Grey Might

A man finds himself in a position to discover what could have been, which ultimately breaks him.

I don't really know how it all started. Worse yet, I don't know that I ever will. I've asked myself if it was even important, and I haven't reached an answer. The disconcerting revelation of my dilemma presented itself to me one day, uninvited and unexpected. I don't know why or how. I just know that I've been living here, unmoving, for the past six months. 

Do you know those dreams that, even after you wake up, continue to plague you for the rest of the day? It might have depicted the death of a loved one, or something equally sickening. Whatever the case may be, something in the back of your mind haunts you...nagging at your thoughts. This is the most accurate way I can describe my life after my first travel. I write this letter to you now, dear brother, out of a hope for vindication. Perhaps it may never come; perhaps I don't deserve it even if it proved to be attainable. I only hope for one thing now: I hope that you will believe me. If not, then all is truly lost. What I'm about to share with you isn't easy; neither for me to write or for you to accept. You will have two options after hearing this. Understand my position and forgive me. Conversely, you will disown me, despise what I've done, and forget it all in a belief things can be set right accordingly. The aforementioned hope doesn't allow me to guess which path you'll choose. I do pray, however, that you'll at least read this and give me a chance.

One final thing: my desires are somewhat paradoxical concerning this matter. I want you to hear it because I believe it's necessary that you do. On the other hand, I do not wish this burden upon you. You're about to dive into the darkest parts of my soul. I would not worry so much if this is where it stopped. But part of my transgressions was that I dived into the souls of others. A veritable dissection of lives that I had no part of. I saw and heard things that were never intended for me. Your final choice is now, brother.

Doctor Powell had always had a tendency to be talkative. But his words on that day seemed to be avoiding something, not merely chatty. 

“So are you going to watch the Fiesta bowl this evening?” he asked as he pretended to scribble on the clipboard. He occasionally lifted a page to make it more convincing. 

“I'm not a big fan of football,” I said flatly, waiting for him to finish up. He nodded, scratching his chin. 

“Doctor Powell, am I going to die?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face. He sighed, lowered his glasses, and looked into my eyes as his face fell solemn. 

“I'm afraid so...you only have another forty years to live,” he said with yet another sigh. I chuckled, hopped off of the table, and pulled on my jacket. 

“Anything else I should know about?” I asked. Powell's face grew serious, earnestly looking over the charts once more. He finally laid the clipboard down and looked at me. 

“I don't know,” he said somewhat solemnly. 

“I'm paying you an awful lot of money for your ignorance,” I joked. A slight grin tugged at his lips.

“I really don't know what it is right now.” 

“I'm not asking for the results of the readings, just the readings.”

“Well...quite honestly, the EEG showed some odd results. Not necessarily worrisome, but just different. That's the best way I can think of to put it,” he said as he crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. 

“Would they explain the migraines?” I asked. His head swayed from side to side for a second as he contemplatively stared into space. 

“Possibly. But I'm going to do your job for you,” Powell said as he jotted something on the palm of his hand. That told me something about this wasn't normal procedure. “I'm going to send the EEG to a friend of mine for a second opinion.” 

“Good. Because you don't have much of an opinion right now,” I said with a wink as I walked toward the door. Powell and I had been friends for years, and I didn't mind ribbing him now and then. 

“Fair enough,” he said with a laugh. I left the office and went home for the evening. On the drive, Jon called. 

“Hey, you wanna come over to watch the Fiesta bowl tonight?” Maybe it was the fact that we lived twenty minutes away from Glendale. Maybe it was the fact that I continued to refuse. Whatever explanation could be applied, people were enthralled with the Fiesta bowl. I finally gave in. 

“Sure, why not. What time were you thinking?” I asked, tucking the phone between my cheek and my shoulder. 

“How does six o'clock sound?” 

“Sounds great, see you then.” 

“Great. Bye,” Jon said as he hung up the phone.

I surprised myself by spending the evening watching football. More accurately, perhaps, I spent the evening with friends. At times we ignored the television altogether for conversation. Albeit, that was a rarity, but at least present. The evening sped by quickly, for which I was secretly thankful, and I was finally on my way home. 

I drove through silent darkness, which only served to make sleep even closer. I fought off a yawn and rolled down the window. The time and place for sleep weren't coinciding well this evening. It was nearly twelve o'clock that Friday night; a car was not the place for me to be.

It was the sort of day where you started thinking there were too many hours in the day. Too much time, hence too much work. When I arrived, I tripped up the stairs to my apartment. I halfheartedly skimmed through the headlines on the Internet and fell into bed. Dreams that seemed to flow against sleep filled the night. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep was dangerous. It brought demons I wasn't prepared to battle. Looking back now (a funny statement to say after all of this) I realize I never would have been ready. And so it came nonetheless. The first night was undoubtedly the worst. 

My eyes snapped open as I swerved to miss an oncoming car. I had drifted into the other lane. Two sounds rumbled through my ears: my heartbeat and squealing tires. I slammed the brakes on my car, which fishtailed, and the rear end fell into the ditch on the side of the road. A third sound joined in as the other car smashed into the light pole. Time slowed as I took a breath. I gathered myself enough to jump out of the ditch and scramble up to the side of the road. I watched in horror as the light pole began to bend. The sharp, sickening snap of wires filled the night, and the pole tumbled through the air and crushed the car. It was flattened, and I knew the driver hadn't survived. I covered my mouth, a hundred emotions running through my chest, all vying for my support. I didn't find enough strength for any of them, and walked over to the car. As I caught the first glimpse of the driver, I collapsed to my knees and began to vomit. I shoved myself over and fell to the road, the asphalt cold against my body. One emotion finally broke through: incredulous, paralyzing grief. I had caused this. I crawled out of the road and tried to find my breath.

What time was it? Why did that thought even cross my mind? I didn't know, but I checked my watch. It was nearly twelve o'clock Friday night. I must have fallen asleep in my car on the way back from Jon's house. He had asked me to come over and watch the Fiesta Bowl with him and some friends. The night had went smoothly, and I actually enjoyed myself. But in an instant my stupor had caused this. Adrenaline and fear held equal parts with blood as they all coursed through my veins. Unable to move, I fell to my back once more. My heart and breathing slowed, and my eyes fell shut. I heard another car approaching. It stopped and the driver jumped out, spouting expletives and fumbling to dial 9-1-1. My eyes drifted shut and I realized I was falling asleep.

My eyes snapped open, and I bolted upright in bed. Sweat covered my forehead. What was happening to me? Two vivid memories of the night stood out in my mind.  In one I drove home without incident. In the other, I had caused a car accident. I knew I had experienced both. But how? One was hardly distinguishable from the other, as they coincided in both timelines and locations. I paced the floors, praying for morning to come. When the sun rose, I immediately drove to Doctor Powell's office.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So you had a bad dream and thought you'd come to the doctor,” drawled Powell, tapping his chin. 

“No, this was...different,” I mumbled. That's all I could say. 

“No, it wasn't. I pronounced that man's time of death,” said Powell, his tone a tad sharper than before. My heart skipped a beat.

“Wait, you're saying that wasn't a dream?” 

“I'm saying that the peaceful experience on the ride home you described was a dream. I'm just a little unclear as to how you knew about the accident. You weren't there when I examined the body.” I dropped my head and massaged my brow. I was confused and, quite frankly, now looked rather dimwitted. After a moment of silence, I continued. 

“Why wasn't someone from the police department examining the body?” I asked. 

“Irony. The man was the leading coroner at the department,” scoffed Powell, rubbing his neck. I couldn't quite take all of this in, and I nearly quit trying. 

“Any word from the other doctor?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer

“Actually, yes. It looks like...” I waited for the fall of the proverbial hammer. 

“Something is...higher. Faster. The EEG readings were different” 

“Something was different? Come on!” I spewed in exasperation, standing and beginning to pace. 

“Basically, your brainwave patterns are faster. I don't know how, why, or even what the effects are, exactly. But it is. Can you wait on a third opinion?” he asked, his words blurring together in an attempt to interrupt my interruption. I took a deep breath and nodded. 

“Good. Now, the only thing I can suggest now is sleep. Lots of it,” Powell said as he and I walked toward the door. 

“That's what got me in trouble the first time,” I said with a mock smirk. 

I found my way back to bed and fell asleep once again. The day remains a blur. The only vivid details are my visit with the doctor. I closed my eyes, wanting to sleep but fearing what it might bring. My eyes finally fell shut. 

“Hey, you wanna come over and watch the Fiesta bowl tonight?” All of the air in my lungs escaped, and I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I suppressed a scream and somehow managed to stay on the road. 

The clichéd image of my life flashing before my eyes didn't come. It was the life I hadn't lived yet. The man that hadn't died from a car accident. Was I dreaming or was this reality? I couldn't risk assuming the first or ignoring the possibility of the latter. After ten seconds of eternity, I realized the position I was in. I gulped hard, found my voice, and replied. 

“No, sorry, I don't think I can make it tonight,” I croaked, my voice threatening to break altogether. 

“Sorry to hear that,” said Jon flatly. 

“Yeah...maybe next time,” I said, just wanting to get off of the phone. We said our good-byes, I closed the phone, and pulled off of the road to catch my breath. The day once again went by in a blur, with only certain details remaining in my mind. But sweetest of all is what didn't come that day: the death of the man in a car accident. 

I woke up right where I started. I still remembered the death of that man, and I now carried both memories with me. Upon speaking with Doctor Powell again, he did not recall any news of a car accident. 

I said before that I didn't know how it all started. I also do not know exactly what it was that started. I have only theories, which often serve to be merely maddening devices of eternally unrealized speculation. Doctor Powell said the electrical signals in my brain, and consequently my entire nervous system, were faster. They would spike from time to time. He said it wasn't possible, and he didn't know what he saw before him. Be that as it may, my theory is this: our entire consciousness consists of memories, which consist of electrical signals, which are then translated into thoughts and emotions. If these signals are sped up, what happens? Perhaps my consciousness sped up to the point that it was forced into a previous timeline? The cheesy sci-fi “faster than light,” for lack of a better way to put it. It affected the outcomes there, and I had full control over every situation. Basically, then, I was transported to a previous state of my consciousness, in which I could then live that time again. Once the spike subsided, I returned to the current physical state, which remained constant. The points in time chosen seemed arbitrary, at best. Those I cannot even begin to explain. 

This seems such a far fetched theory that it is hard to even write it down as a possibility. But after speaking with doctor Powell on many occasions and conducting research of my own, this is the only semi-reasonable explanation I can come to. 

And so my life continued for nearly six months. I wondered if I was destined to ramble on in this way for the rest of my life. Experiencing and remembering multiple and alternate timelines. I didn't know.

After a while, my methods changed. The desire of everyone to be a hero could be practiced in my situation, and I took advantage of it. But in the process, I played with life and death, holding both in my hands. I earnestly tried to do the right thing. I would foil the murder and save the would-be victim; I would prevent the car accident and save the mother and her children. But the burden of trudging through every possible situation soon caught up with my already buckling psyche.

I soon asked the burning question of whether or not I could sacrifice my sympathy for my sanity. Could I forgo these acts and, in the process, save my mind? Would I even be worthy of living if I did indeed refuse to do these deeds? Hundreds of questions buried any potential answers as I continued down this road. I didn't know what I was capable of, and so I experimented with a loaded gun. I was willing to take the life of a mugger if it saved another man. Could I really make such a choice? Yet other times, the situation did not allow me to make any difference at all. I could only watch as life and death played their respective roles. The very definition of who I was began to fade as I changed every situation, altered who I was, and dabbled with the lives of countless hundreds. 

My life finally reached the precipice. For months I chose what could be, turning a blind eye to what should be. My sympathy was squelched, and my strength was gone. All of my memories began to fade away, and I was soon unable to distinguish where I was. My physical state of being deteriorated with frightening rapidity and I literally could not continue. 

And so I believe I have reached my end. Last night, my true, physical body was in a car accident. I fell asleep, and I am writing this letter from a timeline I have already lived. I will send this letter to you, and all other events will remain constant. I know that when I sleep, I will find myself in the car, dying. I could avoid it, and continue this life. But this death and accident was not truly an accident at all. The last life I alter will be my own....and yours. Two days from now (and mere hours for me) a car will crash into the bridge not too far from where we grew up. We used to skate there, now that I think about it. The crash will cause a tractor and trailer to jackknife, clogging up traffic across the entire bridge, which will be rerouted. There will be one death and three injuries. The alternative, however, is the bombing of this bridge, in which approximately two hundred and forty four people would die. I do not write this to receive your pity, honor, or forgiveness. Only to make this point: never wish you could know what might have been. For six months, I knew everything that could have ever been, and in the end I watched by mind and very life crumble around me. Sometimes because I failed to care enough, other times because I cared too much. 

Life is defined by a person that, in some form or another, remains immortal. I do not have a life to leave or even lose. Do not make the same mistake, brother. Walk the road less traveled, and do not wish for the road you'll never see.

To things never forgotten. May you enter their ranks. 

Farewell....

Author's Note

This was a bit different than the stories I normally write. I took heavy cues from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, as well as British literature in general. It's a story I've been kicking around for a while and just now got around to writing down. Let me know what you think!

Reviews

[Garner Seabees]

Excellent. Short but striking, basic but immortal. The nature of the art of "Flash Fiction". I felt myself intrigued by the general story idea which could be applied to all different places, times, and situations. The writing also was a great aid to this basic philosophical piece. Well done. Criticisms: Personally I find the finding of his speed brainwaves a bit odd, and was a bit thrown off by his claim of "faster than light" travel in the brain. Perhaps it could be a little more subtle.
Excellent piece overall.

[Dan Ryoma]

Wonderful. I thought it was very clearly written and had a good message. It had flow and you did a fine job of making it seem less farfetched.