“Come on, can’t you put in a little more effort?” Victoria chided him. “Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean I have to do all the work.”
His birthday? He froze. What did that mean? Had Death chosen to respect the ultimatum rejected by Life? Or maybe in the depth of the abyss, time and oblivion collided, conspiring to offer him one last joy. He decided to take advantage of this moment, to live this delirium completely before finishing his journey.
Victoria pulled his body to hers, and he felt her skin melt into him. Jeremy didn’t dare move.
“Hold me, damn it,” she moaned. She lifted her head and looked at him slyly. “Don’t you want your gift?”
She kissed Jeremy’s lips, and he tasted her in his mouth. He felt intoxicated, lulled by a ghost that was so close to being real.
“I’ll turn off the light,” she whispered.
Not the dark. Not yet! The darkness will devour us, take Victoria away and drag me off to the end of my journey. And this brief respite, so marvelous, will be over.
The light disappeared, but Victoria’s body did not.
“You’re holding me too tight. I can’t move,” she said, her voice low and playful.
Victoria was still there next to him.
Jeremy held her hand. He had been afraid his joy would mean the end of his dream. How many others had ended the same way? He had held completely still, dreading the moment he’d have to stop and finally die.
Victoria set her chin on his chest and whispered, “You know, it’s silly, but I can’t stop thinking that it was a year ago…you wanted to die. For me.”
Jeremy sat on the bed, shaken. He tried to make sense of Victoria’s words. A year ago? My birthday? Are we alive? Why don’t I remember the past year?
Jeremy’s thoughts darkened under the onslaught of foolish questions, incomplete ideas, and answers and theories that were just as strange. The absurdity of the situation became unbearable, and he got up. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, trying to decide.
He could hear Victoria humming “Hymn to Love” in the shower.
He studied the apartment: a sunny room with creamy white walls in a somewhat cold, contemporary style, cheered up by a few knickknacks. He recognized some of the furnishings. The leather sofa his parents gave him. The lamp with a red shade he bought from an artist friend. Two brightly colored pillows.
Jeremy walked to the window and parted the thick curtains. A ray of sunlight shot through onto the bed, revealing particles of dust suspended in the air. Outside the people, cars, and sounds came together to form an everyday street scene.
He looked around the room again—so full of natural light—and noticed an electronic calendar on the wall. It featured a classic landscape from his hometown, Essaouira. Some white houses and some blue; sunlit trees leaning in the wind. Jeremy stepped closer to read the date flashing in florescent diodes: MAY 8, 2002.
He had committed suicide on May 8, 2001.
Jeremy sat down on the couch, shocked, his eyes riveted on the calendar.
In an effort to control his mounting panic, Jeremy forced himself to stop and think. Come up with a few theories. If he was dead, maybe he was in some kind of paradise where every day was his birthday. Or maybe it was a hell that condemned him to relive his dream, always on the same date. And if he was alive…that meant his suicide had backfired and he’d lost his memory—of an entire year.
Victoria appeared in the bathroom door wearing a robe, hair in a white towel, cheeks red, smiling. The love of his life was there beside him.
“What are you up to? Checking the calendar? Making sure it’s the right date? Well, yes, it really is your birthday. Why do you think I threw myself at you earlier? It was your gift!” She laughed.
Then she frowned, noticing Jeremy’s serious look. “What’s going on with you today? Why are you making that face? You’re acting really weird this morning.”
Shaken, he decided to ask her a few questions.
“I…” It was the first time he’d spoken since he woke up, and his voice surprised him. He paused and let the sound resonate, almost like something solid in his mind.
“Yes?” She tilted her head, intrigued.
What could he say? If this were all an illusion, what would be the point of admitting his uncertainty?
But he had to say something. “I forget…”
“You forget? What did you forget, my dear? Your birthday?” She made the joke without smiling.