horrible after the accident. They tell me I don’t even count as human anymore.
“You should calm yourself. I’m just here to help you cope.”
Her voice is as cool as ever, prompting me to smack my hand against the glass again in annoyance. My hand sizzles. Instead of skin I’m made up of tiny exploding stars, all shimmering across my form.
“Cope with what? Slavery?” I ask her outright and I can see her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“Don’t say that. It’s not like that.”
She flinches a little. The first time I’ve seen an ounce of emotion from her. Session after session I’ve been airing my grievance to her. Session after session I’ve begged for freedom and never once has she so much as shed a tear for my plight.
“So what would you have me do, huh? Set you free? Let you reek havoc in the streets, possibly hurt others? What exactly would you have me do?”
“What would I have you do? Are you daft. I want you to set me free! I want to go home! I’ve asked you this day in and day out. Don’t act like this is something new or even difficult to understand.”
Anger flushes my face with energy. Instead of being beet red I’m a shock of electric blue light. My skin cascades like a nova and I can see the doctor wince a little before she turns away.
She doesn’t say a word to me. She simply turns away. getting up out of her seat to reach for a remote control.
The tv in my cell flashes images of a small town, rural America. My hometown. In the center of the frame is my home.
“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
The image sends me reeling back to the steel cot I float above for rest. Memories flood back, clear as day. Images and sounds sounds of the townsfolk fill my head. I can hear their lives.
“Why are you doing this?”
If I had tears I would cry. They’ve been doing this to me since I got here, showing me pictures of home as I rambled on about what I’d do when I got back there normal. She doesn’t look at me. Her body moves in heaves of sobs. I tell her over and over I just want to go home but she doesn’t look at me.
She tells me I don’t want this. She tells me I really don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t care. My resolve stands firm. I stare into her eyes and she stares back into the globes of light I see out of.
I only need the slightest crack and that’s it. I transubstantiate.
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is everywhere and no where. I materialize where the images have shown me for months. If I still breathed I would gasp. There’s no one; not a soul in town.
Tape marked “condemned” borders the town, directing all visitors away.
It isn’t until I approach my home that I realize what I’ve done. I’m flashing blue again but this time I can only be angry at myself. I’ve done something terrible. Something no human could ever cope with. A million little exploding stars cascade across my body, a million little lives.
”It was me...I did this. I am this.”
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is no-one and everyone.
I thought about this concept when I wrote up this story as a part of a Writer's Digest contest which I unfortunately didn't win the first go around but I still stick by the tale.
It's the story of a man who is stuck in perpetual unlife after being accidentally exposed to foreign chemicals. What follows is the tale I try to tell of what life is like for him and how he copes with being and not being. Enjoy the story and comment like crazy.
Schrodinger
“F*&k you, ok?! F*&k you!”
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, banging on the plexiglass walls of my cell as I shoot a death glare at my therapist on the other side of my cell for asking me the same grating question.
“You want to know how I feel? Why does it matter, huh? Why does any of this matter if you’re never going to let me free?!”
I slam my fist again and sparks fly off the wall. All the while she just sits there, Dr Elizabeth Hart, as impassive as ever. Scribbling her notes, she cautions me against touching the glass again, lest I plan to unravel my atomic structure.
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is and isn’t.
I sit alone in this cell, trapped by walls made of randomly spinning molecules with the intent of keeping me caged.
I was normal before the accident. Just your average scientist until I made one simple miscalculation. I sought to transverse time and space until something went wrong. Now they tell me I’m dangerous. They tell me I did something horrible after the accident. They tell me I don’t even count as human anymore.
“You should calm yourself. I’m just here to help you cope.”
Her voice is as cool as ever, prompting me to smack my hand against the glass again in annoyance. My hand sizzles. Instead of skin I’m made up of tiny exploding stars, all shimmering across my form.
“Cope with what? Slavery?” I ask her outright and I can see her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“Don’t say that. It’s not like that.”
She flinches a little. The first time I’ve seen an ounce of emotion from her. Session after session I’ve been airing my grievance to her. Session after session I’ve begged for freedom and never once has she so much as shed a tear for my plight.
“So what would you have me do, huh? Set you free? Let you reek havoc in the streets, possibly hurt others? What exactly would you have me do?”
“What would I have you do? Are you daft. I want you to set me free! I want to go home! I’ve asked you this day in and day out. Don’t act like this is something new or even difficult to understand.”
Anger flushes my face with energy. Instead of being beet red I’m a shock of electric blue light. My skin cascades like a nova and I can see the doctor wince a little before she turns away.
She doesn’t say a word to me. She simply turns away. getting up out of her seat to reach for a remote control.
The tv in my cell flashes images of a small town, rural America. My hometown. In the center of the frame is my home.
“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
The image sends me reeling back to the steel cot I float above for rest. Memories flood back, clear as day. Images and sounds sounds of the townsfolk fill my head. I can hear their lives.
“Why are you doing this?”
If I had tears I would cry. They’ve been doing this to me since I got here, showing me pictures of home as I rambled on about what I’d do when I got back there normal. She doesn’t look at me. Her body moves in heaves of sobs. I tell her over and over I just want to go home but she doesn’t look at me.
She tells me I don’t want this. She tells me I really don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t care. My resolve stands firm. I stare into her eyes and she stares back into the globes of light I see out of.
I only need the slightest crack and that’s it. I transubstantiate.
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is everywhere and no where. I materialize where the images have shown me for months. If I still breathed I would gasp. There’s no one; not a soul in town.
Tape marked “condemned” borders the town, directing all visitors away.
It isn’t until I approach my home that I realize what I’ve done. I’m flashing blue again but this time I can only be angry at myself. I’ve done something terrible. Something no human could ever cope with. A million little exploding stars cascade across my body, a million little lives.
”It was me...I did this. I am this.”
They call me Schrodinger. The man who is no-one and everyone.
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