Remember . . .
A Short Story by Gary L. Clendenon (c) 2013
Introduction: The following short story is the result of a dream I had. I made my best effort to be faithful to the dream and so, in a way, don't feel total ownership of the story or the ideas presented in the story. It is what it is. Make of it what you will!
I was outside. Walking somewhere. Green grass, sunshine, birds singing. That's all I remember. That's the most I can recall as I attempt to piece together what happened.
Some noises caught my attention as I walked: other people briskly walking—important people on a mission. Noises in the background of important machinery—high tech machinery, also suggesting important people were afoot.
Curious, I began to turn my head back to the right to see what was happening. At that split second, my life went into slow motion as I simultaneously heard and felt a giant shock wave impact my head and body. It felt like I had been shot by a cannon, I thought—in no specific place, but everywhere at once.
As I slowly feel to the ground—completely incapacitated, my line of sight slowly spiraling down, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a military man in a full dress green uniform pass by me headed toward a nondescript office building. It seems others were following him, perhaps many, but I only saw the General before I hit the ground.
Lying there on the ground, immobilized—head pounding like a bass drum, I heard one sound grow louder than the rest. It was a hi-tech whirring sound coming towards me from above and behind me. Not understanding what was happening and unable to move, a feeling of terror came over me as the sound came closer and closer. Out of the corner of my eye, just before I forced my eyes shut, I saw a hovering robot descending toward me. It looked like the head of WALL-E with its giant, friendly eyes, but I was completely enveloped in utter terror believing that this thing was responsible for my sudden shock, pain, and confusion.
Descending into unconsciousness, the last thing I remembered was this airborne robot flying just above and in front of my face. Hovering. Somehow checking me out like a rescue dog sniffing a discovered body. It took every ounce of energy I had to not open my eyes. I waited in terror—expecting the final blow. And then, I was gone.
[An undetermined amount of time passes]
As I slowly came to, I awoke first to loud noises and very bright lights. They weren't, actually, but due to my condition, that is how I perceived the world I was coming around to. My head was throbbing in pain and every muscle in my body joined the chorus of pounding pain. I felt like I used to feel after a game of tackle football, only many times worse: every square inch of my body beat up and abused.
I lay in a large room somewhere—a sterile place with quiet muzak playing somewhere in the distance. I could hear someone near me occupied with something that kept them busy while I lay there. He hummed an unrecognized tune as I slowly continued to awake to my surroundings. With some effort, I peeked out of one eye and then the other. Finally, I was able to flutter both eyes open at the same time.
“Ah, there you are!” said the friendly voice of the man who had been humming as he turned and rolled over to me on his mobile stool. He explained that he was a doctor and I nodded yes or no as he went through the medical protocol for checking me out.
He was a balding, late-middle-aged man with short-cut hair on the sides. He was tall and chunky. Strong nose. Friendly face. He explained that he was a specialist in helping people like me go through the recovery process and not to worry, in a day or so, I would be back to normal.
Having finished his medical protocols, the doctor—taking a more casual, humorous tone—said to me, “So, you must be one of them—to receive such special treatment, or was it just a case of 'wrong place—wrong time'?”
Sitting up, I found my voice and shakily said, “If by 'one of them' you mean 'anti-government rebels', then no,” I weakly smiled. “If by 'one of them' you mean 'crazy, conspiracy behind every bush', then I'd probably confess to that,” I quietly chuckled. “If by 'one of them' you mean 'a Sabbath-keeper', then yes, I am. Guilty as charged.”
His voice and tone grew serious and sad as he sighed, “Ah, Shabbat.” After a moment of hesitant silence, he looked around as if to see if anyone was listening and slid his stool closer to me, then said in an intimate, vulnerable voice, “I miss Shabbat.” Another heavy sigh. “I miss my family. Such good times we had on Shabbat. Watching my wife light the Shabbat candles and then hearing her say the Shabbat Blessing. Going to the synagogue. Listening to the Torah. 'Remember the Sabbath day....' Why'd they have to go and make such a big deal about that? I do. I do remember.”
A door abruptly opened and the doctor was called out. As he left the room, he turned to me with a kind smile and quietly said, “Don't ever forget!”
As I sat in silence waiting, I pondered his words through the painful, dizzy haze that was my mental state until some time later, the same door the doctor had gone out, opened again. A soldier, dressed in fatigues, was carrying something odd in his hands. As he walked by me and then exited out another door to my left, I gasped, then fainted at the horrible realization of what I had seen. It was the doctor's head—wrapped in clear, sterile plastic.
“Remembering” was against the Law.
