Sephtimus strike out and taste bitter
rejection for the first time in his eternal existence, he’ll have a vast
international sea of other fish to cure his wounded pride.
Second, Ms. Beatrice (I never did catch the name of the woman on
the monitors) happens to be partial to English though she was born to both
Italian parents, first-generation immigrants who had settled in an old Italian
neighborhood in New York. Ms. Beatrice’s current location though is my home
country, the sunshiny islands of the Philippines, where she’s been selected to
endorse a clothing company’s Fashion Week collection. This confirms my earlier
guess about her occupation and gives another plausible reason for my being
selected as Death’s tutor.
I condition myself mentally. At first I worry I’ll be hopelessly
conflicted, but I’m surprised, even feel guilty at my enthusiasm. I suppose I
still have more guts left in me than I imagine in these strange, troubled
times. It’s like I’m being possessed by a completely different persona, one
that’s been hidden deep in the recesses but has now taken over, a character
that’s a hundred times a go-getter and a survivor.
This bare stratum of identity is the only bastion Death can't
break down so I’m going to bet everything on it. This undertaking will be my
lifeline to the human world and my diving helmet in this psychologically and
spiritually toxic world. It doesn't matter who the student is, if it means
passing on the last traces of my humanity to him, I’ll do it and do it well. I
fancy myself as an underground figure like a surgeon paid to fix up the blasted
bodies of gangsters.
Our
predetermined deadline is October 30 th , seven days from now based on
Beatrice’s human clock. Sephtimus figures that if the Christian God managed to
create an entire universe on such a tight deadline, surely he can learn a
foreign language in the same amount of time, plus the extra day when God
rested.
I
suppose it is within the realm of possibility since in this world there
appear to be no switching of night and day and no sign of anyone ever needing
rest. The clock’s stuck at forever midwinter midnight so we’d have an infinite
wealth of time if we only shut out all thoughts of the living. What awaits me,
however, if I fail to meet Sephtimus' deadline is a fate too terrible to
contemplate.
Lastly,
it’s not immediately apparent but a hive of monitors that show each and every
inch of the human world will be an invaluable teaching aid. With them, I shall
become a sleeper trainer not unlike what the Soviets had, enlightening an extra-dimensional
spy on even the most basic things so he can pass himself off as human.
Under
all these conditions, I resolve to perfect my Sistine
Chapel, however blasphemous it is.
Chapter VIII: Love
after Death
These
magic-mirror screens have a mind of their own. If I’m not careful, they’ll
steal and turn my memories against me. As Sephtimus demonstrated, the monitors
zoom in on any person anywhere in the world, all from ground level and at real
time; but they can also show video feeds from both the past and the future,
proving beyond a doubt that the lives we’ve been living are all predestined.
Or
could it be my own making? When the monitors bring me back to memories where I
least want to go, is it because what someone longs for is very seldom what’s
good for him?
I
remember one other moment when the din of the Lachesis supercomputers dropped
low enough for me to hear myself think. As though the chime of a giant clock
signaled the change inside me, there was a distinct half of my life when I
believed human existence meant something.
100
billion galaxies in the universe. 100 billion star systems. About 10 trillion
planets in our galaxy alone and 7 billion people on Earth. I am unique, I am
not insignificant. Inside my mother’s body, hundreds of millions of gamete
competed towards the womb yet only the smallest fraction would finish
rejection for the first time in his eternal existence, he’ll have a vast
international sea of other fish to cure his wounded pride.
Second, Ms. Beatrice (I never did catch the name of the woman on
the monitors) happens to be partial to English though she was born to both
Italian parents, first-generation immigrants who had settled in an old Italian
neighborhood in New York. Ms. Beatrice’s current location though is my home
country, the sunshiny islands of the Philippines, where she’s been selected to
endorse a clothing company’s Fashion Week collection. This confirms my earlier
guess about her occupation and gives another plausible reason for my being
selected as Death’s tutor.
I condition myself mentally. At first I worry I’ll be hopelessly
conflicted, but I’m surprised, even feel guilty at my enthusiasm. I suppose I
still have more guts left in me than I imagine in these strange, troubled
times. It’s like I’m being possessed by a completely different persona, one
that’s been hidden deep in the recesses but has now taken over, a character
that’s a hundred times a go-getter and a survivor.
This bare stratum of identity is the only bastion Death can't
break down so I’m going to bet everything on it. This undertaking will be my
lifeline to the human world and my diving helmet in this psychologically and
spiritually toxic world. It doesn't matter who the student is, if it means
passing on the last traces of my humanity to him, I’ll do it and do it well. I
fancy myself as an underground figure like a surgeon paid to fix up the blasted
bodies of gangsters.
Our
predetermined deadline is October 30 th , seven days from now based on
Beatrice’s human clock. Sephtimus figures that if the Christian God managed to
create an entire universe on such a tight deadline, surely he can learn a
foreign language in the same amount of time, plus the extra day when God
rested.
I
suppose it is within the realm of possibility since in this world there
appear to be no switching of night and day and no sign of anyone ever needing
rest. The clock’s stuck at forever midwinter midnight so we’d have an infinite
wealth of time if we only shut out all thoughts of the living. What awaits me,
however, if I fail to meet Sephtimus' deadline is a fate too terrible to
contemplate.
Lastly,
it’s not immediately apparent but a hive of monitors that show each and every
inch of the human world will be an invaluable teaching aid. With them, I shall
become a sleeper trainer not unlike what the Soviets had, enlightening an extra-dimensional
spy on even the most basic things so he can pass himself off as human.
Under
all these conditions, I resolve to perfect my Sistine
Chapel, however blasphemous it is.
Chapter VIII: Love
after Death
These
magic-mirror screens have a mind of their own. If I’m not careful, they’ll
steal and turn my memories against me. As Sephtimus demonstrated, the monitors
zoom in on any person anywhere in the world, all from ground level and at real
time; but they can also show video feeds from both the past and the future,
proving beyond a doubt that the lives we’ve been living are all predestined.
Or
could it be my own making? When the monitors bring me back to memories where I
least want to go, is it because what someone longs for is very seldom what’s
good for him?
I
remember one other moment when the din of the Lachesis supercomputers dropped
low enough for me to hear myself think. As though the chime of a giant clock
signaled the change inside me, there was a distinct half of my life when I
believed human existence meant something.
100
billion galaxies in the universe. 100 billion star systems. About 10 trillion
planets in our galaxy alone and 7 billion people on Earth. I am unique, I am
not insignificant. Inside my mother’s body, hundreds of millions of gamete
competed towards the womb yet only the smallest fraction would finish
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