A Day Lived Again

On this fateful night of darkness, with the moon looming in full view, Jon Baptiste lost touch with this reality. In truth, the hooves of reality kicked him deep into another. Heart pounding, breath quickening, Jon found himself in a strange, unknowable land. His mind was preloaded with a sense of finding something. The sound of crows filled his ears, and a feeling of dread filled his stomach. He wanted to find it, whatever it was, his mind continued to wander, he felt he was in the right place – but what was “it”? The fog made it impossible to make out anything other than the muddy road ahead. It all felt like a bad dream and quite literally was. Fear crept in as the scent of a pungent rose might do on a humid day. Vanquished of any sense of adventure, Jon, frozen in utter horror of it all, did not attempt to voyage any further. The crows grew louder, the fog thickened, Jon was helpless as he catalyzed back into reality, he sat up in bed sweating worse than a triathlon runner.

It was Sunday morning; the clock read 8:30 a.m. Jon quickly threw his attention to his left to see the woman of his life sleeping peacefully next to him, her dark hair glistening softly in the morning sun. With her in his sight, Jon could relax. Jon was a well-mannered man, of average height, with a tempered yet comfortable build. His hair was kept short, and he remained a clean-shaven individual, like his father before him. With the bizarre dream over, all that was left to do was start the day. Jon started the coffee machine, turned on the shower, and tried to focus on anything other than that blasted dream.

Meanwhile, Penelope was waking up to a soft tune. Penelope was the flower of Jon’s life – a 22-year-old painter from the Bronx. She had a shorter stature, a fit and a healthy build; she strived for peace and happiness. Her features dominated by her deep brown eyes were further strengthened by her natural brunette hair, which hung past her shoulders. Penelope loved Jon. To her, Jon was a vanguard of tradition and one of the finer beauties of life. She loved him for this politeness and subtle, chaotic thrill that drove him to unexpected and strange heights.

“Jon, honey, want to get breakfast at the corner today?” Penelope spoke with a soft, soothing voice, enough to calm any stressed existentialist. Jon was walking back from the kitchen with a coffee for Penelope in hand, he sat on the bed next to her before responding. “Yeah, that sounds great. I have to head over to the office for a few hours, so let’s eat now.”

Sitting face to face nearly 30 minutes later, in the stream of casual conversation passing back and forth, Jon mentioned his dream from the night before. Always the curious one, Penelope was fascinated by it. She believed many of life’s situations were connected and wrapped up in dreams. She began throwing out questions for Jon to ponder. “Your dream sounds like you’re missing something in life.” “Jon, what do you think you’re trying to find?” “I don’t know, Pen,” said Jon, “It’s uncomfortable. Do we really need to talk about it?” “Yes!” she said. Jon sighed reluctantly, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I can remember, Pen.” A smile broke out over her cheeky face.

Jon continued, “It was dark, cold and foggy, and I was standing on a path, and the only thing I could make out was this muddy trail. It reminded me of being back in Tennessee, where I grew up. I could hear crows in the distance that seemed to come from both sides of the path. I felt like trees were surrounding me, but I couldn’t see them. I was looking for something, but I don’t know what.” “Wow,” said Penelope, “that sounds scary; could it be your family or work?” “Maybe,” said Jon, “I have this weird, unsettling feeling about it, though, and I can’t get it off my mind.” Suddenly the food arrived, and the topic was dropped.

Jon gave Pen an encouraging smile, and the two delved into the plates of food in front of them. They sat peacefully together, eating and drinking; they talked at length about the coming week at work. Penelope was entering the final phase of her painting. Meanwhile, Jon knew he had a stack of papers waiting for him on his desk for Monday morning.

After finishing their meal, they began their walk back to their apartment on the outskirts of New York City – cheaper rent was key to their survival. The dream was over, and all was right with the world as far as they were concerned. They went their separate ways; Jon, of course, headed to the fancy skyscrapers, and Penelope strolled off to the art institute. Suddenly Pen, struck by a gust of fatigue, fell to the concrete unconscious; she instead had an unfortunate meeting with the ER. By that time, Jon was already busy crunching numbers, multiplying, dividing and adding lump sums, in the attempt to add more of those numbers into his pocket. Jon, Penelope’s emergency contact, sadly had his phone silenced and got the news hours later.

Jon was sprinting down the narrow hallway leading out of his office as fast as he could, “thud, thud, thud.” His feet echoed throughout the halls, alerting an occasional suit jacket. What usually was, on average, an 18-minute drive took him all but 10 minutes. He pulled into the hospital at precisely 6:32 p.m. Once inside, he was escorted, quite horrifically slowly, if you asked Jon, to her hospital bed.

“Penelope!” Jon’s voice cracked with fear, he approached her bedside. She was barely awake but managed a slight smile at his presence. A glazed look in her eyes was ever-present to the stray observer, but she was as beautiful as ever to Jon. After a few moments, the doctor walked through the door. “I assume you must be Jon?” he said. “Yes, Hello, is she alright? What exactly happened?” Jon asked. The doctor turned to the patient and said, “Penelope, Hi, I’m Dr. Juergen; how are you feeling?” Penelope’s head rose slightly, “I’m okay, but have quite a headache, Doctor.” She managed a smile.

“Penelope,” he motioned towards Pen, “ What you have experienced today was a sudden loss of oxygen to the brain that lead to unconsciousness.” He breathed deeply before continuing. “The headache, is likely a symptom of a minor concussion from your fall.” Pen suddenly burst out with, “So why did I lose oxygen, Doctor?” “Well, Penelope, I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to say this, but after some scans, we’ve discovered that you have lung cancer. It appears to have spread throughout both lungs and is clearly at an advanced stage.” He grimaced as his words visibly cut like a sword. The room was consumed by silence as the doctor offered his apologies again and walked out.

Once the two were alone, neither knew what to say. A hollow deafening ring filled Jon’s head; Penelope slumped back into the hospital bed. They spoke about life and death and then sat in silence. Penelope was dying quickly. Unanswered questions loomed as the doctor warned of the average cost of procedures nearly $20,000 with a 40% survival rate. Feelings of helplessness ruminated in their minds as they tried to comfort each other. Upon returning home, they were couped up like owls in a tree. It felt like another terrible, horrible dream to Jon - that is until he fell asleep.

Back on the muddy road, the crows continued screeching as darkness consumed the world around him. The grip of fear loosened as he experienced this world the second time. He figured he would push on to see where the road led. It was long and winding and continued for what seemed nearly an hour. Suddenly, the ugly muddy road came to an end and he saw a painting. Jon was already creeped out; once close enough to make out the details, Jon began shivering with fear. The image was of an opened black book; on the left an image of Jon, sleeping in his bed alone. On the right, in his current situation, Jon stood in the center of the road in the grey tee he had worn to bed. Trees to the sides, obscured by the fog – it had to be where the crows were. Examining closely, he noticed writing along the bottom, “LIFE OR DEATH, Stay Silent and Be Saved.” And a signature in the corner, “Penelope.” He stared, dumbfounded and in complete disbelief.

Suddenly, Jon awoke sunlight streaming through the window like any other morning, but something felt wrong. Was he dreaming? He knew it was Sunday yesterday, but his clock, displaying 8:30 a.m. Sunday. Next to him, Penelope slept peacefully. He burst from bed, breathing heavily with cold sweats; he ran to the shower, carelessly waking Pen in the process. He remembered the day before, or was it today? He was terrified.

“Jon, honey, want to get breakfast at the corner today?” He was nearing an all-out anxiety attack now. “Uhm, sure honey, that’s fine.” “Hey Pen, did we uh, go there yesterday?” “No, remember I was working on my project yesterday at the studio. You went to the office, Jon.” “Oh right,” he was perplexed. It appeared he was shoved back in time, about to relive this heart-wrenching day. They walked to the diner in silence, no small talk today.

As the food came to the table, Jon brushed off any conversation attempt. Pen was confused but figured nothing of it. Jon, a river of thoughts streaming through his head, was scared he was reliving the worst day of his life all over again. The only thing mindfully clear were the words “Stay Silent.” so he did. And, “Be saved.” so, she might. As the day wore on, Jon knew he couldn’t tell Pen but how could he possibly go to work as if nothing was wrong? Do I answer my phone? Do I ignore it and stay silent? The words in his head nearly imploded on themselves, yet before they faded, a seed had been planted.

The clock above the doorway in office Room-B read 3:13 p.m.; big red iridescent shades, practically screaming at Jon. Here he sat, in his big leather chair, his desk covered in heaps of paper, the same documents as yesterday. Exactly as Jon hoped and prayed, nothing happened. He figured he was reliving this so maybe yesterday never existed. As each minute passed, his phone on silent, Jon slowly grew more hopeful. By 4 p.m., he could hardly contain his thoughts but knew he must; unable to check his phone; he knew it because of her.

In five minutes, Jon would be gathering his things to head home to his beautiful woman and, all would be right with the world again. With that thought in mind, the door to his office swung open yet made no sound. In the doorway was a man. Not just any man, though. A pale, white-as-paper man; his skin glowed. His hair, well, there wasn’t any, no eyebrows, nothing on his chin, not even peach fuzz under his nose. His eyes pierced Jon’s soul. Jon stood frozen in his maddeningly bizarre stare. Without blinking or leaving eye contact, he sat a briefcase next to Jon’s desk and walked out as quickly as he had come. Jon opened the case and found $20,000. Atop the bills laid the the small black notebook from his dream. The front page read, “Sunday - a day to be remembered in silence or lived with echoing despair; the choice is yours, Jon Baptiste. You do not choose life’s path, but you have been granted this chance. Use the money to be saved or face the fires of an ignorant soul.”