Before

Take my destiny into my own hands…? It's a siren call, but my doubting mind quickly pulls me back down to earth.

This is a joke, surely. Magic doesn’t exist; moreover, who would come and offer me something like this, straight out of a fantasy book? I pinch myself, wondering whether I’m still asleep. Wincing, I stare around myself suspiciously. No...nothing seems out of place or unusual. But if I was dreaming, wouldn’t I think that? But then would I wonder whether I was dreaming if I actually was? This is becoming too convoluted.

I decide that I’m probably not dreaming, but that if I am, it doesn’t matter as everything will be gone in the morning. So if I’m not dreaming, it’s got to be some sort of practical joke. But who would do it? And how? And why? I haven’t offended anyone recently, I don’t think. Not enough to plan such an elaborate, and ultimately ineffectual joke.

Sure, I suppose this could be some sort of reality TV where the moment I ‘accept’ the offer, a camera crew jumps out from behind the curtains to film my reaction and people across the world have a good laugh at my expense. But that seems even less probable than the letter being true: there’s no one else here, I’m sure of that, and wouldn’t filming my reaction when first reading the letter be important? I put that possibility aside too.

So, without the motivation of making a hit TV show, why would anyone put this much effort into sending me a letter which I’m more than likely just to throw away?

At least, I should be more than likely to do that. As it is…. It appeals. A new life, more than anything else, is what I want. Or no life at all, but it seems like I’m too cowardly to end this one for myself. I’ve got nothing left in this life, nothing that I value anyway. Why not entertain the possibility of this letter being real and then actually accept the offer? Worst-case scenario, I’m revealed as a fool in front of the whole world; that might actually give me the motivation to off myself that apparently I’m lacking.

How much time did that guy give me to decide? I check the letter again. Three days. Well, that’s plenty of – wait. Three days. From when? From when I read the letter? No, more likely three days from when it was delivered. When was that? Yesterday?

I search for my phone fruitlessly – it’s in the hell-room next door. A few moments of dithering later, I remember that there’s a rarely-used clock on the wall in the kitchen – normally, I just look at my phone. Poking my head through the door, I check both the time and, since it’s an old-fashioned one that also shows the date, the day. When I see it, I can barely believe my eyes!

It was the twentieth when I walked up to the rooftop; it’s the twenty-fourth now. Christmas Eve. The thought makes my mood drop like a stone and I force myself to not dwell on it or return to the same blackness which drove me to drink to begin with. Four days have just vanished in the blink of an eye. Or rather, have drained away like the whiskey in my alcohol cabinet.

Which begs the question: when did this letter and emblem get delivered, or appear or whatever?

I vaguely remember seeing something. A floating man? Perhaps that’s the ‘projection’ of which the letter speaks. Of course, it could have been some sort of high-tech hologram or something, but again, who’s going to waste that kind of thing on a (newly) unemployed nobody like me? Anyway, I do have a blurred memory of a man wearing some Elizabethan-style clothing talking about...something. I’d already been drinking for a while by then, so it’s really not clear.

Let’s be logical, I tell myself firmly. If the emblem is supposed to disappear in three days, it’s clearly not been three days yet. Equally, it’s clearly been a significant time since it did appear, if we assume that the guy sent it shortly after he had projected himself. Actually, I realise as I look back at the letter, we can be sure that he sent it after his projection as he referred both to the projection and my...drunkenness…in the letter. So, at a minimum, he had to have had enough time between the projection and the emblem arriving to send the letter. As long as we assume they were sent together, which I figure is a likely scenario.

Am I really treating this like it’s real? I ask myself the question with uncertainty welling up in me. Then I shrug. What have I really got to lose, I remind myself.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

So, conclusion, I probably have some time to decide, but not much. But then, I realise, I don’t really need any more time to decide – I’ve already given up on this life, so why not at least try this. No, what I need is time to pack. I dither for a moment as I consider whether to just go rather than risk the deadline passing before I’ve finished packing. In the end, though, the picture of my mother sitting on my desk decides me: even if I’m going to leave this world behind, I don’t want to leave all of it here. And if I’m packing my most treasured mementos, I might as well pack a few necessities too.

Having come to that conclusion, I pull a suitcase from under my bed and start moving around my bedroom and kitchen like a whirlwind. I first pack my few precious keepsakes, and then move on to less important things. With no idea what might await me on the other side, I just throw everything I think might be useful into my bag.

Wait, I hesitate, pausing in the middle of the room. Can I even take anything with me? It’s a good point. I rush back to the letter and read it again. No indication either way, unfortunately. Right, well I’ll just have to assume that I can at least bring the clothes I’m wearing as there’s no warning of suddenly being teleported in the nude. If I can bring what I’m wearing, I can probably also bring at least a backpack. If I’m lucky – fat chance of that – I’ll also be able to bring anything I’m holding.

Taking a moment to pull a big – practically unused – hiking backpack from my cupboard, I rearrange a bit. In between times, I brave the hell-scape in my sitting room to grab a few important bits, holding my breath as much as possible and putting my sleeve over my nose when I really have no choice but to breathe.

Every few minutes, I detour past my desk to check that the emblem and letter are still there.

About an hour and a half later, I’m done. I’m wearing about five different layers since I couldn’t fit all my warm gear in my bag: although it seems unlikely from what the guy, Nicholas, was wearing, it could be like Siberia wherever I arrive. In my huge number of pockets, I’ve stashed all my most important bits.

The other less-important-but-still-important things are in my backpack which weighs heavily on my back. In my hands I’m holding the drag-handles of my biggest and second-biggest suitcases. It turns out that fitting a life into a few bags is actually pretty difficult. And I’ve only got half my wardrobe, let alone my shoe rack. At least I’ve fitted my favourite books in, and I’ve got my Kindle with me so my library is fairly safe.

I pull the bags over to my desk and pick up the emblem. It’s heavy in my hands, heavy both with its physical weight and the weight of this decision. I hesitate.

Do I really want to do this? Go into something completely unknown? Even assuming that the presence of ‘magic’ – or sufficiently advanced technology to be called such – is real and I’m about to be teleported somewhere else, there’s still a lot that could go wrong. What if this is actually some sort of scam for human traffickers or something? What if by ‘accepting the offer’, I end up becoming some sort of alien slave?

I have no guarantee that this Nicholas guy is telling the truth about his motivations. And is my life really that bad? I’m a jobless, family-less failure, that’s for sure, but it’s also for sure that I’m young and hope springs eternal. Maybe this dark emptiness won’t always be all I have to look forward to; maybe one day I could pull myself up, maybe make something big of myself….

I bite my lip and then my grip tightens on the emblem. No, I’ve made my decision. Here’s my big chance to make something of myself, to turn my desire to end my life into a desire to transform it. If I don’t at least try this, I’ll know that I don’t have what it takes to pick myself up, and might as well just throw myself out of my window and hope I don’t hurt anyone by landing on them. This is my decision, for good or for worse.

Now, what am I supposed to do…? Flushing slightly as I realise I’ve focused so much on if I should do it or not, I don’t remember how to actually activate the transportation….

‘Hold the transportation emblem accompanying this letter and acknowledge aloud your acceptance’, says the letter. I’m about to do so when it occurs to me that I might be better off lifting my suitcases off the ground than just holding their handles.

It takes a bit of juggling to succeed in holding both suitcases as well as the emblem, and the effort it takes to lift what has to be about forty plus kilos reminds me that as well as everything else, I’ve been neglecting the gym. Still, I succeed eventually and, even as my fingers strain and my face reddens from the effort, I gasp out the activation phrase.

“I accept.” For several long moments, nothing happens. I open my eyes, realising I’ve screwed them shut only to see my familiar apartment. Did I do something wrong? Or is it a prank after all. No one’s jumped out from behind the door to laugh in my face and film my reaction, but maybe it’s not been long enough yet.

Then, as if it just needed a bit of time to get going, I feel the emblem heat up, almost burning my palm. The world lurches around me and I feel my stomach crawl into my mouth as I hear a great wind. Closing my eyes again in a desperate attempt to quell my motion sickness, I only open them again when the rushing wind calms down. What meets my gaze is completely different from anything I was expecting. My mouth hanging open, I lose the battle with my stomach and, unimpressively, empty it all over the surface on which I stand.