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My name is Adam and I am an addict. It's been three days since I last died.
The words have no meaning. Not anymore. They’ve been recited too many times.
“Hello, Adam,” the chorus responded.
Metal folding chairs arranged in the obligatory half-circle. The even-more obligatory stink of burned coffee mingling with stale cigarette smoke.
“It’s been nine days…” I glanced at my watch, “ten days since I last died,”
Approving nods. Predictable smiles. A chuckle. A cough.
You’d never guess it. We look so… normal. Plumbers, librarians, teachers, cops. Men and women, young and old, black and white. “Hello, my name is” stickers with fake names scrawled in sharpie. The world’s most dysfunctional and depraved family.
“This time… This time I almost didn’t come back.” A few nods of understanding. A couple of concerned frowns.
Icy water in my lungs. Dark, murky water enveloping me, pulling at my clothes. Choking.
“The medics. They told me I died on the way to the hospital,” the girl in the front row- the one with a bun pulled back so tight it stretched the skin on her face- leaned forward.
Tired. Sucking more water down my windpipe. Sputtering. Closing my eyes.
“Twice, actually. I died twice. They brought me back both times,” I shuffled my feet. “Obviously."
Ambulance bouncing, sirens screaming into the night air. Medic radios crackling and someone pumping on my chest- hard. Ribs crunching. Vomiting water.
“It was between those two resuscitations,” I looked down at my beat-up tennis shoes.
The room was silent. Waiting.
“It was between the two revivals that I saw...”
The pumping on my chest faded. “No, damn you!” the medic yelled. He sounded so far away. Darkness clouded in.
“I saw… I… I’m sorry,” I choked back a sob, cursing my own cowardice. I made a beeline for my metal folding chair and didn’t look up from the linoleum floor.
Weak applause. The usual.
You’ll find us after-hours at your local church. You’ll find us at your High School’s gym on Tuesday and Thursday nights. You can find us in your library at the kid’s room. This is a support group for death addicts. If you've ever been brought back, you get it. It’s euphoria and excitement that no drug can match.
Not even close.
“Thank you, Adam,” Tom, the group's organizer, stood up from his chair. More clapping. “Let’s break out into groups.”
I sipped tepid coffee from a Styrofoam cup, trying to avoid eye contact as pairs and trios formed. Low talking filled the confines of the room. This is the part where we’re supposed to form a bond with someone. Share in an emotional experience.
I usually sit this one out.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” at first, I didn’t realize she was speaking to me. “Didn’t you?” she asked, louder. I looked up from the floor.
“Saw what?” I mumbled.
“You saw the basement,” Her green eyes were too intense. Too focused. "You glimpsed it."
The basement. Death addicts chase the basement like dopeheads chase the dragon. After you’ve died a few times, you’ll see a way down. A winding, stone corridor lit by torches. An escalator at a vacant shopping mall descending into nothingness. An elevator in an abandoned office suite, with only one button: Down. Each person sees it a little differently, but they all lead to the same place.
Every time you die, you’ll go a little bit lower. You’ll take another couple of steps. Another ladder rung. A little bit closer to the basement.
Every death addict has that same nagging feeling that draws them downward. No one can explain it, barely anyone can describe it, but we all understand it.
“Listen,” she looked over a shoulder and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know how to get there. Not just down the steps, but inside.”
Now she had my attention.
"You were inside?"
“Meet me out back, behind the dumpsters.”
“I don’t know about this,” I eyed up the pair of loaded hypodermic needles.
“Really?” her eyes glinted in the moonlight, “and you trust drowning?”
Death addicts all have their preferred method. Heroin laced with fentanyl is a popular option- so long as you have your partner waiting by with naloxone to bring you back. As a loner and an introvert, I'm more of a drowning kind of guy.
“I don’t like needles,” I said. “And one addiction is enough for me.”
She laughed again- it sounded forced. She gave the needle a little flick with a finger. She looked like the world’s most perverse nurse.
“Come on. You first.”
The stench of the nearby dumpster was overpowering.
“Are you sure about this?” I yanked on the dirty shoelace that was my makeshift tourniquet.
“Oh. I’m sure,” she slapped two fingers against my bulging vein.
“How’s this work?” I asked.
“I can’t explain it. I can only show you. Just trust me.”
Trust is a subjective word coming from an addict.
“Make it quick,” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“See you on the other side,” she whispered. I felt the needle break the skin.
The fentanyl hit me like a freight train.
“Wow,” I felt myself falling, and was vaguely aware of my head striking the pavement. I felt like I was floating. “Oh, wow.”
I heard her giggle, it sounded very far away.
“What’s your name, anyway?” my voice was thick. Slow. Tiredness overtook me, not unlike the pleasant sensation of drowning.
“Sandra,” she said. Her voice was laced with an inexplicable sadness. “My name is Sandra.”
Lethargically I moved my head in her direction. Things were moving too slowly. I watched in confusion as she slammed the orange plunger down, injecting herself with the second needle.
“Don’t forget… to… don’t forget 911…”
I stood at the top of a familiar spiral staircase. It was stone- medieval-looking with sconces holding burning torches every couple of feet.
“So far so good,” she said. I jumped- not expecting her to be right behind me. I felt her hot breath on the back of my neck as she squeezed past me and ran down the stairs- three at a time- disappearing behind the twist of the spiral.
I plunged after her, “Wait!” I shouted, my voice echoing back at me.
I continued to run, getting dizzier and dizzier as the stairwell spun ever downward. I could hear her echoing footfalls- she sounded close but every twist I made revealed only more empty steps.
Down and down we went. Nerves tugged at me- this felt wrong. The torches became more and more spaced apart, leaving black dancing shadows and barely illuminating the stairs between them.
I sprinted down the steps- no longer caring if I fell. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms as the air became colder and colder the deeper, I plummeted.
“Sandra!” I shouted, in a full sprint downward.
I wasn’t ready to hit the bottom when I did. I tripped over my own feet and landed at an open doorway leading into inky blackness.
“Where are you?” I called; the syllables were puffs of frost. “This isn’t funny!”
“In here,” she called distantly, from somewhere in that terrible darkness.
I stepped into the basement- “I can’t see,” I moved through the doorway, questing outward with my hands. The euphoria wasn’t here. The excitement wasn’t here. A terror I have never felt began to blossom in the pit of my stomach.
I moved slowly toward her voice.
The door leading to the staircase slammed shut with a thunderous crash.
I fell again and scrambled backward- a sort of reverse crab walk- and pressed my back up against the cold stone wall.
“Welcome,” the voice was disgusting and inhuman.
Moist, fleshy hands gripped my arms and legs with impossible strength. I couldn’t see, and now I couldn’t move.
“No!” I screamed, “Get off me!”
I felt myself carried across the room, then slammed onto a hard surface.
“Help! Help me!” my throat was dry and raw. Metal clinks as my wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table.
I heard a snap and white brilliance exploded- blinding me. As my vision slowly came into focus, I only caught the briefest glimpse of the creature. Tentacles slid across cold stone leaving sticky wet trails- like a slug. Its long claws dragged across the floor as it slithered around a corner and disappeared.
“Welcome,” that sickening voice repeated. “I think you’ve been looking for this place for quite some time.”
A strange man stood with his hands clasped behind his back. A rivulet of saliva ran down a worm-like lip, his pink tongue lapped it up. He wore a black leather apron that was splattered with dried blood. Tinted goggles hid his eyes. Despite the frigid air, the pasty white flesh of his bald scalp was sprinkled with droplets of sweat.
“I’m sorry if it’s not what you were expecting.”
Sandra stood behind him, looking at her feet.
“Sandra- what is this?!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“This will complete your dozen souls,” he laughed heartily, “a dozen souls for your one.”
“He was going to keep me here,” she was crying, now. Tears streaming down her cheeks. “ He was going to keep me here forever. We’re not supposed to find the basement, Adam. We’re not supposed to be down here.”
He cackled as he rifled through a leather bag filled with cruel-looking instruments. Scalpels, hooks, knives. He waved her away. “Begone, woman, before I change my mind.”
“He was going to keep me here unless I offered him a trade. My soul for twelve others… I just had to guide them down here… I had to give them that little push at the bottom of the stairs…”
I heard muffled screaming from somewhere deeper in the confines of the basement. screams filled with horror and pain.
“You bitch!” I howled.
“He is going to take your soul, Adam. He’s going to carve it out of you, he’s going to carve it out and feed it to his pets,” she choked back another sob, “I’m so sorry.”
He held a scalpel up to the light, made a satisfied grunt, and turned toward me. “Just remember, Adam. It wasn’t I that was looking for you,” he laughed, “you people and your foolhardy obsession with finding this place.”
He pressed the blade of the scalpel to the soft flesh on my stomach and began to cut. I screamed until I thought my vocal cords would burst.
“Suicide is a very naughty sin,” he cut deeper. “It takes a very special type of person to repeat it. Over and over,” he used a pin to hold back the open flesh of my stomach.
I vomited and pulled against my restraints, writhing helplessly.
“Once he has you here you can’t ever escape,” she was sobbing- as though she were the victim. “Once he has you, you’ll come here every time you die… Oh Adam, I’m so sorry, he gave me no choice.”
“You bitch!” I screamed.
“The wonderous thing about the human soul is that it regrows. Eventually,” another muffled scream raked at the terror I felt.
“Think of it as farming,” he licked up another trail of saliva that had worked its way down to his chin. He spoke almost conversationally as he cut into my stomach and began rooting around my organs with his hands. “With the number of times you’ve died… my oh my, this will be quite the harvest.” blood splattered his goggles and face. I could feel my intestines being tugged and moved, like a pile of snakes in my belly. He licked the blood from his lips.
Suddenly he stopped, and his head snapped upward toward the ceiling.
"Well, now," he whispered softly. “That is unexpected.”
“No,” Sandra’s voice was laced with terror. More muffled screaming from the adjoining rooms.
"It seems you and I aren't done after all, Sandra.”
“He’s going to be back,” she backed up against the wall. “He’s going to be back.”
“Layaway wasn’t our deal, darling.”
As for you," he plunged one finger deep into my open stomach. "I'll be seeing you again, sooner or later. I promise."
“Give him another dose,” a strange voice.
“No- look. He’s coming around.”
My vision cleared. Two paramedics stood over me. One had an empty naloxone packet.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” he said. “Let’s go to the hospital.”
I rolled onto my side and vomited into the parking lot. The stench from the dumpster was overpowering. I ripped my shirt upward and looked down at my belly- wholly intact.
“Easy, easy,” the medic said.
The other medic put a hand on my shoulder, “you’re lucky it’s trash night. If those guys weren’t back here to empty the dumpster you’d be long gone.”
“Sandra…” I croaked. “The girl… where is she?”
The medics look at each other uncomfortably.
“Sorry man,” the older one said. “She didn’t make it.”
I looked to my side. A plain white sheet lay still on top of a motionless shape.
“The basement,” my crazed eyes met the medic’s, “I don’t want to go back. Oh God I don’t want to go back… but she said… she said I’m stuck there. Trapped.”
“Take it easy, pal.” He led me to the waiting ambulance. “Take it easy.”
“He said I’m going back. I don’t have a choice,” the words were spilling from my mouth. The medics exchanged a glance.
“He said I’m going back when I die.” I began to sob, fear overtaking me. "He said I have to go back sooner or later.”
Dex for Office Work
I haven't been able to find a post about the full functionality of Dex and it's limitations. I'm intrigued by the prospect of replacing my 10 year old laptop with a new Samsung that can run Dex. I'm just concerned about the software limitations for productivity. I work in office administration and we mainly use Microsoft Word and Excel (multiple docs/spreadsheets), and some internal software to look at client records.
My concern with Dex is the following:
- Doesn't offer multiple word/excel docs to be open at the same time. I've heard of a work around where you download the individual app and office suite?
- Limited functionality such as lack of pivot tables in Excel and limited functions for other Office programs.