Where the Soul Goes: Shouldn't Dying Once Be Enough? by Hailey Gosack

Author:Hailey Gosack [Gosack, Hailey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

21

Earth, Real Time

The fog is lifting inside my head. Sounds and smells become sharper. I know where I am even before I open my eyes by unlocking foreign thoughts. The smell of cigarette smoke assaults my lungs, but it isn't strong enough to cover up the musty smell of yeast from old spilled beer. The sound of glasses clanking, pool balls breaking, people laughing, and country swing buzzes with deafening chaos. I blink my eyes open. The bar is small and crowded, with wood side paneling, worn-out pool tables, and mismatched chairs. What am I doing here again?

"What can I do fer ya?" It's a female bartender who finally interrupts my inner dialogue.

"Um..." I blink several times. It's taking me a second to put all the pieces together. "I need to use the bathroom." My voice is foreign. Much raspier and deeper than my own.

The bartender frowns at me while she rolls a large piece of pink gum around her mouth. Her finger extends impatiently toward the bathroom as she pops a large bubble in her gum.

"Uh, right," I say and make my way. I stumble on the massive platform high heels strapped to my feet as I head that way. I must look drunk.

The bathroom is near the back exit. I remember where I am and who I am with more clarity. Swinging saloon doors welcome me into the small, two-stalled restroom of The Rusty Lantern Bar. A rundown place on the very outskirts of town in Malad, Idaho. It's just hours from Salt Lake on the state border. What are the odds? I look for an open stall, but both are occupied. I walk up to the mirror. Yikes. I'm not only too pudgy for my outfit but also too old. I pull down my shirt in a feeble attempt to cover up my stomach. The only thing this accomplishes is giving me more cleavage. I'll take the belly. The critical eyes of Jane versus the confident attitude of this woman war inside my head. I’m ashamed. I’m angry at myself for feeling ashamed. I shake my head and continue the examination.

I have thin, bleach-blonde hair with dark roots that have grown out nearly two inches. It's pulled back in a ponytail by a leopard-print scrunchy. Bangs are curled and fall over my eyes. And, oh boy, the eyes. A painted streak of blue across the lids, thick black eyeliner, and caked-on mascara has been reapplied many times throughout the day. The foundation job is horrendous. My lips are smudged red from... oh, gross. I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth out. While at it, I attempt to wash some of the gunk off my face. I only make it worse.

I have to get out of here. I need a phone.

I leave the bathroom scrubbing at my face and under my eyes with a scratchy, cheap brown paper towel.

This woman has a purse with a cell phone in it. An internal gut punch lands when I refer to myself as “this woman.

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