There are many things I have aspired to be in this life.  Perfect isn’t one of them.

At this particular moment I am lying in a pool of my own blood and !*$# somewhere near London Bridge, seconds from death.  My aspirations have more or less dropped to zero, I would say.  It feels fine.

I’ve been looking for this place, this time, since I can remember.  I have been on my feet, walking lost, in search of it for many years.  Now here I am at last.

There has been a promise made to me that in the instant I cease to struggle, stop panting like a dog in the sun and just let go, that I will become perfect – and, more than death itself, this idea terrifies me!  The peace that I have found by coming to this end – the effort of a long, long journey - is shattered by the over-whelming burden of infinity which awaits.  Yet here I am, beckoned by comfort.  The oblivion I believed in and hoped for will not be mine...  I can actually see the tunnel; I begin to drift along it, losing taxis and street lamps and brick and rain and dirt and shame and guilt and fear piece by piece – I can feel myself becoming perfect.

And I think: “So let’s begin...”

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Author guidance for This story

This is the opening of my novel. I am about half done with it, but wanted to see what other people got from the first few lines to see if they take it in ways I hadn't thought of. It is in first person, and the action takes place in a) The Real World b) The Dream World c) The Third Place The branches suggested reflect this...

updated Nov 27 '08 by DrPinch