The alarm rang. The constant beeping of morning hours. It rang. The man shifted in his sleep. The pulsing was persistent, perpetual, continuous, ceaseless, round-the-clock. It went off. Faster and faster. He shot straight out of bed, clutching a knife in his hand. He was back. For a moment he was in paradise. He was there. The sun was shining brightly. The weather was warm. He was there only for a fleeting moment, and then he was back awake, back to reality.

        He methodically stripped off his night clothing. He went to the shower. Set the timer. Wash top to bottom. Every inch must be clean. Then you rinse. Then time to shave. Long strokes. Left side, right side, center. Rinse. Then your teeth. Circular motion. Upper left, upper center, upper right. Lower right, lower center, lower right. Spit. Rinse. Timer went off. Ten minutes on the spot. Back into the room. Dress. No wrinkles, center of shirt lines up with belt buckle, collar down and buttoned.

        He went into his wife's room. Woke her up. Then his son's room. Woke him up. Then to the kitchen. Prep the utensils. Clean again for good measure. Oil the pan. Place the ingredients in order of usage. Measure out the correct amount. Then it was time to cook. Each ingredient worked together, combined to make a meal that was suited for three. Then it went out of the pan, and onto the plate. He ate his meal hastily and with purpose. He grabbed a bottle of water, took a swig, and headed out the door.

        The keys to his car hung on a peg in the garage. He placed the key into the door, and opened it. Get in the car. Situate yourself. Click the seatbelt on. Shut the door. Place the key in the ignition. Turn and start. Open the garage door. Back out. Check both ways. Pull out onto the road. Change the radio channel. Drive to work. It was the same schedule. Always the same. The same route to work, the same radio channel, the same parking spot. Never changing.

        He walked into the building he worked at. When he was a kid, it was his dream job. He was an anchorman. He sat at a table for most of the morning, and talked about events that were happening. People came up to him, and gave him different stuff. Some peppered his face with makeup, others talked in his ear about stuff to mention, and some were fans just wanting to be on television. It was all just busy work. It drained him.

        It wasn't nearly as fun being on television as it seemed when he was a child. First off, none of the news was ever good. Every now and then, there would be something good that happened. Most of the time though, there were fires, earthquakes, hurricanes, heat waves, below zero temps, riots, country takeovers, etc. Secondly, he reported the way he wanted. He didn't lean to one side or the other. He just told the news as it should. He received plenty of backlash for that. Politics was a ruling force in the news nation, and he actively went against it.

        Finally, he was done, at least for the moment. The news was told, and he could go to his office. He went through reports that were on his desk. Murder, missing, building collapse. He wished there was more uplifting news. He hated going out on television, and giving the people bad news. He was the only one that did. The other outlets covered things up. The other outlets provided fake news. The other outlets were all corrupt.

        "Sir, breaking news. Rampaging fire out in the southwest. No mention in the other outlets. Do you want to air this?" a reporter asked him. He took a breath, and nodded his head with a yes.

        "Alright, story is a go! We air in five! Hopefully nothing interesting is happening on the channels, because we are interrupting them all. GO GO GO!" the producer yelled, and the office sprung to life. He was rushed to his chair, the lights were turned on, and the cameras were pointed to him. The camera man gave him the signal, and he talked. He looked straight into the darkness of the camera, put on his serious yet welcoming face, and told the news.

        Hours passed. He did three scheduled shows, and two emergency broadcasts. Then it was time to go home. Back to his car, back in the seatbelt. Check both ways, pull out onto the road. Turn on the radio, change channel for the evening. Take a different route home. The view was nice. The sun was starting to set. The colors were beautiful. He stopped at an ice cream shop. Bought a tub to go. Then he made it home. Pulled into the garage. Shut the door. Put the key on the peg. Went inside.

        "Jack's home," his son muttered.

        "Don't call your father by his first name," his wife said. He just ignored the comment, and sat in his lounge chair. Grabbed the remote at his side. Turned on his television. News, switch. News, switch. Five to six channels, all news. Then he found a channel that wasn't the news. Some car channel. Nothing he really knew about, but something he could enjoy without hearing the fake anchors.

        "Are you hungry?" his wife asked him, holding a plate. He grabbed the plate and quietly thanked her. After an hour or so of relaxation, he shut off his television. He went to his son's room. The boy laid on his bed, talking on his phone while playing a game. He didn't even glimpse up at his father. He went to his wife's room. She was asleep with a book at her side. He gave her a quick kiss, and turned off her light.

        Then he went to his own room. Took off all his clothing. Took a shower. Brushed his teeth. Got in his pajamas. Lied in his bed. Set his alarm. Went to sleep. Then it was morning once more. Waking up from paradise. All the morning activities. The drive. His job. The drive home. The television. Then bed once more. Over and over and over and over again. Day after day. He lived. He lived life. His life was a battle. It was a battle of normalcy. It was a battle of reality.

        Jack Graves. The famous anchorman. He hanged himself at the age of fifty-five. He left in the world one Sofia Graves, and one Hudson Graves. He never was abusive. He never seemed depressed. He worked all his life. He gave the people what they really wanted. He gave them the truth. Even after his death his work was funded. His news station started to broadcast across the entire world. That was the true start to Hudson Enterprises.

        His paradise was a strange paradise. His paradise was before he realized how screwed the world really was. Before he lived in a world of uncertainty and craziness. Before he learned that everything and everyone had the capacity for evil. He used to fight evil. He used to be justice. He used to be freedom. He used to live in a world where he didn't have to make the hard choices. He used to see all the wrong choices.

        Now he is dead. Is he free? Is he truly free? That is the thing about death. No one knows what comes after. We can all speculate on what happens. We create things to comfort us, things to tell ourselves. Create religion. Create a paradise after death. We hope that is the truth. Perhaps it is. All we know is that no one truly comes back after death. That is what scares us. That is where the truth is. Life is just a war. The enemy is death, it is the unknown. The battle is seeing who can last the longest.

        "Your father is dead." That's all they would tell him. He wanted to go into his father's room. He wanted to see what happened. They wouldn't even let him near the door. His mother sobbed in her room. He didn't know why they had separate rooms. He never asked. He didn't care. He never liked his father. His father was there, but he was absent at the same time. His father tried his best to try to get to know his son. Hudson never cared enough.

        Weeks passed, and they held a funeral. It was rather large. People from all around came to pay their respects. They all told him how they appreciated the work his father did. How he had saved lives with his reporting. Family members and friends told all his stories. He was the last one standing at his funeral. In his hands, he held a book. It was a book about love. He had been studying. He placed the book down.

        "I will do everything in my power to figure out why. Why do people want to die? What was really going on in your head?" he asked the tombstone. Then he walked away. Others left gifts at the grave. His favorite bottle of whiskey. Flowers of all kinds. Cards, letters, etc. Hudson didn't come back for many years. Then, one day:

        "Here we are sir," Andrew said.

        "Are you sure this is the place?" he asked.

        "Positive. His grave is up ahead."

        "Bring me to it." The car door opened, and the wheelchair was taken out. The boy, now a frail man, was placed into it. Then he was wheeled up the hill to the grave.

        "Hello father. I have done it. I became powerful. I've unlocked many minds. I've seen the memories of our ancestors. I haven't seen yours yet. I want to. I want to know why you didn't love us. I was going to see them when I first made the machine. I changed my mind. I told myself that when I was close to death, I would find out why you wanted to die. Now is that time. I just wanted to pay my respects before I invaded your mind," he said. Then he spat at the foot of the grave.

        "Are you ready to leave sir?"

        "Yes. Leave something from the car at the grave. I have a pack of cigars in the glovebox. He wasn't a smoker in life, but perhaps he can start in death," Hudson said. Then he left.