Past Lives PART 8

As time advances skin shrivels and memories faint. Our past becomes this pair of binoculars that see shattered images of our life, which sometimes look like dreams. Might seem like other people’s dreams. People as familiar to us as ourselves. Perhaps ourselves in other lives. Our life in Past Lives. This is one of the past life stories of David, a 35 years old Australian who tries to understand himself through Past Life Regression (PLR).

David’s Past Lives is a collection of stories that stretches over different historical time lines, continents and blogs. This will be the 8^th. For life number 1 please go to PART 1 - Lillys Life, Australia

" I can't move my arms. I'm trapped. Water is rising to my neck. Mama…all I can think of is mama…and Lilly……."

Dr. Marlowe: Where are you, David?

My ears are subdued by this voice that speaks from beyond my reasoning: w-h-e-r-e-a-r-e-y-o-u? I hear it, and almost distinguish the letters and their sense, but when it finally reaches me, I lose it.

I open my eyes and everything around me is blurry.

It must be this wine. Although the bottle seems rather trustworthy by the looks of its label: 1956 Romanian wine - 16 years old. I’m only 3 years older than this wine, is this supposed to make me better?

Now I remember.

I’ve been out drinking all night. Oh sweet Bucharest October. You always sweep me off my feet…13th October 1972. But whatever happened to the 12th?

Of course, it’s all coming back to me: I was at that precious winery on Victoriei sipping from grapes nipples all night long. Morning Dawn… what an explicit name. I took this bottle on my way out. And there was this girl too…We even kissed... I love my life!

Only I’ve had too much to drink this time. Oh my head hurts like crazy. I need to pull myself together.

What time is it? My watch has stopped. Oh Dear God, have you been drinking, too? I don’t remember dipping my watch hand into the big wine barrels. And even if I did remember, I would deny it with the grace of the great artist that I am.

Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.

No time for yawning. I have to get back to work.

What was I thinking? Drinking recklessly. My character depends on me. And so do the poor ignorant people that are depending on my writing.

Open the door! You hear me? Open the door you little rat. If you ever want to be writing that piece of crap you so call People’s Column you’d better move your fingers towards the knob and open this door at once.

I’m Coming! What is the matter?

Are you Matei Limpezeanu?

Yes. The one and only. The artist.

Well I’m afraid your artist days have just finished. Put a shirt on and follow me.

Hey. Is this some kind of joke? Are you the police? The militia?

I am a respectable citizen. I have just got back from Paris where I have studied violin and I recently landed a spot on the national philharmonic. I’m on my way to being first soloist.

Yeah, yeah. I’m impressed. Not. I know you’re just this up and coming young journalist dreaming to be playwright. Besides, you should have thought of your career when you were feeling my boss’s daughter last night. Remember? Morning Dawn? Not only have you made a complete arse of yourself, but you also left there with Clara. My boss’s 16 years old daughter. Where is she?

16? So she’s the same age as the wine. Now that’s more than a mere coincidence. Where is she by the way?

Dead. She was found dead on an alley close to Victoriei about 5 hours ago. That’s pretty close from here. Guess what? In less than an hour you’ll be dead too.

Wait a minute. Let’s not get hasty here. I don’t remember anything from last night. I mean, I remember leaving MD with a girl and a bottle of wine. The wine is still here as you can see. But I can’t remember bringing the girl here. I guess she got lost on the way.

This is not the time to be funny Mr. Journalist. Although I’ve heard you’re struggling with your new material. Your play that’s supposed to bring down The Boss? Aren’t you a little young to be playing with the big boys? This is not the high school theatre, you know?

OK. Now I get it. It’s that boss. Hey listen let’s be reasonable here. You don’t need to hurt me. I don’t know anything about no girl. Clara is a nice name. I might use it in my play. If only I could finish it. This character is killing me. Instead of me giving birth to him, I guess he will end up ending me. The never-ending-hard-filling blank page is like a lustless virgin woman. Like Clara come to think of it.

You could turn out a good writer. But who am I to say when I bring in bad news: you won’t finish the play cause I’m about to finish you. There is no Clara. She’s just a pretext. Move! Get dressed and let’s go.

Ooo. There’s no need for a gun. I’m moving. I’ve heard about people disappearing, I even had an act on the subject prepared for my play. My character, a journalist as well was going to disappear and big fists were shoved in his mouth. That’s a metaphor believe it or not.

Very close to reality. Only you’ll have a gun shoved in your mouth. It’s the way it has to be. Scum like you, pretending to reveal the truth disgust me. Too bad you’re only 19. you could have made a nice party member. Maybe could have written some nice hymns for the boss. For children to sing each year on the 23^rd of August!

I’d rather end up like my character. And like Clara.

Take him boys.

I could not have put it better in my play. I guess I am the character after all.

You’re going to kill me on the back alley? Aaaaa!! What was that noise?

Hey, you’re hurting me. Oh. My head! I’m dizzy. I can’t hear a sound and funny enough I can still hear myself think. It’s so hot. This water running down the back of my head seems boiled. It’s going to burn me. If only I could remove it with my hand. It’s thick burning water. Oh no! It’s blood and there’s Clara..

To read PART 9 of David's journey you will be travelling to LouCeel, Illinois. David's next PLR Session is in the next couple of days so check back to find out where his past life journey takes him.

If you would like to contribute to the story and join in David's journey, please email lillyslife@gmail.com or go to The Red Chair Gallery.