CHAPTER 3
THE THIRD ENTRY IN THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MASON COURBIS
"A Flash of Light; A Flash of Life"
----------------------------------------
I was born in the year 1986 CE (or AD) on the planet Earth. I lived on a continent called North America in a country known as the United States for approximately thirty-three years. My upbringing was fairly decent all things considered; I had caring parents that, despite common trends at the time, never divorced. I attended public school in a decent sized city where I faced little hardship or discrimination, and I always got along with my two younger sisters even well into adulthood. I had several friends, with whom I met on a semi-regular basis to relax and have fun. I frequented a local gym to keep myself in shape, which helped me keep a positive body image. I was a student at a martial-arts dojo, and after a few years I began to excel in the sport.
Earth is a place that holds a lot of options and opportunities, or at least it was during the years I lived there. I looked back on all of my pleasant memories with a fondness I'd never quite experienced before, as if I had only just then realized how precious they were.
By, "Just then," I of course mean the moment I left the "Fortune Teller's" place. It took me longer than I care to admit to figure out exactly why all of this had hit me at that moment. That is, until I noticed the pair of blinding lights not five feet away from me. It wasn't just realization that was hitting me; I was about to be hit by a car.
"Ah yes," I thought to myself. "My life is flashing before my eyes. How cliché."
In an instant, I was nothing more than a memory, and perhaps a mess on the sidewalk. I hadn't even stepped into the street yet; the car must simply have veered off the road suddenly. There was a single moment of overwhelming agony. It was a kind of pain I didn't previously think existed. Then, as soon as it had washed over me, it was gone. I felt nothing at all. My consciousness began to fade away at a speed that, to me at least, seemed comparable to the rate at which an extremely dense file might be uploaded to the internet via dial-up connection. As I began to lose my sense of self, I looked back on my life one last time.
Though I'd had many opportunities, I never particularly had a goal in life. I had plenty of friends and wonderful family members, and I was a part of a good few social and professional circles. I'd done well at the jobs I'd worked and found it easy to land positions that could support me. But even then, I always felt a disconnect. I was missing something called Passion. As far as I knew, passion was some sort of elusive magical beast which took up residence within the hearts of those with dreams. My heart didn't hold such things.
I was, however, born with the ability to see and feel things others weren't. Some might call it a gift. I know I certainly did. As I grew up, I learned that there were plenty of stories of cases like mine, though I always found them in the young adults' fiction section within the library. The planet Earth isn't one that supports arcane energy; for all intents and purposes, magic doesn't exist there aside from in fictional literature or interactive story-based games. On certain incredibly rare occasions, however, those with magical potential are born into the world, or quite possibly brought there through some non-natural means; the latter point is a hypothesis of mine, evidenced in part by the existence of magical artifacts scattered across the globe. Useful artifacts are incredibly rare, such as the Orb of Scrying I'd been just previously using in my last moments of life. Mundane objects, however, were surprisingly common; the simple fact that most people were physically incapable of using or even detecting them granted the illusion that magic was simply fictional to a majority of Earth's population. Or, at least, I'm guessing that was the case.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Despite never having a clear goal in mind, I was always drawn to these magical artifacts, almost instinctually. I would collect many of them and, as an adult, decorate my small apartment with them. There was a small rock sitting on my desk that I'd collected as a child. I'd discovered it on accident when I was looking for flat stones to skip in a pond; when I picked the stone up, it began to shine beautifully as it reacted to the mana flowing through my body. Hanging on my wall was a thick, two-pronged stick adorned with leather handles on both prongs, as well as engravings upon the wood. I'd found it on an overseas school trip I'd taken a teenager in an obscure English market claiming to be selling various occult objects and oddities. Most of what was for sale was simply junk, but the item I picked out turned out to be the real deal: a Dowsing Rod. Collecting small enchanted objects and tools like these was something of a hobby of mine, and I was always willing to put in a few extra hours at work for extra cash in order to add to my collection.
That life was over now. I had an easygoing, yet magical and intriguing life spent collecting useless, yet unique and interesting artifacts... I spent weekends with my friends, playing tabletop games and drinking beer... I worked a somewhat well-paying, but honestly kind of shitty job... Actually, thinking about losing that last bit made me feel a little better.
It was at this moment I realized that I had been thinking for about five paragraphs' worth of exposition after the moment I had supposedly "died". The simple act of thinking was beginning to perplex me; if I had died, yet somehow continued to think... had I really died at all? Was this the afterlife? Given I was aware of the existence of magic, and even had magical potential myself, I mused for a moment about the possibility that I might, in fact, have a soul. I wasn't exactly prepared for this concept, or the prospect of an eternal, bodiless consciousness.
Just as the existential crisis was beginning to set in, however- I heard something. Not just thoughts, but real sound. After a moment, I began to feel something as well: a sensation as if I were falling over. My head started to pound, but I almost welcomed the pain; the fact I had a head at all had seemed beyond me just moments prior. Perhaps I had survived being hit by the car? If so, how had I managed to keep thinking like this? Was it a trick of the mind? As I continued to think, the pain in my head continued to grow until it was so intense that I began to see color. My world was spinning, and I couldn't get a grip on where I was, or what was happening. The noise continued.
"... -nn!"
I couldn't quite parse that one.
"... -inn, Kinn! Say something!"
I grit my teeth and winced as my pounding head was assaulted by the noise of a man incessantly shouting nearby. Somehow, I wrenched my eyes open once more and strained as I tried to make out my surroundings. I seemed to be looking at the sky, and above me was the silhouette of a man. A particularly loud man. He seemed to be shouting at me. When he saw me open my eyes, his expression softened a bit with relief.
"Kinn, look at me. Focus. You have to get up. We aren't safe here; we need to move."
My brows furrowed at this, and confusion began to set in. After a second of struggle, I managed to fix my gaze on the man's eyes.
"Kinn! Are you listening? Can you understand me?!"
Pained and numb, I slowly replied.
"... Who is Kinn?"
Instantly, the man's expression darkened, and he appeared crestfallen. He clenched his jaw, swallowed hard, and reached down in order to lift my body off the ground.
"... Never mind. Just... bear with it for now. Everything 'll make sense with time."
As the man began to carry me away, I watched trees pass overhead. My last thought before I truly slipped into unconsciousness was:
"... There shouldn't be this many trees so close to Broadway..."