Close Encounters of the Ordinary Kind at the Convention

I wanted to write something sci-fi based because I do love a good science-fiction novel. This is as much playing with the idea of the genre as it is just trying to give some props to something I have a real fondness for. A long way from perfect but hopefully short enough to not be too dull. Just under 2,500 words. 

I don’t know how, with so little interest or – more accurately – skill in science, I managed to have my imagination captured so powerfully by science-fiction. I mean, I used to watch Star Trek and the Star Wars films when I was younger but it was a passing interest; superficial. These things were something to vegetate to and nothing else. Perhaps that is why I never noticed the philosophical or scientific ideas these franchises dealt with (especially, Star Trek; Star Wars was a far more fantastical, straight-forward affair). However, when I read 1984 and realised that this book could be described as science-fiction, and then I encountered The Forever War – well, then I realised sci-fi had something to say. After that, I couldn’t get enough. Hard or soft; philosophical or scientific; ‘operatic’ or otherwise – you name it, I’d read it. That sense of wonder, some kind of poignancy or a combination of the two turned me into a sci-fi geek of rarely paralleled magnitude. To take our knowledge and then to take it to its limits and then beyond into realms previously unimagined was an exercise that captured me completely.

So when my friend Andy Clarke asked if I wanted to go to the sci-fi convention coming to our university, I jumped at the chance. Complete with opportunities to meet like-minded readers and a few authors too, how could a nerd like me decline? He was more of a film and television informed fanatic while I was certainly drawn to the literature. I guess that had to do with him studying Film and Media and me studying Creative Writing. However, our fanaticisms did overlap and we had other related interests – namely gambling and drinking. What could be a more idyllic situation than two student friends enjoying a science-fiction convention together and following it up with a trip to a casino and a finale in a club? We thought nothing could surpass such a day. In many ways, we were right.

The convention had a range of seminars and lectures as well as tables selling various wares – independently published works; obscure film stalls; all sorts of weird paraphernalia and memorabilia etc., etc. One of the earlier seminars – ‘The Subject of the Alien’ – was a meeting we both wished to attend. Then there were a couple that interested one of us but not the other. I wanted to check out a lecture on science fiction and social criticism while Andy was interested in looking at a presentation on the evolution of computer-generated animation and its effect on sci-fi horror. We agreed that our plan was thus: attend the first seminar together; reconvene outside for a pint or two; go our separate ways for a bit; check the stalls together; and, finally, back to the uni bar before the casino. Perfect.

On we ventured to that first seminar. We sat round the seminar room and we recognised the person leading the meeting. He was a masters’ student that we had seen around the university. We hadn’t really spoken to him before but he was quite an eccentric character that liked to draw attention to himself. Once everyone was settled he said some words as an introduction. A bit of unnecessary bluster to set the tone:

“Hello and welcome. Obviously, most of this should come from you lot, this is a seminar and not a lecture. However, I’ll just say a few words to get the ball rolling, so to speak.

“Aliens have been an area of human intrigue for a long, long time. Undeniably, an encounter of the third kind would totally disrupt the way we view our world, our universe and our place within it. As a case in point, a Catholic bishop conceded that, when we consider the vastness of the universe, there could be a planet with humanoid aliens that would be very much like us. Physically speaking, these aliens would also be made in God’s image but, they could be free from ‘original sin’. Where would this leave conversion and redemption? Where would this leave Jesus? And Catholicism? If these aliens would not need Jesus to get into Heaven would this be like a planet inhabited by Jews? The mind boggles!

“Still, aliens have inspired various reactions and thoughts. The two most frequent responses are fear and ridicule. This seems logical when we consider general human attitudes related to the unknown. Both attitudes can be seen in the xenophobia of small-minded people. White people feeling unsure of themselves in Harlem. The patronising mockery of other groups and their rites and customs that are arguably no more ludicrous than our own, but merely different. We might be unimpressed with the imperialists of the past and their attempts to bring civility to supposedly more primitive cultures but we can assume that they made these attempts with a light-heart. And perhaps that’s where the fear of the alien invasion comes from. We have seen what happens when a technologically superior group encounters an inferior other. Maybe it is not the ‘alien’ we fear in the alien we may encounter but, rather, how close to us they could be.

“Anyway, that’s enough waffling from me. There’s some fat to chew on. Would anyone like to raise any points of discussion?”

Despite being quite a lot of hot air, the guy’s introduction did inspire a starting point as we went with the wondering of an alien invasion. First, someone started by talking about the fear such ideas instil, citing War of the Worlds as an example. Someone agreed and pointed out how much chaos was created when Wells’ book was translated and broadcasted over the radio, with many listeners believing it to be true. Andy agreed and also talked about the unifying nature of an alien invasion. As a highly deplorable example he went for the film Independence Day that invoked the inevitable groans from more snobbish circles. He conceded it was offensively US-centric but the human race does become united. This is shown in the most crass manner, where the final fight between the humans and the invading alien force is on July 4^th. The day becomes independence day for the world, led by the US. He drew this back to the masters’ student’s point about our fear of the other but pointed out that it made us realise the ‘other’ we see in different human cultures and personalities was marginal when compared to the ‘other’ in an alien species.

Andy then continued by arguing how the alien could just as easily instil wonder and warmth, using the example of ET. He pointed out that the film made us realise that, in some cases, humans can remain the greater danger, the greater evil. I agreed and referred to Arthur C. Clarke’s – no relation of Andy’s – Rendezvous with Rama. I said in that book a wide range of human emotions are considered in reaction to the sudden arrival of an alien vessel. There was intrigue, awe, fear and reverence. At points, there was anger at a perceived threat that resulted in some humans being the more dangerous and the real threat. I said that anything alien is likely to spark a whole host of strong emotions. I concluded that an alien encounter could be anything except for one: it could never be dull. Everyone agreed. The discussion continued as different people shared their imaginings and theories of what an alien race that travelled to us would be like – physically, mentally and culturally. Some of the ideas were fascinating, involving theories of how variations in gravity or the chemical make-up of the atmosphere could produce certain differences. I’ll be honest, this whole area was rather too scientific for my limited mind but I was amazed how accomplished certain theories sounded and how convincing these people’s conceptualisations appeared.

After a while, the leading student wrapped things up:

“This subject allows for so much speculation that it is unlikely to ever be exhausted. In this hour, we have barely tapped into a fraction of the possible avenues of thought and discussion. However, one thing I would like to give you all to think about and consider is that an alien encounter goes two ways. Just as we are likely to be hit by a variety of concerns, they too are likely to be considering us as a new great unknown. Unless they study us intently beforehand, they will not know how many alien races we have encountered. Both races, no doubt, will have to approach with caution. However, I think we can all agree, as one of us has said: whatever it will be, an encounter will be anything other than dull. Thank you for attending, I hope you have found this interesting. Venture forth safely, people.”

And then everyone got up and left, me feeling pretty chuffed at being referred to in the concluding remark. Andy and I moved outside and agreed that the guy leading the session, who we had noticed around campus, appeared to be a bit of a twat. However, we did agree that the meeting was good and worth our attendance.

And like that, it happened.

The spaceship had barely materialised before the alien was in front of me. It threw something at my face and then I heard a sound that was something like a vacuum cleaner’s sucking noise. When I returned from flinching at whatever the alien had thrown, I realised that everything had stood still. I looked round and everything was frozen. I looked at myself; I appeared to be wearing an all-in-one, black bodysuit. I could feel it over my face. I looked at the alien and it looked almost identical to what I imagined I must have looked like; like a silhouette, a shadow. However, it was taller than I. I was stunned silent. The alien was not.

“Look, I’m sure this is very interesting for you but I’m in a bit of a hurry, I must get on as soon as possible. I have run out of material that one can use to sweeten a drink. Do you have any sweetening produce?”

“Like sugar?”

“Sugar? Probably.”

“I can understand you,” I said, matter-of-factly and far less flabbergasted than expected.

“Yes. A very quick explanation but we must move on: You are wearing a suit that has a built-in translator, motherfucker. My ship developed an understanding of your language through communications it picked up when nearing your orbit.”

“Motherfucker?”

“It has informed me that this is a term that is used amongst people that are being civil with each other.”

“It’s not. It’s the opposite.”

“Well, it has made an error. Is he not your motherfucker?” He pointed to Andy, who was acting very much like a statue.

“Him? He’s my friend.”

“Fine, friend. I would like some sugar.”

“Why is everyone frozen?”

It sighed. The sigh sounded strange through the translator.

“They’re not frozen. These suits, as well as making us understand each other have enabled us to experience and move at a rate 3600 times faster than everyone else. This means a second to us is an hour to them. This is getting tedious. Please let me try some sugar and take some with me if I think it will satisfy my needs.”

So I did. I took the alien to get some sugar. It tasted it through the fabric of the suit, nodded and then I escorted it outside. It then lifted its hands, the suit came off me and I saw the spaceship disappear. I imagine the suit had some sort of tranquilising effect on me because I acted much calmer than I imagined I would and when I returned to reality (though I never left it) I was hysterical. Lots of people were stunned and there was excited muttering that there had definitely been a spaceship in the sky, for at least a second. In time, people decided it must have been a prank, a projection done by some clown to scare the sci-fi nerds – probably done by the convention organisers themselves. Of course, for me, the experience lasted much longer and was much more real, more tangible and impossible to deny. For me, it had lasted twenty-five minutes. It was bizarre. Potentially life-changing.

Except that it wasn’t. The implications, long-term, were nothing; it was a wholly mundane experience. It all happened too quickly for anyone else to take it seriously and so it was quickly forgotten. And as for me, well, what is there of value to recollect? Although I couldn’t get a look of the alien through its bodysuit it was certainly humanoid in shape. Something for the Catholics to consider, certainly. In other ways, it was depressingly human – largely self-interested and short-tempered. It got what it wanted and then left. Sounds like quite a few students at the university that I could mention.

With the speed at which it happened for everyone else and the shameful lack of information I acquired, this encounter was not going to change the world. Depressingly, in contradiction to the conclusion of the seminar, if you reviewed the scene objectively, it was incredibly dull – a guy coming over to borrow some sugar.

Still, this should not dishearten our love for science-fiction, which always has the potential to be more exciting than the reality. Yes, it offers us a form of escapism but it also offers us a platform to imagine and to philosophise. And there lies its power. As long as it entertains, who cares if all our true alien encounters are as disappointing as the one above? I looked on the internet for a quote on science-fiction and have decided to sign off with the words of the (sadly) recently late and immeasurably great Ray Bradbury:

“Science fiction is the most important literature in the history of the world, because it’s the history of ideas, the history of our ideas birthing itself…Science fiction is central to everything we’ve ever done and people who make fun of science fiction writers don’t know what they’re talking about.”

 Quite so.

The Hell of the Socially Awkward Man

Not as personal as you might think, or perhaps it is, this story was inspired by the weird hypothetical scenarios and fortunately-never-occurring dialogues that come to fruition only in our heads (or, at least, my head). Lighter in mood than some of the others writings, I have thought about doing a follow up.

I pick up the few items and put them on the counter.

“Just them, please.” So far, so good.

The man behind the counter scans the items and then begins shuffling things under the counter. What’s he doing? He must be getting me a carrier bag for my items. I hate bags – well, unnecessary shopping bags, anyway. Your hands get overfull, everything ends up really cumbersome. Besides, it’s bad for the environment. They charge in most European countries, even charge in some of the shops here. That’s because, environmentally speaking, like I said, it is bad form. Of course, the charge is just to give credence to the myth that big shops care about the damage done to the world. It’s all for show. But that doesn’t mean that you should take a bag you don’t need. It means you should not take a bag because it’s right, small fee or otherwise. Now, I’m not saying don’t take a bag if you really need one, just make sure you do really need one.

So I put my backpack on the counter and have a look. It is pretty full. However, I could easily hold my book and then the three items that would be awkward to carry in my hands will fit comfortably into my bag. Problem solved, no bag needed. So I tell the man behind the counter that his searching (he’s been under there for about half a minute now; how long does it take to get a bag?) is no longer necessary.

“I don’t need a bag, I’ve got space in here if I carry my book.”

“Hmm,” he says smiling, half way between confused and amused.

Why did I qualify that? What was wrong with ‘I don’t need a a bag, thanks’? Oh well, it’s done now.

And he’s still shuffling!

A bleep goes under the counter.

I realise he hasn’t been looking for a bag. They normally ask first, he didn’t ask. Obviously, he wasn’t looking for a bag. I realise now that one of my items doesn’t have a barcode. They have a barcode for it under the counter.

Oh, shit! What does he think of me? Do I now sound impatient, waiting for a bag I didn’t want? Or that I just unnecessarily explain every detail of the processes my mind goes through? Maybe he thinks I was trying to draw attention to my book. As if I’m proud that I read. It’s not even a literary book or particularly intellectual. Most my workmates have read it, not all of them are especially heavy readers. Why should I be proud of it? But he might think I am. Whatever he thinks, he’s not going to be impressed with me. How could I fuck up just buying three measly items in a shop?

He asks for the money. I pay the man and abruptly leave the shop, carrying the items and my book in my arms. I’ll sort them outside, I just need to get away from the embarrassment of this scene. I fiddle awkwardly with the door, the items wriggle tenuously in my arms. As I get outside, the items fly out of my arms and the door slams behind me.

What the hell have I done? After making such a fuss about not needing a bag! Because of my bag. Which I did not use. And then I proceed to drop all my stuff in front of the attendant I had just conversed moronically with. The shame of being a spectacle lies at my feet. I bend down, put the scattered items into my bag and walk off, ready to die.

Upon reflection, I can see how ludicrously melodramatic the above sounds. However, this constant introspection runs through my head mercilessly. The tragedy is that I am the most socially awkward person imaginable. It’s just that nobody knows it but me. I know the guy in the shop may have considered me a bit odd for all of 20 seconds and, for him, that would be the end of it. But the embarrassment I felt in that situation will plague me throughout the day. It will come and go in waves. It will creep up on me when I least expect it. I will be sitting there, having a cup of coffee or whatever, thinking of nothing and then suddenly I will reflect on my own ridiculous behaviour. Sometimes the mental shame triggers a physical reaction – rough shaking of the head to rid myself of the thought or a light punch as a further form of self-abuse. I will analyse, deconstruct and analyse once more in an attempt to exhaust the memory but most of the time I will just bring about an even greater sense of bemusement at myself.

The thing is, around people I know well, I am perfectly at ease. I know these people, they know me and my quirks and I rarely suffer any embarrassment. Also, in formal meetings, where you have to act professional and sensible (in a sense, to be somebody that you are not), I understand the rules and can play the game. However, those social interactions that we go through almost everyday – the friendly till attendant; the person at work you sort-of-know that talks to you by the kettle; encounters with family members you’re not too close to; or friends of friends when your mutual acquaintance goes to the loo – in these situations I panic inside so much that I just want to run away and/or hide. But then I know that the behaviour will be so bizarre that I’ll become some sort of pariah. It really is an intolerable burden.

However, today is going to be different. It has to be. Today I am going to ask out the girl who works in the coffee shop. She’s sweet, charming and her quirky personality appears to suffer the same tension of trying to be comfortable while being an oddity – a tension I think she manages to control well. She always wears her hair up and when I saw her tattoo of Ryu mid-dragon punch on the top of her back, bottom of her neck, my fall into besottedness was complete. We have exchanged a few words at the counter and she seems so happy and helpful that I can’t help but hope. I know it’s her job to be happy and helpful but I feel that she is a touch more accommodating with me. So today I need the confidence to bite the bullet.

As I leave the tube station I stride confidently, purposely down the street. My head’s held high and my face is set in contented-smile mode. I know nothing can faze me, as long as I can get there with no interruptions.

“Good morning!” someone booms in my face. Where the fuck did they come from?

It’s a chugger. Hipster glasses, short hair and a big, ill-fitting coat. Shit! I can’t tell if it’s a feminine boy or an androgynous girl. I’m out of my depth and all they have done is offered a greeting.

“Can I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”

He/she already has one up on me, it knows I’m a bloke. I’m stunned silent in my uncertainty. He or she takes the hesitation as a sign to continue.

“Did you have a happy childhood?” Jesus! That’s a bit fucking personal. And why is their voice in a husky, gender-neutral tone? Why do I not know what you are? Where the fuck am I? I look at the coat – something to do with kids.

Oh, not bloody kids. Their cause is so emotive. And they get loads of support anyway, they don’t need my help. So many people give their money to children’s charities because it’s a completely uncontroversial cause. ‘Do you think it’s okay to beat a child senseless and feed it nothing but dog food?’ ‘Of course not!’ ‘Then give us some money or that’s what will happen.’ Ridiculous! So I try to give my money to causes that I think are less supported but worthwhile. I’m giving money to a water aid charity because they help countries where a child’s birth is a dreaded sentence to a life of dehydration. A life of fear that the very stuff you consume to keep you alive might end up killing you. Somehow, this charity is less compatible to soft middle-class families and their ‘proper’ sensibilities. They’d rather see kids hugging teddy-bears, happy their faces are no longer being slapped. I also give regular donations to a charity supporting Chinese dissidents. China is a massive country and a vital economy. Its people deserve a say. The implications could be massive! World changing! Better than some bloody snotty-nosed kid’s charity. Anyway, you get the point – not bloody kids.

“Erm, no. I’m sorry,” I say and walk away.

“Thanks for listening,” he/she calls at me, sarcastically.

Why did they have to do that? Why shame me as some miserly bastard just because I don’t want to endure a pointless conversation? It’s not that I’m opposed to charity or to chuggers, I do donate. However, I give enough money to causes that I consider to be worthwhile. She – or he – can’t understand that. Plus, I have somewhere to be, someone to meet. Granted, she may not be expecting me but I was on my way – today’s the big day. It’s not right to stop someone totally focussed on something and distract them with an unclear gender and questions about their childhood. Besides, I don’t want to stand in the street and translate my unambiguously insensitive opinions into something rational and acceptable. I should have handled that better. Where were my manners? A sincere sounding, though utterly unmeant promise to come back straight after running a very pressing errand – that would have done the trick. Anyway, it’s not like I can go back and say ‘sorry I was so rude. I was thrown by your in-between-y sex.’ I’m such a freaking moron!  

I am pounding my head as I walk down the street thinking these thoughts. My veneer of confidence, obviously a very fragile veneer, has dissipated resoundingly. I have to calm down. I think about the girl in the coffee shop. Her smile, showing a slight gap in her front teeth, a minor imperfection that just adds to her endearing projection. Her small frame. She looks cute. She’s irresistible. I have to make a move today.

I arrive at the Crazy Bean Café.

Where yummy mummies that won’t touch anything that’s not organic sit with their children that have names like ‘Sun’ or ‘Immemorial’. (‘Oh, Immy has just taken rice-milk! So much better than that hormone-ridden bovine milk that other parents subject their children to.’) I did genuinely hear one of the mums bring in a two year old called ‘Plum’. I just hope she wasn’t a Ms. Duff.

Where students go to talk about their art projects, so absurdly post-modern. (‘Ah, yes…it’s called Energy. I have two encased lamps. One has a near-never-ending, high-energy light-bulb that is on constantly. The other holds the most ecologically-friendly bulb that has been constructed so far. However, this bulb is broken , a cracked hole at the top. They are encased side-by-side in transparent boxes in a dull room. A host of moths are in the case with the dead lamp. The powerful, effusing radiance from the neighbouring case draws the moths and they repeatedly find themselves hindered by an invisible barrier. It’s being recorded and the final piece will be a sped-up video of the moths failing in their futile dream of reaching the light and eventually dying. Obviously, it’s a critique on decadent Western society and our hypocritical attitude to developing nations…’) In fact, that’s probably still too coherent.

It is also where I go. After stepping in once for a coffee and witnessing the girl of my dreams working behind the counter, I cannot go anywhere else. I put up with the ridiculous people in here because of her. In truth, I also like to marvel at the complete lack of self-awareness these people have. I appreciate a moment to bask in their bizarrely perceived superiority. I envy it.

So, in I go and there she is! She emanates a warmth as soon as I see her. My stomach turns. Is a coffee a good idea? Maybe make it a decaff, it will place less havoc on my insides. I am at the counter.

“Hi, there!” There is an undeniable flash of recognition in her eyes. “How are you doing today?”

“Great, thanks,” I lie, still nursing my guilt about my previous clash with the cross-gendered chugger. I smile a smile I hope is not too strained. “And yourself?” Return question, good start, begins a rapport.

“I’m at work,” she says bluntly but still smiling.

Of course! She’s at work! No one likes the drudgery of the coffee shop, especially filled with these pretentious idiots. What a stupid question!

“Still,” she continues, “can’t complain really. What you having?”

“Flat-white coffee, please.” Then I remember, “Decaff.”

“Real coffee a bit too much for you?”

She’s teasing. Still, there’s a truth in that line. What sort of pathetic man can’t even handle a regular coffee? What is wrong with me? Abort! Abort now! Before you get any deeper, just stop trying to do anything but get your coffee. Your eunuch coffee. Just shut up.

“What sort of milk would you like?”

Oh! This fucking hippy caff! What happened to sodding milk as milk? Maybe I can redeem this. “What do you have?” I ask nonchalantly, casually.

“Ooooh…” she thinks. “Regular, skimmed, semi-skimmed, goat’s milk and then there are your non-animal choices: soy, rice, hemp, cashew, almond, oat and quinoa.”

“Wow.” I say. Is that it? Is that all I have as a returned line?

“Every milk under the sun.”

Think of something witty to say, now! Pull it back. But what? ‘Do you milk the nuts yourself?’ maybe? No, that might sound perverse – ‘milking nuts’. ‘How do you milk a quinoa?’ No, that might sound like a genuine question, maybe even disapproving of there being such a milk. Now, I’m taking too long. Just say something!

“Just good, old-fashioned, full-fat cow juice, please.” What the fuck was that?! Cow juice? Good, old fashioned? I sound like a wanker.

She clips her heels together and salutes. “Yes, sir. Order understood.”

Oh, thank goodness, she’s ignored my bumbling line and lightened the mood with a little joke. I feel the calm returning. But wait. What if she was subconsciously suggesting I was a bit bossy, a bit forthright?

“There you go: one flat-white, filled with cow juice.”

Oh shit. She didn’t ignore my line at all. How could she ignore it? I know she’s trying to be friendly but I just want to die. I pass my money, £2 exactly.

“Thank you.”

Is that it, then? Nothing? Where’s the wit? Where’s the charm? I’m so awkward.

I sit down and sip my pathetically weak coffee while I replay the scenario in my head. There must have been a line somewhere about milk. ‘More than what my milkman offers’? No. Lame. Something about ‘Mother’s milk’? Christ, no, sounds dangerously incestuous. ‘It’s amazing the things you can milk’? Maybe, with a slight amused incredulity. All right, it’s not at all funny but it’s light-hearted and it keeps things open for a possible response.

However, in my absolute disillusionment in myself, there is also a tingling of optimism, of hope. She was friendly, she was flirty. Wasn’t she? She teased. She saluted. These are good signs. Aren’t they? Granted, I may have been a bit stuffy. A bit, I don’t know, blegh. (I know that’s not a word but it sums me up) but she was nice to me. If I had been a bit more talkative, could we have got something going? 

Maybe it’s not too late. I could still go up to her as I leave, give her some money for a tip. Say that seeing her brightens up my day and she makes a fine cup of coffee. See how she responds. Then, if she responds positively I can ask her if she’d like to, one time, maybe join me on the other side of the counter. We’ll go somewhere where the coffee’s made for her. Maybe she’ll say yes. I have to grow a pair and just do it.

One more swig of coffee. Take the mug back to the counter.

I stand and walk towards the exit, manoeuvring a passing of the counter as I go.

I’m edging closer. She’s just served someone. She’s going back to the washing up.

The guy that has just been served is walking at me. He’s seen someone he knows behind me.

I side-step to the right, nearer to the counter.

He passes on my left. I am now at the counter, filled with a nervous energy.

I look at the back of her head. Ryu in mid-air. He’s punching the sky in celebration of my victory.

I put the 50p tip on the counter. I look at her.

“Thanks very much,” I call. I am already walking away. Has she turned around?

“Thanks,” she calls back.

“I left a tip,” I say as I walk out the door.

I am a fucking failure!

Why didn’t I draw her attention? She was doing the washing up, she would have appreciated the distraction. She called out ‘thank you’. Maybe she turned round. Why couldn’t I have been more decisive? More confident? More charming when I came in? This is the hell of the socially awkward man. I walk away, frustrated and ashamed.

Fucking ‘cow juice’… 

The Curse of the Stubborn

This was inspired by the song 'Case of the Stubborns' by a thrash metal band called Viking. They were inspired by an episode of The Twilight Zone. I don't think any of these three pieces bare much other relation to each other. About 4,500 words.

…

Today I am more awake; more conscious. I suppose, in a fashion, I am more alive. However, I could not be much less alive. I am a mind. A consciousness. A soul trapped in a cell. My body is useless, it has been for years; countless years. I can hardly move and each decrepit creak agonises my frail flesh and bones. Even the mind is useless, though in use. It fades in and out of consciousness. Phases of alertness, of activity, as my doctor notices. He is here today and, today, I hear him speak:

“Hello, Tim. Another day and you remain the same as before. No signs of further deterioration, no signs of improvement. There is nothing to tell you and, if you don’t mind me being so blunt, I couldn’t be sure of the in the value of telling you even if I could. I mean, at your age we have to concede that getting better is unlikely. Age is your ailment, after all. And if you got worse – again, I apologise for being so forthright, but you know it to be true – the final piece of deterioration would finally lead to death. Besides that, the recognition in your eyes is so vague and infrequent that it is difficult to tell whether you comprehend or retain the fragments of information we tell you.”

He hesitates.

“Tim, you are an incredible anomaly of human existence. You are, according to our records, 350 years old, 351 in a few weeks. You arrived here approximately 270 years ago and we have been keeping you alive ever since. We have watched you mentally and physically decline over the years but you have never given up the ghost, so to speak. You have refused to pass on. You are the most stubborn specimen of a human being we have ever witnessed. Of course, it is not our place to force you to your ultimate destination. As doctors and professionals in the care services, we are to facilitate your journey on as pleasantly as possible but it is not within our capacity to make that journey for you; not without your consent. We have sought your thoughts in the past. We have tried to understand if you wanted us to help move you on but, by the time we started making the inquiries, your state of being had so decayed that it was impossible to accurately determine a coherently consistent view. And now we monitor you and know you are still here and we wait for you to…well…not be here. We measure your heartbeat, we see the movement in your eyes – uncertain if they register, let alone retain what they see – and we continue to offer our service. It’s up to you to leave this place, not us.”

With this, I see him smile submissively, go to touch me on the hand to console and then pull back, no doubt worried about the shock his touch could stimulate. And I acknowledge that he is right in what he says. I am conscious and here today but how many times has he been here and I have not? How many times have I phased into consciousness to see him by my bedside and been unable to comprehend his words and actions? Or how many times the reverse? To be aware of his arrival but then lose the capacity to understand his words, before phasing out of his presence completely into a blankness, to have my mind return to this room and to conscious thinking with him gone? He is right, I am stubborn. Why can I not move on? Why can I not die?

…

I am in the room, again. I never forget the room. I sometimes leave it to darkness, I sometimes lose awareness of where I am but I always return to this room and recall this room. I recall very little of anything else, of everything that precedes this present room; this present life – if it can be so called. I do not recall my childhood apart from the rare, limited glimpse. I do not recall my developmental years – teenage to young adult – apart from one important event. And in truth, I now remember only one significant event from later on that precedes being here. I have been in this room since around the age of 80; the last event that strikes me is one in my late 30s. That is easily 40 years of notable existence that eludes me and almost 40 years the other way, with a few exceptions. Perhaps I remember so little of the time before arriving here because I was, in some sense, already dead, killed by one of those haunting experiences, never to be forgotten. Regardless, it worries me how much I can forget and still carry on existing. It also worries me what I still remember. I fear I may never forget these events. And as I suffer by being bound to this existence, I also suffer by being bound to the guilty recollections of this mind. In every way, I wish that I was not so stubborn. Not so stubborn as to continue. Not so stubborn as to remember. I wish for the day when the blankness of non-consciousness is permanent. I wish for the day when this room and this guilt are gone.

…

I am in the room, again.

…

I am so sorry. I… People…as shadows. Where am I? Shadows. Shades.

…

I am in the room, again. A bit more lucid this time. I have been out for a while. Sometimes I know that my awareness has been poor. I am not sure how long I have not really ‘been in this room’, more inside myself and oblivious to everything. I like those periods of vagueness. I like to think it suggests a progress to moving on, to not returning to this room, even though I always return.

The doctor is back. I am not altogether here. I look at him looking at me, talking to me but I don’t hear him. There is another doctor with him. I must not look at her. I must close my eyes. (The body won’t listen). Don’t look at her. (The eyes will do as they choose). My eyes move from him, they look at the other doctor. The woman doctor. She looks like her. I knew she would but even knowing this my body cannot handle the shock. I feel my body move, it flinches. A noise seeps into the ears, a bleeping of some machine, the body moves more, the machine bleeps faster. It quickens.

…

I am in the room, again. Alone. There are bandages around my chest. Something must have happened in the hours, days or however long past. I can’t recall much of anything. I never can. The room is empty. A closed and curtained window. Only the artificial light illuminates the room. The walls are the epitome of bland, a beige-tan. Then there is my bed and the machines next to me. With me, these are the essence of my room, the constants. Vague apparitions come and go, doctors and nurses and others as passable and temporary as my own thoughts, but these limited furnishings always remain. Even when I go, I remain.

…

I am more conscious today. More coherent, more lucid. I hope someone comes. Those are the worst days – when you return and are alone with your thoughts. How many times have I had the opportunity to not be alone with my thoughts only to be totally lost in unconsciousness? I don’t know to care. But when I am clearest of mind and alone, I very much do know to care. With the ability to think little and remember less, it is an unpleasing experience. I do not like to experience consciousness alone. Especially when the littlest you can remember, you wish to forget. I cannot control my thoughts any more than I can control my actions: I will recall those memories. The ones that pain me. The ones that bind me to existence.

It’s strange – or perhaps appropriate is more truthful – that the two memories are undeniably linked, though they occur many years apart and affect me in completely different ways. In fact, the more fondly I remember the first event, the more painful the emotions it inflicts upon me and the more brutal is the second recollection. The happiness of that memory of her – of us being together – is made all the more bitter by the memory of her departure. The memories of how we met have faded, as have the days of courtship. The only knowledge I confidently have of the times preceding our honeymoon are the feelings of elation that continued in the time together. Although past memories have gone, I recall she was my only lover. She was the only woman that has ever truly mattered to me; who still matters to me. The specifics of the honeymoon I can recall with less haziness than the other fragments that dance in my mind but it is the fragmented moments that matter so much. The lurching contentment in my stomach that verges on nausea, for the emotions are so many, so real and so strong. The lying in bed and looking in her eyes any number of times over that time together, and the feeling of gratitude. Whether we had just made love or just woken up, there was nothing but undiluted happiness in the knowing that she was there. It was such a perfect time. I wish I could sigh with the satisfaction that these moments brought me at the time. However, I cannot. It’s all I can do to keep my breathing going. It is controlled by the physical and unconscious process; it occurs detached from the thoughts I experience. Besides, that comfort is a lie; that sigh could only be a sigh of longing and futility. A sigh for a love so clearly necessary, so clearly lost.

I don’t want to recall the other memory. I do not want to think on. Perhaps the unconsciousness will fade in and awareness will fade away. Perhaps someone will come in and rescue me from myself. No? Perhaps I can delay.

Why is it that that memory is so apparent? So readily recalled? Why is it that this other memory equally remains? In isolation I could sit here lost in perfection with that first recollection; instead I am miserable. There are other memories, facts that I acknowledge in between the two properly retained episodes. I know a son, Mark, was born. I know I worked and she worked. I know in this time I started smoking. I know, too, that we remained exceptionally in love. The decision for a second honeymoon, I know, was because of our work stresses. We were not healing rifts but removing barriers that stopped us being happy together. Everything began so perfectly, that is what makes it all so tortuous. Why doesn’t someone come? Why doesn’t someone save me from myself?

I remember us arriving at our destination, the ‘plane landing. We were so happy then. I remember her smile before we got off the plane, a smile with which she told me that this was exactly what we needed. Our return to our honeymoon hotel room. Her jovial mocking at the cheesiness of the idea. How clichéd it all was when actually followed through. And I remember lying on the bed, in each other’s arms and feeling that, however sentimental or trite the scenario might be described, how right it was.

I remember the evening. The long white dress she wore; her light brown hair in curls. She looked perfect. I remember her teasing me for smoking. I know that she wanted me to stop – the teasing had a genuine message – but she was not rushing me, not nagging me. I considered stopping by the end of the holiday. For her, I could do that. And then I remember the morning, still so perfect but the impending inevitability of the situation means that it is already tainted. The sensations of dread choke this serene memory like encroaching weeds. I remember the cool warmth of the early morning and the lazy way we made love. And I remember her entering the bathroom as I went out for a smoke. An unnecessary trip away from her. I remember her calling through the door, in a teasing plea over the running water: “Don’t be long.”

I wasn’t long, perhaps twenty minutes. If I had been quicker…If I had not gone at all… I remember opening the door and calling her name. I remember the only answer being the still-running water of the shower. I don’t want to remember anymore. Not a moment further. It’s already too far. My body is crying. I can feel the tears; I know why. I remember opening the bathroom door. Why do I remember looking at her on the floor? Why do I remember her body so sprawled? So undignified? Why do I remember her eyes closed? Why can I recall the darker blotches of red where the water had not mixed with the blood? Why do I remember the faded pinkish stream going down the plug-hole? Her hair darkened and straightened by the water? Why do I remember my own uselessness? My own loss? I remember this and nothing more. I don’t remember healing. I don’t remember returning to life. I do not remember adjusting. Her face did not fade. I cannot remember getting past that dead, broken body – that beautiful face, those lips slightly open; the back of her head, too, slightly open. I cannot remember getting past her life fading. I cannot remember because I never got past her life fading. I still cannot get past that vision. I cannot ever imagine getting past that vision. I will not forget and I will always blame myself. If I had been there. If I had stayed with her. If I hadn’t let her die.

I’m so sorry, Claire.

It still hurts so much. The feeling that I let her down. That I let her die. And now I cannot recall anything else. I recall faces and some places but these are the thoughts that have branded themselves upon me. A branding that will never heal. An impossible moment to pass. I remember the doctor’s face. I remember my son’s – though he must be long dead. I wish I could join him. And her. Why must I remain in this room? Nothing here but the torture of my thoughts and the futility of the facts of my doctors. That I am in some sort of biological stasis. On the brink of death but, somehow, remaining. Stuck in this room. Stuck in this body. Just my desperate sorrow, my inability to escape and these mocking machines bleeping in recognition of my entrapped existence.

…

I am in the room. The nurses float around me. I can’t hear anything. I can’t move; my body does not even wish to twist my neck. I am sure that the nurses and the machines must be making noise but I can’t hear them. It is like I am dreaming of a silent movie.

…

He’s talking at me. What is the doctor saying?

“…really. So, we’re going to continue with the dosage and the treatment. Maintain speed to our destination.”

Seems to be the same old doctor spiel. He moves out of my view. I hear a chair scrape, he must be sitting down.

“You know, we did think about moving you. To another room, I mean. A change of scenery and all that. In the end, concerns were raised that the shock might be too much. Some of us saw that as a pretty fine problem solver in itself. But it’s really not for us to decide, it’s for you.”

The chair gives a hollow scrape once again. The footsteps clop out of the room. I feel so tired.

…

Room…Walls. Wheeze. Where?

…

I’m still in my room. I can’t concentrate. Shadows. Silhouettes. People?

…

Maybe I’m fading. It all seems so dark. No. The memories keep me here. Here, in the dark.

…

I’m in my room, still. I feel I have been away for a long time. It happens, but I never go completely. My neck turns to look away from the machines and window. There is a man on the chair. It is not the doctor. It looks like my son. Mark?

“Hello, Pop.”

It can’t be Mark. He must be dead. It must be one of his children’s children, however many generations past. Should I know this man? Has he been here before? Have I met him before? He does look like Mark.

“Think of me as whoever you like, Pop. You have been here too long. Centuries doesn’t cover it, Pop. It’s too long. We will get you out of here. In whatever fashion. It’s time to move on.”

He seems nice. I hardly remember Mark. I am sure he’d approve of this man; I do. He touches my hand. I let out a groan. Not my body, distinct from me; my body and I as one. It brings a new alertness.

“We’ll have you with us. Slowly. Slowly…”

Take care, Pop.

He gets up and goes, looking at me as he does; comforting and melancholy.

He will help me. I like this man.

…

There’s stirring. Groaning. Noises. The stirring is me. The groaning is also me. Motions before my eyes. I don’t understand…

…

I am in my room. Always in my room. The click of the door. Steps.

“Hello, again, Tim. Same as usual…” The voice begins to muffle and fade.

…

There is motion in the room. They are taking decorations down. They gave me a birthday? I can sense it, they have. That feels like a sick joke. My body groans.

“Ah,” it’s the doctor, “rumbles of life. Well, Tim, the decorations had to come down at some point. 351 years… That is an accomplishment by anyone’s standard. To be in a room, immobile but alive – at least in the most basic sense – is certainly an impressive spectacle. Some think of you as a medical marvel; others, and I’m one of them, see you as a monstrosity. Why won’t you just let go? Why be so stubborn?”

His questions speak a bitter truth. I do indeed want to let go. I need to let go. But I can’t.

…

Who is that? It looks like Mark. It can’t be Mark. It looks so much like Mark but not Mark. Like a memory of Mark. This must be his descendent.

“I’m whoever you’re most comfortable me being, Pop.”

What does that mean?

“Do you remember me?”

Do I remember this person? He looks so familiar. But perhaps I remember Mark’s face and this is all I remember. I remember so little. Perhaps this man is a memory of a memory.

“No, Pop. Do you not remember me being here?”

I stretch my mind. Do I recall? Not really. I recall nothing particular. No events. But perhaps a sensation? Yes, I feel he has been here before. Once before?

“Not once before. I have been here many times. In many ways, I never leave.”

Is he answering my thoughts? Is he talking with me or at me?

“I am with you, Pop. In a fashion, I am always with you. Often I am not but, sometimes I really am here, distinctly here, to call for you.”

He is communicating with me. This is strangely familiar.

“That’s right, Pop. Remember. Don’t resist it.”

What? What is it?

“I have been here before. We have been here before. Remember.”

I am tired.

“I know you are tired but you must do this.”

Help me.

“I am here to help you, Pop. It is time to move on.”

Help me. More.

“I can’t push you. It’s never worked before.”

“Before?”

“I have been here before.”

We have been here before.

That’s right, Pop.

What’s going on?

You’re not in hospital.

I’m not?

That’s right. You have not been here for centuries. Your body is no longer a thing. Your mind is no longer a thing. You are just you.

Like a soul?

Like a soul, Pop.

How long have I been here?

It’s complicated. In a sense, there is no time. In another sense, it has been centuries. Hundreds of years. But that doesn’t really cover it because seconds run like hours in this stasis.

Why?

You are a trapped soul. You have trapped yourself. You have refused to let go.

We have been here before?

Yes.

Who are you?

Who am I?

…Mark. You’re Mark.

That’s right.

Are you trapped?

Not like you. I am a free soul.

Why am I trapped?

Who trapped you, Pop?

I don’t know. I want to be free.

Then let go, Pop. Move on.

Move on from what? Let go of what?

You know what.

What?

What can you remember?

No.

It is not the memories. The memories do not help you.

No.

They remain because of guilt.

No.

The guilt gives you these memories. The guilt gives you pain. The guilt built this room. It has made you sick so you can’t move on.

No.

Yes. You are not a medical marvel or monster. This is all your soul enslaved in guilt. Your imagined physical form. Your mental frailties. Your room, your doctors and nurses – they are all the encasement of your soul. Come. Move on. Be with us.

What is it like?

Again, it’s complicated. It just is.

No.

Yes.

I am imagining this. I am going feverish with the frailty of my age.

We have been here before, Pop. You have denied it before. You are almost free of the guilt but if you let it close up it will build around you again. You will be here for centuries more. Let go, Pop.

You hear that? That denial? That’s not you. That’s the guilt coming back.

If I let go of my guilt, I let go of her. I can’t do that. I owe her. She may never be forgotten.

Please, Pop. She’s a free soul too. We can all be. That is the guilt holding on. That is the stubborn curse of guilt.

No.

Pop, think about it. You deny it but this doesn’t make sense. The room doesn’t change, the doctor doesn’t change.

No.

You go through extreme frailties. The guilt grips you and you never let go. You cling to this and it destroyed your life. It’s still destroying you out of life. This is not what Mum would have wanted.

Why is she not here?

She is outside this room. Are you prepared to listen?...

…

After death, souls must unburden themselves of all their negative feelings. They start trapped but most become free in a matter of weeks, with regards to ‘living time’. It is the transition from the physical to the super-physical. Although you are not remotely physical when you die, your soul take a while to understand its new form; that is, that there is no form; this comprehension from the form to the formless occurs during the unburdening. Some souls take longer to make the transition because they have more negative feelings to shed. Sometimes for ‘years’; sometimes for ‘centuries’. The illusory entrapment can take many forms – you have envisioned yourself in a hospital room. You have imagined yourself sick, which is fair. Sick with guilt. You near the conclusion of this intermediary phase and then often snap back to your original, sick, trapped state, no nearer to freedom than before. My situation is even more complicated than yours. There are spaces in between the transition of trapped and free and I am in such a space. Mum died and became entirely free, she is fully part of the super-physical existence. I am a part of that existence as well but as I shed my negative feelings I became aware of your existence. I became aware of your still being trapped. My guilt remains about not helping you to move on. I am in between here and there. My guilt has tied me to you and I will not be completely free until you let go too. Mum let go. She has made the transition. It is time for us to do the same…

…

Is she there?

In a sense, Pop. But it’s the super-physical. We are all there but none of us are there. There is no you, or me, or mum. There simply is.

I can’t have her? I can’t see her? She can’t forgive me?

Pop, you’re not listening. There is no her to forgive. There will be no you to be forgiven. I am torn between here and there. I can’t go without you. There is nothing to forgive any longer. There is just moving on. And then there will be no more us. Just is.

No.

But Pop…

No. Not without her. Not yet.

Pop.

No.

Pop.

No!

…

“Your fever’s come down.” The doctor’s with me. “We really thought you were going to move on, there. However,” the doctor sighs, “you remain as stubborn as a mule, as they say. Comfortably over the 351 years now, months past. Who knows how long you’ll take before you move on. Things are settling down, you’ll be back to normal in no time. I can only imagine this to be frustrating for you but we can only try to make your stay as pleasant as possible. And we can hope it will be temporary. For all our sakes…”

…

I am in my room. I am held here with my memories of her. I wish I could move on. But I can’t. I loved her and she died. I let her die. And now it seems, I can’t die. I can’t let her go. I can’t let go.

I’m so sorry, Claire.