April 6, 1997

Everything was painfully white. Martha peeled off James' comforter. Her feet were bare, but otherwise, she wore her clothes from the night before. Last night... How... She remembered dancing... and laughing with a strange girl... and being pulled out of the party... and anger...

She didn't remember throwing up, but the horrid film covering the inside of her mouth was evidence enough. She lifted her head to look around James' studio apartment and the vise constricted. Cliché or not, it was the only way to describe it. Some sadist had fastened the clamps to the sides of her head and was steadily tightening. Dropping her head back onto the pillow only made it worse as the rush of blood crashed upon the sides of her skull like a tidal wave on a helpless shore. She sat back up and saw a note card leaning against the lamp on the nightstand. Martha was written on its front in James' hand. She turned it over.

Good morning or afternoon. I imagine you're feeling unwell. If so, there's a smoothie in the fridge that should help. I'm going to the lab and then out to run a few errands. Call me if you'd like to meet up.

Love you,

James

PS It turns out I don't have any Frosted Flakes. I hope you can forgive me.

Frosted Flakes?? Martha couldn't fathom what he meant by that. Regardless, she did feel unwell, so she stood and trudged from the bed to the attached kitchen. The clock in the stove read 12:43. She opened the refrigerator and found, between the cartons of almond milk and eggs, a glass of light green slush. She took it from the refrigerator and a straw from a nearby drawer. The top of the smoothie had melted so she used the straw to stir and redistribute the ice. Then she took a drink. She wasn't sure what was in the smoothie, but as it hit her throat, the nutrients seemed to rush into her bloodstream, not content to wait for her stomach. She had to brace herself against the counter as she downed the rest of the glass. Her head pounded one last time from holding her breath, then the pain diminished.

She wiped her upper lip dry and her mind began to clear. Last night remained mostly blank, but she was able to remember tomorrow's Modern World History exam on the Soviet - Afghan War, for which she had yet to study. Ugh, why did I put it off?

She took a shower, then dressed comfortably. For a moment, she was tempted to collapse back onto James' bed and sleep for who knows how long. But this exam was happening whether she closed her eyes or not. She needed to study. She needed to leave the apartment.

After stretching her dehydrated muscles, she slipped her notebook and textbook into her canvas satchel bag and made for the door. Once in the hallway, she slammed the door louder than intended then winced, hoping none of James' neighbors were also suffering from last night's bad choices. She reached into her sweatshirt pockets for the apartment keys, but they were empty. Come on, brain.

Back inside the apartment, her keys lay next to her walkman on an end table. She grabbed them and packed the walkman as well.

Door locked and finally outside, Martha squinted from the sun. Her first breath of fresh air, however, convinced her the excursion was the right idea. She decided to study at the Morrison Library. Its reading room was quiet and its couches comfortable. Just so long as I don't fall asleep. It was too far to walk, but there was a bus stop midway. To that end, she headed south on Shattuck Ave.

She forced herself to think about the Soviet - Afghan War. The Mujahideen... Neonid Brezhnev... Olympics boycott... Oh God, who cares?

Her mind gravitated back to James. As pleasant as his letter was and as thoughtful the smoothie, she had a feeling that they'd fought the previous night. But still, her memory failed her. It certainly wasn't easy to fight with James. She could count the occasions on one hand. Always so damn accommodating. But still...

She needed to redirect. Soviet - Afghan War. Soviet - Afghan War. Come on! It was useless. She'd have to rely on her textbook and notes once she got to the library to keep her focused, because her mind wanted nothing to do with it. Again, it strayed back to James – back to the lab.

A conflict had steadily grown within Martha regarding their research. On the one hand, she understood the pain his immortality caused him. Despite their fight – or whatever went down – she loved him and was, therefore, desperate to help alleviate that pain.

On the other hand, they were technically preparing for his deliberate, premature death using hundreds of hours they could be spending enjoying their life together. Of course, he'd have other chances – maybe they'd spend his next life island hopping in Greece – but this was her one shot and she couldn't help but feel short changed.

Then again, she couldn't deny that the science was amazing. It had been a dream of hers, long before James showed up, to attend UC Berkeley and participate in cutting edge research. Their work was easily surpassing that dream. Currently, their focus was on reducing the radiation levels present in the procedure meant to free James' consciousness. According to him, the progress they'd made in previous lives was promising, but they needed to go further. But the more intensive the trials, the greater the radiation. And as extraordinary as James was, radiation killed his cells as happily as the next man's. Success would be little consolation for Martha, however. Even if James was able to survive the trials, he'd most certainly die shortly thereafter.

She reached the bus stop. A nearby construction site reminded her that her headache wasn't completely gone, so she took out her walkman and pulled the headphones over her ears. She hit play, but no sound came out. She opened the tape deck and found it empty. Of course it is. Really firing on all cylinders, brainiac.

The bus came to a stop in front of Martha. It's doors opened and she boarded. She took her student ID from her bag for the driver to scan, then returned it. She found an inward facing seat then fished around the mess at the bottom of her bag until she found a cassette labeled "I.T. V2" – an abbreviation for "Irrational Thorn Volume 2." It was one of five mix tapes James had made for Martha. He'd given her this particular version last summer, shortly after he returned from his freshman year. Presently, she inserted the tape and hit play. Tina Turner was midway through her sultry, spoken warning that things would eventually get rough on their "Proud Mary."

James being James, his mix tapes were bizarre, impossible collections of songs that somehow, in the end, came together in holistic agreement. This tape alone hopped from The Beatles to Slick Rick to Beck to Bach to the Go-Go's to Little Richard and to Tina Turner, currently perfecting John Fogerty's words with her singular power. Martha decided this tape was her favorite – not for the content as much as the context. Things had been different between them when he'd made the tape for her. Last summer...

The Ike and Tina Turner Revue blasted the song's final sting. As the horns began to fade, acoustic strumming introduced Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees." A love song for those who don't believe in love songs, James had once described it.

Last summer... Maybe she was lucky to have experienced that feeling – that state of being. Even if it couldn't last, perhaps most people never have the chance at all. Could the memory of genuine bliss be enough?

An elderly woman sitting across from her smiled and Martha returned it politely. University buildings flew by as Thom Yorke's keening falsetto peaked and crashed through her headphones. Something had to be done. I need to talk to him. I need to tell him... But she didn't know what to say. I need to tell him...

And then she heard the lyric. And the tumblers fell into place.

"Gravity!" she cried.

"What's that, dear?" the woman asked.

"Gravity," she repeated, less to the woman than herself. "It... It always wins!"

The woman frowned and gripped her purse with both hands.

Holy crap! Of course. It's always going to win! She frantically searched her bag for her phone. The math was clumsy guesswork, but as far as she could figure, this would change everything. If she was right, James could not only survive the trials, but come out with minimal radiation poisoning. They could have their life together!

At last, through the clutter, she found her phone. Her thumbs flew across the number pad dialing James.

"Hello, beautiful," he answered cheerily.

"We've got it backwards... The gravity!" she blurted. "It's always going to win!"

"Hair of the dog, have we?"

"What? No. Shut up. Listen... Wait. No. Where are you?"

"Brewed Awakenings on Euclid, but I'm about to leave."

"No, that's perfect. Stay there. I'm coming to you."

He was just north of her stop which was fast approaching. She stood, swung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the front of the bus. It came to a stop and she jumped out as soon as the doors parted. She waited anxiously for it to pull away then crossed the street heading north on Euclid.

The coffee shop was a half a block up and she could already see James at a sidewalk table in front of the entrance. He saw her as well, then stood and started toward her, but flinched back as a waitress burst out the door, cutting him off. She apologized and James smiled in forgiveness.

Then his expression dropped and everything changed in a flurry. A towering man in a camo sweatshirt stood behind James – close enough to embrace him. James flung his elbow back and struck the man in his throat. Both men fell – James slumping, failing to steady himself on a patio chair; the other in a violent collapse, coughing, writhing, and choking.

A woman screamed and Martha realized she'd stopped moving. All she could do was stare at... whatever this was. Why is he on the ground? Why is he making that face? What... What's sticking out of his back?

Suddenly, adrenaline lifted her pain and cleared her mind and she was running to him. He trembled as he tried to prop himself up on his elbow. She kneeled beside and tried to support him.

Then she saw the knife.

Its handle was thick and metal. A trail of blood expanded down James' yellow shirt from the wound like a shadow at dusk.

"James?!" Martha cried. "Oh my God. Somebody... Somebody call 911!!" The waitress dropped her tray and ran into the shop to relay the plea. Martha felt light headed. She looked at James. He was noticeably pale and she felt a panic rise. "It's okay. Are you okay? It's gonna be okay."

But he knew she was wrong. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

"James!?" It had to be a nightmare. Any moment, she'd wake up in his bed with a punishing hangover. Please, it has to be!

His attacker convulsed at the curb. Even though his face was blue and eyes rolled back – even with the Aryan tattoos prison had left on his neck – Martha and James recognized the boy from the cafeteria and the carnival. They recognized Robbie.

How could I miss him? James' heart sped for a moment and he felt dizzy. He'd bled to death a number of times – though never by another's hand – and he knew the blood was draining rapidly. Most likely caught the aortic artery. He tempered his breath and closed his eyes in an effort to slow his heart and hinder the blood loss.

"James?! James?!?!"

No. It wasn't an option. He had to be with her for this, so he opened his eyes and tried to smile. "We don't have long," he breathed.

Her face clenched and turned. "No. No," she begged, shaking her head. "Please. I'm not ready. Please!"

This was a horrible end – one of my worst. The physical pain was negligible, but her face – pink, deformed, tear soaked, and swelling with agony... "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I love you... I..." He wanted to say more. She deserved more, but the effort forced his heart to pump.

"Shhhh, shhhhh. I know," she whimpered. Then her face hardened. A sudden determination shone through the tears. "James, you have to listen to me. We have to stop correcting for gravity." His eyes fluttered. Her voice cracked. "We'll never fully cancel it out and our efforts only produce more radiation. If we flip our vectors to flow with the gravitational force... Oh my God, James. Please, no!" Martha sobbed, once again overcome.

The hallucinations presented – lights flashing on the rim of his vision, the edges of Martha's face melting.

"No, no, I'm not ready."

Then his eyelids became too heavy.

"James?!"

The world faded white.

"James?!"

And then finally again to black.

Author's note:

Um... Hey, look over there!  (hides behind bushes)

Like, totally 90's detail:  Comparing music is like comparing apples and oranges and broccoli and grilled cheese, but "Fake Plastic Trees" is a perfect song.  The texture, the tone, the lyrics, the structure... perfect.  Thom Yorke might find this story absolute shite, but his song was a significant influence nevertheless.