Every:Time III — a short story about coming back to life
This is part III of my short story series, originally posted on medium. Click here for part I and here for part II.
Clara started a reply in the comment section asking for information on the kid’s state while I was searching for information on BeckyWhats93 online, hoping to find a link to a facebook page or any means on how to get in touch with her. It was already late, as the hours passed, it started to look like we’d have to wait for the morning to get a reply. We couldn’t sleep yet we felt tired. An entire day had passed since I went for my walk and in less than 24 hours I managed to die, come back to life, anger a nurse, speak with an entity known only as a Recorder and somehow still hang onto my marriage.
As Clara went to the bathroom for a shower I heard the notification sound on her tablet. At first it was just a simple rumble but it was followed by another one. By the time I got to it the notifications kept coming in, the tablet shaking within an inch of falling off the desk. I unlocked it and saw 32+ unread messages from a woman called “Gabi Binks”, a name I did not know but sounded familiar. Curiosity peaked the best of me so I read the messages — they were from the good doctor that wheeled me into the x-ray machine.
The good doctor saw her comments in the Inquisitor article and reached out to her. It was late at night but she was still up, still perplexed by my miraculous recovery and with more questions than answers. She inquired why Clara was asking about the kid’s state and what her relationship with me was — seeing as she had my last name Amell! She mentioned she was working the night shift and that the kid was transferred to another hospital but didn’t know where. A named was dropped, that of a reporter — the same one that took my photo and mentioned that he rode with the kid and his family in the ambulance.
Pretending to be Clara, and against my better judgement, I asked if she spoke with the reporter earlier and if she knows how to get in touch with him. Gabi only mentioned the publication he worked for and suggested I ring him there in the morning. I couldn’t sit still so I grabbed a new pair of pants and dashed towards the car in the driveway. “I’m going to wait for him to come to work and speak with him there — he’s bound to cash in the photos” — I thought while fiddling with the rear-view mirror.
The city was a good one and a half hour drive awayat least. I stuck my phone’s charger into the lighter’s car port and backed off into the street. “Clara already did enough, she shouldn’t get mixed into all of this” — I thought. As the car drove away I realized that I didn’t delete the messages and she won’t be far behind; “she never is and I can’t stop her”. I needed to come up with a plan to keep my wife occupied while I deal with the kid. I had a feeling things were about to take a turn for the worse and I wanted the love of at least one of my lives as far away as possible.
The phone began to buzz again and again. Messages from Clara, no doubt belittling me for invading her privacy and taking off on my own. I thought about replying but it would have been in vain — when she’s angry no amount of positive affirmation can fix the situation; she just had to cool off on her own and get her cold, cynical, mind onto the puzzle at hand. As I laid down the phone on the dashboard again I noticed I wasn’t alone.
“WHAT THE HELL!” I spurred as I was flooring the breaks. The recorder was sitting in the back of my car, for how long I did not know. I couldn’t see her in the rear-view mirror — I checked again and again while driving backwards out of the drive way.
“You can’t save him you know — every entry in the repository must be carried to fruition” she spoke, once again calmly with no trace of empathy in her voice. Fear and warmth disappeared from my thoughts and the feeling of love and admiration for this beautiful being in my backseat was replaced with that of a lover who felt cheated on.
“OGH YEAH? Then what am I? You said it yourself, my deaths did not match those in the repository! HOW ABOUT THAT?”
She remained quiet, arms crossed over her chest staring blankly at the dashboard.
“I’ll find the kid and if my wife is right — and she usually is — I won’t let you take him!”
“Every entry in the repository must be — “. I snapped then and there!
“Carried to fruition I know and I don’t care! GET OUT OF MY CAR” I yelled while unlocking my seat belt! I was angry and felt cheated on. I thought I had a connection with the entity I’ve meet so many times in my life, thinking she’s an Angel, someone there to guide and help me yet now I was disappointed in her, convinced she was only trying to erase the error in her logs: ME!
“Get out of my car” I said again opening her car door and reaching out to grab her arm. “GET OUT OF MY CAR THIS INSTANT” I screamed again, pulling her by the elbow, one foot planted onto the back seat. I was dragging her out and she wasn’t resisting; she was being dragged gracefully, almost like she floated calmly, at her own pace. It felt like throwing someone in slow motion onto a feather bed. She landed on the grass without any thump or sound, barely disturbing the blades of grass beneath her. The same gaze as always was staring at me. Anger was soon replaced with regret and I felt like physically crying; “Why?”. I did not know but I felt like I was taking turns betraying everyone in my life. She stood up and walked forward, towards me, matching me in stature and yet, somehow, staring me down.
“You’re a pesky little insect, aren’t you?” she spoke almost showing pride. “You have no idea what you are dealing with here nor do you care about the impact of your actions”.
“What can I do?” I tried saying, tears gushing from my eyes, heart clenched and barely being able to breath. I grabbed her shoulders as my knees were about to cave underneath the weight of my sorrow. As I fell she fell with me, once again gracefully, at her own pace. Yesterday I was feeling empty, invulnerable, strong and unabated yet less than twenty four hours later I felt like a kid, like the kid I barely rescued: unable to react in front of imminent danger.
“You can stand up and go do what you were set to do! I’m just here for the ride, recording what is happening! Don’t let me stop you but be aware of this: your actions have consequences!”. She stood up again, closed the backseat door and instead took the passengers seat. Her actions seemed fake. Not her attitude, not her words, but the way in which she closed a door and opened the other one, the way in which she bowed her head to avoid the roof of the car and how she got into the seat, it felt practiced, rehearsed! I couldn’t put my finger on it but it felt like it was the first time she got into a car. Her movements seemed mechanical.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The city’s skyline began revealing itself and with it, so did the congestion on the highway. People living on the outskirts, like my father in law, we’re rushing to catch a good parking space — hours before they had to clock in at work. Coffee shops were buzzing all through the morning, filled to the brink with those commuting waiting for the glass offices to open up. Carera was a city built around outsourcing IT firms where housing were replaced, initially, by co-working spaces and later on by office developments. A piece of land, even a small one was being priced way outside of range of a typical paycheck and so were the utilities. It was an anomaly among the region with high salaries but even higher utilities. Those who worked in Carera did so at a cost: many hours spent commuting between the City and their homes for a good paycheck but their sanity and health had taken a tool on them. Coffee shops were the second business to boom outside of IT and only because of the rush to avoid congestion — which itself was moving with the flow of the traffic. Room was made for another type of business: bunks as a service for those who wanted to avoid the congestion and the ungodly commute for a cut of their earnings.
I never liked Carera but my wife had a good deal going on. Her parents home was one of the older ones built and unacquired by the profit orientated landlords. We talked about inheriting the house and selling it to start our own company somewhere far away from traffic and congestion. The more I thought about the plan the less it seemed like a possibility now. To my right sat the Recorder staring amused at the mass of cars that surrounded us. It seemed like something changed inside of her since my little breakdown earlier. Did I trigger something in her? The question sent me into a spiraling craze of more questions and little answers. I was in a trance like state, no different than the other drivers, slowly inching closer and closer to the parking spaces carefully laid out at the entrance of the City.
“Please park into your designated space and head for the tube” I heard a uniform say, just as a black billboard flashed the number “84B” in front of me. I parked the car and took out my phone to setup a tube-route towards the Inquisitors office building.
“Route M3 followed by a switch to M8 on the fifth segment” said the assistant on my phone. As I stepped onto the elevating platform Recorder followed suit once again unimpressed. I wanted to ask her more, so many more, questions but felt it would be better if I remained silent. At least I could observe her and maybe figure out how familiar she is with this world.
The ride was uneventful except for the one uniform face timing with his kid braking the dreadful silence we’ve gotten accustomed to. As we stepped out of the tube we were left facing a sign pointing us to the “Inquisitor’s office” via platforms P2, P3 and P5 with P4 being grayed out. P2 was the closest one to us so we took it.
I stared at the Recorder and decided to clear some things that were bugging me. The entire tube ride no one paid attention to her and she certainly did not blend in. Uniforms we’re known for their coveted in-city housing locations and this made them good prospects for a relationship and most of them knew that. I hated them not because of their luck but because they tried hitting on my wife with me sitting there unable to do anything. She usually brushed them off without much effort but things could get out of hands. They were the law inside the tube and the parking areas and I couldn’t do anything if push came to shove… well, technically I couldn’t do anything without revealing my condition to Clara. But Recorder? She was gorgeous, a true beauty yet no uniform tried their usual shenanigans.
“Am… am I” I stuttered. “Am I the only one that can see you now?”
“Yes.” she said and left it at that.
That explains it. And here I thought date nights in the green areas could be a thing again. Well, they always were but I hated having to ride the tube to get to them.
“And no one else can see you, like at all?”
“Only if I let them.”.
She was back to her old, cold, self again.
We got off the platform and took the revolving door on it’s right inside the Inquisitor office building, the reporting section. As we moved through the islands of offices silence was pushed back by the sound of keys being pressed constantly in a perfect rhythm. I head for a Info Point to ask about the reporter covering yesterday’s story. The man behind the counter wasn’t interested in giving us.. me information so I mentioned I’m the guy they reported about.
“I’m here to give an interview about what happened, but I’m only doing it with the guy that I’ve meet at the hospital. The doctor, Gabi Binks, told me I can find him here”.
The clerk’s stance changed and the thought of getting a commission for referring a story suddenly peaked his interest.
“His name is William Mograine, I’ve pushed a note to his calendar! Head towards interview room 183, it’s to the left of the bio-lounge at the end of the islands! Remind him that Mark Stentwood referred you to him”.
“Sure thing buddy”, I said. No way I’m putting any effort in remembering his name and besides, I’m not really here for an interview.
End of part three!
My name is Ciprian Bacioiu. I run a small, game development, business where I design games for PC (Windows, Linux) and mobile (Android). In my spare time I freelance as a technical writer to fund the development of my next game. You can help support me and my work by purchasing one of my games on steam or itch, by becoming a patron or by donating via paypal.
Every:time is the first story in a series of short stories that I’m writing on medium. If they get enough attention and feedback I plan on re-writing them in the form of a visual novel/text game! Please leave a clap or comment with feedback and suggestions. They mean a lot to me and can help shape a future game.
