The Nameless
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Endless Nameless
(c)1999 Kathy Core - Do not reproduce without consent
i.
Everyone stared at the roof of the gothic university building in
ghoulish fascination. It wasn't the fine architecture that held their
interest, but a tearful woman perched precariously on a gargoyle's
twisted head. Nearly one hundred feet in the air, the ravages of the wind
and rain were taking their toll on the suicidal figure, her hair and clothes
being savagely whipped by the ferocious blasts.
The crowd waited, transfixed by the spectacle. Superficially, they
were becoming increasingly concerned about the woman's safety,
especially as the authorities had as yet failed to arrive. They muttered
how they hoped she wouldn't jump or accidentally fall, but privately they
didn't really care one way or the other: if she was saved, so well and
good; if she fell - well, it was a better story to tell, so much more
newsworthy. Maybe they'd even get interviewed on television, to
recount the horror and tragedy of the scene.
It was as if the universe heard those desires, and conspired to make
them reality. A scream signalled the start of her fall, brought about by an
especially strong gust of wind. The crowd gasped as they saw her
manage to catch hold of the gargoyle's head, postponing further descent.
The woman, clearly terrified, cried loudly as she struggled to wipe the
rain and hair out of her face. Try as she might, she couldn't reach up
with her other hand, and so she found herself trusting the strength of one
arm to hold her. The crowd winced with self disgust when they heard her
cries for help. There was nothing that they could do for her, after all the
police still hadn't arrived, and they were only bystanders, fulfilling their
obligation to stand by as dictated by their role.
She held on for nearly a full thirty seconds before she plummeted
catastrophically downwards. The instant she collided with the ground,
the crowd froze. There was absolute silence for a few seconds, until they
went into group hysteria, hoping that yelling and vomiting would
somehow make it all better.
Then, as suddenly as she'd dropped, she stood up, staggered around
for a few steps, then ran off screaming. There was an audible murmur of
disbelief and amazement, and they watched the incident reach its
ridiculously surreal conclusion.
As the stunned crowd faded into the distance, she began slowing
down, attempting to reflect on the sheer improbability of surviving such
a fall. A cursory examination revealed injury only to her rain soaked,
shredded clothes. She felt a mixture of shock and frustration, but the
urge to expire herself hadn't blunted because of her near miss.
Compelled, she arrived at a road, and unthinking immediately stepped
out in front of red double-decker bus. She saw the fear in the eyes of the
driver as he attempted to avoid the collision, but it was too late. Her
head bashed viciously against the windscreen, ricocheting her back to the
pavement. She knew instantaneously that she'd survived the trauma,
once again intact. The driver's mouth hung open in shocked relief as he
watched the strange woman pick herself up from the floor, then turn
around to face him. She frowned at him, innocently, then abruptly fled
into the rain drenched urban sprawl.
It's common for people of her age to discover they have a knack for
something that previously they thought themselves incapable. Usually,
it's something fairly trivial like painting, or perhaps even writing. To
find out, after twenty-nine years of mind numbingly tedious life that you
had a knack for surviving unbelievable physical injury was something
rather more profound. She couldn't remember the last time she'd
discovered anything new about herself, except perhaps as a child when
she realized after much fiddling around that her body carried a rather
unique incentive for procreation.
Her failure to discover her own immortality was a testament to the
inexplicably dull life she'd led. She'd been to church every Sunday of
her life, without fail despite failing to socialize with the other wives and
mothers of the congregation. She didn't believe in God, a point of view
she was rapidly rethinking, but she'd attended because she'd always felt
compelled to do so. There was no rational explanation for it, but she saw
it more as an obsession than as a habit.
She'd married the first man who had whispered sweet nothings her,
and gave thanks that his modest, but adequate income meant she didn't
have to work herself. Ben was a generous if a little simple minded
husband. However, his good heart barely compensated for his lack of
conversational or carnal stimulation. She felt her own desires, at first a
fire that had raged within her, dwindle and fade: Her need to physically
and emotionally express her own womanhood, her sexuality, her
humanity became gradually more diluted until it blended in with the
ubiquitous silver sludge of the English sky.
Satisfied with her analysis of her former life, she made a few
decisions. Firstly, because of its futility, she was going to forget taking
her own life. Secondly, she wasn't going to go back to the way things
were before. As of now, she was a free woman, and as a symbol of that
intent she removed the gold band that she had worn ever since she left
school. Following that, she entered a clothes shop, and picked out a suit.
It was grey, with a short skirt and a lilac blouse. She also chose
matching heels, before trying on the outfit in the changing rooms. She
felt pleased to be out of the wet, torn and ultimately dowdy clothes she'd
entered the shop wearing.
Examining herself in the mirror, she saw a new person: a confident,
professional, yet attractive woman. Whether it was the effect of getting
out of the rain she didn't know, but she felt that the world, previously
drained of its colour had been restored to its full vibrancy. Objects and
light seemed to blaze with a renewed vigour that she'd long since
believed lost forever as childhood had passed. The fire, the desire to be a
sensual creature was back, and it burned hotter than ever.
Jubilant, she marched from the changing rooms and announced to
the cashier that she intended to wear the clothes out. She paid, in plastic,
then briefly hesitated as to her next move: She was almost reluctant to
go back out into the rain, but she saw above the door a sign that read
EXIT
'That sounds like a good place to start,' she thought to herself.
Then, as she slipped through the door the world, as she knew it, simply
stopped.
ii.
There was a dripping sound, of indistinguishable origin. She
guessed that the heavy downpour outside had somehow leaked into the
plain white room with its single frosted glass window that she now found
herself in. She looked around, and to her muted surprise found no
evidence of a door, nor any other obvious means of entry as if the room
had been built around her, brick by brick. Maybe, she mused, she'd been
transmuted into water and entered drip by drip before re-materializing
without the knowledge to repeat such a bizarre feat.
'Congratulations,' came a woman's voice, from behind. 'You've been
paroled.'
She spun around to see the owner of the voice. The woman, dressed
in a murky grey jump-suit with the badge of the woman's employer's
confidently sewn onto the chest, was clearly in her late forties, but
looking no less energetic or healthy than someone ten years younger. She
radiated an air of calm authority, with a soothing but determined
expression.
'Paroled?' The prisoner replied.
'Of course. You've served your sentence, and been suitably
rehabilitated. Naturally, recent events have meant that we've had to
bring your release date forward. I'm sorry, you don't remember me, do
you? Allow me to reintroduce myself: I'm Officer Kendal."
'I'm....'
'No, you're not. You are, in fact, Stanley Aitken, 22 year old
carpenter and convicted murderer, although I expect this will come as a
bit of a shock.'
Kendal's eyes scrutinised the woman's reaction to this news. The
florescent strip lighting flickered sympathetically, allowing the prisoner
freedom to quickly flick her gaze to the floor unnoticed.
'What's... going on? What's happening to me?' The fear and
confusion of her predicament was growing steadily.
'Relax, Stanley. One step at a time, one step at a time. Allow me to
enlighten you.'
iii.
Stanley gazed dreamily over the ice rink, happy to sit on the
benches adoring the exquisitely graceful Sandra as he'd done every day
for six months without fail. The voice of his psychiatrist urging him to
leave this woman alone played heavily on his mind, but what did that
quack know? He loved this woman, and one day she too would love him
back, even if at the present moment she'd taken out restraining orders
against him. He knew he would never hurt her, no matter how much she
frustrated him or defeated he felt. She swore at him, screamed at him,
she even accused him of stalking her, but he still wouldn't touch a single
hair on her perfect, pretty little head. Stanley reasoned that if being in
love was called stalking these days, then it was a crime that he was guilty
of. She would see: She HAD to see eventually that they were meant to
be together.
Well, she would, if it wasn't for Him.
The Man.
The Intruder.
The Man That Didn't Really Love Her.
The Man That Didn't Appreciate How Special She Was. Tonight
however, he was going to save her from this ungrateful and undeserving
intruder.
So, reluctantly armed with a knife and cursing the ban on hand guns
he left the rink and took a position hidden behind his enemies car, in the
bushes. He chewed on a chocolate bar whilst he waited, until after a few
minutes they both emerged from the Ice Rink holding hands and
laughing.
Stanley didn't even break into a sweat as he erupted from the foliage
and plunged the knife urgently into the man's neck. The man fell
slowly, with an expression of surprise locked onto his face. Stanley
looked over to Sandra on the other side of the car, hoping for her
approval. He genuinely felt shocked that she exploded into hysterical
screaming and began running away. He realised that other people were
already coming out of the Ice Rink to investigate the noise, so in
desperation he gave chase, calling out to her.
'No, wait! You don't understand!' he yelled.
He didn't appreciate the speed or strength of his own pursuers until
they'd tripped him, breaking his nose as it cracked against the tarmac.
Groggily, he span around flicking the knife in a futile attempt to damage
the interfering vigilantes, but succeeded only in breaking someone's skin.
His attacker raised his fist into the air to finish the job, but it was
unnecessary as Stanley had already passed out.
iv.
'Has it finished?' The officer asked.
'Yes, I think so. What was that?' the prisoner asked, frightened by
the surreal experience of seeing through the eyes of a killer, a male
killer.
'That was your memory of the night that got you locked in here.
You'll get a few more memories back, but not all of them.'
'But... that was a man's memory... how could it have been mine?'
'Because you are man... in real life that is. In this world, sure,
you were a woman.. but this isn't the real world. We removed your brain
from your body and placed it in a machine, a computer, that let you live
almost a third of a lifetime the space of a few months. Your brain works
far quicker than the real world, you know.'
'Forgive me if this sounds a little rude, officer, but that's the
biggest load of rubbish I've ever heard in my life. You can't expect me
to believe that this is all.. what? A dream? For what purpose?'
'Oh, this is always so difficult. Stanley, you'll have to trust me
that several aspects and technologies of the real world have been
deliberately withheld from you in this simulated one. Believe me, you'd
still be blissfully unaware even now if you hadn't jumped off that
building. Took us all by surprise that did - no-one else has ever tried to
commit suicide in the system before. We weren't sure what was going to
happen.'
'Oh. I see. I guess it would explain that.'
'Not everyday you get run over by a double-decker bus and survive
now, is it?' Kendal smiled reassuringly at the woman, in the hope that
she was beginning to accept the truth of her situation.
'So,' she spoke softly, 'my entire life was created by a computer? Is
that why I've been so unhappy? This is my punishment for a crime I
have no memory of committing?'
'Far from it,' Kendal replied. 'Your miserable existence was purely
of your own doing. Apart from going to church, you were free to live
your life however you wanted. It wasn't your punishment, Stanley - it
was your rehabilitation. We gave you what the real world had denied
you: A loving family, a decent upbringing and a sense of being part of
the world. Admittedly, that was the intention anyway - I think you'd
only just begun to realise how to live a life, hadn't you?'
'Yes. I was going to make a new start.' she said, barely audible.
'And you still will.. as the reformed and rejuvenated Stanley Aitken.
You're no longer a threat to society, and you're free to go.'
She looked up at the now austere figure of Officer Kendal in
disbelief. How could she possible just start being a man again? She'd
been female all her life, and could remember nothing of any masculine
existence. Maybe, she considered, this was the true punishment for her
crime. To show the criminal something wonderful, yet unobtainable
then ruthlessly remove it.
'Please don't put me in a man's body, Officer. Let me stay here,
where I know who I am.'
'I'm sorry.. resources are limited, and so crude as it sounds, we need
to get your brain out of the system so we can process someone else, and
however unusual it will seem at first, I can assure you that you will
adapt. It's my job to make sure you do. Do you have any more
questions?'
'I think so. When do you pull me out of the system?'
'Immediately. The process has already started, and your biological
body is waiting outside for you. I'll see you on the outside, Stanley.'
'But, what do I do now?' she cried.
'Just don't go anywhere'.
v.
She opened her eyes slowly to find herself blinded by a tremendous
whiteness, long dormant pupils straining to remember how to perform
their single function. It was hard to comprehend that she'd lived through
twenty nine years of life in only three months of real time. She
successfully managed to twitch her fingertips, scrunch her toes, and flex
a few facial muscles. The body seemed as little creaky after its
hibernation, but it was responding to her commands, albeit hesitantly. In
all, it didn't feel to different too her simulated body. Like her sight, it
took a little while before she realised that the strange buzzing in her head
was in fact sound, or more accurately a voice: Officer Kendal. The
words slowly began to take a comprehensible form, until she finally
recognised something.
'Welcome back! How do you feel? Don't worry about talking just
yet.. you've got a long way to go before that.'
It was true, she couldn't talk. By squinting she found that she could
just make out the blurred shape of the uniformed woman. She was
holding something in her hand, but it was hard to tell what it was.
'Here... take a look at yourself. Let's just say I managed to pull a
few strings.'
She assumed that meant she was holding a mirror of some kind.
Enthused, she slowly lifted her head closer and closer to the mirror, until
combined with the squinting her image was revealed. Puzzled by it, she
slumped exhausted back onto the pillow of the bed. Desperate to
communicate, she struggled furiously to at least whisper something.
'How?' was all she managed.
'Does it matter?' the officer responded.
'This...' she struggled, '...is real?'
'If you mean "are you out of the simulation?", then yes.'
'So.. then I'm....'
'Of course.'
The End
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