In Ascension

by Martin MacInnes

Everything turns on this moment. I’m convinced as he enters the room and looks towards me that he doesn’t know what he is doing. He has not decided on a course of action; he has arrived at my room for no purpose. He looks down at me, his eyes take in the scene. I’m sitting on the floor, my things spread on the carpet. When he opens his mouth he may do one of two things: breathe, or speak. It’s the second option that consumes me, the promise of revelation. The secret behind the universe. He looks round the room, surveys it, his first born, the clutter of her things spread haphazardly on the floor, and it’s too much for him – the memory of the first time he held me, how small I was in his arms, his own childhood and the terror induced by his father, my grandfather. As he looks at me, and the bewilderment in his eyes meets recognition in my own – this has happened before, an infinite number of times – the repetition is too much, and rather than speak, his open mouth inhales a quantity of oxygen. This feeds him. His colour changes. Invigorated, he leans his body fractionally, gaining further purchase before falling forward and bringing his right arm towards me in an arc. Still, at this point, I don’t realise what’s happening. Still, I think, he is coming forward to tell me something, to bring me a secret, to tell me what it all means, and even as my body is lifted off the ground, and my flight begins, there’s a delay. I don’t truly understand. I think it’s unreal, it’s part of...