Aftersight by Brian Mercer Read Free Book Online Page B

a mock accent, "Whata ya say, Dipper? We're gonna be Canadians, eh?"
    I stared down at the page, ignoring Derrick's dumb joke. "I'm not saying we're gonna leave early, you dork. I just want to know we can go sooner if we have to."
    For the millionth time, I thought about my psychic reading and Nicole's warning — it's not a good idea; it looks like it might even be a little da n gerous for you — and mulled over everything that might go wrong. I still wanted to wait until January, when I'd officially graduate from high school, but didn't know how much longer I'd live with Dad, who I'd taken to calling "The Loser." The Loser and his girlfriend, Tammy, had been fighting almost constantly these past few weeks. At first I really had thought I'd get in my dad's face about the drugs and the booze, but now couldn't even imagine what that conversation might sound like.
    What would happen to Dad if I bolted and Tammy left him? Then all of his family would have abandoned him — first Chris, then Mom, and now me — and he'd have no one. But it wasn't Dad and Tammy's fighting that made me think about leaving early, as horrible as it was to hear Tammy's shrieks and The Loser slamming doors. No, I worried that Tammy might cut bait before Derrick and I had a chance to get away. If Tammy left and it was just me and Dad, I wasn't sure if I could bring myself to desert him when the time came.
    I was exhausted. I could hardly put two coherent thoughts together. I couldn't remember what a quiet night's sleep felt like. Since the night of my first out-of-body experience, now more than two months ago, there had been others. Like the first one, I'd come to with only pieces of memories of what had happened.
    I usually remembered the exit itself — the deafening humming and whooshing sounds, my heartbeat battering my chest, the powerful vibrations that lashed me from toes to skull. It felt like I was ripping apart. I would fight it with all my will, but in the end it was always the same. The lifting, sometimes wrenching of my spirit up and out of my body. I despised every moment, the paralysis, the panic, the terrible sense of losing control. The more I resisted, the more powerfully I seemed to be propelled out.
    I usually didn't remember much of what happened after the exit. I recalled flying sometimes, the very real sense of movement passing through my stomach, rising through the darkness above a sprawling, grid-like pattern; gliding over shadowy, misty woods; flitting through cityscapes far too beautiful to be from this world.
    I remembered faces, too, people who I met again and again. I could see myself standing in a park, beautifully green and lush, with three pretty girls who were somehow good friends of mine but whose faces I could never quite recall. I remembered sitting in a large facility that felt like a classroom, listening to a lecture with a dozen people of all ages and races, students I recognized from a school now forgotten. And then there was that old Victorian home with cozy period furniture and, strangely, a young, shaggy-haired cowboy with a black, wide-brimmed cowboy hat. I remembered him most of all, his thrilling dusk-colored eyes and a smile that instantly sucked the air out of my lungs.
    But the most striking person I stumbled across was the old man, white haired, goateed, who I thought of as The Butler. He had distinguished features, kind, gentle eyes, and moved with a stately poise that made me think of Bruce Wayne's manservant, Alfred. The Butler was easily the person I'd come across most often during my out-of-body trips. And, like a butler, he seemed to be guiding me through a new domain, orienting me to the rules, showing me around. He was just the sort of wise, good-hearted person I'd never had in my life and I desperately wished that he could be real.
    Of all my out-of-body experiences, one clear memory stood out above the rest. In it I found myself standing outside my house at nighttime in the