RE: Countdown to the next username change
November 7, 2022 at 2:38 am
(This post was last modified: November 7, 2022 at 3:23 am by Foxaèr.)
The writing bug bit me. Here is the next chapter.
Chapter Three
Being
"The sky darkened and filled with purple lightning. During these flashes, we saw you through the window as you fell from above. One of those purple bolts hit you midair."
Trying to listen to the wondrous tale of my survival, voices and memories that are not my own distract me from a sustainable concentration. It has only been a few short hours since I was pummeled by the she-bully, but the life changing event seems a lifetime ago.
Half the memories bombarding me are of earth while the other half is obviously quite alien. The four distinct voices keep talking over each other, but the purpose of the messages seems to be a tutelage of sorts. Somewhat unnoticeable, below the inner voices for now, is an unfamiliar hunger.
When they bring me food, I have the distinct feeling that I will not be able to consume it.
You can eat it, says a female voice. A stronger male voice intervenes and continues, But it will make you sick.
More than anything, these voices want me to leave. They are quite insistent on this one thing as their memories play in my mind. Yes, it is now clear the memories belong to them. But, still, who are they and why are they inside my head?
Did the lightning strike alter my neurology in a way that I am now schizophrenic?
Don't be absurd, says the more prominent male voice.
A less outspoken voice adds, And this is why humanity is not suited for us.
Oh, shush you, says the only female voice with which memories of a primitive earth are associated.
Since mirrors were not yet in existence for the female, and since the aliens seemed to have no requirement for the particular reflective object, only the intense male voice is associated with memories of his appearance. He is young and does not age through the centuries during which his memories span.
If you want it, says the female.
If you are strong enough, says one of the male aliens.
You can live just as long, or perhaps even longer, says the young male.
But it's not safe for you to stay here, they all simultaneously say.
"They're confused."
With the sound of his voice breaking through the mental intrusion I am experiencing, I attempt to refocus on my older brother. More handsome than I could ever hope to be, I have always looked up to him with a sort of envy I did not quite understand until recently.
"Mom and dad?" I ask as I stare into orange eyes that always remind me of the sweeping sands of the desert.
He shakes his head and momentarily looks away from me with a measurable sigh of the burden he is forced to bear regarding our new society. I can discern that he dislikes being the bearer of bad news.
Knowing that the authorities have intervened where they have no right to interfere, I whisper, "I see."
He looks at the machine to which I am connected by wires and then he meets my gaze. Clearing his throat, he says, "According to those, you're not alive."
Looking over at the silent machine, the streaming flat line alarms me. As does the zero pulse. How is this possible when I feel alive? I am breathing, am I not? It is such an involuntary exercise that I am rarely aware of it.
Placing my right hand on my chest, leaving it here for several seconds, I do not feel my chest rising as it should. Then I check for a pulse in my wrist and neck, but again nothing.
You are too vulnerable at this early stage, says the primary male voice.
Which is why you have to get out of here while you still can, says the female.
We didn't have to deal with this nonsense back home, says the alien who dislikes people.
"How are you feeling?" asks my brother.
"Alive, why?"
"Call me paranoid, but I think we should get you out of here."
I nod and think, But where will we go?
"My car's out front. Let's see if we can make it there before we decide on anything else. Can you walk?"
Wiggling my toes, I see them move beneath the sheet at the foot of the bed. With no heartbeat, no pulse to indicate a circulation of blood and oxygen, somehow I am presenting an outward appearance of being alive.
Sliding my legs to the side, I propel my upper body forward until I am in a sitting position at the edge of the bed. I reach for the wires attached to me, but I pause to look at my brother.
"Where is the nurse's station?"
He raises a fist and uses his thumb to indicate the direction behind him.
"We'll need to go left when we leave."
"There's a stairwell at the end of the hall," he adds.
Reaching beneath the gown, I pull the wires from my chest. I wince, thinking hair would have made it a more painful experience, and then I quickly remove the device attached to my left index finger. I imagine alarms might be going off at the nurse's station, which leaves no time for me to change into my clothes.
"Let's go," I say as I jump off the bed and rush for the door.
In the hallway, I lead the way. I figure anyone behind us will not see me if my bigger, taller brother is directly behind me. The stairwell brings back memories of the girl whom I have to thank for my current predicament. Once outside, the darkness is both a relief and somewhat surreal as I look to my brother for an indication of where his truck is parked.
"Your naked bum is something I can't unsee," he says while out of breath. "Thanks for that."
His labored breathing is a reminder that although I am not alive by scientific standards, I do not feel dead. How is an undead individual supposed to feel? Out of place? I have always felt like that.
Whatever has happened to me, I know that I am still me. Albeit not alive, being is something that I still am. I still exist, for whatever reason, and being is something I will continue to do in a society that no longer wants to accept me.
Chapter Three
Being
"The sky darkened and filled with purple lightning. During these flashes, we saw you through the window as you fell from above. One of those purple bolts hit you midair."
Trying to listen to the wondrous tale of my survival, voices and memories that are not my own distract me from a sustainable concentration. It has only been a few short hours since I was pummeled by the she-bully, but the life changing event seems a lifetime ago.
Half the memories bombarding me are of earth while the other half is obviously quite alien. The four distinct voices keep talking over each other, but the purpose of the messages seems to be a tutelage of sorts. Somewhat unnoticeable, below the inner voices for now, is an unfamiliar hunger.
When they bring me food, I have the distinct feeling that I will not be able to consume it.
You can eat it, says a female voice. A stronger male voice intervenes and continues, But it will make you sick.
More than anything, these voices want me to leave. They are quite insistent on this one thing as their memories play in my mind. Yes, it is now clear the memories belong to them. But, still, who are they and why are they inside my head?
Did the lightning strike alter my neurology in a way that I am now schizophrenic?
Don't be absurd, says the more prominent male voice.
A less outspoken voice adds, And this is why humanity is not suited for us.
Oh, shush you, says the only female voice with which memories of a primitive earth are associated.
Since mirrors were not yet in existence for the female, and since the aliens seemed to have no requirement for the particular reflective object, only the intense male voice is associated with memories of his appearance. He is young and does not age through the centuries during which his memories span.
If you want it, says the female.
If you are strong enough, says one of the male aliens.
You can live just as long, or perhaps even longer, says the young male.
But it's not safe for you to stay here, they all simultaneously say.
"They're confused."
With the sound of his voice breaking through the mental intrusion I am experiencing, I attempt to refocus on my older brother. More handsome than I could ever hope to be, I have always looked up to him with a sort of envy I did not quite understand until recently.
"Mom and dad?" I ask as I stare into orange eyes that always remind me of the sweeping sands of the desert.
He shakes his head and momentarily looks away from me with a measurable sigh of the burden he is forced to bear regarding our new society. I can discern that he dislikes being the bearer of bad news.
Knowing that the authorities have intervened where they have no right to interfere, I whisper, "I see."
He looks at the machine to which I am connected by wires and then he meets my gaze. Clearing his throat, he says, "According to those, you're not alive."
Looking over at the silent machine, the streaming flat line alarms me. As does the zero pulse. How is this possible when I feel alive? I am breathing, am I not? It is such an involuntary exercise that I am rarely aware of it.
Placing my right hand on my chest, leaving it here for several seconds, I do not feel my chest rising as it should. Then I check for a pulse in my wrist and neck, but again nothing.
You are too vulnerable at this early stage, says the primary male voice.
Which is why you have to get out of here while you still can, says the female.
We didn't have to deal with this nonsense back home, says the alien who dislikes people.
"How are you feeling?" asks my brother.
"Alive, why?"
"Call me paranoid, but I think we should get you out of here."
I nod and think, But where will we go?
"My car's out front. Let's see if we can make it there before we decide on anything else. Can you walk?"
Wiggling my toes, I see them move beneath the sheet at the foot of the bed. With no heartbeat, no pulse to indicate a circulation of blood and oxygen, somehow I am presenting an outward appearance of being alive.
Sliding my legs to the side, I propel my upper body forward until I am in a sitting position at the edge of the bed. I reach for the wires attached to me, but I pause to look at my brother.
"Where is the nurse's station?"
He raises a fist and uses his thumb to indicate the direction behind him.
"We'll need to go left when we leave."
"There's a stairwell at the end of the hall," he adds.
Reaching beneath the gown, I pull the wires from my chest. I wince, thinking hair would have made it a more painful experience, and then I quickly remove the device attached to my left index finger. I imagine alarms might be going off at the nurse's station, which leaves no time for me to change into my clothes.
"Let's go," I say as I jump off the bed and rush for the door.
In the hallway, I lead the way. I figure anyone behind us will not see me if my bigger, taller brother is directly behind me. The stairwell brings back memories of the girl whom I have to thank for my current predicament. Once outside, the darkness is both a relief and somewhat surreal as I look to my brother for an indication of where his truck is parked.
"Your naked bum is something I can't unsee," he says while out of breath. "Thanks for that."
His labored breathing is a reminder that although I am not alive by scientific standards, I do not feel dead. How is an undead individual supposed to feel? Out of place? I have always felt like that.
Whatever has happened to me, I know that I am still me. Albeit not alive, being is something that I still am. I still exist, for whatever reason, and being is something I will continue to do in a society that no longer wants to accept me.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
~ Erin Hunter