Replay

Since my birth in the early 1980s, or as my son so lightly puts it, the late 1900s, I have seen enough historical events that when I try to piece together my timeline, it becomes a mesh of chaotic old memories to this March of 2050. My hospital room smells like slightly lemon disinfectant and an oddly pleasant lavender. The holographic image beside my bed displays a menu for various ice creams, soft-serves, and frozen yogurts, and the virtual screen on the wall in front of me is playing old YouTube videos of games I never got to play.

My body is starting to wither down to a mass of weak bones and muscles, and the brain is beginning to follow suit. I can’t remember important events from my youth that should be at the forefront of my recall. Since 2028, after the Great Betrayal and the end of the Red Riots, there has been much social and technological advancement. Notably, these technological advancements had been hidden from the public for decades until their reveal in 2030. The Red Riots were the last pieces of the puzzle to break old America out of the crisis it was doomed to face. It was surreal to be recalled into active duty in my forties, but it was a strange time. It was even more peculiar that my main focus while recalled was not to fight on the front lines but to guard one man, a doctor. He never spoke to me for more than a few sentences; he was pleasant and never mean. He was quiet until he asked me a peculiar question. Our conversations thereafter were deeply philosophical, contrary to the old status quo. Strange times indeed.

My life, years of physical toughness and mental acuteness, has been a steadily increasing rate of decay as of late. Natural, of course, but exponentially rapid as the years pass. My knees no longer function without the sharp, piercing pain that I have grown accustomed to. My left shoulder only moves enough to drink from a glass. It, too, emits a pain, but like every other intense displeasure, I have accepted it and learned to deal with it, like I was told to do all those years ago. I had planned to fade away in my slumber after a good meal and a very good scotch on a future unknown date, but the pain is far too great for any type of comfort without some sort of heavy medication, alcohol, or drugs; sometimes a mixture of all three hits the spot. That is why I have agreed to lay here and wait like I was instructed to do.

My wife, rest her soul, was taken by cancer a little over a decade ago. We weren’t the perfect couple. It wasn't easy to navigate the first half of our marriage, but with practice, I think we did all right. We raised two kids. They were here nearly half an hour ago. I told them to go down to the cafeteria; they looked hungry. I assured them I wouldn’t go anywhere while they ate. I still had enough time to say goodbye.

Because of what I had accomplished over my lifetime, I was offered the latest in technological human replacement parts. A new knee, perhaps. One that would make me feel like I was in my twenties again. Or a new lumbar system because the years of abuse saying yes to Uncle Sam sure put severe limitations on my elder years. Everything was new and shiny, but it didn’t help what I wanted the most. I tried to remember. I wanted to sincerely recall the first time I felt the warm skin of my wife upon mine. I wanted to remember my first beer. To be told stories from old friends about events that I should be able to visualize, and failing to—has become the most devastating norm of growing old. Names come and go, but the fragments of what should be a fond memory disappeared. I don’t know if I’m ready to go.

Everything seemed like a normal race against an ever-turning clock until I received a message on my holo pad from a man I hadn’t thought about in many years. I need a distraction. My mind is racing with questions on morality. I think I am going to order the lemon cookie soft serve. I can’t have alcohol or weed; they said my mind had to be perfect.

My children returned from the cafeteria; my great-grandson brought his leftover pizza just in case I wanted a slice. The distinct smell of the bread melted mozzarella, and pepperoni seeped through the takeout box. The most minor things in life create the most joy. The kid is going to do great things in this world. A world where only recently has it been rebuilding into a better place for all to enjoy. A moment of normal hit with my family standing around my hospital bed—until the doctor arrived.

I could honestly say that there is a blissful peace upon scheduled death. Those words taste like vinegar to utter, but this was, besides sleep, painless. White light? Tunnel? God? It is hard to decipher what it felt like. Was there a tunnel? From my viewpoint, energies were moving past me; I could understand how it could resemble a tunnel. White light? Not so much white; the color white no longer had a meaning. Color is simply a representation of absorbed light; I can't describe any color or lack thereof in the prism of my experience. God? I felt peace. It is much better than the alternative, which could have been red fire, dark mountains, and the devil. The anxiety and overall nervousness were, at first, nauseating, but perhaps it was that feeling of dread and the unknown that triggered everything else. The brain was trying to protect me one last time, or maybe I did float into the universe.

There is still a tiny hint of lavender in the room. The slight scent of lemon disinfectant lingered from the same cleaning solution used before. The mere fact that I can smell and consciously identify what these smells are or what a scent is—is a good sign. I do feel bandages around my eyes. The instructions were clear. Once I felt awake, I was to slowly remove the bandages from my eyes and allow the light to enter my new eyes gently. There is no one else in the room. I know that because I can hear perfectly. I wouldn’t ask for help even if anyone was in the room with me. There is no painful sensation from my humerus grinding within the glenoid cavity. I thought I had forgotten the names of the bones in the human body, or did I always know them? I must say, this is an interesting feeling. I need to test this while it is fresh in my mind. My first kiss. Why was that my first topic to remember? It doesn’t matter—my first kiss. In the spring of 1992, my first-ever real girlfriend, Amy. She was an athletic blond who had two older brothers. She was wearing a white Nickelodeon shirt with blue jeans. We came up with a system to signal when we were to start using tongue, a three-kiss system. I can remember my black Timex military watch reading 2:04 in the afternoon. Incredible. I paused momentarily and told myself it was time to remove my bandages.

The artificial light from the hospital room hurt only for a second. In the reflection of the body mirror—stood me. I would guess a much younger version of me, around twenty-five years of age. I was not permitted to know what age I would awaken to. I was not permitted to know much about what would happen, except that when I woke up, I would continue to live my life as me. The doctor tried to explain to me what would happen, and I could recite every single detail if I needed to; the only part of his explanation that made any sense to me was the part about removing my brain after death and transporting the information to a new host. I was dying, so even if it failed, I lived my life the best I could. The doctor informed me that he would be checking in from time to time to make sure the properties of my new body were working correctly but assured me that the probability of anything failing would be below .05%. Even if it did fail, he could do it again. I tried to make a joke while we were sitting in his luxurious living room, discussing this in a new reality; I referred to it as me being the “Terminator.” He replied, giggling, “Where do you think they got the idea from?”

My new clothes sat on a chair. Everything I touched felt more sensitive, as if I was feeling them for the first time. Everything felt so new, yet very familiar. I was free to go, so I left. I left with another life in front of me, with the years of experience sitting perfectly within my immediate recall, exiting the front main door to the site of my children freshly mourning my death. I should say hello. No, I think not. They wouldn’t believe me.

I can smell the incoming rain. The pleasant overcast is seen on the sky’s horizon. I feel eerily at a new peace. They say that we, as a civilization, are finally making the right choices for fair growth and prosperity. The road has just begun to be repaired and rebuilt, and I’m ready for it—again.