Part Two, Silver Screen

Adam walked in on him staring, in close to no clothing, at a TV monitor. His first thought He's unknowingly growing a beard. The unmoving eyes told him that he hadn't slept in a night or two. The apartment room stunk.

"Jesus Chr-"

"Sh," he said while getting closer to the screen. A man's face appeared on the screen. His mouth moved but no sound came out, one of the many problems with coronary neurosubmersion. You could hardly make out his face. The pill had fucked up the imagery, and bad. His eyes lit up, "I know him."

Adam shook his head. "No. No, no, no. Please don't tell me that this is what you've been doing with your vacation days."

He looked up at him and made a face, one that Adam always found so condescending. 

"You can't do this, you know. You can't go after someone simply because they made a cameo in your old partner's coronary N.S. chip."

He grabbed Adam, lifting him off the ground for a brief second and shoved him into the wall. His head made contact, and hard. "Someday," he pointed a finger at his face, "you'll understand what it means to lose someone."

Adam struggled. "Is this all worth it? What if you lose your job?"

He smiled. "Who's got to say anything about all of this?"

"If you take this too far . . ."

"You don't have to worry about that," he let Adam down and straightened his tie, smiling. "I already have."

Adam was afraid.

- - -

Part Three, Cover-Up and Corduroys

A Bomb, Death, and Suicide

I don't remember where it came from, but if I had to guess I'd say it probably fell from the sky. What I do remember, though, is that disconcerting feeling when it impacted. I immediately knew what it was, what was going to happen, and what was going to become of me. I turned away and my body became tense. I tried to run, but only made a fraction of a step. I heard the explosion, I felt a brief moment of discomfort as my whole being was set on fire, and then everything went black.

What happened next can be likened to that of experiencing a power-surge while doing business on a computer. My mind flickered back on. I opened my eyes and looked around me. I was standing in the exact same spot I had been when the bomb (presumably) killed me. So this is where you go was my first thought. A brief look around allowed me to discover that this, however, was not the exact same place I had been. The sky was an imperfect blackness that gave the impression of nighttime, although there were no clouds, no moon or stars, no actual sky. Just the idea of it. The horizon mirrored this. 

There were others with me, and they looked equally as confused. We gathered together in an opening. What's going on seemed to be the dominant question on everyone's mind, with Where is God in close second. No one knew the answer. 

I noticed that people's emotions were still intact. Anger, fear, sorrow-- nothing had changed. People were still people.

I saw friends of mine. We ran to each other and embraced, comforted by the fact that we were not stuck in a strange land, forced to create companionship with strangers. We talked.

By then the crowd had started to disperse. People were going their own ways, searching for the answer to their questions and the solution to escaping what many now thought of as Purgatory. Aimlessly we walked through our town, the buildings and vegetation unscathed. The absence of light left everything in a macabre state. 

And then we walked into the Border. We had discovered an invisible wall, marked only a strange line on the ground and reasonably more darkness on the inaccessible side. We followed it. Others had discovered it as well. Later, when we rejoined the collective of dead, we would reason that this must be the radius of the blast. Confusion continued. We could discover no answers.

One our strangest discoveries was that our cell phones still worked. We could call and text one another, but not those who were still living. Other bodily discoveries: We could still feel. We were never hungry, nor were we full. We still grew tired. (Falling asleep when you're already dead is a terrifying experience.)

But this was all irrelevant, because soon we would no longer be there. After the first suicide, everything changed.

One of my friends was the first to discover that suicide brought you back to life, or at least what he considered life. He disappeared one day, and the next we received a phone call from him. I'm back. Dear God, I have no idea how it happened, but I'm back. It feels like a dream and a half.

For reasons unknown, we were unable to call him back. Nor would we discover why he was able to contact us in the first place.

People joined together once more in the square. Most didn't believe us. Always the courageous one, he decided to prove them wrong. He jumped from the building and as his body crashed into the ground, he vanished-- as if falling through the Earth. We built our ladders into the sky, checked the knot twice, and let whatever crude form of gravity existed here take over. Lovers went hand-in-hand into their fate.

The line shortened as everyone took their turn, and then the unexpected happened. We hit the limit. The world sped up and God let there be light. 

- - -

The landscape had been upturned. Slabs of desecrated concrete littered the floor, creating my living space. It was a reflection of the present, ruled-by-the-living world. It was both inhabited by the dead and the living-- or some form of the living, at least. The dead told me that there was a clear distinction between those living and those dead, that I would be able to notice immediately. These living were simply placeholder minds and bodies, they said, waiting until the day the soul died.

These "living" could still talk to you as if they were the real thing. I made it my mission to find those that I knew still lived. I boarded my plane and left.

- - -

And then I woke up.

This is not part of my story.

Have you ever felt dead? Chances are, you haven't. You just haven't.

Yesterday, while working, I did. It was either when I was helping that one customer with a gift receipt from 12/08, or else when I was helping someone with a no-receipter. Anyways, that's irrelevant. The matter of the fact is that while doing this, there was a split second when every aspect of my being focused on one, simple fact: While standing there, checking the small boxes of whether or not it was a refund or an exchange, or whether or it was paid for with cash, a check, or a gift card, I realized that I had zero freedom. I was a slave in that moment. I was mindless; I was alone. 

This was both scary and slightly empowering, for the moments afterwards were filled with my brain thinking This is all pointless, worthless, insane. You gain nothing from all this. Run. Just drop your pen and run away and be free and never write up another goddamn slip for some prick who thinks he rules the world without a receipt. 

I talked to Joe and Cody about it. Cody said there was freedom within understanding, even if you are a slave, but I can't see it. If you're stuck or covered, if you're, as the great Joe Bell would say, drowning in it, how can you still be free? 

Part One, The Corpse Reader

The receptionist smiled as we walked in. "I guess there's no need to ask if you two are the Officers with the two o'clock appointment," she said while eyeing our uniforms. 

My partner smiled, "You've got that right, ma'am."

"Take a seat. I'll let Dr. Burres know you're here."

Time passed awkwardly as we sat. The sound of glossy magazine pages being perused mindlessly. I kept my eye on the vase. The design reminded me of something my mother used to own. "He's ready," the receptionist called.

Dr. Anthony Burres, C.R.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Please," he gestured, "make yourselves at home."

We nodded and sat down on his black leather couch. Everything was expensive-- probably even the awards. His suit and the way he carried himself mocked our profession. I already hated him.

"Now," he cleared his throat, "I'm going to be upfront with you two. Someone fed him the pill."

Fuck.

The pill in question is another "advancement" in neurosubmersion. After Harold Krims discovered that through N.S. you could obtain the last minutes, hours, or even days of a human's life, people went apeshit. They wanted the freedom of death and an unplundered mind.

Enter the pill.

"What kind of dosage are we talking about here?"

"Well, in that we may consider ourselves somewhat lucky. Whomever fed it to him-- whether it was another person or himself-- had something cheap. Definitely from the streets. Wouldn't be surprised if a kid had sold it to him."

"Wait a second. Are you doubting that this was a suici-"

"Adam," I stopped him there. He's young, and still doesn't realize that there is a time to talk and the time to keep quiet. I looked back at the C.R., "Keep going."

"I extracted as much as I could," he started, "but there isn't much. With his," he held up a chip, "you'll be able to get a decent look at the last four days. I ran a test on his memories from a year ago. There are times when black or white splotches cloud the picture, and there are times when things go blank for countless minutes, seconds, and hours. I'm assuming the final four will be no different." 

"Thank you." I took the chip, and the two of us exited.

- - -

Part Two, Silver Screen

Prologue

It took us a while to fully understand. It took even longer to develop the technology needed to extract what we desired.

From our favored childhood memories to our final waking moments, we can delve ourselves into the past as deep as we'd like. The sky was the limit when N.S. came about, and boy how our imaginations run wild.

With Amendment Thirty-Three established in 2038, N.S. was deemed illegal beyond that of medical and coronary use. Recreational use of N.S. still prevails, despite the combined efforts of both state and federal agencies. 

I've been working cases like these my whole life, ever since becoming an Officer. They hit home. They hit home hard.

But that's not what I'm on tonight. 

No, tonight we require neurosubmersion for one of its original purposes.

Tonight I'm investigating a murder.

- - -

Part One, The Corpse Reader

xD

I love it when people comment. It makes me so happy. <3>

D'AWHCUTE

Anyways, I know I've linked this before, but,

it is so pretty.

10:20

Currently waiting for Chris to show up to take me out bowling with a couple other friends. Not in a good mood. Mixed feelings. Here we go.

It's hard to know the appropriate way to act and feel in certain situations. Today was no different and no less confusing than other experiences, which I'm sure I'll address in this blog.

Today I woke up early (6:20ish) so my dad didn't have to take care of our dog Copper in the morning. I got ready for work, spent eight hours there until four, went and grabbed food, came home and ate, and then passed out on the couch. I must have been asleep for an hour or two because when I woke up my whole family had returned home. I don't remember what woke me up; it could have been my dad calling me up. The food they had been preparing for supper (my dad had made burgers, the exact same thing I had ate after four) must have been ready. My stomach was still full from eating earlier, and I wanted nothing to do with food. I was still tired as well, so I crashed on the couch up there and tried to fall back asleep. My memory tells me that I'm getting yelled at next to get up and help prepare for a meal that I would not even be attending, but I suppose I could be wrong; he could have been asking nicely at first. But it elevated to yelling eventually. I told him that I wasn't hungry, and that I wasn't going to be eating, but I still got to hear the backlash of his voice calling me "damn lazy." My dad never swears. 99% of the time they (my parents) set the table themselves, and never ask for help from us kids. I'm going to assume today was an awful day for my dad.

But here are where the mixed feelings are. I don't know how to feel.

I think it's clear that my father was upset about something else, thus taking it out on the first thing he saw (me sleeping on the couch) that wasn't ideal in setting up a good rest of the night. Should I have helped him? Should I hate him for being a prick about something so little? Was in fact I being the asshole here? Who is in the right and who is in the wrong?

- - -

A couple blogs back one of my characters was given an epiphany from someone he hardly knew: That no one wins when it comes to love. We are all struggling for the same thing, and in a "perfect relationship," there is only one victor, and the rest are left to go scavenge for someone else. 

There is another epiphany I've developed over the years:

No one is special. You see a girl (or boy) and you think "Damn, there is something special about that person. They're the most beautiful girl (or boy) I've ever seen. Their personality is exactly what I'm looking for." And chances are it doesn't work out. And you're hurt, and your immature mind briefly thinks you'll never be able to find love again. And then you get over it, by way of finding someone else.

I've experienced this often. I've found myself attracted to the beauty and personality of many girls, and I've found that it doesn't matter if you chase it with all your heart or if you hardly give it a glance. There will always be someone else to take your mind off them. No one's stay contains permanence. 

- - -

God. I go from thinking about how much I love my dad, to how much his temper can ruin every experience with him. 

- - -

My mind wanders. 

"This is for you.

And you'll never know it.

You'll never see it."

I made a mistake.

I made a very big mistake. 

*breathe

lol

wut

I don't like you.

No one fucking likes you, don't you understand?

People only like themselves, and that's all there is to it. We're a pointless existence, waiting to evaporate into the summer air. You just wish it wasn't true. You wish to get kissed and fucked and graduated and the best job and it's all pointless. Useless. You are pointless.

I hate your face, I hate your eyes, I hate the air you breathe. 

I wish you'd kill yourself and dissolve. Dissolve for me.

I want to go into the wild, to go inside my own head, to go with the select few. And even they are not. Even I am not. I will sit and I will pretend that I am, but I am not. I will fill my head with your voice and your sweet touch and your mindset, but I am not.

You're high.

You're drunk.

You're stupid.

You're too afraid to make the correct decision first. To map out the language before the storm. 

I don't want to have to deal with you, because I've already dealt with you. In my head. You are my biggest disappointment, and the next will be just as bad. I'll sit and I'll dream and I'll make those same silly mistakes but it'll all be worthless. I am not.

I don't want your invitation. Don't fucking speak it. Forget it. Forget each simple fact, but I won't. I won't forget. I am not.

I'm over this. I've given up. That bullshit story everyone makes up and wishes for and prays for doesn't exist. It is, in fact, bullshit.

Let's just say I am over this.

I am not.

I sat down and placed my head down and kept my eyes open and saw nothing, and I thought Wow, this is what it's like. This isn't too bad. This is what everyone is afraid of? Total black? Nothing? Bring it on. Let me conquer your fear. I am not afraid. I am not.

Show me the way, Alice. Show me with your pretty blonde hair. Show me the void. Let me fall with you-- let me fall alone-- into nothingness. Remember: Keep your hands and feet inside the moving vehicle at all times. You wouldn't like to get hurt on your journey, right? Of course not. The seat belts are all fastened. Have a good trip. And he returns to the chair and waits for the next forty people to move ahead in line.

Watch me be disappointed. Watch me "try it again," only to be given the backhand slap of the mind's cruelest practical joke. But hey. I can take a joke. I'm laughing. I'm existing. I'm happy. I'm still laughing after the second time! And the third. And the forth. And now this is getting old, so I scream FUCK YOU, but you can't hear me because we're in a crowd and you're having fun and I'm suffocating. I'm suffocating so hard. Wait. Please. Please come back. With you here, at least I could breathe. At least when they saw me in pain people took a step back and let me breathe, but I can't now, please come back. Please. 

They revive me later. I'm bruised and hurt and no one cares but they're in a crowd so they like to pretend that they care-- that gains them invisible points. Hey, single man #5 thinks to himself, if I get on my knees and try to help this guy up maybe that girl #42 will come back to my place after the ambulance arrives and takes this guy away. Maybe I'll score, he thinks to himself. That's all he cares about. He doesn't care about me. Fuck him. I'm still bruised and hurt, but I get better. And then I'm happy and boring and no one cares. Maybe I should hurt myself again, I think. Maybe I should help someone else, I think. Either way I win. It's all about the I. I, I, I. If I don't win, it all doesn't matter.

God, fuck you, I say to the mirror. I'm drugged and drunk and stupid and my mind says to say this but I say that and my mind says Good job, idiot. Sorry, I'll say later, while I snort my next line of cocaine. Sorry.

Get me out of here. I am tired. I am not. But I want to hear the last bit of this song. It's pretty and mesmerizing and the female voice talks about protecting herself and protecting me, but it isn't me she really cares about. It's herself. 

Even the prettiest music comes from selfish, ugly people. I like to think that it comes from these moral beings-- but they're mortal, not moral. They're selfish and ugly and the veil hides them and there is nothing moral about any of us. It was all in my head. I am not.

Alice, you're so pretty. Why won't you fuck me? What's wrong? I can put on some makeup, if you'd like. I can try to look pretty. I know you yell at me and hurt me and pull on my hair if I don't but I swear I'll change. I swear I'll try and look pretty. Just don't go dying on me, because if the one thing that keeps me scared and alone and ugly and sad dies, I'll go crazy. I won't be able to take it. I'll end up killing someone and then they'll kill me.

I am not.

Marry me, darling.

Because we are so very pretty.

Man, that post was boring.

I'm sorry for that. Honest.

Have any of you read Shirley Jackson? I find her short stories so fascinating. They're so short and simple and sweet and strange in the loveliest of ways. This makes me sound ignorant, but I'll say it anyways: I find it fascinating that a woman from her time wrote about the things she writes about. I'm going to have to read more of her.

Nostalgia. Terminus. Le sigh.

I miss everyone.

Posts like these must be so annoying to read. I'm sorry.

This has been open for hours. I don't really feel like writing.

Sorry.

Thank you, Sir.

Every time I think it's fun and joyful to be hanging out with you and spending time together, you have to go and prove how much I should hate you. How much I should hate every fucking fiber in your body. You mother fuck.

Fuck you. I fucking hate you.

It's whatever-you-call-it-week in Fargo (ya know, where you put out "trash" and people come and pick it up if they want it/find it interesting). Because of this, there is now a chair sitting right in front of my door with a bowling ball bag (with the bowling ball still inside of it) sitting on top of it.

I hope my parents get a laugh out of it. They're discussing something serious right now.

I spent all eleven hours today keeping busy. And now I'm going to go to bed.