posted on Feb, 16 2008 @ 06:24 PM
One night, Cory came to her house. He was already drunk. He brought a full bottle of vodka. They sat at her kitchen table and he began pouring drinks.
Janice watched herself mechanically throw down shot after shot, and watched her body slowly pass into unconsciousness at the kitchen table.
Cory continued talking to her unconscious body. Janice, still aware and completely infatuated, listened to his every word. He spoke poetically that
night of his lost destiny. Of unrestrained depression. Of turning to, and then away, from religion. Of seeking answers in the occult. He spoke of his
intense loneliness, and lack of purpose.
Cory began to openly discuss his suicide. He wanted to end his life. He needed a reason to live! Anything! He had come to love Janice because he had
sensed something unique about her. Could she possibly help him? To live? Perhaps to die? He expected no answers. It was clear that Janice had passed
out. Even if the "Other" had been conscious, it would never have been able to articulate a useful answer.
Eventually, Cory stopped talking. He sat across from her at the table. He was now completely intoxicated. “Look at me!” he muttered, in self
disgust. “I talk to nobody. I’m truly insane. My life is over.” His last statement was followed by pronounced silence. Janice listened to his
ragged breathing. She tapped her finger.
And a vague idea came to her. She felt a sensation she had not experienced since the roadside bomb had exploded, so many years before; that accident
had completely paralyzed her in a flash of white light, severing her forever from the world. There was no way to prove she even existed, except for
one small thing. There was one obscure path to reality.
A sensation began to take form, along with an idea.
For the first time in years, Janice experienced the unfamiliar sensation of hope. She prayed, as she often did, “Free my soul tonight! Let me make
this work, this one time! Or just let me die!”
Janice’s left hand rested on the kitchen table. Slowly, using only her index finger, she dug into the table top. After several minutes, she managed
to inflict a deep cut in the tip of her finger, pulling off her fingernail. The pain was excruciating, but she continued.
Then, over the course of many minutes, Janice was able to drag her hand, flexing her finger. She made careful deliberate motions. It was a slow
process. Cory, at the edge of an alcoholic stupor, watched her meticulous and small movements without commenting.
Eventually she finished. On the table, scrawled in her blood, was the message she had written: “TRAPPED. HELP. AM HERE.” Her painfully crafted
message was almost unreadable. Cory stared at it for a long time, silent and perplexed. He began to sober.
He looked at the bloody tip of her finger. “Did you write this?” he asked. He got up from his chair, shook her violently. Her body was still
unconscious from all the vodka. Janice wiggled her left index finger desperately.
“What does this mean?” his voice cracked. “Is this a sign?”
Many more minutes passed. He looked down at the words on the table, and then wiped them off with a vodka soaked napkin. He carefully cleaned her
bloody fingertip. After that, he sat silently, across from her, baffled and thinking.
At length, Corey took Janice’s left hand, gently cupping it. “Who are you?” he asked. He seemed to speak directly to Janice. To her soul. His
voice quavered, thick with emotion. She sobbed in silence, imprisoned in her drunk and unconscious body.
The human mind craves the touch of another mind. We are instinctively drawn to communicate; to share our thoughts; to reassure ourselves that we are
not alone. Existence, in the perpetual isolation of our own thoughts is terrifying, because we are prevented from accomplishing our intrinsic and
uniquely human mission.
The tragedy of this story: Janice’s destiny was to live in eternal loneliness. It is truly the worst punishment that nature can inflict upon
someone. It is a type of living and sustained death. Because the purpose of our existence is not just to experience, but also to share.
Cory asked, “Are you really in there? Tap twice, for yes.” And Janice tapped her index finger twice.
An eternity of silence ended. Contact had occurred. It was their first conversation.
Many more conversations, of ever increasing sophistication, would follow.
[edit on 17-2-2008 by Buck Division]