Chapter 03 - Rebirth

Timmy woke up to the steady sound of his heart rate, amplified through electronics. Looking around he observed that he seemed to be in the hospital. He was in a bed far more comfortable than his own and was, now that he checked, wearing the embarrassing paper gown. No one had noticed that he was awake yet.

Timmy lay back and thought. He could remember being struck by lightning, but after that... It all seemed like a dream. He hadn’t really been in Limbo, had he? But...

What was this paper next to his bed?

He just had time enough to read the first couple of words on it before a nurse entered and he thrust it under his bed covers.

“We’ve woken up, have we?”

Timmy nodded.

“Had quite the experience, didn’t we? Struck by lightning! I don’t know how you kids do it. In my day it was all we could do to go to school and stay out of trouble. But I guess times change, right? Everything seems to be going so much faster, with your fast cars and Inter-net, so I guess it’s only natural to go out and get struck by lightning. I’m surprised we don’t see more kids in here from being struck by lightning.”

The nurse talked in a non-stop torrent of words. Timmy just lay there and tried to stay afloat. The nurse walked over to the windows and twitched the curtains aside, revealing a beautiful blue sky and sunny day, the first that Timmy had seen in a long time.

“How long was I…asleep?” he asked.

“Two days now.”

“Really two days?”

“Yes.”

Timmy considered this. At least he had a legitimate claim for being out of school. The nurse left the room and Timmy was alone again. He reached into his bed and brought out the papers he had hastily stuffed there.

The title read “Waiver Form 462: Immortality.”

So. It hadn’t been a dream after all. Timmy was, in fact, now immortal, at least until he completed his mission, whatever that was. He didn’t feel any different, besides slightly groggy. That was probably just because of being asleep for two days.

The next day Timmy’s parents took him home from the hospital. He had spent the night there for observation, to make sure there weren’t any adverse effects from the lightning strike that manifested themselves. Timmy’s doctor didn’t think it likely that it would give him powers of electricity and/or magnetism but he felt he had to be sure. Timmy went the whole night without causing a black-out, so he was discharged.

The day after he returned home he went back to school. He had gotten his missed work done and had been forced to write a poem. He hadn’t expected a big welcome back party, which was lucky, since he didn’t get one. People treated him just the same as always, although there was the occasional comedian who would tap Timmy on his shoulder and then pretend to be electrocuted. The principle gave an announcement on the dangers of thunderstorms.

At lunch the kids Timmy hung out with were curious.

“What did it feel like?”

“Did you hair catch on fire?”

“Did your clothes explode off?”

The other kids paused shouting questions and looked towards the boy who had asked this. He blushed and stuttered that he had heard it happened. And no, he was not gay, so shut up.

Timmy waited until he could be heard and answered a few.

“It felt like a bomb going off, only every at once.”

“How do you know what that feels like?” asked Cameron. Cameron had a tendency for asking irritating questions.

Timmy ignored him.

“No, my hair didn’t catch on fire, but the paramedics did say I was smoking when they found me.”

“You know that smoking is bad for your health.” It was Cameron again. Timmy glared at him and continued.

“And no, my clothes didn’t explode off.”

Timmy resumed eating his lunch while the regular babble of kids at lunchtime flowed around him. Apparently they were discussing whether he needed a new nickname. Somebody suggested Sparky and somebody else threw a juice carton at him. Eventually consensus was reached that he would remain Timmy.

After lunch Timmy had English. If he was lucky he could avoid delivering his hastily scrawled poem and have a chance to write a new one that night. The assignment had said that it could be in the style of the author’s choosing. Timmy had done a haiku. He liked haiku. It had a simplicity that he admired.

Timmy skulked into the back of the classroom like he did day after day. Some people assume that kids who sit in the back are slackers. It’s often true. It’s partly true in Timmy’s case. Timmy isn’t the hardest-working kid you’ll find, but his desire to sit as far back as possible is largely out of a desire to go unnoticed.

It didn’t work today. Everyone started at him as he walked in. When he sat down, the kids in the adjacent seats scooted away a few inches. Since one of the kids was Cameron, he didn’t feel too bad.

After a minute the bell rang and Timmy’s English teacher walked in. Her name was Mrs. Morris and Timmy had the horrible feeling that she believed in him. Couldn’t it be enough for you to do the assignments and take the tests? Why did teachers have to get all personal about things?

Mrs. Morris walked to the front of the room and, predictably enough, asked for volunteers to read their poems. Timmy automatically hated anybody who immediately raised his hand. The teacher’s eyes scanned the room and in, a horrifyingly inevitable way, ended up on Timmy.

“How about you, Timothy? I’d love to hear yours.”

Timmy knew it was pointless to resist. After all, she had called him Timothy. He stood reluctantly and trudged up the aisle to the front of the classroom. He cleared his throat and read.

“Cherry blossoms fall.

”In the night, lightning flashes.

“I’m clinically dead.”
Mrs. Morris stood there, her mouth slightly open. She closed it after a few seconds passed.

“Thank you Timmy for that…lovely haiku.” She recovered slightly. “I had been hoping it would be a bit longer, though.”

Timmy mumbled an apology and went back to his seat. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him and kept his face low to his notebook. Around him would-be poets declared their love for daffodils and spring mornings a very emphatic and, Timmy thought, needlessly long-winded way. He had no problem with people’s fondness for botany. He just resented it being thrust on him.

Timmy zoned out and surfaced on some private shore.

He had a mission. But he didn’t know what it was. It’s an interesting philosophical quandary, really: Is it better to go through life unsure of whether we are serving any distinct purpose or is it better to know that you are, but not what that purpose is?

Timmy couldn’t decide. There were good arguments for each side.

On the first, not knowing if your life had any purpose. Ignorance is bliss, according to some. And there was much less pressure on you. You didn’t need to worry about what you did, where you ended up. You could concern yourself however you chose, dedicate your life to whatever cause you felt needed it.

On the other hand, the purposeless wandering could lead you to waste your life. Never sure of what you should be doing, or if things would be better served if you did nothing at all, you relegate yourself to the mountains of mediocrity, never having ambition or drive enough to do anything really great.

On the second, knowing you had a mission, but not knowing what it was. It gave you drive. You knew you were destined for something. The great voice in the sky really had boomed, had pointed the celestial finger at you and picked you out. You would either become famous for having carried out your mission or you would become infamous for your failure. One way or another, your fame was certain.

But! Gave you drive for what? To do what? Sure you’re destined, but destined for what? Knowing that you should be doing something but not knowing what induces neuroses on a level beyond comprehension except to a select few. It made it far more likely that you should fail. The thought that any action, and, indeed, every action you take would either put you nearer or farther from your goal would be enough to paralyze you into inaction. But inaction itself is not the solution, and itself guarantees failure, except in the few more backhanded missions.

Timmy thought he might go insane.

Around him the class’ focus had been brought around to the stylistic device of comparing people with distinctively non-human things. Examples such as the classic summer morning were brought up and dissected. The ability to use the device for both complimentary and derogatory purposes was discussed. Timmy made sure that he wasn’t being called upon to contribute and submerged himself once more in his thoughts.

So he was now immortal. That could come in handy. Just in case he needed to die at some point. Or pretend to die. Or die but not really be dead, at least not for very long. But inherent in that bonus was another problem. Since he didn’t know what his mission was, he wouldn’t know if he had completed it until he died and stayed dead. If his mission was something perverse like take a bullet for the president, he’d rather fail.

Wait. If he failed, did that make him mortal? Or did he stay immortal?

The man had said that he’d be immortal until he completed his mission… Did that mean that his mission was open-ended enough that he’d need immortality to complete it, his own life-span being insufficient? Or that it would be necessary to spend his pseudo-lives to complete it? Was there a chance of failure?

Timmy suddenly felt a pressing need to read the fine print on that heavenly waiver.