My father died in the towers. I am the one who killed him.

He was hanging. One eye was gone. Enough gray and smoke and glass to drown in. Like breathing wet razors. I smacked his hands with my lunchbox. One of those old metal ones. It was a little rusty and dented. I do not know for sure how old I was. Everything and time are mixed like gore and concrete.

My father yelped in a funny way with every clank of metal hitting flesh and bone. He made a face. He said my name. I smacked him again. Then he let go and I watched him jump away from me. His body became a smudgy blot. My father the speck. My father the dustrise of gray. I can see his human stain with the eyes inside my brain.

That is why I am writing this. But I am not really writing. It is more like unwriting. I am using a machine. I do not type. I am not allowed a computer or the internet. The machine records me as I speak. Transcribes the words as I speak them. In the way I speak them. There will be a written transcript she says. I say leave out the punctuation. My words will sound more like me that way. We compromise. She will include periods only. She will put them where she thinks they sound like me. Periods are fine I tell her. They will be like tiny people singed and fallen on the page.

It was Mrs. Attaboy. Mrs. Attaboy did it. No. Something else. Something with Son not Boy. Attason. She piloted the plane into the building. My father and I acted like we had more days left. We did not know it was only minutes. Maybe it was. Attaboy.

When a person dies. Does he sense it. Is there a sign. Before the heart attack. Before the accident. Before the terrorists fly into your building.

The roaring planes. Maybe that was the sign.

My father is dead and I am going to try to make it up to him. I live things over and over and over. I cannot let go even if that is exactly what I did.

It was her idea to communicate my broken thoughts this way. I see her reasoning. She is hoping for catharsis.

I tell her life is a contraction. It is a falling in. Every day you fold in upon yourself. Collapse upon yourself a little bit more until you disappear like a star. Or buildings filled with nothingness. We contract and we contract and we contract growing smallsmallersmallest. Specks.

When I walk to the machine my OCD kicks in. I press the on button with my right hand. I adjust the volume knob with my left. I pat the machine on its left side with my right hand. I pat the machine on its right side with my left hand. I sit in the chair. I stamp my right foot. I put my elbows on the table. I cough. Always twice. I say lifeisgood lifeisgood lifeisgood before I begin.

I live things over. Even when I am asleep. I cannot get away from myself. This is what I am. I speak at times in the clipped rhythm of quick scissor cuts.

I never saw it coming. In reverse I see it coming. It is easiest then. Except. Living backwards does not prepare one for the reality of living forward. Unwriting is not unliving. But my doctor says I should try. Maybe this way we can fix me. I need fixing.

Why do you live things over she asks.

I do not know I say. I do not know.

Why do you do this to yourself she asks.

I do not know I say. I do not know.

Can you not let go of the past she asks.

I do not know I say. I do not know.

Brilliant exchange.

I think I went a little crazy. It just did not show up until later. Maybe I have a predisposition for crazy. Maybe I am the kind who eats his own anger. If given enough time to be crazy in. I act like losing a father is not normal. I lost him. I find keys and change and condoms. But not my father. Not everyone kills a father. Like Oedipus.

We went up. We struggled to get there. Stairwells were like bridges. I wanted a hamburger. French fries. There were hot gobs of gray everywhere. I saw them bubbling. People fragments. You stepped in them. Trying to escape the smoke and the fire and the hell. Breathing was like lots of needles in your chest. He climbed out a window onto the ledge. But he slipped and grabbed a piece of building. He looked at me with one eye. He said Quinn. Son.

I do not remember what happened next but I know I killed him. I loved my father. But I killed him anyway.

That is impossible she says.

Maybe I reply. But it happened that way. 

I am like this room. There is a bed and a table and a chair. There are books. I read a lot. The machine that records me is on the table. There is a bathroom. I am not locked in except at night. I can walk out anytime I want. There are others. I can hear them at night. The walls are bare except for a painting of a beach. Of sand and shore and water. Two little kids are digging up the wet sand with little shovels and a yellow bucket. One is a boy. One is a girl. Brother and sister. I think.

I had a sister. Or I have a sister. Which does not make sense to me. It is like the cat in the box. She is fourteen now. Or eighteen. Or maybe she is five or six. Time does not move north to south or south to north for me. It does not move at all. Or it moves backwards and forwards and backwards again. Or it is random. Like death.

I swallowed pills because I decided to be dead. Then I called Nineleven. It used to be Nineoneone. But I was calling Nineleven. Nineleven is the first word of the century. We know what it means. No one needs context.

I called Nineleven because I changed my mind. Just like that. Can you come save me please. I said. I do not want to die anymore. I said it just like that. The Nineleven operator understood. She stayed on the phone with me until help arrived.

My father could not be helped. I smacked his hands with my lunch box. I was leaning over. The broken glass cut my stomach. I was leaning over. I was graying. My feet could not touch the floor. My doctor knows. I told her. My father was killed when I hit his hands and made him let go.

It was not the planes. It was not the flames. It was not the buildings. It was not the terrorists. It was me. I did it. Sorry Dad. I love you anyway. Sons will do that. Murder their fathers in the end.

 No Quinn she says it was not you.

Yes I say it was. Once I stuck my tongue out at her. She says I did not kill my father. That I am making everything up because of my precarious mental state. What a thing to say. She was not there.

I wonder what we used to say before we said Nineleven. Before it became a noun.

She is hoping my words might elicit a breakthrough. An epiphany. I agree with her. Let words thrive I say. I do not know what to say next. But I trust her.

Yes. Quinn is my name. Quentin. My little sister could not say Quentin. She would say Quinn. I loved my little sister. I loved my family but I cannot find them. I wonder if my father knew he was about to die.

I did not used to think like this. I am the product of abbreviated language. I used to think like everyone else. Now I think like a different person.

The other day the doctor told me to make a list of everything that scares me. I did because I am trying to be more cooperative. But I could not finish. The list was getting too long.

I do not know how old I am. I have lost time. How long has it been. I was an age when my father died. The metal lunchbox is the clue. The handle broke. It was old and dented. It had belonged to my father from when he was a child. It had the monster family on the front and back. From TV. Maybe I am in pause mode. How long is a pause. When life is paused how long does the pause last.

I remember saying my father died on Nineleven. I was nine or eleven. Under psychiatric care.

I let go of his hand. He looked at me with a twisted eye. He said Quinn. Something terrible has happened. Then he jumped. Gray trailing from his torn face. It was a long way down. The lunchbox followed him. It turned into a shadow too. A speck.

I saw it on TV. My head was bandaged. My face was covered. But not my eyes. I had tubes in me. I was broken. I was only a piece of flesh. I needed fixing. There was gray and pus and pain and so much of everything else. I saw it on the news. The planes hit the towers. The theme was Death of Fathers.

Mrs. Attason was to blame. Attaboy.

No the doctor says. Her name was Mrs. Addison. It was in the police report. It was an accident. That is why the word Accident exists. When something happens that is not on purpose. My father was killed. I survived.

I was there. I saw it happen. Mrs. Attason was the pilot. Next to her was the terrorist. His name was the name of the prophet or the boxer. I saw it. I heard it. It was loudlouderloudest. It crashed through the window. It made things catch fire. There were explosions. There was steel glass gray. His head smashed the windshield. His face was sheared off. Gray covered everything. Quinn. Something terrible. Has happened.

I saw Mrs. Attason in the flames. The towers were coming down. My father was one of them. One of the towers. All I wanted was a hamburger. On Nineleven.

Pause.

I wish I could call Nineleven. Again. For help. For erasure of impending doom.

The jumpers jumped to their splattered deaths. I saw it on television. Then I saw it on the internet when I was allowed. I saw a lot. The bodies made terrible noises when they hit the ground. My father might be the one who looks like an arrow pointing down. There is a famous picture. I jumped through the smoke and the fire. I wanted to die in the fresh air. In the light of day. In front of everyone. Out in the open. Where everyone could see me. I wanted to fly. I tumbled down.

I had a vision of a fat man floating in the air with balloons. His fat little legs pedaling in the air yelling I will save you I will save you. He reached out his pudgy hand to me. But I said no thank you mister balloon man I have a date with something greater. You see that pavement down there. That has my name on it. Besides. I want to follow my father. But he pulled me away just the same.

My father died on Nineleven. They say I went a little crazy. I did not think that. I did not hate my father.

I live things over. Defense mechanism she says. Hoping for a different ending.

Mrs. Attason was an old lady. She had white hair. She was driving the airplane when it veered toward my father. Toward us. The doctor says I have my details mixed up. I say that is impossible. I ask what happens to the names of those who died on Nineleven. Are they remembered. Will they be remembered. Should they not be remembered.

I do not know for sure how old I was. I am older now. Much older. My doctor says I suffer from a condition called. Something.

I am old enough to know better. I am old enough to understand the facts. But I cannot help it.

That is what I do. Live things over enough and. Maybe. Things begin to change.

I saw everything on TV. I saw everything when the nurses forgot about me. All the televisions were on. They watched and they cried and they were afraid.

If I did not insist. But I did. And we went to the towers instead. For hamburgers. There were balloons in the back seat. Balloons for my mother. It was her birthday even though she was too old for them. Flowers too. We took the highway and ended up in the towers. Though we did not live there. I wanted to order the big hamburger with French fries and soda.

They have a memorial there. I have been told. I ask if my name is there. But only the names of the dead are there. I ask if the name of my father is there. He is dead. He died on Nineleven. He should be there too then.

I did not get a feeling he was going to die. You should get a feeling when someone you love is going to die. I did not get a feeling.

I came back. Like Lazarus. I keep coming back. How many more times will I come back.

My father was relative. He was everything. Until he no longer was anything. Mrs. Attason was driving her car.

Calling Nineleven. There has been an accident.

The doctor tells me to focus. Focus.

I wanted a hamburger.

Focus.

I am stopping my ears. The sky was blue. So blue.

Focus Quinn she says.

Calling Nineleven please. My name is Quinn. This is an emergency.

Focus Quinn please.

I pledge allegiance.

Quinn.

To the flag.

Focus.

Of the United States.

Quinn she screamed.

Mrs. Attason and her car. We were on our way. I wanted a hamburger. Something terrible. Had already happened. Earlier. In the morning. Before the second terrible thing happened. My father never saw her coming. We never saw it coming.

What about the others. Did any of them see it coming. How many died that day.

Then the towers fell. Or they fell earlier. The doctor says that part is true. His death keeps happening. His death keeps happening. I turn another screw.

Focus Quinn she says.

My lunchbox. I lost it. The handle broke. The monster family fell away. He fell away.

Many people have died. He said. We must remember to love each other. We must remember to hold each other. We must remember life is short and. To love to love to love to. 

Will there be more Dad. I wanted to ask him. Is the dying over for today.

I take a breath.

There were tears in his eyes and he looked at me as we entered the highway on our way to the hamburger place because that is what I wanted and my dad always wanted what I wanted because he loved me and he was the best dad in the world and there were tears in his eyes and he said Quinn something terrible has happened something really really awful and just then Mrs. Attason struck.

And the face of my father exploded.

Focus Quinn she says.

I saw gray and glass and brain and bone and gray and steel and skin and gray and a fat policeman with panicked eyes reaching out to me and sirens and and and. No no no. Do not save me. The pavement has my name on it. Please. Let me die too. I thought that later. In reverse. In my head.

The fat man pulled me away and the balloons for my mother exploded. They were loud. There were sirens. And the flowers disappeared. And my lunchbox disappeared. I was holding its broken handle. The car was scrunched in and he was scrunched smaller against the wheel. The roof was on his head. I was crying. My head was hurting and my eyes could not see straight. But he could. He was staring right at me. From one eye but not the other because half his face was gone. It had exploded. I could see inside him. I could see his gray. There was no red anymore. I grabbed his hand but the policeman was pulling me away and I did not want to be pulled away but he said I was very hurt and the car might become another plane and he pulled me out and my father jumped away from me and I let go screaming screaming screaming.

What were you doing when my father died.

Of course you remember. Everyone does. You saw it on TV. In black and white. When the colors ran out. When the gray covered the sky. The nurses and doctors did too. And the other patients. Everyone saw. For days and weeks and months while I was in the hospital. I watched because others were watching.

You remember.

And now. My dad is remembered. Because everyone remembers that day. The day my father died.

Mom asked him to pick me up from school. All the kids were being picked up from school by frightened mothers and fathers. We were excited because school was not school anymore. We did not understand. That a terrible thing had happened. My dad hugged me for a long time. And we decided to buy hamburgers and French fries because I was hungry and my dad gave in even though he said Mom wanted us home as soon as possible. She wanted us home. It was her birthday. She wanted to hold us.

Mrs. Attason died too. Her name should be inside the memorial. All because I wanted hamburgers and fries.

I am older now. Much older. My doctor says it was not my fault.

I take a breath.

She says Quinn your father did not die in the towers. Your father died in a car accident. On Nineleven.

I ask her again what is the difference.