Sometimes life took on a surreal quality and a person would have to pinch themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming and that they were in fact awake.
This was not one of those moments, nor that kind of life.
As Jack lay in pain on the forest floor, slowly bleeding out from multiple wounds on his bruised and broken body, the pain slowly receded as the teen’s consciousness waned. Then, just when oblivion was wrapping her dark numbing arms around the youth, his phone rang – and as it jolted him back to consciousness, so did his pain.
Jack cried out incoherently at the wave of pain that wracked his body. Darth Vader’s theme blurted from his phone – which meant his father the alcoholic was calling him. If Jack wasn’t in such blinding pain, he might have wondered why his father was calling, since he hadn’t even heard a peep from the old man for at least six months. But the pain became his life, so he lay still, unable to do anything except breath shallowly to minimize the shit-storm of pain his body was throwing at him. He didn’t even notice when the music stopped and the phone fell silent. Or when the shadow loomed over him, peering down at his pathetic self.
Whoever it was, just stood with the sun shining behind him, a shadow of a person, unremarkable build, unremarkable height. Just looking down at him.
Jack wanted to ask who this was looking at him, and why weren’t they helping him? But all he could manage was a bloody gurgle.
The figure side-stepped the sun, and the light hit his face, revealing who this onlooker was.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Jack thought, too weak to say anything. Jack found he was staring up at… himself. Okay, I must be in hell, he thought, and the devil thought it would be funny to force me to look at my ugly mug for all of eternity.
He actually managed a single laugh before convulsing.
When he stopped, he noticed the vision of himself was talking to him. “Listen, we don’t have much time.”
Jack wanted to tell vision Jack to shut up. He never liked the sound of his own voice, and having to see and hear himself in his last moments of life was just a tad much. Just let me die in peace, he thought at himself.
“Write ‘healed’ on yourself.”
Bleeding, throbbing and laying in anguishing pain wasn’t helping Jack’s mood. But this cliché death vision of himself wasn’t helping, making cryptic and unexpected demands. It must have seen Jack’s confusion at the statement because it continued in fast annoyance. “The PEN. Take the fucking pen and write ‘healed’ on yourself.” But then, of course it would know I’m confused, it’s just a projection from my own mind… and I’m bleeding out and dying, so of course I’m not making any sense.
“DO IT NOW,” vision Jack demanded, with such startling force that Jack stopped questioning, and despite the extreme pain it caused him, he obeyed. Jack managed to pull the pen from his right hand, fumbling with the blood-slicked pen with his left hand. Being left-handed at least made it easier, and he managed to single-handedly fumble the cap off with his thumb. The thought that he must be insane ran through his head as he almost giddily managed to slowly write “healed” on his bruised skin.
Exhausted, he blacked out.