Imprint Page 3

  And then he was falling: plummeting.

  Down. Down. Down.

  Chapter 3: Just pull your arm out of my bed, would you?

  He’d never felt as lost as he did now. On all sides menacing black walls boxed him in, and he had no sense of direction. He didn’t know which way was up, or down, or if there even was a way up at all. He had no sense of anything. Maybe he wasn’t even breathing anymore; maybe he’d finally snuffed it and gotten himself killed. The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have, because if he really was dead then it wasn’t so bad. There was no pain, or a promised day, or an Egyptian god wanting to weigh his heart against a feather, or a red-eyed demon sending him down into a fiery underworld. It was peaceful. It was like being everywhere and everything all at the same time.

  This isn’t death yet, something said. This is just the first stage. Where was the voice coming from? Was it even a voice? He wondered if he had really heard it, or if he’d just thought it himself.

  And then there was a playground blossoming in front of his eyes, sprouting out of the darkness like someone had recorded the growth of a flower and speeded it up for playback. The playground was dimly familiar, as if it were something from a past life. There was a little boy clinging onto the climbing frame, and a slightly older boy watching nervously beneath. Don’t fall, the older one was saying. Don’t fall. Hold on.

  Another image came, of those same two boys, except the background had changed to the sea, the roar of the waves rushing through his head. Just like how he used to press seashells to his ear and listen to their memories. The water flowed in one direction, in a steady rhythm, and one of the boys was standing knee-deep in it. Don’t go in too deep, the other said. You’ll never be able to get back.

  The scene changed again, but this time the young boy was alone. He was surrounded by evergreen trees that formed a canopy above his head and obstructed the sun. There was a light mist shrouding the forest in mystery, and as the elusive boy slipped silently between the trunks, there was a whisper. Go back, it said. Go back, they are coming for you.

  The first thing that Sean felt as his consciousness was slowly dragged back from the realm of oblivion was a strange sense of disappointment that he couldn’t place. Everything was still dark, but there was a blinking orange light in the corner of this black room. ‘My eyes are closed,’ he realised with some surprise. After a long struggle, he managed to crack one eye open and now a small stream of that same blinding light filtered into his awareness. It reminded him of too-early mornings spent listening to the radio alarm clock blaring loudly yet not having the energy to reach over and switch it off. Maybe this was what was happening now. The only difference being that he couldn’t move.

  After a lot of effort, he managed to peel open both eyes. His vision wavered, blurred and then gradually began to clear into a stark white ceiling. He wanted to let out a sigh of relief, but he couldn’t figure out how to breathe. Worrying. As his awareness continued to return, so did memories and with them a painful bolt of realisation. This was evidentially not any normal school morning, and nor was it a weekend. There was a reason behind the temporary paralysis, the stark white ceiling. And dammit, he would prefer school over this any day.

  The horrible screeching of brakes rebounded inside his head that was threatening to burst and he could still see a flash of the car that had come careening around the corner. He tried to blink away the memory, tried to forget and focus on the present, but the imaginary adrenaline still lingered and festered at the mere thought. He shakily flexed one hand and tried to reach out in vain. His body should be damaged quite badly, but he could not feel anything. Not even pain. It struck him as odd. After a little while, Sean gave up trying to move. He closed his eyes again and waited for something to happen.

  Time passed uneventfully and gradually an understanding that there was an absence of the expected physical pain started to make him wary. He had been hit by a car hadn’t he? Surely it was supposed to hurt? Well, he preferred not to question and accepted the fact gratefully. He found he was able to move his limbs now. Digging his arms into the surface he was lying on (he was disconcerted to find that his elbows were numb) he grappled with his hands for something to hold onto and struggled into a sitting position.

  He blinked: twice. The image did not fade.

  He had imagined that he would be lying in a hospital bed, all dressed in white like some crude replica of a fallen angel, and that he would wake up to find himself surrounded by beeping machines on all sideS. So it came as a shock to him when he realised that he was sitting on the floor, the hospital bed right beside him and beeping machines connected up to whatever lay in the bed. Upon further inspection from his position on the floor, Sean caught sight of a mop of dark hair plastered to a pillow. Intrigued, he spent the next few minutes forcing himself onto shaky legs. But when he finally managed it, leaning heavily against the bed for support, he felt like the world had fallen out from underneath him.

  In the bed lay himself.

  It did not make any sense whatsoever. Sean struggled to stay standing as he choked on air and his legs wobbled precariously. It was him that was lying in the bed…well, his body anyway. He was staring into a mirror. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

  But it didn’t matter anyway, because in the next moment he came to the odd realisation that he was falling before everything faded into black again.

  The next time he woke up it was to soft voices that faded into a comforting background din. He felt mentally exhausted but the rest of his body was numb as he blinked blearily and found himself staring up at the stark white ceiling again. After the initial deliriousness had worn off he tried to hone in on the voices. They were quiet and muddled and he could not make them out, but two of them sounded familiar. His family, maybe?

  And then with a sudden jolt of memory, that last image of himself lying in the hospital bed came back to him.

  Maybe it had just been a weird dream. He felt a little calmer at the thought, but waited until the voices from outside the curtain had faded away before attempting to push himself up. He made it to his feet and tried to lean on the bed again. Except this time, something strange happened. He let out a gasp of shock as his arm slid into the bed. He stared, eyes wide and horror sprouting inside of him from seeds of fear, at his hand which had now disappeared into the covers. The top half of his arm was still protruding from it. For a terrifying second, the world spun and blurred in front of his eyes. He stumbled, nearly toppling over, but then he heard a voice invading his chaotic thoughts.

  “Just calm down and pull your arm out of my bed, would you?”

  The words were utterly surreal and Sean’s legs threatened to give out again when he realised that it sounded like his voice. Exactly like his voice. He turned, still unable to speak, to the owner. Propped up against the pillows was his own body; the same unruly dark hair, the same ashen skin, the same untidy eyebrows and light freckles. There was only one big difference. Instead of his normal icy blue eyes, he found himself staring into two identical pools of dark burgundy.

  He was vaguely aware of sliding his hand out of the bed, not feeling anything at all, and then staring down at it in wonder. None of this felt real. How could it be when he was having a staring match with himself and his hand had just phased into a solid object?

  So he laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  His laugh sounded crazed, even maniacal, to his own ears. This was certainly the strangest dream he had ever had, and the most vivid. His other self – his body, or whatever else he could call it – frowned from the bed in bemusement.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” it asked, sounding affronted.

  “This is all just a nightmare, that’s it,” Sean said, trying to convince himself most of all. “None of this is even real. I’ll just force myself to wake up.” He raised a hand, in an attempt to pinch himself awake. Yet when his fingers literally passed part way into his arm again, and he still could not feel anything
solid, he began to get worried.

  “It’s not going to work, don’t bother,” came the unhelpful comment from his body.

  Of course this was going to work. It was just a nightmare and nightmares ended sooner or later, even the worst ones. Sean turned back to the bed’s occupant, searching those unfamiliar eyes for answers. They were still amused, he noticed with some aggravation.

  “What do you know?” he asked scathingly, voice hoarse. “You’re just a figment of my imagination, so either say something useful or shut up.” It was a strange experience, talking to his own body as though it were someone else.

  “I know this must be hard for you to accept,” it said in a patronising tone. “But face it: this isn’t a nightmare, and I’m certainly not any part of your lacking imagination. Don’t insult me.”

  Sean glared. “Of course it’s a nightmare, how else is any of this possible?”

  “If you won’t listen to me and would prefer to spend the next few days trying to ‘wake yourself up’ then be my guest.”

  Sean just ignored it. The room looked real, it looked real, but it was just a mind game. He tried to pinch himself again, tried to hit himself across the face, but it was all in vain. Every time he tried he would never feel any physical contact whatsoever and the hand would simply pass through his skin. He became steadily more agitated as his actions grew urgent and reckless, until his hand began to pass right through his arm and came out the other side looking no different.

  Finally he stopped and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again he would have ‘woken up’. It didn’t work. He tried again and again, but seven tries later and nothing had changed. His head felt like it would burst. A surge of fear was clawing at his insides like a caged animal, threatening to rupture his chest. He wanted to cry and scream at the same time. Most of all, he wanted to wake up. Except now he was starting to lose faith that he ever would. A part of him – the logical part – had an inkling that this might actually be real, but he couldn’t believe that.

  “Why isn’t it working?” he cried out desperately. “What’s going on? And…and who are you?”

  Finally the amused grin dimmed. “This is my body now,” it said simply. “I expelled you from it. Now I control it, and you’re just an Imprint. That’s all you need to know.”

  Sean looked to the side, to see the heart monitor beeping. He looked to the bedside table, to see ‘get well soon’ cards in intricate detail and a pretty vase of daffodils. How could this be a nightmare? When you’re dreaming you’re not supposed to be consciously aware of it, he told himself. Everything shouldn’t be in so much detail, everything shouldn’t seem so realistic.

  He looked back into the eyes that weren’t his own, searching for something. Whatever it was he did not find it. Those eyes were deep and guarded, wearied yet still alight with a curiosity that he couldn’t pinpoint. They were too real to be a dream. All of it was.

  And with that realisation, he welcomed the darkness back again for the second time.

  Chapter 4: C’est la vie.

  Dark figures haunted his dreams after that, dreams in which he was running blindly into miles of endless darkness while the shadows with their piercing burgundy eyes followed silently. It was worse than the previous dreams about the door. By the time he was consciously aware again, he could feel pure, untainted fear and adrenaline rushing through him and numbing his senses. Although now that he thought about it, his senses hadn’t been working much lately anyway.

  He waited for a long while, eyes closed just because he was scared of what he might find if he opened them. Everything that he could remember last seemed like a dream; just a continuation of this endless nightmare that had been going on for far too long. But maybe if he just opened his eyes now…maybe it would be over. With this dashing hope, he gathered the last of his frayed nerves and cracked his eyelids apart.

  The first thing he saw was grey; blank, stubborn grey that glared back at him looking positively ordinary. And then he noticed something small and barely noticeable that marred the blank grey. It was a piece of mould, in the shape of a musical note, in the corner of what he realised now was a ceiling. Wait – his ceiling. Immediately he felt a wave of relief rush through him and sighed. Everything would be okay. He was awake now and back at home. Any minute his alarm would go off and he would hit the snooze button and sleep for another ten minutes to make sure he was late for school.

  It never did.

  When he realised this, some of the previous anxiety and doubt returned. Strangely enough he still didn’t feel any pain – or anything, for that matter. Shrugging this thought away he pushed himself into a sitting position. He could see his whole room from his position on the floor (the floor? Why wasn’t he on a bed?). With a grimace he noticed someone had obviously attempted to tidy it and hadn’t done a very good job. They seemed to have given up half way through. He stood up, managing to maintain his balance, and inspected the room. When he noticed something – or more precisely someone – lying in what was supposed to be his bed however, the recent memories suddenly returned full force and he stumbled backwards in shock, straight onto a piece of mouldy toast.

  He stared at the figure in the bed, his head pounding erratically and sudden anticipation coursing through his body. He could remember it all clearly now – everything that had happened in the hospital, the fact that his arm had phased through a solid object and that he’d had a conversation with himself. If Sean didn’t already have experience with new and frightening situations such as these, he would have screamed. Hell, he was still considering that possibility. But despite the fact that no one was even around to see his loss of composure, he refused to give in to every single one of his senses which told him to run. So he stayed there, rooted to the spot, and simply stared.

  In the end, he took to subconsciously wringing his hands in desperation. He didn’t know how long he stood there, simply watching and waiting for something to happen, but he was surprised to find that his legs didn’t ache with tiredness, his head didn’t throb anymore, and dammit why could he still not feel his limbs? A glimpse at the alarm clock beside the bed told him that it was quite late, nearly eight in the evening. Would Hayden still be around? At this time, he was normally out with his large collection of equally abnormal friends, or at parties. Recently he had grown accustomed to scaling the house and bringing a small telescope with him up onto the roof, to observe the stars. Mother would just be starting her night shift at the 24 hour corner shop. She got a higher salary for taking the night shift.

  Suddenly a barely audible yet clearly anguished moan came from the bed and dark eyelashes fluttered. Sean held his breath, waiting for other signs of movement. That came a few minutes later in the form of another twitch of the eyelids, which opened to reveal those same eyes which had haunted his nightmares. They were wearied, he noted, and bloodshot. There was a piercing sense of emptiness about them. Slowly, the head lolled to the side with a soft hiss of pain. The eyes, exhausted and out of place, flittered across Sean briefly before closing again as though deciding that he was not worth their time.

  “I forgot what physical pain is like, after all these years you know,” it murmured in a coarse, raspy voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bruising is pretty bad, but luckily nothing’s broken. It’s the head injury that knocked you out for so long.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Sean snarled, raising his voice in aggravation. “Explain. Who are you? What’s happening? Why am I here and you…there?”

  “Can’t this wait?”

  “No. Explain.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

  The response was somehow patronising, and Sean bristled with irritation. “Try me.”

  A pained chuckle, but something gleamed in the pair of eyes, something alive. “Tell me,” it started. “What do you think happens when people die?”

  “What has this got to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the q
uestion.”

  Sean shrugged. “They stop functioning, I guess. They’re buried, and then their bodies decompose.”

  “Don’t you believe in heaven and hell?”

  “No, I’m an atheist. Heaven and hell are just myths, invented in ancient times to blackmail people into being good.”

  “What about reincarnation?”

  “Still only a myth.”

  “You have a very scientific view on life,” it croaked. “That’s good. Means you’re a cynic like me, I guess. But not everything can be explained by science alone, unfortunately. Sometimes you have to consider other possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe, death isn’t the end. Like maybe, death doesn’t mean you simply cease to exist.”

  Sean let out a forced laugh, at how ridiculous this whole situation was. “What? Are you saying ghosts are real? And zombies too?” he sneered.

  “Something like that.” There was an awkward pause in the room then, and the air itself seemed to have stilled as well so that it was perfectly silent. A stray beam of light filtered through a crack in the grimy curtains and Sean could only stare. “Zombies don’t exist. And they’re not exactly ghosts,” it started carefully. “But yes, there are things that come after death. Death is only a transition from this world into another.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Imprints.” When Sean could only continue to ogle, it elaborated. “When a person dies, their soul leaves their body. If the body is buried rather than cremated, it continues to exist on the life energy still left over, because their still tied to this earth. It always takes the appearance of that previous body and cannot age, because it’s really just an imprint of who that person used to be. Like a shadow. It keeps their memories, their personality, everything except for physical sensation. That soul is free to wander. However it can’t be seen or heard by living people and its existence gets weaker over time and the further away from its body it strays. Eventually, these souls just fade away into nothing. They move on, to whatever comes after I guess. Sometimes you hear rumours about reincarnation, but nothing is certain. ”