Life is Stranger

Messages

"Diane, it's 11:30 a.m. on a beautiful day. I'll soon be entering the town of Arcadia Bay, roughly...er...sixty miles or so west of Portland, Oregon. I've never seen so many trees in my life. As W. C. Fields would say, I'd rather be here than Philadelphia. Sixty-four degrees on a gorgeous sunny day. Weatherman on the radio says that a storm is brewing, but looking around me I suspect that he's talking out of his...derrière. If you could get paid that kind of money for being wrong sixty percent of the time, it'd beat working for a living.

Mileage is seventy-nine thousand three hundred forty-five, gauge is on reserve, riding on fumes here. I've got to tank up when I get into town. Remind me to tell you how much that is. Yes, that was a joke. Like the receipt won't be the first thing you'll want to see before I've even got both feet inside the door. The breakfast was, uh, six...no, seven dollars and...um...thirty-one cents. I ate at a place called the Log Cabin Inn, that's on...wait a second...Wilson River Highway near...damn, what was that place called...Lyda Creek? That was it. Yeah. I think. It was a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, slice of cherry pie, and a cup of coffee. Cheap, eh? Just as you like it. Damn good food. Diane, if you ever get up this way that cherry pie is definitely worth a stop.

I wonder where Ed will be. Out and about somewhere, you might be sure. I'll call in at his office to find out what he's up to. With him, it's always something. Hell, we couldn't even go on a simple fishing trip without him turning something up. Could we? How does he do it? It's like he has a sixth sense or something...my mind wanders. Forgive me.

When I finish catching up with Ed I'll be checking into a motel. I'm sure he'll be able to recommend a good place. That's what I need: a good, clean place to lay my weary head. Reasonably priced, of course. I can already see that disapproving look of yours as I hand in the tickets and you wave the expenses log at me in that charming, exasperated manner that you have. You are a harsh mistress. If I ever do settle down one day and take myself a wife, I fear that she may be just like you. The horror! And yes, that was a joke, too.

Probably.

I wish you could see the ocean here, Diane. The sun's glorious yellow light shimmering as it reflects up off the water of the bay. It looks just like pure liquid, rippling gold. I've never seen anything like it. It's utterly entrancing. Beauty beyond words. You really do need to take a trip out here someday. The world extends beyond that little office you hide in, you know? But you've heard me say all of this before, haven't you? I'll cease boring you with the same old lecture. My apologies. I'll speak to you later, Diane."

There was a quiet click as the voice recorder was shut off. A pale, slender hand placed the device down onto the passenger seat. Fingers drum upon the wheel. The FBI agent's eyes return to the road, before drifting off to casually observe the trees now shading the winding ribbon of tarmac. The hand picks up the recorder once again.

"Oh, Diane, I almost forgot. Got to find out what kind of trees these are. They're really something."

The trees peter out. The town sprawled out before him on the other side of the windshield. His eyes are drawn to the lighthouse shining brightly in the brilliant sunlight. His hand moves to put the recorder down once more, but abruptly returns to the wheel. The device falls into the footwell. The screech of tyres. The agent is forced forwards as the vehicle violently slows, his arms straining to resist the inertia. The vehicle comes to a juddering, torturous stop, wispy tendrils of smoke from the hot rubber rising into the air. The acrid stench seeps into the interior.

He recovers himself and stares at the animal standing in the middle of the road in front of him. It does not move. It merely looks back at him. There is no fear in the sedate brown eyes. No panic. No anxiety. Unlike the eyes of the agent. Sweat beads on his forehead. He can feel it begin to permeate through the back of his shirt. His neck starts to itch as beads of salty liquid appear around the top of the starched, white collar. He relinquishes his grip on the wheel with his left hand, the white area on each knuckle fading as he does so. He slips a finger between collar and skin, the digit moving from one side to the other. He wipes his brow with his forearm. The animal watches.

He looks curiously into the fawn eyes, tilting his head to one side slightly. The eyes of the animal begin to ripple. The undulations spread out as if the air were the surface of a lake disturbed by a stone piercing the membrane of water. He sees the creature no longer. He sees...

The tiny hand of a baby. The dainty fingers gently brush over a pair of lips.

The ripples return.

Two hands now. The hands of an adult. Hands inside surgical gloves. They hold a syringe.

More ripples.

A hand strapped down. An IV pierces the skin. The hand thrashes around wildly. The IV is torn out. Droplets of blood emerge from the miniscule puncture.

The scene ripples and transforms.

The same hand. But this is somewhere else. Now three bracelets adorn the slender, freckled wrist. On a finger is a ring. Two intertwined hearts. One white. One blue. The hand is strapped down here too. A fingernail is viciously torn out. Blood emerges from the wound.

A hand with blue fingernails. Letting a joint fall to the ground. Holding a gun to a forehead. Digging in dirt. The ring of melded hearts decorates a finger.

Two hands. Two rings. The hands joined. The hearts joined.

The small hand of a child. An iridescent blue butterfly rests in the palm.

A hand holding a silver dollar.

A hand resting in deep straw. An empty syringe lies nearby. The hand is still. The fingers are clenched. Tightly. They are clenching something. A tuft of hair. Hair that has been torn out by the roots. Blue hair. Bright blue hair.

The ripples rapidly intensify and pulse one final time. The world returns. The doe still stands and stares at the driver. A blue butterfly rests upon the forehead. The insect alights and flutters away into the trees. The doe gracefully moves on, leaving the agent all alone with his thoughts.

He slowly regains his composure and then retrieves the voice recorder from between his legs.

"Diane. I just had...something just...I don't know how to...never mind."

Click.

Dale Cooper released the brakes and carried on towards the town.

The doe watches the agent drive away. Then Selene rippled away into nothing.