The Fall of August

By Savannah Oldham

If you could go back in time and resolve any regret that held a constant residence in your mind, would you do it?

August turned these words over and over again in his mind. Undoubtedly, the answer for almost anyone would be yes. But there was a follow-up question he thought worth considering: Would it make you any happier than you are now if you had? At first, his answer would’ve again been yes. But now he wasn’t so sure.

The walls, ceiling, and floor shimmered with mirrors. But they didn’t reflect the world before them: They reflected the memories that washed up on the hostile shores of remorse. Memories he rendered into something commensurate to a fanatical covet for perfection. The right words said instead of the wrong ones, a wife that now never left, irredeemable relations mended, unsaid goodbyes reversed, apologies offered—everything sang like a symphony of chaos. Memories that once provoked nothing but a charged and crushing pain now wore the face of the most beautiful masterpiece.

Yet despite all this, August sat surrounded by the remedied pieces of his life with swelling despair.

I have achieved perfection. Something most people reach for their whole lives but never grasp. Something that remains untouchable for everyone as a divine ideal. Now I have it. So why do I feel like this? he thought.

The door opened behind him, but August didn’t have to look to know who it was. Upon meeting him, anything one might notice about people during first impressions would swiftly perish. The pronounced contradiction of his appearance played tricks on the eyes: one would see a man full of early youth equal to one full of nothing but the frail whispers of old age. They would see a man unfettered by time’s great influence.

He sat opposite August, tapping his cane on the floor.

“How are you?” the man asked.

August shook his head with a thin, raspy sigh.

The man gave a consoling smile. “Cloud nine, hmm?”

“Yeah, I’m beaming.” He pressed his face into his hand. “Ancient perfect history; that’s all I am. You know, I had more to live for when my life was still a wreck. At least I had a future. Or something close to one, anyway.”

The man nodded. “There was a fellow I met once a few years ago. He asked such interesting questions. Have I told you about him?”

August shook his head.

“I remember he asked me once: ‘How can one’s history define their future?’ I said it’s a trick question because it depends entirely on the person. The variables are infinite. But he shook his head and said: ‘The past is for our trials, and the future is for us to reap a trial’s reward.’ Still, I told him the answer was no good, that it was too vague. He said: ‘Exactly. It’s a flawed conclusion because it’s frankly more of a question. It has holes, and it isn’t my job to fill them. It’s yours.’” The man stood and straightened his coat. He set his cane against the backrest of August’s chair. “Think about it,” he said and made his way toward the door.

August’s gaze drifted inward. The formidable gloom that once dominated his young countenance began to wither.

“Goodbye, Time,” August said.

Time paused. A secret smile, privy to the purpose of this farewell, flashed across his face.

“And to you, old friend,” Time said, leaving the door open behind him.

August stood before the three tallest mirrors in the room. Three versions of himself stared back at him: a ten-year-old child on his right and an old man on his left. Both wore smiles of imperishable joy. He looked down at the child. Shreds of the true memory surfaced as tears reddened the boy’s eyes. His gaze turned to the old man, but his smile never faded. And in the middle mirror, the tallest of the three, he saw only himself and all the echoes of a tarnished past and enigmatic destiny. August grabbed Time’s cane, holding it tightly with both hands. He rooted his feet and hurled it into the mirrors. They shattered like brittle leaves returning to the soil of the past.