Media Share 9/MEDIASHARE_09.ISO/private/rubyv19.zip/RUBY19-5

Text File | 1993-02-19 | 8KB | 140 lines

Copyright (c) 1992

                       QUIET CONVERSATION
                        by Michael Hahn

     I knew I was in trouble when I rolled over to shut off the
alarm . . . mostly because I couldn't roll over. A giant's
toothpick nailed me to the mattress, centered a few inches above
my right hip. I was wallowing in a pool of my own sweat, my
breathing a shallow pant.
     I rolled to my right, suppressing a scream. The pain was a
sack of jagged glass where my guts should be. I hit the button on
the clock, gritted my teeth, and pushed myself upright. Sitting
on the edge of the bed, sweat-soaked and shaking, I gently probed
my abdomen. Bad move. Something was very wrong in there.
     I picked up the phone, dialed 911.
     "Lawton County Emergency Services," said a professional
voice.
     "I need an ambulance in Stanton, at 327 Lancaster Drive," I
mumbled through clenched teeth.
     "327 Lancaster Drive? Okay, sir, it's on the way," she said.
     "Thank you," I said, and hung up. Okay, with an ambulance on
the way, my next step was to put some clothes on. I retrieved the
sweatsuit from under the nightstand, pulled on the pants. With
the pants at my hips, I stood to complete the process. Another
bad move. The sharp slash of pain brought a gasp; I sat back on
the bed, tried to catch my breath. I tilted back on the bed,
keeping my legs bent, and forced the pants up to my waist.
     "Half done," I muttered, and picked up the sweatshirt. It
went on a little easier, and socks followed. I took the cash from
my wallet, tucked the wallet in the pocket of the sweats. A pair
of loafers awaited me at the bottom of the stairs--and that was
my next problem. I slid off the bed, rolled to all fours, and
crawled out of the bedroom.
     Twelve steps. I stopped to catch my breath at number seven,
groaned as a new wave of pain started in my belly. I finished the
descent and slipped on my shoes just as the EMTs knocked. By this
time I was sitting next to the door; I reached up, unlocked the
door, and turned the knob.
     The first man in asked, "What's your trouble?" I explained
the pain in my gut, and he asked if I could walk. I thought about
it, shook my head. A man and a woman brought in a gurney, put me
on it, and rolled it out to the ambulance. Each bounce was an
agony. I think I was pretty much delirious by the time they got
me into the ambulance. As it pulled away from the curb, a man
stepped through the wall.
     "Hell of a shape, friend," he said, a sardonic grin twisting
his lips.
     "Who're you?" I asked.
     "I'm with the Stanton Rescue Squad," said the female EMT.
     "No, not you," I said. "Who's the guy in the leather
jacket?"
     The lady EMT looked across my body at her partner, shook her
head. They finished hooking me up to an IV bottle as the stranger
in the jacket looked on.
     "They can't see me, you know," he said. "And as for who I
am, take a good look."
     I looked. He was slightly above average height, slim, sandy
hair--looked a lot like . . . me. Me as I might have been in a
different set of circumstances.  A thinner, more intense me.
     "You're me," I said.
     "I'm part of you," he smiled. "Look, let's go somewhere we
can discuss this." He extended a hand, helped me sit up on the
gurney. I swung my feet around, stood up. Most of me did, anyway.
The EMT's were still working on my now-comatose body.
     "This way," my companion said, motioning me toward a lighted
doorway forming in the side of the truck.
     I stepped through into a jumble of rocks forming the crest
of a ridge. A gloomy, windswept landscape stretched out before
me. The horizon was indistinct, obscured by low clouds. The other
me perched on a boulder, motioned me to sit. I sat, asked,
"What's all this about?"
     He spread his hands, glanced around. "This is the part of
our mind where I live. It's the sort of place we both like, a
little barren, raw, but powerful. I thought we should talk."
     It was my turn to smile. "Okay, fair enough.  Who are you,
really? Why now? And what do we have to talk about?"
     "Simple, direct, and to the point," he replied. "This may
take a while--you'd better get comfortable."
                               ***
     "It all started (he began) when you were three. Your mother
left you with her uncle and aunt while she and your dad took
their vacation. One of your uncle's friends was a psychologist
studying the learning process for a government agency. He'd found
a way to accelerate the process, tap into a greater percentage of
the human brain's resources. Dr. Avery talked your uncle into
letting him use you as a guinea pig.
     "It worked. In less than three weeks, you gained the
equivalent of a third-grade education, and you were absorbing new
information at an alarming rate. The drug therapy permanently
unlocked a portion of your mind not usually available, and your
three-year-old physiology was rapidly adapting to the change.
     "Your parents were due back soon, though, and Avery wasn't
ready to summarize his findings. He decided to use a hypnotic
block to mask the effects of the experiment. He used sodium
pentothal to induce a light trance state, then deepened it. He
only meant to install a temporary block, but he couldn't have
foreseen the auto accident that killed him a month later.
     "I was born behind that block. I had all the abilities you
weren't allowed to use, but you were the one tied to the "real"
world. I see, hear, smell, feel and taste right along with you,
but you're the one with control of the body and voice."
                               ***
     We talked for a while. I began to understand my hunches.
Since I was very young, I'd often had very accurate intuitions.
Now I realized why. This other self had access to information I
couldn't use consciously, but he could feed me some of it through
my subconscious. I'd never been one for drugs, and I didn't drink
at all, but I had experienced occasional flashes of an altered
state of consciousness. During these episodes, I'd done things I
was not normally capable of doing.
     "So what happens now?" I asked. "Can we stay in constant
contact now that I know you exist?"
     "Good question," he answered. "I don't know. We're a kind of
psychic Siamese twins, but I think it has worked in reverse.
We've been separated up until now, and we need to get back
together. I'm not too sure how we can do that. Any ideas?"
     "Hypnosis got us into this mess. Maybe hypnosis can get us
out." We sat in silence for a moment. "Problem is," I continued,
"how we can convince a qualified hypnotist to do what we need to
have done. Can you undo a twenty-five-year-old block?"
     "Well," he said, "I guess we only have one way to find out.
You'd better be getting back to the real world."
     "How exactly do I do that?" I asked.
     "Okay. Lie back, and close your eyes. Imagine yourself, um,
lying on a hospital bed. There's a nurse to your left, checking
an IV bottle. The needle in your arm hurts. They've apparently
drawn blood from the other arm; there's a band-aid in the pit of
your elbow . . ."
                               ***
     The nurse started when I opened my eyes. "Mr. Graves," she
said, "welcome back."
     "How long have I been out?" I asked.
     "The ambulance brought you in about six hours ago. You
passed a kidney stone. That's a little unusual for a man your
age." She made a note on the chart at the foot of the bed. "I'll
be right back--I'm going to get the doctor."
     As the nurse left the room, I had to smile. In passing that
kidney stone, I'd found myself. Or at least part of me.
                               END