June 7th, 2020. It is a good day. A great day, actually, even though the reason we are visiting my boyfriend Kyle’s parents is due to the death of their beloved pet. After a lengthy, love-filled visit, Kyle’s father not only recommends a movie, eyebrow raised, but offers to let us borrow the VHS tape from 1980. Kyle politely declines and we make our way home through the Oregon rain.

We are enjoying each other’s company throughout the evening. We laugh and play and talk. We are fine. We are better than fine. It’s nice to feel connected as things have been up or down, hot or cold lately. Just a year before I had packed up most of my belongings feeling this urge to leave. I was sad and felt helpless and wasn’t sure what was wrong. Marshmallow’s song “Happier” was my theme song during this time. I looked for and found a one bedroom basement apartment and even signed a lease that I broke before even moving in. I couldn’t explain it. When I returned after dropping the keys in the owners mailbox, Kyle welcomed me back home with open arms. So, yes. It’s nice to feel connected.

To our surprise, we find the movie Kyle’s father recommended on Amazon Prime and begin to watch it. Our attention bounces back and forth as we are caught up in the events of the day.

Finally, Kyle and I quiet down and begin to focus on the movie entitled Body Heat. Just minutes in, without so much as a warning, my chest heaves violently sucking the breath from my unsuspecting lungs. An inhale refuses to come. Impending doom. Imminent danger. Sure death. Time moves in slow motion. I see myself grab my phone off of the table as I concentrate on dialing 911. I know that I am dying. “What the hell are you doing?”, Kyle asks. I simply can not respond.

As the movie plays in the background, a story unfolds quite quickly in my head. Glimpses, flashbacks, memories not remembered, unfathomable storylines, best-selling plots, the things nightmares are made of. Is this my life? Am I seeing my past? What, I wonder, is happening? So often, for as long as I can remember, I’ve confused movies with my life. Or rather I’d have a memory of my life and confuse it for a movie. These memories take my breath away. I know that I am dying.

“911. What is your emergency?” I say that I can’t breathe and that I need some help. These are the only words that I can get out even though I am desperate for help. My tongue is tied. Glued to the roof of my mouth. I cannot speak.

“Are you safe? Are there any weapons?”, the operator goes on. I physically can not respond. The words will not come. I think to myself that no, I don’t feel safe. I feel absolutely unsafe. The weight of these memories are crushing me. And yes, I am pretty sure there are weapons. Just the thought of them frightens me. I have a choice to make but it doesn’t feel like a choice at all. If I speak, I am just sure that I will die quicker. So I remain silent though I silently need help. That’s the story of my life.

I believe that the 911 operator is in on it. Whatever “it” is. She is a part of this fear that is growing inside of me. I am resolute to not say anything at all and so I don’t. I can’t tell the operator that I am dying. That someone is trying to kill me. I can’t tell the operator that my body has surely been poisoned. Memories of aspirin being crushed between two spoons when I was little. I can’t tell the operator that my insides are coming out due to the poison. I can’t say how excrement is surely fizzing down my leg. I can’t tell her of the atrocities that I see in my head. I keep the phone in my right hand, a faux sense of security, as I walk silently out the front door in search of safety.

“Talk to them”, Kyle pleads. He is absolutely confused. He doesn’t know that I am scared of him, too. He watches in disbelief from the doorway as I slowly walk out the door and down the empty street wearing a hoodie, baggy sweatpants, and fuzzy socks.

I head east toward the main road that is sure to have some lights, some traffic and some people who aren’t in on it. So I walk through the day’s mud puddles and through the thick darkness while noticing that all of the porch lights are off. All of the streetlights are off. There is no one to be found. I find this disheartening and strange.

I start to think that this is the Truman Show. I am surely on a movie set and all of the neighbors are in on it. I see a faint light coming from the inside of one home. Through the large picture window I can see a television on and I know that I am on the screen but I don’t know where the camera is. Two small bodies are standing in the living room watching the television. Knowing that I do not want to frighten the children, I keep walking desperate to find someone to help me. I am alone.

I walk for what seems like an eternity all the while unable to breathe. Helpless. Abandoned. Neglected. Betrayed. Violated. Left to die. I think about lying down in the welcoming mud under a tree and entering into an inevitable endless sleep on the exposed roots. I feel that I will not survive through the night but I keep walking with arms outstretched, offering myself to God. To the universe. To a higher power. All the while my chest caves under the weight of it all. My breath is nowhere to be found. I watch from above, hovering above my own body.

Seven minutes pass when <insert angelic sound here>. I see the light but it is so much more. BOOM! It is audible. I shout, “I want to live!” Or perhaps that’s just in my head. I stop walking. A breath binges into my thirsty lungs as I gasp to drink in the cool air. I turn around and start walking back to our house with a renewed sense of self, of purpose, of clarity, of connectedness, of wanting to f’n live.

Two of the county’s finest sheriff cars roll up and ask if I am the one who called 911. “Yes! I did!” I exclaim as I lean over with my hands on my knees still trying to catch my fly ball breath. They ask me to lean on the patrol car. I politely decline stating that I may have sh*t my pants…adding that this was not my finest moment. This… the cops enjoy. They ask if I require medical assistance. I, again, politely decline, stating that now… “I can breathe. I can breathe! As though for the first time.”

My phone rings. I begin to reach for it in my pocket when I am told to keep my hands where they could see them. I briefly put my hands up unsure of what to do. I learned that from the movies. An officer grabs my phone and walks away with it as he greets Kyle on other end of the line with a “we have your girlfriend and she sh*t her pants.” I wonder to myself if that was legal; taking my phone and answering it but I’m afraid to use my voice so I stay quiet. That’s also what they say to do in the movies.

The officers decide that I am cross-faded. I tell them that I don’t know what that means. They say that I am surely drunk and high. I tell them that two White Claws and a bong rip doesn’t normally have that effect on me. They say that they would normally offer a ride home but that I was on my own because… I sh*t my pants. I am thankful to get away from them. These public servants only mock me. The police leave. Thank goodness.

I begin walking at a normal pace the remainder of the way home. A small smile forms across my face. I start to skip like a schoolgirl. I can’t remember the last time I skipped. Feeling revived, I start to half-ass run. The last time I ran I was at full-throttle, thinking I was a younger version of myself, when I got wobbly and had to slow down before I fell over. By the time I get to our front yard I am absolutely giddy. F’n Giddy. A zest for life. I run in, shout hello to Kyle, and head straight to the bathroom. I pull off my muddy socks, start the shower, drop my pants and yell, “ FOR THE RECORD… I DIDN’T SH•T MY PANTS!!!” And then I ramble on and on about something having to do with becoming one with my brother…

Turn to page 666 to continue in the vicious cycle of your own creation.

– OR –

Turn to page 777 and choose presence.

With a quickness that damn near rips the pages, I excitedly flip to page 777 and anxiously await the unfolding of a brand new story…

But first, The Abyss…