Traveller
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2013 by Bastion Grammar Jr

Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Alexander Gustav Markle has many regrets in his long life. Maybe, just maybe, he'll find a way to do things the right way this time.

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft   Magic   Time Travel   DoOver   Incest   Brother   Sister   FemaleDom   Light Bond   First   Slow  

February 14, 1984

Darkness. I was one with the darkness. Empty, complete. I was and was not, am and am not. I float upon a gentle pillow of purest, inky black. Sweet, happy darkness. The end of it all.

What I didn't realize is that endings are just beginnings of something else.

I opened my eyes to light. I shouldn't have been able to. I was certain that I had finally reached the end. A hopeful wish. A yearning wish.

The light was blurred and incomplete. Some shadow, some light. I blinked to try to clear my eyes but it didn't work. Something was wrong with my eyes; it was as if they were matted and full of fluid; I could see nothing beyond that shadowy light.

I could hear, though; the monitor sounded higher and louder than I remembered as did the whooshing sound of the oxygen. It was funny and cyclical instead of steady as I remembered. A whoosh, pause, shoooop, pause, whoosh ... over and over and over again. Slow. Steady. Unfamiliar.

I could feel as well, discomfort not pain and coming from my throat of all places, not my chest. It was ... disconcerting. I had lived with that chest pain for weeks if not months and to not have it there, to not have any pain there, was almost blasphemy. I loved that pain; it was my dearest, closest friend. It meant I was finally... finally ... going to be finished with this life. And it had been taken away from me.

They'd saved me. Somehow, they'd managed to save me. Damn them. Damn them all. What right did they have to save a 69-year old man? I was dying ... I was finally, happily dying and they had taken that away from me. Why would they do that? Why couldn't they just let me die in peace??

The tears cleared my eyes but the bright lights were slightly painful. Bright pain or shadowy bliss, it didn't matter to me anymore. God Damn Them.

The world came to me in sharp relief which was at least as unusual as the lack of pain in my chest. I'd always been near-sighted; it was the bane of my existence. One of them, anyway. I'd worn glasses for it all my life so, honestly, it wasn't all that bad. Just another drop in my seemingly limitless bucket of pains and agonies.

Now, though, everything was sharp. Clear. Bright. The room looked different but then, they'd probably moved me after surgery. They'd told me I was on the heart transplant list, but I hadn't believed they'd find me a match. I was morbidly obese, as wide as I was tall and I'd pretty much done my damnedest to kill off my liver over the past 20 years. A million to one shot, the doctor had called the odds of them finding a donor for me. There were many others, younger people, ahead of me on the list.

I almost smiled when he told me. He thought I was afraid of death. He thought I didn't want to die. He didn't understand, if pain was my closest friend, death was barely in second.

They'd managed, though. Somehow. I hated them for it. I wondered; if I ripped out all of the tubes and lines running to my arms and chest, would they take the heart out and give it to someone who truly deserved it?

I tried to lift my arm to start my task ... but I couldn't lift it. The other arm, either. They'd move only a few inches before stopping. I felt a tightness on my wrists holding me down, holding them from getting on with what I wanted them to do. I looked down.

Shock. Fear. Disbelief. What the fuck is happening to me? The arms ... weren't mine. My arms were gnarled, wrinkled, old. Their color was dark and sallow, dotted with liver spots. These arms, the ones answering my calls, as limited as they could, were young and pink and fresh. Young hands. A child's hands, cuffed at the wrist so they could barely move.

"Well, good morning!" My head turned, a young man, maybe 30 was smiling at me as he entered the room. Dark hair, shaggy, a little long for my tastes but clean. Clear blue eyes behind round, tiny glasses, above a slight nose and long face. His smile didn't look real; it looked like one of those fake, plastic smiles everyone keeps around for use when they're not really happy but have to pretend that they are. He looked taller than me but then, who isn't?

"How are you feeling, Buck?" He asked as he pulled out one of those ear, nose throat contraptions. This one looked big and ... old somehow. Not shiny, like the newer models. His hand went to my eyes, holding them open, the light flashing into them. I tried to speak but all that came out was a hoarse noise, almost a grunt. There was something in my throat, something that stopped me from speaking. "Don't speak; we had to intubate you. That is, we had to put a pipe down your throat to help you breathe." I wanted to curse at the man, to tell him I fucking well knew what intubate meant but again, only that croak came out and the pressure in my throat turned into a little burn. "I said don't speak, okay youngster? Now, I can't say but you didn't give us a huge scare." He moved to the side, pushing my head slightly, the pressure of that damned instrument pushing into my ear until it fucking hurt. "Good, ear and eyes are clear. I'll check the other side in a minute." He held his hands in front of my face, his index finger pointing up. "I want you to follow the tip of my finger, okay. Only with your eyes now." He moved his finger back and forth and I followed it, grumbling but waiting, patiently. He ended by touching my finger with his nose and I crossed my eyes like a good fucking puppet. "Excellent. Reactions are normal," he said as he moved around the bed to the other side. Again, the pressure, this time in my other ear. It still fucking hurt. "Clear here, too. I'll have the nurse come in and take your vitals, then we'll see about getting that tube out of you, okay? Hang in there, buck."

Buck? Who the hell was Buck? Was that some kind of slang the youngsters were using nowadays? And I bet he thought he was fucking funny, calling me youngster like that. Youngster. He was one of those, one of those people that thought irony was funny. Well, wait until they got this tube out of me, then we'd see who was fucking funny...

My eyes, though, went back down to my hands. To those pink, young hands and I shuddered. Youngster?

Fade back to black, back to the safety of black.

February 15, 1984

"We can't fucking afford it, Sarah," the man argued, his voice loud and harsh. "We're in hock up to our eyeballs now. The banks come calling just last week."

"I'll get a job," the woman responded, her voice angry but carrying a pleading quality to it. "Mr. Akers down at the store is looking for someone..."

"Mr. Akers is looking for someone to replace Mrs. Akers, damn it," the man swore loudly. "I'll not have no wife a mine working at that place and that's for damn sure."

"Then I'll find somewhere else, Bobby," the woman pleaded. She always called him Bobby when she wanted something. Just like she always called him Robert when she was mad at him. "Please, honey, I just want another baby. We always said four would be just the right number."

"I know what we said, Susan," the man bellowed, his voice rising even higher. "I was there. But we just can't afford it. We ain't got enough to feed the mouths we got! Or should we get rid a one a them? Huh? Christ almighty; ain't been the first time I thought we should send one a them kids away. We're barely making it now, Sue. How about I just go up and chuck Lana out the door, huh? Or Buck? Maybe I should just get rid a him? Huh? I mean, he ain't a girl and I knows how you fawn all over the girls..."

I closed the door quietly. I was tired. Tired of hearing my momma and daddy fighting. Tired of them using me against one another. I'd wanted to talk to them about Chucky Givens beating up on me again; the boy was 3 years older and he just wouldn't go away. They'd been arguing, though. They were always arguing now. Ever since daddy had that tractor fall on his leg and him being laid up for 3 months with a cast and pins last year. Even now, his daddy walked with a limp.

I was heading to take my bath, ready to clean up for school tomorrow when it came to me. Maybe I could help my family; one less mouth to feed, isn't that what daddy was saying? Maybe, if they didn't have one more mouth to feed, they'd stop arguing. Then maybe Lana and Susan, my older and younger sisters, would have a chance at being happy.

I climbed into the tub, thinking only of my family. Grandma Lena and Grandpa Buck would be sad, but this was for the best. Grandpa Sam and Grandma Ann, too. Lena and Susan might even cry for me; that kind of cheered me up, in a weird way. I'd always be in their hearts, right? Isn't that what they said when Hound, my dog, had died last year?

I reached over and turned on Lana's new hair dryer that Grandma Lena had given her for Christmas. I closed my eyes tightly, keeping the faces of the people I loved as clear in my head as I could. Then, when I was sure I had them clearly in my head, I dropped the running hair dryer into the tub and smiled as the black took me.

It was a bad dream ... and yet, it didn't seem all that much like a dream.

My eyes fluttered open. The blurriness I'd started with before was gone but the bright sun shining into the window was painful. I blinked and then squinted. Same white walls, though they seemed brighter than they should. White curtain was different than I remembered, too. The ancient television hanging on a tray on the wall was certainly different; hadn't all of these hospitals gone to flat panel yet? Not to mention it all seemed clearer than it should.

Same too loud beeping, though. I wondered how I managed to fall asleep to that sound. The stuttering whooshing sound was gone and I immediately realized that the tube was out of my throat. It hurt, but a good hurt if that were possible. Still no pain in my chest. Fucking bastards. Ruin a perfectly good death.

"Bucky?!?" A woman screamed from beside me. It wasn't for long, though. Suddenly, I had a woman lying on top of me, sobbing hard, squeezing the life out of me.

Okay, so I'd hoped for a heart attack. This was definitely another, more wonderful, way to go.

I tried to lift my arms to hold her, but I still couldn't. I still felt the same sudden stop as the cuffs on my wrists brought me up short. Wait ... my wrists. I remember before. Last night? Maybe, it was darker then and certainly brighter now. I remembered 'my' hands. Those young hands. Certainly too young for me.

And had she just called me Bucky? Buck? Bucky? What the fuck was going on?? I'd never been called Buck or Bucky before, that I could recall – and I had a fabulous memory. Or I used to have a fabulous memory, before the booze. I walked a second through my memory palace ... it seemed to be intact. I guess 20 years of drinking didn't stack up against 30 or 40 years of practice. Of course, I'd practiced walking my memory palace even through the drinking years. It helped me remember exactly why I was drinking.

The woman pulled up, her hands coming to my face, tears streaming down her cheeks ... and ice flooded my veins. I started to tremble and panic, fear clutching at a heart suddenly accelerated up to the point of an attack again.

The woman was from my dream. The 'mommy' from my dream. Sarah. She was here, lying half upon me, holding my face. The dream mommy was here.

It didn't make sense. None of this fucking made sense. What was going on here? What was happening to me?

"Buck?" the woman called to me.

I was 6 and I was the first one down on Christmas morning. The tree was bright and beautiful; daddy had cut a really pretty one down this year. The lights shimmered on it and I felt so happy. I giggled.

I started for the tree, looking at the pretty, wrapped packages underneath. There'd be lots of winter clothes – maybe even the cowboy boots I asked for, like daddy's! – I was hoping for them 'cause daddy said if Santa brought them for me he'd take me out and teach me how to ride a horse! There'd be at least one big toy, though, and one little toy. Maybe even that Pong game, like Kevin had had last year! I hoped Santa remembered it!

The table, with its little plate and glass brought me up short. The glass was only a third empty! And the plate ... we'd left four cookies there and now there was only one, with a big bite mark in it. I hopped up and down, excited. Santa had come! Santa had come!!

"Merry Christmas, Chance," mommy had smiled as she made it down the stairs.

The name made me sad, though. It was what Katy Hoffer teased me with on the playground last week. She'd been a big meanie, singing "Honey, I'm still free, take the Chance from me!" I hated that song though I really had only heard it a few times before Katy was teasing me with it. My mommy sung it to me sometimes, though the words were different when she sang it, and I really liked it then but Katy Hoffer could ruin anything. I'd decided I didn't want to be called Chance any more. I wanted to be called Buck 'cause Buckland was my middle name like my Grandpa Buck. His name was Buckland, too, and if he could be called Buck, then so can I.

"I hate that name, mommy," I said to my mommy as seriously as I could. "Please don't use it anymore. I'm a big boy now and I need a big boy's name. I want to be called Buck, just like grandpa."

"But your name is Chance, honey," mommy said as she knelt down and gave me a hug. I liked it when mommy gave me a hug. It made me feel so warm and safe. "Why don't you want to be called Chance?"

"Because ... well ... Katy Hoffer was teasing me and now everyone is gonna tease me 'cause that song that you sing," I said, frowning. "I like it when you sing it to me, but Katy Hoffer's a big meanie and she's been teasing me with it."

"Is it really important to you, honey?" my mommy asked me, leaning back so she could see just how serious I was.

"Yes, mommy," I said clearly. "I don't want to be called Chance any more. Call me Buck, okay?"

She laughed at me and held me close. "Whatever you want, my little Bucky, whatever you want..."

"No, Bucky, don't leave me again." The woman was crying, her voice muffled as she buried her face in my shoulder. "Please, Bucky, don't leave me. We didn't meant it. I swear we didn't mean it..."

The dream was overwhelming. So vivid. So real. More like ... a memory? That was impossible. That had never happened to me. My name wasn't Chance or Buckland or Buck or Bucky. I was Alex ... Alexander Gustav Markle. Pong wasn't even thought of when I was 6 back in 1950.

"What..." I tried to speak but it came out a croak. "What ... happening?"

The strange lady pulled off and looked at me in that mother's look that Edith, my Edith, had used on my own children. The one where the mom looks from eye to eye, trying to gauge how sick you are and just clarify to herself that everything was alright. The look sent a shiver up my spine that I just couldn't control. This woman wasn't my mother. Why was she looking at me like that??

"Ah, Mrs. Pestle," a man in a white lab coat smiled as he entered the room. He was different than the doctor from before. I didn't like that smile. It seemed oily and fake somehow. I couldn't take much note of it, though, because all of my attention was on the man coming in just behind the white-coated man. I felt myself shaking, shivering, uncontrollably. The man was from my dream. The daddy from my dream. He couldn't be real. I ... I ... I was hallucinating. That must be it. I was hallucinating because the doctors had given me a heart transplant and had me on drugs to stop my body from rejecting the heart. The drugs were making me hallucinate this whole thing. It had to be it; it was the only logical explanation.

"I'm Dr. Alverton," the man smiled his smarmy smile, shaking the woman's hand. She'd gotten up from me, rushing to the doctor. "I'm a resident in the psych ward."

"Oh, doctor," the woman cried, pulling the doctor into a hug. Even in her grief and my debilitating confusion, I was still able to see how attractive she was. Fierce red hair, cut short to her shoulders but curling around her elfin face. Wide, open green eyes mounted over a slight slip of a nose. Full, ruby lips surrounding a small taciturn mouth that seemed almost too small for her tiny face. She was short, even shorter than I – than Alex – was or had been. She was even shorter than Edith. She filled her clothes out more than Edith did as well. Firm, round upper half narrowing to a thin waist before bubbling out to a firm round lower half. "Thank you. Dear God, thank you. Thank you for bringing our Bucky back to us. I can't ... I can't..." It was as far as the woman could go before she broke down, crying.

I had to say, this was a pretty damn good hallucination. The walls weren't bleeding, the people weren't changing into monsters. Whatever they had me on, I definitely wanted more of it. Although, I could really use a popcorn, too. Maybe a cold drink as well. This was better than some movies I'd seen.

"When can we take him home, doc?" the 'dad' asked. I think his name was Robert. I had a thing for names. Helped with the horse races. Of course, I had a great memory, too. I paused for a moment, thinking back to the first dream. Yep. Definitely a Robert. He looked like more of a Paul, though. Long and lean, he looked like an archetypical cowboy, with a long flannel shirt, bright silver buckle and well worn jeans. I couldn't see down far enough to see if he had boots on, but I bet he did. I almost heard the jangle of spurs as he walked in the room. His face was leathery and dark, like he rode on the plains a lot. His blue eyes were squinted, creases at the corners of his eyes. Long, strong nose and a lantern jaw, centered in a mass of long, dirty blonde hair that was parted in the middle and drifted down on either side of that face.

"I'm afraid it's not as easy as that," the doctor said, glancing over at me then lowering his voice. He didn't do a very good job. I could still hear him. "The boy tried to commit suicide. In cases like this, the county insists on having him admitted for counseling and evaluation. At least four weeks. I'm just here to look him over and see if he's ready to be transferred."

"But ... but ... he just came out of the coma..." the woman stuttered. Suddenly, I realized I liked her. She was just too nice not to like; she was an awesome actress and she had this part down. The worried looks, the tears – real, not faked. I'd heard it was hard for actresses to cry on demand like this. Whoever this Chance or Buck kid was, I hoped he realized how great a mom he had.

I still craved popcorn ... and that cold coke.

"Only for three days and there's nothing wrong with him, physically," the doctor said, still keeping his voice down. "There were a few doctors checking him out yesterday afternoon and they tell me his EEG and EKG are fine. There's no apparent trauma to the heart and his lungs and body appears normal. The only sign of any trauma at all is that burn mark on the upper left pectoral and even that is healing normally. In cases like this, it's very important we get help for him as quickly as possible so that we can get him to understand and overcome the depression and pain that caused him to attempt in the first place."

Now THAT stopped me cold. I had a burn mark on my upper left pec. I was struck by lightning during a storm while I was playing in the rain in my backyard back in ... what ... I was about 7, I think so... '51 maybe??

I looked down at my chest but of course I had on a gown. I tried to bring my hands up to pull the gown down but, of course, I couldn't. I moved my shoulder, trying to make the gown fall that way but still no luck. A little pain, though, high on my shoulder. Not bad, but a little.

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?????????

I missed the conversation while I was wondering about the burn marks that this Chance kid and I shared. What were the odds? The doctor was shaking hands with Sarah and Robert. I'd missed what they'd agreed to while I worried about that little fucking mark...

I noticed my breathing was shallow and erratic. I was scared. Terrified, even. This wasn't so funny anymore. The acting here had just gotten very real and very ... unreal. Impossible. I was panicking and ... and it didn't hurt. My chest didn't hurt. My throat hurt a little but ... it was dry and ... and I started to doubt myself. I started to wonder. Was I ... was I Chance? Was I Buck? Who ... how ... who the fuck ... who was I? Those dreams ... were they real? Or ... or was I ... was this ... was this some kind of dream? Was I the dream?

I welcomed the darkness yet again.

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