In the later parts of this story, the name John Crowrift seems poised to bring me trouble, and I'm well aware of it. It's obvious things are about to spiral… Before stringing together all this nonsense, I think I should pause, slow the pace, and add at least a little drama to the plot. After all, 'Drama is bread…', right?
I've mentioned many times that I've lost my memory, but despite losing my general recollections, I could still remember my youth with some clarity. When I asked José if this was possible, he said there was no reason it couldn't be. The strange part, though, was that while memories from my youth swirled in my mind, I couldn't recall any names from those memories—not my mother's, father's, robot dog's, or even my own. The memories themselves weren't exactly vivid, either. They felt like sketches drawn with a faded pastel pencil by an overly surrealist artist.
In one of my memories, I'm playing with my robot dog in our backyard. As I said, I can't remember the name I gave it. I only recall how it loved to bounce around with its metal body, had a gasoline-scented tongue, and how it had to stop by its kennel before fetching the ball I threw. My dad kept saying this was a software glitch and that we could fix it, but I'd grown to know and accept my dog friend this way. I could've swapped it for a more realistic, nicer dog, but I didn't want to. I knew if I didn't play with this robot dog, it'd end up as scrap metal—and my conscience wouldn't allow my friend to be scrapped.
Back then, I was around 8 years old. The sky was cloudless. Every now and then, spaceships lifting off from Earth rose like firework trails into the sky. As a giant billboard floated overhead, I sat clutching my robot dog. I stroked my friend's metal tail and let its metal tongue lick me.
Lying on the artificial grass, I remember hearing my sick mother's painful coughs. Yes… Back then, she was fighting a deadly illness that medical science couldn't solve. This disease had begun in 2330, when Australia was hit by a Virus Bomb launched by China before the 4th World War.
Of course, my father could have demanded my Australian mother's genetic profile before marrying her, checked it, and ensured her recovery. But my old-fashioned father believed in love—the kind from ancient human novels. He'd surrendered to that romance, marrying her without a flicker of doubt.
Startled by my mother's coughing fits, I stood up. I remember peering through the house window as my robot dog barked at me. There was a stone beneath my foot, yet I still had to rise onto my toes to see inside. My metal companion kept nudging my leg, and I silently signaled it to hush.
My sickly mother writhed in pain on her bed, a medical robot hovering over her. My father—clad in his military uniform studded with medals—stood rigidly, clutching his hat to his chest as he watched her suffer. He must've heard the barking. He turned to the window, and our eyes met. I jerked backward, fighting the urge to bolt from the fury blazing in his blood-red gaze.
It was the first time I'd seen my father cry. A man who'd spent ten years in space under the Supreme world Union's command, fought brutal wars against space pirates, space cults, and aliens, and lost hundreds of soldiers—I saw him weep for the first time.
My mother's bed trembled incessantly. Her screams of agony teetered on the edge of ear-piercing intensity. No human could endure such relentless, pain-drenched cries. Had her arms not been shackled to the bed, she would have hurled herself to the floor and torn herself apart in anguish. Half her body was mottled with purple lesions, her blotched skin resembling rotting flesh. As one of her eyes bulged grotesquely from its socket, her glass pod slowly sealed shut, filling with white vapor. While the pod clouded over, her silhouette—thrashing in torment—faded gradually into a ghostly blur.
Believe it or not? Recalling this now, I remember clearer. That day was my mother's death. When she died, I was in the yard with my dog. For some reason, my father hadn't wanted me by her side. What was he thinking? He surely believed he was sparing me. Yet, remembering this, I'm devoured by regret—never holding her hand one last time.
I remember my father coming to me and placing his hand on my shoulder as robots carried my mother's body to the flying ambulance. While i was crying, he tried to comfort me by saying:
'Your mother was a remarkable woman, son…'
'I'm the only kid who lost their mom, Dad. I don't know what to do.'
'Yes… I know this is a painful experience, son. But you must understand—the disease that killed your mother wasn't just a virus. It was war, the only plague humanity hasn't cured in centuries. That's why you must become a soldier, son. A greater soldier than I ever was. One who can save humanity from this sickness… So other children don't lose their mothers too…'
That day, my father decided I'd be a soldier, heaping that burden onto my shoulders like a weight no child could bear. I was around eight years old when I lost her. I can't recall how I went from wanting to be a soldier then to becoming an inspector now. Maybe time will jog my memory.
If there's one clear thing I remember about that day, it's my rage toward my father. Not for saddling me with that burden—but for never telling me how to escape it. And for my absence in her final moments…