Entry #13: Breaking the Fourth Wall

The Unexpected Weekly Report teaches its readers to expect the unexpected. This is an obvious angle. Their articles are equally unimaginative but I’ve been a loyal subscriber for a good half a year. But recently, their articles are a bit too out there even by their own standards.

I read an article with a bizarre take on theology. According to Brooke Ellison, rather than gods or spirits or whatever omniscient being that holds sway over our immortal judgement, our conduct in life is actually monitored (knowingly or no) by like-minded people in alternative timelines. The theory posits that a record of our lives exists throughout multiple universes but in differing forms. Everything from the books we read, the movies we watch, to the dreams we have are all peeks into lives outside of our own. So, in essence, somewhere out there in the vast cosmos, my life could be a book in someone else’s hands. They devour it for entertainment while not being conscious of watching a life unravel before their very eyes.

That theory’s pretty out there, right? I think I’m cancelling my subscription after the next issue.

Anyway, life has been strange since I returned from the hospital last week. As you can probably guess, your perspective on life changes after a near fatal electrocution. Death ceases to be a far off phantom waving in the wind like some inflatable tube man but a neighbor who won’t stop knocking at your door. You gain an appreciation for what’s on the other side--the little, the mundane and sometimes strange. And when death, fed up with your rudeness, kicks in the door and tries dragging you outside kicking and screaming, you cling to those things all the more.

God, that was a scary image. I’m pretty sure that I dreamed that up after I fell unconscious during the incident. Unless the apparition of death is a hostile neighbor dragging you away to that eternal unknown. Though that too may be entirely subjective to your own life circumstances. I probably shouldn’t dwell on this too much.

But more to the point. Everyone in the apartment has been acting a bit...out of character. But in a good way. For the most part.

First off, there was the welcome party. Mira dragged me into her apartment before I could retreat into my own when I got back from the hospital Tuesday. The inside of the apartment was dark and for one frightening moment, I feared that it was a crude kidnapping attempt. The clunk of the lock snapping in place didn’t help things. I screamed a little when a hand clasped my shoulder. Something acrid filled my nostrils and the image of death visited me again when the lights came on.

But it was only Andre, the chainsmoker. Him, Mira, and some random guy named Darrell presented me with a card and cake (the latter courtesy of the chainsmoker of course). Iced on top in red was “Congratulations for NOT Dying.”

As the subtle note of ash settled on my tongue, my heart swelled. I was touched.

The next day gifts were left outside my door: there was my black coffee mug (still the noble guard), a broken CD player from Mira, a black sparkly sweater from Ms. Clark, a stack of maintenance notices from Bob, and two warm bread puddings from Andre.

Strangest among the gifts, however, was a burnt looking voodoo doll. It was nailed to the top of the door by its neck--its face frozen in an all-encompassing O. The note attached reads as follows:


It was a  name I haven’t heard for a long time. Good ol’ Greg. He was a former roommate of mine in my college days. He was a bit of an oddball, passing out occultist pamphlets and attending group meets with the supernatural Heathen society every Friday.

God, I couldn’t stand him. At the time. He refused to do the dishes when it was his turn and kept getting his fake blood everywhere. He also held midnight communions with the devil which majorly composed of low guttural whispers and synchronized pot banging. I swore I’d never have another roommate after him.

But this voodoo doll was his way of well wishing which I will treasure under lock and key in the very back of my closet. I’ll probably stack some books on top of it for some company.

Other than those curiosities, there’s also the Woman in the Television. She hasn’t spoken to me at all since my return. Most of the time her screen is just a sea of white noise. The times I do see her, her back is turned. I tried speaking to her in these moments but her body remains still. An image frozen in time. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I find it more comforting to keep the TV off during these periods.

She’s probably upset with me. It wouldn’t be the first time but at least she would look at me disapprovingly if nothing else. The back of her head is unsettling. You expect to see a face there but it isn’t there.

I’m not making sense, am I? Usually when the rambling sets in, I stop. But I want to write since in the grand scheme of things, this may be the only relic to prove I existed. Suddenly Ellison’s theory is comforting. To believe that the universe seeks to let everyone, no matter how seemingly insignificant, have their story told.

But that’s probably too much to hope though.