Chapter Eight: Desperation Unfolding
769 Words
Yes, come in, Ms. Janet. I want to know if you see this too. The ashes… Do you see it?”
“No, sir. I don’t see any ashes. But is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you. That’s… crazy. She didn’t see anything. I’m getting really confused.”
“James,” the voice said, low and sly, “I have a little secret to tell you.”
“The voice… this isn’t the first coma you’ve been in.”
It slid through the darkness like a whisper crawling across my skin.
“This is the second one… and they weren’t even comas.”
A chill shot through me.
“What… what are you talking about?” I snapped, anger and fear twisting together. “There wasn’t another one. That’s impossible.”
A low, quiet chuckle echoed in the void.
“Oh, but it is possible,” the voice said. “You just don’t remember it. Funny how the mind protects itself from the things it can’t bear.”
My heart pounded. “When?” I demanded. “When was the first one?
The voice leaned closer, its words dripping like cold water down the back of my neck.
“The first time… was when your son was seven. You remember that year, don’t you?”
A flicker of memory sparked—then died.
“You fell off the roof of the bar,” the voice continued. “Hard. Hard enough to leave this world for a while.”
My breathing grew shallow. “No… that’s not—” it's impossible that was the only time.
“This,” the voice interrupted softly, almost kindly, “is your second one.”
Silence pressed in around me.
“The one you just woke up from.”
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if waking up had been a good thing at all. How did I go in this one of it's supposedly my second one?
“How old were you when you fell off the roof?” the voice asked quietly.
“Twenty-nine!” I was Twenty-nine!
A pause.“And how old is your son now?”
“He’s seventeen.”
Silence… then a soft, satisfied whisper.
“Exactly.”
A knot twisted in my chest. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“How is that possible?” the voice continued. “If you were only twenty-nine… and your son is seventeen now… then you’re not old enough to be his father.
My mouth went dry.
“Your first one,” the voice said, almost gently, “happened ten years ago.”
Ten years.
“So… I’m thirty-nine?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.
“Yes,” the voice replied.
The darkness seemed heavier now, like it knew something I didn’t.
“But that’s not the part you should be afraid of.”
A cold feeling crept up my spine. “What part?” Huh what part should I be afraid of!?
A low, almost amused tone slipped into the voice.
“You wrote that book.A pause.“It’s from the future… written by you.”The words hit like a punch to the chest.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
“It is possible,” the voice said quietly, “because I made you write it… ten years ago.”
“After what your son did.” Quit evil.
The words hung in the air like a machete.
“And you did nothing about it,” absolutely nothing, the voice continued, slow and very versatile about it. “You steal… you face consequences.”
“So you are being punished,”“for doing nothing about it”.
My throat squinched.
“And your son…” the voice added softly, and hostile, “is being punished for doing it.”
The words crushed the air around me. Like I was trapped in a plastic bag.
The voice finished speaking, and all I could do was sit there—frozen, silenced–and felt defeated.
"If this is my second one," I asked myself, "then why don't I remember the last ten years that supposedly went by? Why can't I remember my son growing up? And where is my girlfriend?"
"Which one?" asked the voice.
"My only one, Amber. My wife left me."
The voice laughed.
"She was never your wife. She married you because she felt obligated to. You made her life a nightmare."
I stared into the darkness.
"Then why do I remember someone named Amber? And why do I remember dating her?”
- Writer
