Fated (38 page)
Authors: S. G. Browne
Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Her face and her lips.
Her voice and—
CHAPTER 54
I’m suspended in
space. Or something like space. It’s dark. And empty. And I’m all alone. Except it feels like I’m floating in water. And instead of drifting through some endless, cosmic void, I feel claustrophobic.
space. Or something like space. It’s dark. And empty. And I’m all alone. Except it feels like I’m floating in water. And instead of drifting through some endless, cosmic void, I feel claustrophobic.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in my current state. It seems like I’ve been aware of these sensations for only a few minutes. Except time doesn’t really make any sense anymore. The last thing I remember is jumping from the bridge and turning over and looking back up and seeing Dennis waving to me and thinking about Sara just before I hit the water.
And then nothing.
No drifting away. No out-of-body experience. No tunnel of light or ethereal voices or Jerry waiting to welcome me into the afterlife with a pint of Guinness.
I never thought much about death. It’s not something you tend to dwell on when you never have to deal with an HMO. All I know is I didn’t imagine it would be like this. I guess I expected something more along the lines of Shangri-la or the Garden of Eden or the Elysian Fields—heavenly vacation destinations with lush vegetation and all-you-can-eat buffets and all-inclusive resorts. Maybe even complimentary massages with happy endings.
Instead, I’m floating in water with no happy ending in sight. And I can’t see a damn thing.
I shift around and reach out, trying to determine where I end and where all of this empty space surrounding me begins, when my hands encounter some form of barrier. It’s soft and pliable and it gives when I push, but it’s too strong for me to break through. So I kick out with my feet, trying to escape, but the barrier holds.
I’m wondering if maybe after I jumped off the bridge I ended up getting eaten by a whale or some sort of enormous squid or octopus and I’m in its stomach, being slowly digested. Except as far as I know, there aren’t any whales or giant squid in New York Harbor. And the clothes I was wearing have mysteriously disappeared. And there’s some kind of long, snakelike parasite attached to my belly button.
If that isn’t weird enough, I swear I keep hearing Sara’s voice. Sometimes she’s just talking, her words muffled and unimportant, as if she’s speaking to someone else. Other times, I swear she’s talking to me. She doesn’t say my name, but I detect an intention in her voice, just the same. Her warm, tenor saxophone voice floating through the walls of my weird little prison.
At first I thought it was just my imagination. Memories of my existence echoing through my disembodied mind as I made the transition from life to death. Except this doesn’t seem like any transition I ever heard about. And the things Sara says to me and the soft, cooing inflection in her voice aren’t memories. She never spoke to me like this when we were together. Okay, maybe once or twice in bed when we were role-playing. But now it’s as though she’s talking to someone much younger. I might be wrong, but it’s how I’d imagine she would speak to a child.
Something about this seems kind of creepy.
The thing is, Sara’s voice seems to resonate all around me. It’s as though I can feel her through this barrier, through this durable membrane of a prison. I can almost imagine I hear her heart beating. And I’m enveloped in a comforting warmth. It’s as though I’m incubating.
I feel like I should know what’s going on but I can’t seem to grasp it. It’s there just beyond my reach. An awareness. An understanding. A realization that will put my current circumstances into context.
The floating in water.
The cocoonlike prison.
The radiant warmth.
The sound of Sara’s voice and the vibration of her heartbeat.
I’m not sure if it’s the moment when I kick out again and get another response from Sara or when I reach down between my legs and realize my seven inches of manhood have shrunk to the size of a single shelled peanut, but my epiphany arrives like the voice of Jerry.
This most definitely isn’t how I saw things playing out. And it’s kind of weird when you think about it. But at least I won’t have to worry about that restraining order. And this sure beats the hell out of being dead.
I’m not sure how far along I am. By the size of my peanut I’m guessing around three or four months, so I’ve got some time to start preparing for my postfetal future. Of course, once I get out of here, I won’t be fully formed and ready to go like I was when Jerry created me. So I’ll have to deal with the frustrations and limitations of human physiology. But I always was a quick learner and I always prided myself on my memory.
Still, it would be nice if I had something to write on in case I have any ideas. It’s kind of hard to keep a journal when you’re surrounded by amniotic fluid. And somehow I don’t think a digital recorder is going to make it through the vaginal canal.
That’s not something I’m looking forward to. The whole birth thing. All the placental blood and bodily fluids. All the screaming and the squeezing. And honestly, how the hell am I supposed to fit through that narrow opening? Hell, I barely fit when I was on the business end of this whole thing. Of course, that was when I was bigger than a peanut.
Still, I’m looking forward to getting out of here. Problem is, once I’m born, most of my memories will be expunged. The whole Law of Reincarnation corollary. I never thought it would apply to me, so I didn’t pay much attention in class. Go figure. I suppose I can hope to bring some suppressed memories with me, but regardless of whether or not I remember her, I’m looking forward to seeing Sara again. I’m looking forward to her face and her smile, her scent and her laugh, her love and her affection.
I’m also looking forward to the opportunity to continue what I started.
I can teach humans how to live better lives. How to make better decisions. How to create more beneficial futures. I can teach them how to eschew their consumer addictions. How to stop depending on the external world to define them. How to find happiness that doesn’t come in a dime bag from Macy’s or an eight ball from Toys R Us.
All without having to worry about reprisals from Jerry. True, there’s the whole crucifixion thing, but I’m hoping I can figure a way out of that.
I wonder if anyone will bring me frankincense and myrrh.
I wonder if I’ll be able to turn water into wine.
I wonder if Sloth and Gluttony will make good disciples.
The thing about me is that I’m the next Messiah.
S. G. Browne
is the author of
Breathers
. He graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, and worked for several years in Hollywood. He currently lives in San Francisco. Visit his Web site at
www.sgbrowne.com
.
is the author of
Breathers
. He graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, and worked for several years in Hollywood. He currently lives in San Francisco. Visit his Web site at
www.sgbrowne.com
.
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