The subjective collective was meant to be a series of short stories dealing with issues like death dreams that feel too real and deja vu / deja reve. The higher-order "connective tissue" was going to be an over-arching story that all things and all times were connected. I unfortunately never wrote many "movements" (chapters) but I've been holding on to this one about waking up after dying rather graphically.
Maybe it will spur an interest in writing more.
Subjective Collective - Movement 1
“Your own actions are not predetermined, but who is to say the world around you isn’t.”
There was no pain at first when time was frozen, although he could tell something was wrong by the gripping sensation of shock settling like a frost in the late evening chill. Waves of dread washed over him as his fingers became numb, creeping up past his knuckles and beyond. Breathing became a chore, and one that needed his focus. All was becoming cold, except for his left hand which was bathed in warmth. A wet warmth, still frigid around the edges.
The hot pain finally ripped through his nerves as time resumed its steady march towards oblivion, the epicenter a clean bullet wound through his chest. He cried out weakly as more warmth leaked around his fingers with every heartbeat. Pulses of light obscured his vision, and the pavement beneath him felt raw against his back. His assailant had already disappeared into the night, the shadows claiming all but the solid clap of his footsteps. He could hear them fade into the distance for what felt like an eternity.
She knelt down beside him, gently lifting his head off of the pavement that was so painful and cradled it in her lap. She was crying, and fumbling with things around him. He was terrified, quite understandably. Your brain has a unique gift of letting you know just when you crossed the line and things aren’t looking too good. Another unique gift of our brains was the ability to distract. His discomfort grew from the hard pavement, her jerky erratic motions, the pain in his chest. He felt wet, cold, and something was steadily pulling at the small of his back.
She was speaking on the phone now, presumably to emergency services. Her light touch as she felt around his body at their instruction was comforting, like a hot rock on a cold night. Sounds started swirling around him, losing their sense of direction and placement. All of his universe was a flat opaque sheet of noise and color. She was becoming hysterical, nudging and harassing him. He felt a flare of annoyance as a sensation of warmth began to spread from his back. The force pulling on him was becoming stronger, and he could feel his body disintegrating, losing touch with his awareness. There were more voices and sounds, and he could hear her choking back tears.
“Stay with me,” he made out from one of the sobs. “Don’t leave me like this.”
He was sinking now, and the pain was replaced by cold. The voice was growing further and further away, pleading with him to pay attention. For a brief moment, he could feel her lips against his own. His strength failed, and the noisy world around him faded as every breath became harder. Finally, he gave up, and it didn’t bother him as he sunk further into the cold darkness.
“What are you staring at?” Matilda asked him, amused by his empty gaze.
“Oh, it’s nothing." he shook his head, electricity igniting in his spine. "Here, let’s just take the long way tonight.” he put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
“We always cut through the parking lot though.“ she looked at her feet as they walked.
“All the more reason to take this way.” he smiled, pulling her in for a lopsided hug.
They continued walking, their laughter echoing off of the brick walls as they entered the small town center.
He could feel pavement on his back. And he couldn't quite figure out why.
