It almost didn't matter that the whooshing of the plugger was so close to Juan's face his cheeks were cold. It mattered less when the needle drove a hole through his neck--the stinging, fiery, metallic pain was only secondary. Did it even matter at all when his chest constricted and his mind went dark?
Then a film was pulled back, and everything was clearer, brighter. Images he'd only glimpsed at earlier, in the boat, were given full value, and new ones emerged. Before, he'd seen a garden made of light--the warmest light he'd ever felt, and it still managed not to scald him--his friends and relatives smiling within it. Nothing could compare to the feeling of release when his feet had sunk into the ground like it was made of cloud, when the light had seeped into his pores and warmed those too, when the air sung rich, full memories he could finally hear--nothing. In order to reach the garden again, he'd decided, he would get plugged again. Fully, this time.
Now, the sky ceded to a ruby-tinged, bird's eye view of his home; he watched his father pace in front of it, dressed all in black, and briefly wondered what the trouble was. Ah, that was it. His brother was running late--though how he knew this and why he didn't know more was strange. His father's face was oddly drawn as, one by one, cars filled up the driveway and people exited them in long black coats.
They must have been melting!
The people formed a line of sorts, mumbling a few words before entering the house. What were they saying? Something upsetting, clearly, because Juan's father breathed heavily or looked away as they spoke.
The image shifted; now Juan was inside his home, moving, floating here then there, absorbing each picture with disbelieving eyes. In the foyer, glasses of lemonade had been set on floating trays while the central fountain gurgled incessantly. Within the many hallways and rooms, a sea of black-dressed people had fanned out, drops of ink in the white space. In a massive office, Juan's father stood in front of a full-sized hologram of his younger son, wiping his face, unaware of the crowds that sporadically formed around him.
The image shifted once more.
There were faces--he'd only seen them as shadows before; now there was light--staring down at him. They had triangles for heads, and they made gestures with their hands, and their skin held many shades at once. They sat on odd floating bleachers, with odd flashy pens, watching. Like he was being appraised. One of them pointed; Juan followed the invisible trail sketched by what might have been a finger and looked around him.
Heat stiffened his face; the ground was fire, and that fire inched. Some kind of pit. He was at the bottom of some kind of pit. The walls formed a huge, deep pit, and screams resounded inside it. Where? A woman's. A child's. A man's. Where? Try as he did, he failed to spot their origin through the overwhelming smoke.
Screaming.
A woman's. A man's.
His.
His muffled cries mixed with the others as hungry, flaming fingers of pain clawed at his body, turning his skin into sizzling meat on a grill.
He wanted--needed--the garden back, but the slideshow in his head had other plans. It moved to another image: his body being set in a coffin, which was lowered into a hole and covered over by sand.
He finally understood.