The Man Who Ate Himself A Thousand Times
Authors Note: I originally wrote this short back in 2015. It was the first story I felt was good enough to be shared. Formatting and style leaves some to be desired, but imo it's still one of my best!
'To whoever discover my recordings, whatever you do, stay away from the table-like instrument near the airlock.'
'When you find the bodies, please understand, it was out of my control,
...But the missing flesh,
...That,
...Was out of necessity.'
'I'm not too sure about anything anymore...
...I think,
...Perhaps,
...I'm going insane.'
'I don't know if I'm me...
...Or if I'm somebody else,
...My name is,
...My name might be,
...Carl Eaton.'
'I'm...
...Running out of time,
...Damn it,
...I just figured this thing out.'
'I'm back,
...Let's start from the beginning.'
I saw her press a button on the tape recorder, turning it off. With rings under her eyes, and hair on end, her exhaustion was painfully obvious. She might be in her mid-thirties, I couldn't be sure, as her face was fair, but her dark brown hair hid strands of gray. Her hands were dirty and worn, but her uniform clean. She must have changed it recently without consideration to hygiene. A pair of spectacles dangled from her chest pocket.
With all the crazy I've been through, keeping calm was no trouble. The room was small, with an ominous one-way window, brick walls, polished wooden floor, two uncomfortable chairs, and my right hand chained to a small wooden table.
In her mind, and with her stern glare, I felt as if she regarded me with little value. It probably didn't help that I wore a white complimentary jumpsuit handed to me earlier in the day. I also had raggedy hair, a shy stub, and didn't look a day beyond eighteen despite my true age.
“I have to admit, Carl Eaton,” She said, leaning back in her chair, eyes cold. “When I first read the transcript, I thought it was one of those silly viral stories.” She moved in over the table, placing her elbows down, and knuckling her hands. “But then I was called to the city morgue.” She shook her head with a sigh. “It's deplorable.”
“You have my log entry, right there.” I pointed at the tape recorder, it laid to her right. “You've read the transcript, probably heard the full log too. Considering the circumstances, I fail to see how anyone could have done differently, were they in my position.”
“Is that your admission of guilt?”
“It's merely a statement. You are familiar with the Andes flight disaster, right? They got pardoned for their alleged crimes. While my situation is slightly more exotic, I should garner the same.”
“Wretched.” She said with disgust. “I'm trying to find myself in your mind, but your justification is incomprehensible. It's not human.“
“It's logic.”
“Do you even know who they were?”
“The bodies?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I do, in a way.”
“So far, over two-thousand bodies have been uncovered. Just the sheer number makes my stomach churn.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, calming herself. “We're still waiting for the DNA tests. It's going to be a while before we can identify them all, which brings me back to you. How did you pull it off? I mean, there's no records of you. You're what, sixteen, maybe seventeen? It's an awful lot of work for someone so young, and to be undetected for so long, I will assume you had help. At least with identity scrub. A hacker, perhaps?”
“Sure I had help, in a way. But not in the way you imagine.”
She looked towards the one-way window, and raised a finger. Then she looked over to me, and raised one more.
“Huh?”
“Let's say your story on the tape is true, then I imagine you would be thirsty.”
“I've grown accustomed to the thirst.”
About thirty seconds later the door opened and an old stern-looking man with a blue shirt and black tie entered, carrying two cups of coffee. He gave me a cold stare, so cold, I could feel it pierce. He placed the cups on each end of the table, and I thanked him with a smile.
The aroma was wonderful; it had been so long since last I was graced with the smell of freshly brewed beans. I took a sip.
As the old man left the room, I could hear him mutter 'animal' under his breath.
“You're smiling, is this amusing to you?”
“Lady, I don't even know your name. Ever since I got back, all I've been told was 'put this on' and 'we will escort you to an interrogation room', and here I am.”
“Right, well, I'm your criminal investigator, Abby Reid.”
“Pleasure to meet, miss Reid. Who was the old man just now?”
“Robert Clarke, commissary.”
I turned to the one-way window.
“Hello Mr. Clarke, pleasure to meet.”
“What are you doing?”
“It's been a very long time since I met someone but myself.”
She didn't respond for a while, just stared at me with a puzzled expression. I couldn't quite discern what was going through her head.
“Let's listen to the recordings, step by step.”
'It was mid-November, not quite sure the exact date, but it was a weekend, that I know for certain, as I was doing my grocery run. Wait.'
'Right, yes. I'm certain, since I purchased a lottery ticket. You see, it's my Saturday tradition,
...Wish I never bought that damn ticket,
...Anyway, so, as I left the store, I scratched it, and lo and behold, I had won a million bucks. With joy, I increased my pace, I wanted to get home fast, drop off my groceries, and head for the bank. I didn't account for the fact that it was winter, and the ground slippery. I slipped, must have hit my head, for when I woke up, I was somewhere else,
...I was here.'
Abby turned off the recording.
“Where is here?”
“The spaceship.”
“Spaceship?”
“Spaceship.”
She shook her head with a sigh again.
“How does one go from slipping on ice to waking up on a spaceship? Do you realize how stupid that claim is?”
“Look, if you want proof of my story, take me to the ship, and put a bullet in my brain.”
“What? Are you attempting a plea of insanity?”
“No, I'm just... You want proof, and I can give it to you. But the only way I'm going to be able to do that is if you bring me to the ship and shoot me. Not that I would die, I'm sort-of immortal, in a way.”
“Ludicrous,” She said, looked almost amused, in a mocking way. “And the wreck is under quarantine. They're still moving your victims, which means it's off limits, especially to you.”
“Fine.”
I crossed my arms, I could feel defiance rise in me. It was an emotion I always struggled to control. She reached for the recorder once more.
'I...
...I didn't know what to do, I didn't understand where I was. I could feel a cold pressure against my naked back. I figured it was a metal surface, perhaps an operation table of some kind. The room was almost pitch black, save for small green buds of light gleaming from the walls and floor.
...I had no means to keep time, but it must have taken me hours. I let my hands grace the wall, as I moved across a large space. At first, I thought the room might be circular, as I couldn't seem to find any corners, but eventually, I reached a glass-like surface with my hand which immediately beamed up with a bright green light by my touch. It had some strange symbols on it, I poked the screen in a few place, and the symbols changed. Soon, the room was lit.'
The recording was paused again.
“Alien spaceship?” Abby palmed her forehead and rested her elbow on the table with a sigh. “So let me get your story straight. Somehow, you got your hands on an alien spaceship, and decided to abduct people, killing them. Why? For fun? Some twisted belief?”
“It had to be alien, no way humanity constructed the technology available on that ship, not in a million years.” I sipped a bit of my coffee, it was still hot. “But the rest of your accusation is wrong, I didn't abduct anyone, what possible benefit could that serve?”
“Don't dodge the question with a question.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I shouldn't have to try and convince you of facts I could prove if you'd just let me.”
She scowled at me, then fiddled with the recorder once more.
'I couldn't believe the size of it. It was as large as five soccer fields put together. Greeble crossed every nook and cranny. There was a metal table at the far end, and the distance made sense. In front of me, the screen was connected to a larger array of input consoles. I started to fiddle with each of them, it didn't do me much good, nothing practical happened.
...I spent days trying to figure it all out, crossing the room multiple times, trying to find a way out, trying to find answers. But I couldn't keep it up, some three days, fatigue caught up with me, the dehydration was unbearable. I lost consciousness.'
“Right,” She said as she stopped the recording. “I'm going to stop here. The next part is just dumb and beyond unbelievable.”
I smiled. To her, it was just listening to nonsense she had read in the transcript, to me, it was reality. I had lived it, through and through, it was as real as this room. This conversation.
“I'm willing to bet my life on it.”
“Of course you are. You wanted me to shoot you earlier.”
“You know; you might be right. I might be insane, and this is all a figment of my imagination. If this is the state of my condition, then I would rather be dead.”
Just as I finished the sentence Robert busted through the door with a piece of paper. He handed it to Abby.
“The DNA tests are in.” His voice was raspy, a smokers' voice.
I gave him a smile in amusement. “Hello again, Mr. Clarke. I hope you've read it.”
He responded with frown in turn then quickly slipped back through the door. Abby put her spectacles on, and stared down the paper. Her magnified eyes rapidly bouncing back and forth.
“Bullshit.”
“It's really not.”
“You said you had help; you must have someone on the inside. There's no way this here is authentic.”
I turned to the one-way window. I still had a smile on my lips.
“Mr. Clarke, would you care to join us?”
A short moment later the door swung open. Robert stomped into the room, chair in hand. He put the chair down next to Abby, and took seat.
“I didn't give you permission to join.”
Robert looked uncomfortable, but he persisted on his chair. “I want to hear him plead not guilty of mass murder,” He had a smirk on his face. “It makes for a warm and fuzzy execution.”
“Electric chair, that's still a thing?” I said with a leer. “Care to spare a last fag for a dying man?”
He rolled his sleeve, revealing a patch.
“Fine,” It would seem they hadn't caught on yet. Good. “As the DNA tests reveal, everything I've said is the truth. If you're still not convinced, you could take a field trip to the crash site. While the corpses near the airlock have decomposed quite severely, and should be impossible to identify by face, the excavation crew should have dug deep enough to find some fresh ones near the opposite end of the ship. Unfortunately, the two of you seem unwilling to cooperate, to understand, to listen. This leaves me with few options to explore.” I pondered a moment. “While I would ask Mr. Clarke to prove me true, I have a feeling he would be inclined to decline. Not because he wants to, but because he has to. I'm willing to bet he would gladly test my theory, if I made it easier for him to do so.”
There was still coffee in my mug, warm, but not too hot. I grabbed it from the table and threw the liquid into Abby's face. She panicked, covering her face with a scream. Robert rose from his chair, which slammed into the floor with a loud clack. I threw my mug at him, he didn't flinch, and lunged towards me. The weight of his body pushed me to the ground. I wormed around in his grip and managed to get my hands on his sidearm. I slipped the safety off, and with a struggle pulled the trigger.
Bang.
Robert moved away from me, staring in disbelief. Abby was coming back from her panic.
“What have you done!”
I huffed blood out of my mouth and gurgled. “The bullet ...through my side ...my heart ...lung,” I coughed some more blood. Abby was staring in fear and bewilderment alongside Robert. “...I suggest ...Call the crash site ...Soon confirmation.”
With all the strength I could muster, I pulled myself up to table, and fingered the recorder which had conveniently been knocked to my end of the table.
'There I was, not me, but me. At the far end of the room, another me. A dead me. I was once again on the table, well, one version of me, while the other one was near the consoles. I am telling you, I would not wish this fate upon anyone.
...At first, I struggled with panic attacks. Was I dying and being cloned? Reincarnating? Going mad? Some kind of government experiment? If clones, was there a diminishing return on the cloning? Was there a limit on the amount of clones that could be created?
...I started to send the dead me out the airlock, while the live me, went through the technology of the ship, learning step by step. There had to be a way to find out where I was. Months must have passed, I could only last three days until the dehydration got me. I was making little progress during all that time. Hold on.'
'Sorry, had to strap the old me down, it kept floating into the audio input. I turned the artificial gravity off long ago, and it has its advantages and disadvantages, things not strapped tends to congregate.
...Like I was saying, I wasn't making much progress for a good while. Frustration hit first, but then fear of a limit to my reincarnations, a limit to the machine itself. I started to consume my old vessels, if that's what they were? Could it be considered cannibalism? Eating myself? I don't know, I don't really want to know. But drinking the blood and consuming the flesh allowed me a few more days, and then I discovered a new limit, iron poisoning.
...I turned off the artificial gravity. It was easier to stock the corpses that way. I used some straps from the greeble to bind them together, I put them near the end of the room, it helped with the smell at first, but eventually, they started to pile up in such numbers that I couldn't access the airlock and discard them anymore, I had mounted a wall of death between the reincarnation table and the consoles. At least the most decay was at the far end towards the interior, and the fresher corpses at the outer shell, close to me.
...It must have taken me over a decade, but I eventually learned enough about the systems to input a journey home. That was a few weeks ago. I'm still en route, and I just figured out the recording function, so here I am, telling you all this, in case I run out of reincarnations, or if there's a copy of a copy degradation flaw, or the ship crashes, disabling the machine, or something else I haven't accounted for.
...Again, I must warn you. Do not go near the table-instrument close to the airlock, you do not want this life.'
Abby shook the lifeless body of Carl Eaton. He was dead.