Run from Restoration

As you did many times before, you find yourself drifting to the vast clearing without meaning to. Your instincts guide you fully to the lake. Everyone in the town can get here with their eyes closed, since they always come here to pray to the lake spirits, whether it is wishing for something or begging for the spirits to stay in their domain. Today, even more people than on average are standing on the gravel shore, praying in silence, all because of the festival.

The water reflection completes the bottom side of the setting sun on the horizon. The reddish-orange tint has been plagiarized by the mirror world without a hint of remorse. This mass of fluid can consume everything.

Brock takes out his phone to capture the lake. You note how emotionless he seems, even when faced with this monstrosity. No appreciation or respect for the scenery, only determined to find the best angle to get the most presentable image.

“Don’t you feel anything after seeing this?” Although it is none of your business, you still feel compelled to ask.

“Oh, it is so beautiful and awe-inspiring.” It is like he is reciting the correct answer, something he himself cannot feel. You don’t feel a need to comment on it. Poke too deeply into others’ business and you would be poked back.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll end the tour here.” Exploring new experiences is valuable, but you have to consider the creepy whisper that you heard.

“What about dinner? We can even have a bit of fun after that. The place I’m staying at is pretty cool.”

Is he seriously hitting on me? Your intrigue quickly turns into caution. Taking a stranger on a tour is already at the limit of the human experience that you want. Any further poses a certain risk. You notice there is a hunger in his eyes, directed at you.

“Unlike in the city, there is only one bar here, and even that is closing tonight because of the festival.”

“Festival. Festival. Why do you all care so much about that? Just relax a little.” He said while digging the tip of his shoe into the gravel.

“It’s about the spirits-”

“Spirits are not real. Your ancestors made it up. So stop being a partypooper.” The townsfolk nearby give sharp glares at Brock, but he doesn’t notice. Too deep in his own world. Does he understand social conventions? That declaration doesn’t make his offer any more attractive.

“No thanks.” You hold your position, and at least he has the decency to leave you alone after that, although his mutterings of “I’ll show you” are a little concerning.

But that is none of your concern anymore; you hurry to return to the shrine at the foot of the mountain path. A hundred-dollar bill should show your sincerity. You pray for the voice not to bother you anymore. And that you can stay in your earthly vessel for a long, long time.

You made the wrong choice. This is the second time you have heard the voice today. This isn’t good. The matter seems to advance far beyond what prayers can achieve. Then, the best thing you can do is… to return home. It’s getting late. You still haven’t eaten dinner yet. With the festival on the horizon, you don’t know if you can afford to stay up too late.

Your private cabin is actually close to the lake, not far away from where you brought Brock. You carefully take the hidden shortcut, through the domain of trees and carpet of dried leaves, to lower the chance of running into Brock. The wooden structure looks like it comes from a horror movie, but it feels safe to you, your real home. A place that you chose yourself, a celebration of your human agency.

The creaking floorboard of the porch sounds like a tune welcoming your return. You push your key into the front lock, an action you have repeated day after day. Today is going to be your last. The voice interjects and ruins your enjoyment of hearing the click as the door unlocks.

You groan in displeasure. Even if this day is your last, can’t you still enjoy it? In your frustration, you don’t forget to slap a one-dollar bill on top of your door, secured in place by tape. This charm won’t help you in your fated countdown, but you can show the other townsfolk that, although your house is more isolated than theirs, you are still one of them.

That is the one solace you can find when facing what possibly is your final day on the earthly plane. You have made friends here, people who will cry if they find that you are no longer here tomorrow. What would they say at your funeral? What words would they use to describe you as a human being? If you had known your time would come so soon, maybe getting close to another person wouldn’t have been so bad. There is always a chance that tomorrow will come and you will wake up all the same, but bargaining might not be possible against the force of nature.

As you close the door behind you, you feel a cold stream down your cheeks. This might have been the first time you have cried in a while. You don’t even remember the last time you did so. It’s a little surprising that it has taken you this long to react to the voice. Part of you wonders if it is only a fragment of your imagination, rather than something absolute.

Despair. Anxiety. Hope. These down-to-earth emotions swirl within you in a never-before way. You drop your bag onto the floor, and let yourself collapse onto the linen couch. A softness embraces you and rounds out the flurry of feelings surging in your inner world. It feels as if you are melting into the surface.

Now, this is the life.

You still have to get to dinner; what will possibly be your last meal. You open your refrigerator to realize that it is empty. Oh, you were supposed to stock up after work today, but Brock interrupted your routine, and now you are left with no dinner.

You scour the cabinets to find at least a bag of chips and an expired can of cola hidden in the back corner. It is better than nothing. A stomachache will only be relevant if you are still in your body tomorrow. To you, that would be a luxury beyond words.

Each sensation is fragmented and more salient than before. The chips are salted just fine. The grease is a fresh texture that you haven’t experienced much of. The crunch sound with every bite is like a massage for your ears. The expired cola has lost most of its fizz. You can hear them as you open the can, rushing to their freedom. This reminder of freedom puts a frown on your face. Freedom is not always desirable. The sweetness of the syrup is disorienting, as if your brain is a lump of dough being kneaded.

This quick snack doesn’t last long; you watch through the windows as the last light disappears and the moon rises. You don’t want to say goodbye to this place. Maybe you will be fine as long as you stay awake.

But that plan doesn’t work for long. Your eyelids flutter as the couch lulls you for what could be the final time. You don’t know how long has passed, but at some point you have turned weightless, and start to rise to the sky.

There are no images to see, but you know you have passed through the roof of your humble home. Higher and higher until you think you have risen to the level of the clouds. And with the whoosh that you think you’ve heard, your feather-like form speeds towards the lake. The moon blesses your travels from above. You desperately want to object, but you have no mouth to speak, only persisting as a lump of essence.

The lake gets closer, and at this rate, you will crash land. But it isn’t the impact that you want to avoid; it is what comes after.

You pierce into the water; the contact eerily lacks a splash. And after you break the surface, you turn into me.