Number 258
257 flashed in little red dots on the screen on the opposite wall. She looked down at the little crumpled ticket she was holding: 258. She still didn't know where she was or how she'd got here. She did feel strange. Actually, what was strange was that she didn't feel anything, not hot or cold, not hungry, not tired. Nothing. Maybe she'd had a kind of fit or something and had been rushed to a hospital. The walls were white and there were magazines. Besides, the other people waiting didn't look too fresh either.
"NUMBER 258. Come on, I haven't got all day."
She jumped up and walked to the counter where a grey haired lady was sitting, typing on an outdated computer.
"State your full name and date of birth." the woman said harshly.
"Erm... Samantha Tamara Cayle ... 23rd of June 1980..."
"Hmm... yes, Miss Cayle. Time of death 12.53 on March the 17th 2012." She punched a key every time she said a number.
"Sorry, but did you just say 'time of death'?"
"Yes, I did. You overdosed on cocaine at 12.53 on the third floor of a building situated Hill Road, London," she stated without emotion and without lifting her eyes off her screen.
Sam just sat there and stared at the old biddy.
"Is this some kind of sick joke? Where are the f-ing cameras? Come on..." She looked around frantically, half expecting someone to jump out and say 'Candid camera, you've been had'. But they didn't. The click-clicking on the keyboards continued.
"No, love, this is not a joke. You're dead. Now, I need you to sign this form, so I can send you up to Level 2 for Reincarnation." she stated matter-of-factly.
"But it was the first time..., I mean, I can't be dead."
The woman just stared and grimaced. As soon as Sam had finished signing the paper, it was whisked away from under her nose.
"Now, Level 2 and take this with you." she barked, holding out the form and pointing to a lift with the same hand.
Sam took a deep breath and made for the lift. She followed the signs to another waiting area very similar to the one downstairs, only on a much smaller scale. The walls were also clinically white. There were a handful of magazines on racks and a few very ill looking people.
"Depressing, isn't it?"
Sam turned round, emitting a surprised 'ooh'. A handsome young man wearing a leather jacket was sitting behind one of the desks.
"I mean, we're all dead, so it's got to be depressing, hasn't it?" And he laughed, a pleasant, jovial, happy laugh.
"Welcome to Reincarnation, programme 3B. Go on, let me see your form." He said with a wink.
"So Samantha - or can I call you Sam?- What did you do to get yourself onto this programme?"
"Dunno."
"Well, it must have been something pretty terrible for you to be here with our friends the murderers and co."
"I dunno... I mean... I like lived, didn't I? You know... I had to get by... get money for the kids and all that. It wasn't easy and their dads, they never give me nothing."
"Armed robbery with violence, agravated assault on Mr Timothy Clayton, theft, drug dealing... The list just goes on and on!"
"That Timbo, he f-ing asked for it, he did! F-ing cunt stole my TV, didn't he?"
"Right well, Sam, programme 3B means that your grievances to society will be put right."
"My what?"
"The bad stuff you've done, right. You're going to be able to make it all better. Reincarnation is the rebirth of a soul in a new body and..."
"Can I come back as a dog? You know, one of those f-ing vicious ones that can take your arm off" she butted in.
"No, Sam, people don't come back as animals and vice versa. That's unethical. Anyway, as I was saying, your soul is going to be reborn in someone else's body, except with programme 3B, you're going to be reinjected into a person who needs your help. The person who's going to get your soul is a Mrs Jane Brenda Thomson, residing Graham Road, Purley, age 71. She's got Alzheimer's -she's gone a bit batty and can't remember things - and you're going to help her. We're still in the experimental phase and we haven't had any feedback yet. None of those on the programme has died yet, so, you know, you'll just have to wait and see."
Some days later, Sam opened her eyes and felt different. She was exhausted and her joints ached, but it was a relief to actually feel something. She looked down at her body and wanted to scream. Her skin was all loose and there were brown flecks on what used to be her beautifully manicured hands. Her once pert breasts were now these sagging sacks of gross flab.
And then, she heard the voice inside her head. It was the voice of an old lady, drawn and raspy.
"Where did I leave my porridge or was it an ice cream? I can't remember... Oh dear, I need to go wee wee.... oh dear, I did a wee wee... oh dear... oh dear." She felt the warm tears roll down her face.
"NUMBER 258. Come on, I haven't got all day."
She jumped up and walked to the counter where a grey haired lady was sitting, typing on an outdated computer.
"State your full name and date of birth." the woman said harshly.
"Erm... Samantha Tamara Cayle ... 23rd of June 1980..."
"Hmm... yes, Miss Cayle. Time of death 12.53 on March the 17th 2012." She punched a key every time she said a number.
"Sorry, but did you just say 'time of death'?"
"Yes, I did. You overdosed on cocaine at 12.53 on the third floor of a building situated Hill Road, London," she stated without emotion and without lifting her eyes off her screen.
Sam just sat there and stared at the old biddy.
"Is this some kind of sick joke? Where are the f-ing cameras? Come on..." She looked around frantically, half expecting someone to jump out and say 'Candid camera, you've been had'. But they didn't. The click-clicking on the keyboards continued.
"No, love, this is not a joke. You're dead. Now, I need you to sign this form, so I can send you up to Level 2 for Reincarnation." she stated matter-of-factly.
"But it was the first time..., I mean, I can't be dead."
The woman just stared and grimaced. As soon as Sam had finished signing the paper, it was whisked away from under her nose.
"Now, Level 2 and take this with you." she barked, holding out the form and pointing to a lift with the same hand.
Sam took a deep breath and made for the lift. She followed the signs to another waiting area very similar to the one downstairs, only on a much smaller scale. The walls were also clinically white. There were a handful of magazines on racks and a few very ill looking people.
"Depressing, isn't it?"
Sam turned round, emitting a surprised 'ooh'. A handsome young man wearing a leather jacket was sitting behind one of the desks.
"I mean, we're all dead, so it's got to be depressing, hasn't it?" And he laughed, a pleasant, jovial, happy laugh.
"Welcome to Reincarnation, programme 3B. Go on, let me see your form." He said with a wink.
"So Samantha - or can I call you Sam?- What did you do to get yourself onto this programme?"
"Dunno."
"Well, it must have been something pretty terrible for you to be here with our friends the murderers and co."
"I dunno... I mean... I like lived, didn't I? You know... I had to get by... get money for the kids and all that. It wasn't easy and their dads, they never give me nothing."
"Armed robbery with violence, agravated assault on Mr Timothy Clayton, theft, drug dealing... The list just goes on and on!"
"That Timbo, he f-ing asked for it, he did! F-ing cunt stole my TV, didn't he?"
"Right well, Sam, programme 3B means that your grievances to society will be put right."
"My what?"
"The bad stuff you've done, right. You're going to be able to make it all better. Reincarnation is the rebirth of a soul in a new body and..."
"Can I come back as a dog? You know, one of those f-ing vicious ones that can take your arm off" she butted in.
"No, Sam, people don't come back as animals and vice versa. That's unethical. Anyway, as I was saying, your soul is going to be reborn in someone else's body, except with programme 3B, you're going to be reinjected into a person who needs your help. The person who's going to get your soul is a Mrs Jane Brenda Thomson, residing Graham Road, Purley, age 71. She's got Alzheimer's -she's gone a bit batty and can't remember things - and you're going to help her. We're still in the experimental phase and we haven't had any feedback yet. None of those on the programme has died yet, so, you know, you'll just have to wait and see."
Some days later, Sam opened her eyes and felt different. She was exhausted and her joints ached, but it was a relief to actually feel something. She looked down at her body and wanted to scream. Her skin was all loose and there were brown flecks on what used to be her beautifully manicured hands. Her once pert breasts were now these sagging sacks of gross flab.
And then, she heard the voice inside her head. It was the voice of an old lady, drawn and raspy.
"Where did I leave my porridge or was it an ice cream? I can't remember... Oh dear, I need to go wee wee.... oh dear, I did a wee wee... oh dear... oh dear." She felt the warm tears roll down her face.
Oh that would be a nightmare, waking up with your own consciousness but inside someone else!
ReplyDeleteYeah, it's hard enough being in my own head most of the time!
ReplyDelete