This is my death dream. I was shot---let me check my calendar---somewhere around 30 seconds
ago. Actually,
my heart stopped beating 30 seconds ago, I suppose, since that was the criteria for the death dream.
What caused my
heart to stop was a bullet fired from the gun of an assassin. I'm going to die in four and a half years.
Or four and half
minutes, depending on your frame of reference. For me, I was shot six months ago, and awoke, whole
and healthy in my
two story mansion, next to my wife, a girl who died ten years ago.
I programmed my death dream a long time ago. I had always meant to change it. My wife--- well,
I'd moved on
past her. I'd found a new love. But I never got around to changing it, so I'm stuck with her. Or the
replica of her. But, if I
try really hard not to notice, it's almost the same.
My name is Brian. I no longer remember my last name. It's unimportant. I'm here, and you are my
diary.
Perhaps someday my body will be found--- right now I'd imagine it's being dragged off to be disposed
of somewhere, and
they will be able to find you, my last testament. I'm writing this early because I'm afraid that as I go on,
as my brain cells
slowly asphyxiate, I will forget more and more... maybe even that I am in my death dream, and the
opportunity to tell what
it is like, being dead, will be gone.
It's actually fairly pleasant, really. While I wish my death dream had a different set of characters,
or maybe a
little less prosaic setting, well, you can't have everything, or I wouldn't be dead, I suppose.
Another thing I regret is taking so much time with my death dream. I could have made it last
anywhere from five
minutes to five years--- I picked five years, because I wanted to squeeze as much time out of the
dream as I could. But
now I regret it. My mind will go downhill as my brain dies, and by the end of it I will be a drooling senile
young man. I
probably won't even be able to mix a martini correctly. And I can't commit suicide, for obvious reasons.
Now I wish I had
programmed a wild night at a club--- maybe taken some drugs I'd never tried in life. Have some casual
sex with a variety
of partners (as the dreamer, I get to bang whoever or whatever I want. One of the prerogatives of the
dying, I suppose),
get drunk, and have a blast. I could even write off the brain failure as the drugs.
I also wish I had erased the knowledge of what this is. I thought at the time that if I knew it was my
death
dream, I wouldn't screw around, you know. I would actually do things, live what life I have left, bang my
wife will all the
abandon of a dying man, and savor every bite of my fictional food. It worked, to some degree. On the
other hand, I am
doing this, talking to you, oh fidelous computer, eternal listener and perpetual recorder. I suppose the
best I can do at this
point is to hope this is found, so people will be able to plan their death dreams better. Mine's ok, but it
could be better.
The grass is always greener, I suppose.
I wonder what I would be feeling right now if I hadn't had this feature installed in my cranium. Fear
of death, or
just plain fear? Would I be thinking my last thoughts about how much I loved you Darlene, or why I had
to get mixed up
with those people? Or would I be having another, less controlled death dream? Something that would
drive the literary
community and angry teens wild with artistic delight if I could write it down?
Pointless guessing, but I really don't have much else to do. Sometimes I hope that some miracle
will happen,
that some paramedic is over my body right now, shocking it back to life, and when the program runs it
course I will
awaken anew.
But that really isn't an option. Even if it were happening, my brain chemistry would be destroyed
by all the
chemicals one has to release to speed the cognitive ability up to stretch five minutes into five years.
Who knows what
kind of mess I would be when I woke up. Perhaps I would sense everything in supremely slow motion,
and be driven
insane by the year long ordeal of taking a piss. More likely I would simply be comatose, and they
would euthanize me for
my own good.
Like I said, useless speculation. If that assassin is as good as he would have to be to get past my
security, he
won't be allowing anyone with medical training near me--- unless it's the coroner.
I'm getting sleepy now. It's almost four AM, my time. Who the hell knows what time it is in your
portion of reality.
Maybe my dream isn't working out as well as I hoped--- maybe this is the final dive.
Goodnight.
P.S. Before I go, a note to the programmers--- add weather. It's always a nice 80 degrees and sunny,
and it's driving me
nuts. All I want to do before I go is watch thunderclouds coming in over the ocean and sit on my porch.
Otherwise, the
whole experience gets a 7 out of 10.
Hehe. I just had an idea. I think it's Dylan Thomas--- if I'm wrong, well, sue me.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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