I walked into the Men's room with a lot on my mind, but business, as they say, comes first: I HAD to take a piss like a rushin' race horse. I went straight to a urinal and relieved myself in the silence and under the bright light of the hospital bathroom. As I zipped up I reached for the urinal's flush handle and had to stop myself from going back into Normal Time at the last second- if I'd gone back, I would've left my daughter and the doctor working on my wife in a perpetual state of nothingness, forgotten to Time completely. I pulled my hand from the lever slowly, scared of how easily I'd almost lost two innocent lives in an activity as mundane as flushing a urinal. I made my way over to the sinks and groped the faucet taps in the hopes of getting just enough water droplets to at least marginally wet and wash my hands. Luckly, one of the faucets was a bit leaky and had enough residual water dripping in a small trickle for me to interrupt its flow and wash up. There was precious little water, though, and I didn't waste it. Once my hands were sufficiently doused, I brought the remaining droplets to my face and enjoyed the coolness of it. Bringing my hands away from my face, I looked at myself in the mirror.
It occurs to me now that I have not yet described myself or even properly introduced myself. My name is John Paul Baker. I'm a caucasian man, thirty-eight years of age and have only a light amount of gray in an otherwise brown, full head of hair. No wrinkles on my face as yet, which gives me a rather youthful appearance despite my age, help to give me a somewhat handsome look- and I'm not being egotistical in that estimation, either. I've seen women as young as my own daughter give me appraising glances over the years, which does wonders for my confidence. I wouldn't say that I am an Adonis among men, but I do have a healthy and well-toned body that I have worked hard to maintain in my thirties. In my younger years I was all skin and bones and only until I got married did I really start to fill out. Standing at just barely over five feet and eleven inches tall, I have a fairly easy-going look about me which makes it easy for me to make friends and avoid enemies. Having a loving wife, a good job and an active daughter have all conspired to keep me in good shape and, for that, I can honestly say that I'm one lucky son of a bitch. All in all, I'm the guy you'd never really take notice of but, when you do, you'll decide that I'm an okay chap who isn't a threat to anyone. Likeable, modest and just a touch above average in almost every regard.
I stared back at myself in the mirror, noting that dark bags were beginning to develop under them. I was tired, stressed and in desperate need of some peace right then. Or perhaps it was the bright lights. As tired as I looked, I didn't really feel it just yet. I gazed at my slate-gray eyes, looking for anything there, in the reflection, which might give me an idea of where all of this was headed. So many incredible things had occured that night and I was at a loss for what to do about any of them just then.
First, there was the matter of my wife. If I was to be perfectly honest with myself, I'd have to say that I wasn't too terribly worried about Sarah's survival at that point. I recalled the damage which had been done to her and decided that it probably wasn't as bad as it seemed at first. She was shot just below her right shoulder, which probably meant that no vital organs had been injured. She was in the care of a doctor who saw these kinds of wounds probably on a fairly frequent basis- I had absolute faith that he would be able to fix her up just fine. I was definitely concerned that she was hurt, but I'm sure that she would recover just fine with enough time and care.
Second, there was the matter of my daughter and her confession. I'd had sex with her, without her consent or knowledge, and now she knew it. I'd carried the burden of guilt for weeks after that incident, perpetually caught between wanting to do it again and feeling like a dirty bastard for having done it in the first place, let alone wanting to again. Just when I'd almost gotten to the point where I could live with the guilt, she came along and absolved me of it entirely. What's more, she plainly stated a desire to indulge in sexual relations with me as an active participant. How in the world did my smart, strong, beautiful, normal, athletic daughter become so... deviant? When did that happen? Surely, before she was 16, if she was to be believed. And how could I have not noticed, after all these years of knowing her so well, that she secretly had a crush on her own father? Either I didn't know my daughter half as well as I thought or she was simply damned good at masking her feelings. Considering the rigors of competition in the field of athletics, I'm willing to bet that she was just good at hiding it- she was certainly good at hiding her disappointment when she lost against an opponent on the soccer field. But that still didn't resolve anything for me, did it? Asking these questions about my daughter weren't going to get me anywhere. I needed to ask questions about myself. I needed to know, definitively, if I felt strong enough, on an emotional level, to agree to my daughter's desires. At the bottom line was the fact that I could hide just about anything from the outside world and even from my wife, now that I could go Between at will. The real question to ask was: given the opportunity, would I WANT to have sex with Kelly again?
And the answer to that question is, simply put, "yes." If I was having qualms and doubts about the whole idea, then that meant that, deep down, I wanted to and I was merely in conflict with morals vs. desire. With a world frozen and completely unaware of what I do, morals tend to go out the window and, let's face it, while I have a strong and ardent belief in God's existence, I was never really a religious man. It's just me and her and no one else is around to really judge us. As a red-blooded male I couldn't deny the fact that Kelly was one extremely attractive young woman. Despite, and possibly because of, her love for soccer, her body was perfectly built for sex. Short body, full lips, large C-cup breasts, trim waistline, well-toned arms and stomach, sexy hips, small and tight ass... that whole package sitting under a beautiful, youthful face which was framed by wavy, sandy blonde hair made for the "perfect 10." Guys had been coming around our house for years, since she was 15, to try and gain her interest. She dated a few of them, but mostly shot them down. She's admitted to having slept with some of them, but never really seemed that interested in the boys themselves. I always got the impression that, to her, boys were merely a means to an end. And her end was to gain sexual experience from them and nothing else. She had a fiercely independent streak within her nature, so reliance on boys for anything other than sex, frankly, was a waste of her time. And then I came to realize that all of the sexual experience she'd gotten with those boys was in preparation for her seduction of me. She'd invested a lot of time and effort into making herself so unbelievably perfect in my eyes that I couldn't help but notice and be attracted to her, father or not. Did I really have it in me to deny her, to refuse her? I found that I did not. So, to hell with it (and probably with me, too). If my own daughter wants me sexually, she will get me. It was just a matter of the How, the Where and the When.
Third, there was the matter of having revealed my secret to Kelly. When you come right down to it, I didn't really NEED my daughter's help in getting Sarah to the hospital that night. I could've managed it on my own. And yet, there I was, dragging her into my secret world, showing her its mysteries and including her in my adventures. Even if she hadn't figured out what happened in that bathroom weeks before, if I'd done it again, she'd have figured it out soon enough. Could I trust her to keep my secret safe from others? She's a teenage girl, regardless of how smart or amazing she was in her own right. Was I absolutely certain that I could trust her to not talk to anyone about what I can do? I mean, I hadn't even told my wife, the woman I swore my life to. And I was still learning about what is and is not possible in the Between. Was bringing my daughter along for the ride really such a good idea? What would I do if she got hurt or, worse, lost?
But Kelly had been spot-on when she said that I wanted to have someone I could share these experiences with. For better or for worse, I now had a companion of sorts. No, she didn't have to go with me on every trip, but now I could tell her about them and not feel so... alone about it. Now I could share something truly miraculous with another living human being instead of keeping it all to myself. And, really, what good is a gift if you can't share it with others, right? So, okay, I guess I could live with the fact that my daughter now knew of what I could do. I'd have to rely on her ability to keep that secret, though. But, now that I thought about it, maybe I wouldn't have to worry so much. After all, if she betrayed me and somehow exposed my secret to the outside world, she wouldn't be able to indulge in her own secret fantasies, would she? No indeed. Perhaps, on that merit alone, she and I could manage a delicate balance as each others' secret-keeper.
That doctor, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. Kelly may be right in thinking that no one in the world would believe him if he tried to talk about tonight's experiences, but that wasn't ironclad. He may trip over the right kind of gullible person who might seek me out and expose me. Or he might seek me out on his own, trying to get me to work "miracles." Perhaps having a pointed conversation with him about possible consequences of betrayal would be in order, after Sarah was fixed up. I could imagine a few dozen ways to destroy him, both figuratively and literally, if he put me and my family in jeopardy. As much as I loathed the idea, I also could just short-circuit the whole issue by "losing" him the same way I did those robbers. Killing those animals was a public service; killing Doctor Washburn would be out-and-out murder, no two ways about it. No, I'd have to convince him to keep his mouth shut using coersion rather than intimidation or violence. Besides, it'd be pretty fucking rude for me to kill the man who had helped me in a time of desperate need.
I looked at myself in that mirror for a long time as I had these thoughts and, feeling like I'd made some progress, I did a quick survey of my appearance. Mercifully, none of Sarah's blood had gotten onto my clothing. My button-down shirt and jeans were as pristinely clean as they'd been when I put them on earlier that evening. And, to the best of my knowledge, Kelly's clothing was just as clean. I looked tired and worn out, but otherwise okay. I gave my reflection a curt nod and left the Men's room to go outside for some fresh air and a cigarette. As I walked through the lobby I checked on my daughter and was glad to see that she'd curled up on the chairs to get a nap. She looked so peaceful and angelic as she quietly snoozed there, waiting either for me or Doctor Washburn to wake her. As much as I'd been through that evening, I guess she'd been through a lot more. After all, it's not every day that your mother gets shot, your time-stopping father turns into a vigilante and you learn that your own father, who you'd been secretly lusting after, had raped you. Having to move your just-shot mother through the streets of a frozen world is probably somewhat taxing on the mind, too. But, somehow, she managed to stay cool under all the pressure and just roll with the situation. I'd already admitted to my lust for her, but the pride that I felt for my daughter that night easily eclipsed any perverted idea that could have crossed my mind. She really had made me proud to have her as a daughter and, now, as a companion in the world Between. I smiled lovingly at her, took a deep, refreshing breath and then went outside to have a much-needed smoke.
