Shot Fiction By James Austin McCormick
The short story contains mature themes and is intended for adult readers.
The hands holding him under were too strong, and for a moment, he feared they intended to drown him. It wasn’t such a crazy idea. He was a very rich man, after all, and they, as far as he knew, were little more than an impoverished ashram. This so-called ‘initiation’ could simply be an elaborate trap.
Then he was dragged back into the sunlight. An ageing, pot-bellied man grinned at him, revealing discoloured teeth.
“Come,” he said, wrapping a powerful arm around the initiate, guiding him towards the riverbank. Devotees waited, all very young, all dressed in similar brown robes.
“Welcome, your new brother,” a pretty blonde said. As one, they stretched out their arms, hauling him from the river. The blonde’s eyes never left him for a moment. She was clearly studying him. The man couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking.
The pot-bellied man handed him a brush and mop and set him about countless menial tasks. All initiates began this way, he was told, for to gain enlightenment, one must first destroy the ego’s pride. For now, all he needed to do was remain present in whatever he was doing. He didn’t complain. Something close to an emotional collapse had brought him here, causing him to seek out the strange, isolated community in search of meaning. For the moment, he was content to lose himself in physical labour. It provided the escape he needed from the despair which had threatened to destroy him.
He’d only been there several days. However, when a hand shook him awake during the night, he opened his heavy eyelids and found himself looking up at the blond girl. She placed a finger to her lips, indicating for him not to wake the others in the communal sleeping quarters.
“Come,” she whispered. She took his hand, pulling him to his feet.
“Where are we going?” he asked once they were outside.
“To see the Maharishi,” the girl answered.
Her companion slowed. “But I thought I needed to be prepared first.”
“You’re special,” the blond told him. “I saw it straight away. The Maharishi has been waiting a long time for someone like you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” The girl led him along the river’s edge until they came to a domed earth and rock structure. A soft light illuminated the narrow entrance.
“In there,” she told him.
A shout sounded in the distance, and a figure came rushing toward them.
“What are you doing?” the pot-bellied demanded, puffing from the physical exertion.
The blond pushed her companion towards the entrance. “Inside,” she told him. “I’ll deal with him.”
The older man’s fists clenched. “You’ll what?”
The girl walked up to him, sliding a hand into her tunic as she did. “Calm yourself,” she told him in a soothing tone. “Let’s talk.”
Eager to see the mysterious leader, the man slunk inside the structure. A ring of candles on the floor cast a gentle light over the interior. In the centre, an old, white-haired figure sat on an animal hide mat. He was so thin his ribbed chest resembled that of a birdcage.
“Sit down,” the old man said.
His guest complied.
“I’ve had my eye on you,” the Maharishi said, a hint of a smile on his bloodless lips. “You’re different from the others, a little older, far less naïve, someone who has found great material success in life.” He sighed. “Yet you find your power, your millions, empty of meaning, don’t you?”
The man nodded.
“And here,” the old man tapped the side of his head, “the noise, the chatter, it never stops, past regrets, future worries, on and on. All you want is peace. Isn’t it so?”
“More than anything.”
The Maharishi took his guest’s hands. “Then you are ready to receive my teaching. We will practise what is called ‘self-enquiry.’ To do this, we repeat the phrase ‘who am I?’ but it is not a mantra. Rather, we use the words, which are no more than words, to go ever deeper, to the source of the ‘I’ thought and then beyond, to the source itself.” Gnarled fingers dug into his palms. “I will guide you.”
The two sat in meditation for some time, repeating the enquiry as they sank ever deeper below the physical realm. The man felt the Maharishi’s will guide them, pulling them ever downwards. Time slowed, then seemed to cease entirely. And then, at some point, they entered a void where the form itself fell away entirely. There was only consciousness, the bliss of pure awareness. Overjoyed, the man’s essence reached out to greet his master, but there was no one there. He was alone.
The blond girl was dragging the pot-bellied man’s bloodied corpse into the river as he emerged. “What about the others?” she asked the initiate, an eyebrow arched questioningly.
The man shrugged. “Burn them as they sleep in their beds. We leave no witnesses.”
He fired the Lamborghini into life. It sounded more beautiful than any mantra or chant he’d heard in his ninety something years. The tailored suit also was far more pleasing than the rags he’d worn as a religious man.
He was done with all that now. He had finally found someone worthy, rather than the penniless backpackers and students who’d turned up before then. He finally had his new body and the wealth to enjoy a world of pleasures.
His handsome face suddenly grew serious as he glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.
“Who am I?” he whispered.
The girl looked worried. They’d planned this for a long time. The last thing she needed now was for her guru, and perhaps her future lover as well, to lose himself in existential doubt.
Then the face smiled, and he turned to her. “I’ll tell you. I’m rich, and I’m young.” He floored the Lamborghini. The tires squealed as they burnt rubber. “Let’s go.”
The Lamborghini sped away amidst an acrid cloud. Behind, flames still played around the charred wood and human remains where the dormitory had once stood.
James Austin McCormick, an erudite college lecturer hailing from Manchester, England, revels in the art of crafting speculative fiction. His written works ingeniously blend diverse genres, gracing esteemed anthologies with his captivating short stories while leaving an indelible mark through his published novellas and novel.
1 thought on “Who am I?”
That was a fun story my friend! I was thinking about this, and kinda of odd, but I don’t think any other car but the lambo would have worked here as well as it did. Lambo’s just have such a sinister vibe and look to them.