A Brief History of the Lives I Lived During my Shower This Morning

Photo by Chase @jiggiemon Wilson on Unsplash

Some mornings I stand in my shower and allow the warm water to flow over me. I stare anxiously out the unfortunately low hanging window in my bathtub, praying that the neighbours don’t look out their kitchen window while washing their breakfast dishes, onto my naked body. It’s happened before and it’s awkward for everyone involved.

However, some mornings when I am feeling brave, I throw caution to the steam, and I imagine what life might be like on some distant universe. One where I don’t have a window in my bathtub. A place where I can be anyone I want.

1) The dog and I are on our morning walk. She, in her typical German Shepard fashion, is pulling at the leash to investigate some discarded bone that has been tossed out a window by a passing car. I let her have it this time because I am too preoccupied with the suspicious looking van that is parked a few feet ahead. I am worried. It seems like a “creeper van” as my girlfriends, and I would have called it in our teenage years.

I make sure to give the vehicle a wide berth as I pass it. This accomplishes nothing.

The sliding side door bursts open, and three men in balaclavas jump out. They grab me by the arms and legs and toss me into the van. The dog is whimpering. I scream, and my canine companion jumps into action. She lunges at the ankles of the man who has my feet. He tries to bat her away, I use the moment to powerfully jar my leg away from him and land a boot heel directly to his face. He drops my other leg and Lucy (the dog), and I set in on the other two men. We bite, scream, I find myself tapping into my deep animalistic side. It. Feels. Amazing.

Five minutes later, the men are sprawled out on the sidewalk, aching from the beating Lucy and I have handed them.

After the police have done their investigation, we learn that these men were sent from a top-secret government facility aimed at abducting promising writers. These writers are made to create “science fiction” stories of events that are truly going on in the world in hopes of throwing off the general public as to the truth of our world’s current events.

I play an integral part in finding the writers who are under lock and key and free the held wordsmiths. Henceforth I am known as the Fake News Freer, and widely renowned in the writing community. Lucy is our mascot.

2) There is some sort of apocalyptic event. I do not know the details. All I know is that I must get my family the heck out of dodge.

We pack whatever belongings we can carry on our backs and set forth into the quickly deteriorating society. Our goal is to get to my father’s farm in Central Alberta. There, we will plan what our next steps are. The government has gone rogue. No one can be trusted.

The journey is harrowing. We must move by night and on foot since all vehicles attempting to leave the city are being detained. Roving gangs scour the lands, and Lucy stands guard while my family and I catch a few hours of sleep in the early morning hours.

Lars, our 11-year-old, has learned to use throwing knives on our enemies. Eventually, after a few days of walking, the bad guys know not to mess with us. Between Lars’ knives and the dog, we are a force to be reckoned with.

We make it to the farm to find everyone we have ever loved and trusted to be there, safe and sound. Phewf. We build a mighty homestead, and although the first few years are fraught with fighting off those who want to take our land, we conquer each assault against us. I am employed as the keeper of records by our tribe and write diligently about our daily struggles and triumphs.

My scribbling become scripture, and I am revered and honoured for the books I have kept about this new world we have built.

3) I have been selected to undergo an experimental procedure that removes the insecurity section from my brain. I do not know what this section of my mind is called, because I am not a scientist. I leave that part up to the professionals.

Fame and fortune have always been on my list of goals, however my insecurities have held me back until now. I am willing to risk the side effects, which are: uncontrollable flatulence, bouts of mood swings, especially in populated areas, hyperactivity, and, an inflated sense of self.

I will suffer for my art. Just like all the greats before me. The procedure goes well. It is reminiscent of the old black and white pictures I’ve seen in archived books about the lobotomy. As I wake up, I find that I am immediately flooded with ideas and projects that I must get working on right now. No reservations. No long, drawn-out pauses before submitting my work for publication. I no longer am encumbered by doubt.

After a year of crafting some of the most amazing work I could have hoped for, I realize something strange is happening. While in the grocery store or walking (the now ancient) dog, I am receiving irregular voices in my mind. Voices that are not my own.

They appear to be the inner monologues of those around me. Uh oh. This wasn’t on the side effects sheet. I immediately video conference the scientist who performed the procedure. I have him on my speed dial because he is a fan of my work, and we’ve become quite friendly over the last year. He has, after all, seen inside my brain.

As soon as his image pops up on the screen, I say, “So I think I am hearing people’s thoughts?” He gives me a blank look, but I can hear his damn thoughts!

“Oh, shit? Not another one.”

“Not another one!” I say, “What does that mean?”

Oh shit, she can hear my thoughts.” He thinks.

“So, we’ve had a bit of a hiccup.” He finally says aloud. “Turns out all those with the procedure have now developed telepathic abilities.” He says this so cut and dry. Like it was to be expected. The scientist also seems to be concentrating hard not to think, so as not to be overheard.

“Well, what am I supposed to do with that? I can’t go on living like this, it will drive me crazy!” I say, thinking I might already be well on my way.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got a plan.” He says, then abruptly hangs up on me.

Two minutes later, there is a knock on my door. I look out the peek hole, and three large men in dark suits are waiting outside.

“Ma’am, we need you to come with us, please.” I can tell, based on these newfound telepathic abilities, that they are here to dispose of me. They can’t have this “hiccup” getting out to the public.

The dog is now barking. She doesn’t like this either. Once again, Lucy and I are ready to fight. Luckily along with my telepathic abilities, I have also developed the skill of telekinesis and can slam the massive china armour into their faces as soon as they bust down my door.

I make my getaway fast, and live the rest of my days mining stranger’s brains and crafting amazing stories from my findings. I am never famous because I have to keep a low profile. But I realize that it isn’t fame and fortune that is important; it’s the work that really matters.

Mother, writer, user of too many hashtags.

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