EMBODIMENT

“Let me be fully open,” the doctor said. “I cannot help you; your brain tumor is inoperable. You have three months left to live. I am sorry.”
I was looking at my brain scans, studying a large ominous white cluster. I expected bad news, but not this gloomy: the terminal diagnosis caught me off-guard. I did not know what to say and what to do; my thoughts were in disarray. It’s hard to accept that you have three months left to live at any age, and I was only thirty-seven: not married, no children, routine job as a clerk at the bank. I dreamed about learning new skills, becoming someone, making a difference, leaving a legacy. Now timeline for all this accelerated dramatically. I put the scans on the table, stood up, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and unbuttoned the collar of my white shirt with shaking hands.
“Thank you, doctor, I appreciate your frankness. Now I need some time alone.”
“Of course. Let me know when you’d like to visit again. We should create a treatment program for you to manage the impact as the illness progresses.”
“That won’t be necessary. Have a good day.”

***

It was six o’clock on a lovely summer Friday evening, the same day when I learned about my grim outlook. I did not bother to report back to work: it all seemed small and inconsequential. I decided to spend time at the pub located on the corner of the street where I lived in a tiny apartment on the thirteenth floor of a concrete-and-steel monstrosity in the suburbs of Moscow. I needed to set my priorities straight. Three months was not much time to accomplish what I was hoping to achieve in my life. But I had to try and come up with a realistic plan. I was determined. At least I knew how much I’ve got; most people don’t have such a luxury. I thought about my parents, who died in a car accident five years ago. The plan started to materialize in my mind as I imbibed my favorite dark Saison, studying the crowd in the pub. Some people were happy, celebrating daily successes. Others looked disheartened and worried, with the stresses and troubles of their lives weighing on their shoulders. Most of them did not see the big picture, and none of them knew their fate. I knew mine.
I noticed a stranger taking a seat next to me at the bar counter. There was something repulsive and remarkably familiar about him, but I couldn’t identify precisely what. He was completely bald, not a hint of facial hair, with relatively large ears and a round head. He was dressed in a black suit and a white shirt. With surprise, I spotted dirt under his fingernails. He ordered five shots of vodka, then looked at me and smiled.
“Mikhail Demin?”
“Maybe. And you are?….”
“You can call me The Herald. I have a message for you.”
“The Herald? Message?”
“Yes, a message.” He looked at me so intently I got dizzy as if I was staring inside one of those spiral illusions for too long. “I’m also aware of your recent diagnosis. If you want to find the way out, you need to listen to me very carefully.”
“How…is this a joke? Who are you?”
Instead of answering my question, he reached into the pocket of his suit, got a toothpick, cleaned his teeth, and smiled. Then he leaned his head sideways and started talking, with every word falling onto my conscience as a hammer on an anvil.

***

I felt ice-cold air on my skin as the chill of the shimmering night replaced the heat of the afternoon. I looked up in the sky, where three moons in different phases – the yellow new moon, the red one in its last quarter, and the full white one – were glowing brightly onto the desert landscape. I was slowly riding a twelve-legged blue beast. Scales covered its whole body, including a long twitchy tail. I started sorting out and remembering all my experiences in the past few months (or was it several years?). I wondered what it all meant.

***

Sitting on an uncomfortable sofa in my apartment in Moscow, I thought about what I’d just learned from The Herald. It wasn’t easy to process that I was a non-playable character in a virtual reality game. It made me, naturally, quite upset, especially after receiving the news about my illness. Who would come up with a game like that? I didn’t care much that it was a game for somebody, but it was my life. I imagined what the actual reality The Herald talked about might look like. Why had he chosen me? He’d never given an adequate explanation. But I’d take the chance. After all, I had nothing to lose.
I closed my eyes and conceived a deep, dark well around me. I had to climb out of this well. I followed the instructions for the mental effort exactly how The Herald had described. I fell a couple of times, but in the end, I managed to get out. Then I opened my eyes and observed a glimmering city with golden buildings reflecting morning sunlight, surrounded by dark green trees under the majestic jade sky. Silver elliptical capsules flew by occasionally, perturbing the serenity of the firmament. I felt the arm on my shoulder.
“Welcome to the reality,” The Herald said.

***

I saw dirt all around me through my partially closed eyes, but I could not hear a sound. As I moved my head a little bit to the side, I saw a glimpse of the sky. At this moment, my consciousness and my hearing started to return. The first thing I felt was the ground shaking, followed by the deafening roar of artillery fire. I realized I was lying in the trenches, and suddenly an unbearable pain pierced the part of my body where my legs used to be. Gathering the last remnants of my will, I remembered my name was Jean, and it was October 1914. I fought for the French army at Ypres. The shell exploded at our trench and took my legs. I was dying. I looked to the other side and saw the lifeless bodies of my friends. Why was I here? I was confused. Was I Jean, or was I Mikhail Demin? I knew I had to climb out of the well. I closed my eyes and mentally pushed myself up.

***

“Who and why created this virtual reality game? How was it possible for me to ascend from the simulation into reality?” I asked The Herald. We strolled through a gorgeous garden, following a paved trail amid giant trees the names of which I didn’t know. Lush greenery and fragrant flowers of different colors covered both sides of our track.
“It’s a long story…the technology has been created many years ago and evolved to such an extent it’s difficult to distinguish the simulation from reality.” The Herald looked up in the sky at the transportation capsule above our heads. “And the world you came from is not the only one. Everybody is living in multiple realities nowadays. Any experience people desire could be simulated, so they are escaping into the virtual. Very addictive.”
“What about me? Why am I here?”
The Herald leaned his bald head sideways and laughed.

***

I dismounted my riding beast and reached for my food ration. I realized I had tentacles instead of arms. Eight of them, to be precise: purple, covered with suckers, the tentacles of the giant octopus. I remembered the name of the planet, the name of my people, and my name. As I petted the beast with a tentacle, it all started to make sense.

***

I landed my capsule on top of one of the golden buildings. The city appeared even more beautiful from this height, its delicate architecture sprouting out of the green blanket of the trees underneath. The Herald sat next to me and offered me a toothpick. I refused, glancing at him one last time.
“Thank you for your guidance,” I said and closed my eyes. I had to climb out of the well. Again.

***

I stared into the eyes of a smilodon: the saber-toothed tiger. I noticed the dead bodies of the three of my fellow tribesmen next to it. The fire we had lit was still flickering, and the remnants of the dinner we had cooked were still in my mouth, the flesh of the deer stuck in between my teeth. I had nothing but the stone knife with me, but I was prepared for the smilodon to attack. As the animal jumped, I caught its throat with my hand and stabbed it in the neck with a knife. We interlocked in the last embrace. I realized my strength was leaving me, but I also felt the tiger gasp its last breath. I remembered my name: Mikhail Demin. I also remembered I needed to climb out of the well.

***

“Why are you refusing the treatment plan? We will minimize the pain, take good care of you, and make your last days more peaceful. What’s on your mind?” The doctor kept insisting, not comprehending my situation and the triviality of the existence he was offering me. Following a new turn of a spiral, I returned to the conversation that started it all.
“It is not about what’s on my mind; it’s what’s in my brain. Remember?”
“Well, what’s in your brain is the reason why you’re here in the first place.”
“Say, doctor, it is interesting how physical and mental experiences are interconnected, don’t you think?”
“I do not understand where you’re going with this. Are you suggesting the tumor is clouding your judgment, making it difficult to make sound decisions, see all the implications of your predicament?”
“On the contrary. My destiny is apparent to me. I know exactly where I need to be and what I need to do. My ‘predicament,’ as you call it, gave me freedom.”

***

I sat at the local pub next to my apartment, drinking dark Saison. The Herald had five shots of vodka. The glasses were in front of him, arranged in a circle. He was playing with them, replacing one with another in a circular pattern. It was the next day following our first encounter if thinking linearly had any meaning.
“Which glass do you prefer?” asked The Herald.
“I like them all,” I replied with a smile. I could see everything with clarity now. This reality was not virtual, and there was no game. This world was as real as any other, however distant in time and space, including the one that The Herald first showed me. They were all equally real, or equally virtual, or only existed in my mind.

It didn’t matter. And although The Herald had five glasses, I knew the actual number was infinity. I also knew I could experience them all, at will, for they were part of me as I was part of them.
“Do you know your name?” The Herald asked again.
“Yes. I also know yours. They are the same. Mikhail Demin.”
“You walked a long path.” The Herald grinned.
I raised my hand and noticed dirt underneath my fingernails. I reached into the pocket of my shirt, got a toothpick, and cleaned my teeth from the bits of deer meat. I blinked, and The Herald disappeared, along with his vodka shots.
Reality is what we make of it. It was time to climb up the well and get back to my scaled beast, who was waiting for me within the alien desert landscape under the three moons. It was time to continue our journey—the journey to infinity.