Recursion

The man folded away his phone, his father's voice still echoing in his head. His hands trembled, but he knew what he was going to do. It was 2:30. He got off the bench and left the park.

He was dressed in an oddly formal way, his suit pressed and clean, a dark blue tie falling down his front. He carried a small briefcase with him, and if you'd asked him what was inside the briefcase, he would have smiled a little and shown it to you. There would be a sketchbook of buildings and details of doors, a few worn pencils, a slim laptop, a blueprint of a building he was working on. William was not young, the brownish-black hair people had admired in his youth was turning grey, and he was not as fit as he used to be. But he was not old, either. He had not the paunch of his father nor the saggy skin and varicose veins of his mother, and he could still do 40 laps at the pool.

He sat in the doctor's office, surrounded by machines that smelled of disinfectant and cleanliness, and frowned to himself. He glanced at his watch momentarily, the time reading as 4:47 in the afternoon. Outside the closed door, footsteps passed, growing louder and then softer, and muffled voices spoke in soft rhythm. The door opened then, and William caught a glimpse of the Doctor's assistant as the Doctor stepped into the room. The Doctor was poring over some papers held in his hand, and William looked at his watch again.

The Doctor asked him then, "You're sure about this, are you, William?" Gazed into his eyes with piercing intensity, trying to see the motives behind his request. The Doctor wouldn't understand, even if he tried to explain, anyway.
William said, "Yes, I'm sure." He wondered why he had never thought of this before.
"Because what you're about to do, there is no going back."
"I am aware of that." William's heart beat faster, excitement coursed through his body.
"Before we continue with this, protocol states I must interview you. Is that alright?"
William nodded his assent.

The Doctor took a seat in front of William and put on his spectacles. They were horn-rimmed and glistened faintly in the fluorescent light, as did the man's bald spot. William hoped that this would happen quickly.
"Now," the Doctor said, "Your full name?"
"William Edward Templeton."
"Have you any family members?
"No." His voice cracked slightly.
Sarah and the two children might be sitting down to tea now, perhaps laughing over a funny story about school that day. Sarah was beautiful when he had married her, and she still was with her creases. Laugh lines, they were. His children, angels. He missed them.
"Have you been under the influence of drugs or alcohol within the last 72 hours?"
"No, I have not." The watch read 4:56 now.
"Do you believe yourself to be in full control over your actions and words?" the Doctor flipped the paper over.
"Yes, I do." He had never been so sure. Not even when he told his father he would be doing architecture in college and not medicine, or when he had looked into her eyes and said I do, or when he last kissed his wife and told her he loved her.
"Sign here."
William grasped the pen and signed his name on the paper.

"Follow me, please," the Doctor said, getting up.
William nodded as the man held the door open for him, and they stepped out into the corridor.
"Anna, the black case in the safe, if you please," the Doctor called out.
They walked in silence, the doctor's steps quick and fast, scuffing the floor, William's slow and heavy.
The assistant opened a door in front of them, and motioned to a chair.
William sat and wondered how many had been there before him.

They strapped his arms and legs to the chair and set up an intravenous line out of his arm. The tube coiled and slithered on the floor. He had stopped paying attention to what they were saying. He smiled briefly and looked at his watch. 5:15. They took his temperature, and turned on their equipment. There was still 15 minutes left. He sank into the chair and closed his eyes. It was comfortable, and he let his mind drift. It would finally be over, and he could rest. Time could go and fuck itself. A coldness entered his veins and traveled swiftly to his heart. Life slowed to a crawl, but that hum, that hum turned into a roar and he heard it and he knew and he knew that it was no use that it was no use no matter how many times he tried to get away whether it was jumping or crashing or cutting or hitting or falling or waiting he knew that it was no use time would go backwards go backwards the 54 steps from the chair to the doctor's office the chair with the uneven legs bottom right corner he knew he knew the park the birds and leaves the family with the laughing child playing with the dog until until his father's voice sounding so broken and he knew what his father was going to say and he knew that the words would be,
"Sarah and the children are dead, William."

The man on the bench put away his phone, his father's voice still echoing in his head, and wept.
It was 2:30.