The Day I Wore Purple

11.3 Jonathon

I remember Ty.

But I am not Ty.

Jon repeated these two facts whenever reality became too surreal to be true.

He awoke this morning from an all-too-real dream in which he and Lizzy lived together in the PEC system. They reconnected. He apologized for his part in the downfall of their relationship. And now—assuming waking life was real life—he had to find new truths to help preserve his sanity.

If you were still tripping, you wouldn't be thinking about tripping.

If you were still tripping, you would have no recollection of past lives.

Right?

Right.

The paradox weighed heavy on his damaged brain. His forehead burned with heat from an IDP fever.

Ellie found him awake on the mattress. She taught him a few simple exercises, then wheeled him to the bathroom. A pitcher of water sat beside the sink.

He requested a razor. She returned twenty minutes later with a flat hunk of metal with a sharpened edge. Scrap from a broken proxy, he thought.

The blade did its job removing thick tufts of beard and layers of ass-length hair. But thanks to his melting skin, he was forced to leave a jagged coat of grey scruff.

Dead skin fell from his fingers as he dipped his hands in the pitcher. Did the human body really shed every cell every seven years? If the factoid was true, there were fifty-four "Jons" dusting the walls of that room. (And, in the end, wasn't it all just nutrients?)

He called Ellie back to the bathroom, then asked her to wheel him to the office.

"I'd like to go outside," he told Emmanuel.

The bot shook his head. "We strongly advise against—"

"I need to clear my mind or I'll overheat. I understand the health risks."

The doctor clapped his hands together. "Of course. Ian will provide you with a universal toxin filter until we're able to upgrade your lungs."

"Thank you."

"Be safe, Mr. Nightly."

Jon clutched the rubber filter in his lap as the oafish bot wheeled him through the dim yellow halls.

Considering only birth-to-death trips, he remembered twenty-two lives... but he was certain there were more. He could picture nine wives, but only recalled the names of Lizzy, Julie, and Maggie. (Hannah—he remembered—was not his wife.) He had more than twenty children and dozens of grandchildren. He died in every life.

Jon was proud of himself for remembering the important things; it was the details that were beginning to clump. Names, cities, schools, jobs, best friends, girlfriends, achievements, sentiments...

The only operational elevator slid open and Jon was met with dust so thick that his chair left tracks on the floor.

"You'll need to wear your filter, Mr. Nightly," Ian said in his deadpan voice.

"Already?" He pressed the mask to his face. The rubber conformed to his chin and cheeks to create an airtight seal.

The elevator opened on the first floor to a flash and suck of pressure that popped Jon's ears, tussled his hair, and burnt his eyes. Ian pushed him into the open expanse.

The lobby choked beneath an ashy veneer. Soot collected in knee-high banks along the base off the glass walls. Grey blotches clouded the columns. Overhead, massive elliptical grates hung from the ceiling, their lush gardens reduced to shadowy ovals on the lobby floor.