Someday. David Levithan

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СКАЧАТЬ sick of waiting,” she responds.

      “Then let’s look,” I tell her.

      There has to be a way.

X

      To stay in a body, you must take that body over.

      To take a body over, you must kill the person inside.

      It is not an easy thing to do, to assert your own self over the self that exists in the body, to smother it until it is no longer there. But it can be done.

      I stare down at the body in the bed. It is rare for me to have done so much damage, so I’m fascinated by the result. The regular response to a dead body is to close its eyes, but I prefer them open. That way I can study what’s missing.

      Here is the face I have seen in the mirror for the past few months. Anderson Poole, age fifty-eight. When I look into his eyes, they are only eyes, no more expressive than his dead fingers or his dead nose. The first time this happened, I thought there would be an aftercurrent of life—some element to enable the feeble and the desperate to believe that the spirit that had once been inside was now somewhere else, instead of completely annihilated. But all I see is utter emptiness.

      There is no reason for me to be here. At any moment, the hotel management will overrule the DO NOT DISTURB sign and come in to find the reverend in a state far beyond disturbance. He died of natural causes, the inquest will conclude. His mind failed. The rest of the body followed.

      Nobody will know I was here. Nobody will know that the mind failed because I cut the wires.

      It was time to move on. I was getting bored. Anderson Poole was no longer useful.

      I am in a younger body now. A college student who will not be attending class much longer. I feel stronger in this body. More attractive. I like that. Nobody ever looked at Anderson Poole as he walked down the street. It was his position as a reverend that they revered. That was the reason they listened to him.

      “You came so close,” I say to him, my new hand closing his left eye, then opening it again. “You almost had him. But you scared him away.”

      Poole does not respond; I am not expecting him to.

      The phone rings. No doubt the front desk, giving him one last chance.

      I have to go soon. I cannot be here when the maid finds him. Screams. Prays. Calls the police.

      Nobody will mourn him. He has no family left. He had a few friends, but as I choked off his memories and made his decisions for him, the friends fell away. His death will cause no great disruption in anyone else’s life. I knew this from the start. I am not heartless, after all.

      It is important for me to come back and see the body. I don’t have to, and sometimes I can’t. But I try. It’s not to pay respects. The body can’t accept any respects—it’s dead. By seeing what a body looks like without a life inside, I get a sense of what I am, what I bring.

      I would like to compare notes on this with someone else like me. I want to sit down with him and discuss the act of being a life without being a body. I want to make my brethren understand the power we have, and how we can use that power. I want my history recorded in someone else’s thoughts.

      Poor Anderson Poole. When I started with him, I learned everything there was to know about him. I used that. Then I dismantled it bit by bit. He no longer had his own memories—just the memories I had about him. Now that we are separate, I will make no effort to retain those memories. His life, for all practical purposes, will vanish.

      Were I to thank him now, it would be for being so weak, so pliable. I take one last look in his eyes, witness their useless stare.

      How vulnerable it makes you, to depend on a body.

      How much better to never rely on any single one.

A

       Day 6065

      Life is harder when you have someone to miss.

      I wake up in a suburb of Denver and feel like I am living in a suburb of my own life. The alarm goes off and I want to sleep.

      But I have a responsibility. An obligation. So I get out of bed. I figure I am in the body and the life of a girl named Danielle. I get dressed. I try to avoid imagining what Rhiannon is doing. Two hours’ time difference. Two hours and a world away.

      I have proven myself right, but in the wrong way. I always knew that connection was dangerous, that connection would drag me down, because connection is impossible for me in a lasting way. Yes, a line can be drawn between any two points . . . but not if one of the points disappears every day.

      My only consolation is that it would have been worse if the connection had been given more time to take hold. It would have hurt more. I have to hope she’s happy, because if she’s happy, then my own unhappiness is worth it.

      I never wanted to have these kinds of thoughts. I never wanted to look back in this way. Before, I was able to move on. Before, I did not feel that any part of me was left behind when the day was done. Before, I did not think of my life as being anywhere other than where I was at that given moment.

      I try to focus on the lives I am in, the lives I am borrowing for a day. I try to lose myself in their to-do lists, their homework, their squabbles, their sleep.

      It doesn’t work.

      Danielle is taciturn today. She barely responds when her mother asks her questions on the way to school. She nods along to her friends, but if they were to stop and ask her what they’d just said, she’d be in trouble. Her best friend giggles when a certain boy passes, but Danielle (I) doesn’t (don’t) even bother to recall his name.

      I walk through the halls. I try not to pay too much attention, try not to read the stories unfolding on the faces of the people around me, the poetry of their gestures and balladry of those who walk alone. It’s not that I find them boring. No, it’s the opposite—everyone is too interesting to me now, because I know more about how they feel, what it’s like to care about the life you’re in and the other people around you.

      Two days ago, I stayed home and played a video game for most of the day. After about six hours, I had gotten to the top level. Once I reached the end of the game, I felt a momentary exhilaration. Then . . . a sadness. Because it was done now. I could go back to the start and try again. I could find things I’d missed the first time around. But it would still come to an end. I would still reach the point where I couldn’t go any further.

      That is my life now. Replaying a game I feel I’ve already won, without any sense that it means anything anymore to get to the next levels. Killing time, so all I’m left with is time that’s dead.

      I know Danielle does not deserve this. I am constantly apologizing to her as she stumbles through school, barely paying attention to what the teachers are saying. I rally in English class, when there’s a quiz on chapters seven through ten of Jane Eyre. I don’t want her to fail.

      It’s hardest СКАЧАТЬ