A collection of short stories surrounding death. About living with death, coping, not coping, letting go and holding on.
Because at the end of the day, what do we have but memories?
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There was a moment of pause before he exhaled, and with his dying breath, whispered my name.
"Charlie," he said. He said it like an afterthought, like I was the only thought left to cross his mind the same way he would be the last thing to ever cross mine. I kissed his lips a final time, holding him close as his warmth slipped away from beneath my fingers. I didn't, couldn't, cry. Instead I felt everything and nothing at the same time, wrecking my insides like a tsunami crashing onto a shore, destroying anything standing in it's wake. My head called his name on repeat, thundering drums hammering on the corners of my mind, until all I could hear was Matthew Matthew MATTHEW. I wanted to scream, to pierce the eardrums of everyone, until all they could hear was my pain. The pain that they had caused me. I looked up.
That's when I noticed that time was frozen.
Everyone stands paralyzed in their positions, guns pointed at me and what remained of Matthew. Slowly, overcome by too much to think, I rise to my feet, feeling weirdly hollow. Something inside me quivers and dies, but I can't pinpoint what it is or why I feel it. There is an odd feeling in the air, like something that's not supposed to be there has invaded it. I look around, suddenly confused as to where I am. My memory is fuzzy, except for what just happened. I look over my shoulder to Matthew, and a wave of anger towards the gunmen well up inside of me. Why would they shoot him? My eyes leave his body, and sweep across the space. It's unfamiliar, off in a way, like I've never been here before. But how would that be possible?
I'm snapped out of my thoughts by the presence of something, someone, that shouldn't be there. A woman, dressed in simple but elegant white and blue clothing is standing just a few meters away. She looks at me, and smiles, looking friendly but laced with cunning.
"Charlie," she says, her voice drone-like and monotone, devoid of any emotion. How does she know my name? "I know you're confused, but you need to listen. You will get answered, but right now, there is no time."
Is she for real? My head is too overflowing with questions to answer in any coherent fashion. "Right then. Quick question - where am I? Why is time frozen? Who are you? Who are they?" I gesture at the gunmen.
"So many questions, Charlie. All will be answered in due time." The woman smiles politely but smugly at me.
I open my mouth, wanting to speak, to shout or demand a better answer, but no sound comes out. When I finally manage to speak, I don't ask what I would like to. "What?"
"This isn't real," she says. "Look back at the dead man. Tell me, do you recognize his face?"
I turn to look at him, and for the first time, I don't feel like my heart is being impaled. I look at his face, his frame, that felt so right in my arms, but... "His name is Matthew," I say defiantly.
"But do you know him?" the woman urges.
Slowly I admit it. "No."
"And yet you love him. Do you know why that is?"
I shake my head. "No," I say again.
"Good. That means we're working with the real you. Charlie, I need you to listen to me. This will happen unless you do." she looks at me, her face shining with determination, but I can still detect a hint of something akin to mockery behind it. "This is the future, Charlie."
"How come I am here then?" I ask, doubting her words. "Last time I checked I haven't entered a time machine as of late."
The woman shakes her head. "No, you haven't. You're what's known as a flickerer, Charlie. You can skip ahead and backwards in time when your subconscious deems it necessary."
"Okay," I say, my voice shriller than I would like it. "So I can jump in time. Cool. Yeah, um, what?"
She sighs, annoyed with me. "It will be explained further. Honestly, you don't need to understand, as long as your subconscious does. You need to flicker back in time and prevent this all from happening. To save Matthew. Look at him, Charlie. You can save him."
I still don't understand what she is telling me, but I still turn back to look at him, his body riddled with bullet wounds, his face upwards. And I know. I know I have to save him, give him life again, and not let him go.
My phases out of itself, flickers, and then changes.
