Notes from the Future: Felonious Monk, Part IV

With a flash like lightning, a blue-white symbol appears in the air above and behind this old monk, seeming to wrap him in its arcane lettering. We're all shading our eyes, trying to see him. He reaches out a hand, calling something to me, his eyes desperate.

Then he's gone. 

"What the fuck was that?" I can't help yelling it, but I only realize that I've yelled when Henrietta responds in a very soft voice. 

"I think I know precisely who that was," she says, turning to me. "But tell me now, tell me quickly: how are you here," -- she gestures to the bed -- "and also there?" 

"Wow," I say, rolling myself closer. I've never watched myself sleep before. While I knew this was me, I didn't really look at myself, yet.

"We're losing weight. What are you feeding us?" I turn, grinning at the nurses. They all look flustered, except for Henrietta, who levels a no-nonsense gaze a me that reminds me of a combination of my mother, Judi Dench and Cherry Jones. This is a formidable woman. 

"Edward, what you're doing right now is supposed to be impossible. Where did you come from? How did you get outside the back door? Are you aware that your fiancée is held prisoner not two hundred yards from this spot?" Henrietta is very together. Grounded. I feel a little like I'm in the Principal's office.

Then I realize where I've seen her name.

"You're Mother Henrietta," I blurt. "You wrote the letter to Veronica about Torvald Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian--"

"Hush, now," Henrietta says, eyes wide. "That is not a name to bandy about at this time. How do you know it?"

I'm already dizzy. I blink a few times to clear my vision. It doesn't quite work.

"I read your letter. I'm ... look. I need you to do something for me. I'm going to be leaving, soon. I think ..."

"Edward, you're not going anywhere. You are in no condition to travel, and I would not be surprised if you pass out like your other self there," Henrietta is tolerantly amused.

"Just ... put extra pillows under me," I say.

Henrietta nods to the hesitating nurses and they grab pillows from inside a free-standing storage closet on the far side of the room. Things are getting wobbly. I'm not here much longer. One of the nurses starts to lean me forward and lift me.

"No," I say. "Not me. Him. Put pillows under that me."

"Won't he be uncomfortable?" one of the nurses, a pretty redhead, asks.

"Trust me, I didn't notice," I say.

The nurses set about putting five pillows underneath Bed Me, and Henrietta fixes me with her clear, professional gaze.

"Edward, you said you didn't notice. What does that mean?"

"Do you have any food? Anything? Some sausage, maybe? I'm famished for sausage, sounds kind of gay, doesn't it?"

At a gesture from Henrietta, one of the nurses leaves and returns with, of all things, three cooked breakfast sausages. They're cold. I eat one. It's delicious.

"Edward, what did you mean when you said you didn't notice?"

"It means that's Past Me. Or Present Me for you. I'm Future Me. But I'm dizzy because he and I are the same Me. I've got to ... ooh, God ..." I lean forward slightly. "Any chance of those painkillers?"

"Oh, of course! Rachel, the syringe?" Henrietta is genuinely distraught at having forgotten. The hot redhead nurse starts doing that flick-the-syringe thing that gives me a chubby, but Henrietta distracts me: "Edward. That man in this room. Do you know how he got here? Do you know the things he knows?"

"Who, Friar Dumberlindore? Hah, fuck, no. I have no idea," I am dizzy like the Teacups ride.

Then it's gone and I sit up straight.

"Wow, totally not dizzy anymore," I say. "Hey, if I disappear any time soon, will you tell Veronica I love her?"

"Of course, Edward," says Henrietta, taking the syringe from the redhead, who looks familiar somehow. "This may pinch a bit," she says, lifting my gown as I raise an asscheek.

POP