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The Scientist and the Soldier had been friends ever since childhood. When they were young they would adventure along the crowded brooklyn streets, eyes wide to the wonder of humanity that surrounded them. Dirty people and animals, desolate alleys, all became wondrous sights as long as they were together. The Scientist was also an artist and drew the Soldier often. The Soldier would sit still for as long as he could, staring down at the sights below the Scientist’s apartment.
When the Scientist’s mother died they moved in together. There was a small apartment, a mattress on the floor, and a sketchbook dedicated to drawings of the Scientist’s mother’s face. They fell deeply into each other, the Scientist crying at night on the shoulder of the Soldier. Love was just a word, but it terrified them both.
The Scientist was sick. The Scientist was always sick, always small, always fragile, and it killed the Soldier. They just wanted a better life, a brighter life for both of them.
And then the war. The Scientist didn’t believe it first, didn’t want to. But the Soldier lived up to his name, entering the army before the draft forced him to. The Scientist would be alone.
For a while it all was alright, there were letters from the Soldier that spoke of the majesty of faraway lands. He swore the Scientist would love to draw the scenery, and that once the war was over he would take him there. The Scientist was sick and lonely in the present but he had hope that in the future his Soldier and him would be reunited and live together in peace.
Then the letters stopped. There was no word from his Soldier, and his illness was growing worse as the worry consumed him.
Then there was one final letter.
The Soldier was dead. The Scientist couldn’t believe it. The Scientist wouldn’t believe it. He took all of his money for medicine and all the money his mother left him and he moved from brooklyn to the countryside. He lived in an old drafty house that barely had electricity and running water. He drew images of his lost lover, his eyes and mouth and face. Often there were tears on his pages. He grew skinnier than he ever was before, and his face looked like that of a skeleton.
Finally the body of the Soldier was recovered and sent to the Scientist. He couldn’t bury him, he couldn’t let it go. He decided that it was too unfair for God to take away his love so he would have to be God himself. He started his plans.
He created a metal arm for his creation and hooked him up to the electricity of the house. One shock, and the Soldier was still cold and still. Two shocks, and the Soldier jerked once but laid silent. Three shocks, and finally the Soldier opened his eyes. He looked around dully, no idea as to where he was.
The Scientist came to him, calling his name and begging him to remember. Still, he did not. He looked around with the eyes of the Scientist’s lover, but this Soldier was not the same. He could not remember Brooklyn, he could not remember the Scientists mother, and he could not remember the Scientist at all.
This tore the Scientist apart but he would never let his creation know. No, he still broke bread with him, still laughed with him, and still drew him as if everything was the same. But there was a distance he would never cross, a void he could never heal, the chasm of death he could never undo.
So as the Soldier lay in the Scientist arms dully, with the faint memory of being there before, he drifted to sleep with no intention of waking up. For as the Scientist could play at God he could truly never be him. And everything must go.