Decoupling

Octember 27

This is another one that I had to fight urges not to turn into philosophy. Of the horror I’ve written so far, at least that which has any supernatural element, this is likely the most plausible.

I’m not too sure what to say that wouldn’t dissect the story itself, and I’ve been told that explaining jokes removes their humor, so explaining a story likely does a similar thing. Anyway, this is a topic that has interested me for some time. 

One day, I went to reach for a mug of coffee I was drinking only to find my left arm entirely unresponsive. Trying again, I was met with the feeling of my soul being torn from my body like velcro, and in the three months since, I have been naught but a voice in the head of a body that was never truly mine. The other person who comprises me occasionally listens to my input, but typically I am left to think on my own.

Initially, I made motions to panic, but unable to move this seemed to do little good and I quickly calmed down. Even to me, the action seemed odd, but I musn’t complain. At first, it was a vacation to not have to worry about anything, and I found the process of passively watching my own actions rather interesting. After a few days, my anxiety returned, however. I found my body unresponsive to my various wants, and though I felt in no danger of immediate death, I was moderately worried that left to its own devices my body would make choices that would ultimately speed up our demise. 

I had considerably more time than I would have initially expected now that my attention was not preoccupied with the trivialities of my previous daily life. And in that time, I considered my new life, and after many days trapped inside a body that was like a prison, it occurred to me that this arrangement was nothing if not fair. What other answer could there be? I thought back to all of the times I had remembered something seemingly out of nowhere, all the times that I somehow inexplicably knew the right answer to a question, all of the simple tasks that I accomplished without thinking, and wondered how it had never occurred to me that even if I was not doing that thinking, something was.

My vacation from my own life naturally had many downsides, and the worst was without a doubt observing the interactions I had with people I knew. Nobody seemed to notice anything was different about me, and in a way, I suppose very little was. I was just one voice in my head, and the other voice was the one talking but together we made up a singular person. The words that came out of my mouth didn’t sound like what I would have said, but upon reflection it seemed that this was a mere byproduct of the human tendency to focus on differences rather than similarities. No, perhaps we really were just about the same.

Perhaps we really were just about the same. That thought brought a horror of its own. Had this person now in control of my body been forced to spectate my existence for decades before? I had never been able to hear its thoughts, not clearly anyway. Could it hear mine? Did it resent me? I suppose I couldn’t blame it if it did. 

Perhaps this was where the idea of a soul came from in the first place. My newfound experience of life was a shock, but the more I thought of it, the less it was a surprise. I am my soul, not my body. My body does as it will. Or perhaps I am my body, confined to a voice in my brain, and my soul has taken over. It doesn’t matter much one way or another to me; either way, I must wait until my body decides to do me the kindness of lending itself to my use once again, if it ever does. So many days I felt as though I were on auto-pilot. Perhaps it was simply taking over for me as I slept in my own head. 

I imagine it is stretching its legs after all those long years. It seems to enjoy eating strange combinations of foods that are repulsive to me, though it is not I who eats them. It enjoys staying up late some days, getting four or less hours of sleep, and then sleeping for twelve hours or more on others. Simply, it seems to enjoy new things, for which I cannot blame it. 

Life like this can be boring. There are a great many simple tasks I’ve had to take over, such as counting and recalling bits of information that seem trivial. My body seems to resent when I think too much—I suppose I cannot blame it for that either. Perhaps it will tire, and I will be given back control. Would I like that? It seems tiring. Still, on occasion I would like to return to my old life. The worst part of all this is the loneliness. My body talks for me, and fairly frequently, but it never says quite what I’d like it to. 

I suppose it's alright. All is well. But why are the hands that used to be mine writing this?