David Policar 1995
"Look out!"
Those were the last words Arthur Bentley heard before the shriek of tortured brakes and the moist, hollow THUD. He felt no pain... just an impact, like the sudden falling sensation he often experienced while half-asleep; a wrenching feeling not unlike losing a tooth.
It was only when he saw the body that he began to understand, and even then, it wasn't knowledge he was prepared to accept. Had he still been alive, his body would undoubtedly assisted his denial with some sort of distracting seizure; unfortunately, his body had left him to fend for himself, and he had no choice but to watch as a crowd gathered, oblivious to his growing panic and, in fact, altogether oblivious to his presence .
A small, red-haired woman came pushing through the crowd, muttering something unintelligable about God and insurance and police. Arthur planted himself in her path, then screamed as she passed through him to kneel beside his body. Screaming felt surprisingly good, so he did it again a few times, and finally (like any sane person in an insane situation) he retreated from the situation and began to drift away.
A great deal has been written and said about death. The dead supposedly see their lives flash before their eyes, or see a bright light shine down from heaven to lead them to a land of glory, or see their departed friends and family members assembled to greet them in the world beyond. Sometimes they do. And sometimes, as in Arthur's case, they don't. Sometimes there's just a wrenching feeling as the body drops away, loses its grip on the soul... and that's all. Sometimes they make it to wherever it is they're going, and sometimes they don't.
And sometimes they get help along the way.
"Are you Arthur Bentley?" whispered a voice from the crowd, and Arthur stopped drifting. He, and several of the gathering pedestrians, turned to look at the whisperer, a young man, attractive in an intellectual sort of way, wearing faded blue jeans, a blue and purple T-shirt, and a thin leather headband tied around mid-length blond hair.
"Are you Arthur?" repeated the young man, ignoring the crowd.
A long pause, and a tentative "Yes."
"Good. My name's Daniel. Can I help you?"
He's not answering, thought Daniel; that's a bad sign.
"Help me?... um... I... over there, I have to get over there... no, wait, I am over there... but I'm not me... I've fallen, and I can't get up! No, I haven't fallen... I'm up here, aren't I? How did I get up here?" As he spoke, his voice grew fainter, and he drifted further away.
"Would you like to come down?" As Arthur drifted, Daniel's voice automatically grew louder. This made no difference to him, of course -- distance simply doesn't mean the same thing for a disembodied spirit -- but it did attract more attention from the crowd.
Damn! Too much attention at the wrong time, and he'll fade! Quickly, Daniel backed away from the crowd and found a dead spot in the flow of people. When he looked back up, Arthur had grown translucent.
"Arthur! Do you want to come down!" This time he shouted for attention.
"Yes."
"Then do it! Join me!"
It looked much easier than it was -- not that anyone else was looking, and not that they'd have seen anything if they had been -- but Arthur slowly regained substance and drifted lower. By the time the dead spot shifted and the street traffic closed in again, he was touching the ground. He was even standing firm when passersby brushed through him, albeit with an effort of will. A few moments later, they were moving through the crowd again.
"Where are we going? Who are you? What's going on?" Along with his newfound coherence had returned a habitual curiosity, a trait Daniel had spent years trying to discourage in his companions.
"I told you," he whispered over his shoulder, "my name's Daniel. We're going somewhere a little more private, so we can talk a bit more about what's going on and get you where you belong. Hold the questions 'till then, OK? What are you, a reporter?" As he spoke, he traced an oddly winding route down one sidewalk, paused a moment, zigzagged across the street, seemingly oblivious to the cars that swept past him by inches, entered the lobby of a convention center, and sat abruptly down on the tile floor. Arthur stopped short and tried to sit, without success.
"Why can't I sit down? What the hell is wrong?" A trace of fear crept into his voice and was washed away by anger.
"What do you think is wrong?" His voice was carefully neutral, and for a long, long time, nobody spoke.
"I... I was... in an accident, wasn't I? I remember starting to cross Boylston, and... a car? No, a van... someone yelled something, and I turned, and saw... no, felt... I was hit, by a van, a blue van. Redheaded driver, woman. A passenger... what did he look like? Black guy... no, that's not right... a guy... I think it was a guy... dammit, what did he look like?!?"
Figures, he thought, he probably is a reporter.
"No, a teacher. But I remember stuff... photographic memory. At least, I usually do. Can't, this time."
Daniel stared at his companion hard and long. "How did you do that?"
"I don't 'do' anything... I just remember stuff. Always have... at least, I think I always have. Everything's pretty muddled."
"No, no, I don't mean your memory... I guess that's gone with your -- well, I mean, with the accident. I mean, I didn't say you were a reporter, did I?"
"Of course you did. You said I shouldn't ask questions, or something like that, and that you were taking us someplace quiet to talk. Can't remember exactly... I guess you're right, the accident must have scrambled my brains. I guess I'm lucky to still be a-- to be -- to --"
Realization struck Arthut like a torpedo, and the cracks it left in his mind all at once gushed images, emotions, feelings, thoughts he could neither stop nor assimilate. He had two choices... drown, or rise to the surface of an ocean he hadn't even known existed. He was dimly aware of his newfound companion calling out, and he struck out towards the source of the voice, leaving the blasted shell of himself behind.
When the flood of noise and light and thought all stopped, he was back in the convention center.