The Search for Amanda

 

This is my story. I am sitting in my living room as I write this. It is quiet but my thoughts are jumping back and forth. You can accept this account as fact or fiction but it doesn’t matter to me. This is the way I’m putting it down because this is the way I have to tell it. I don’t remember much about my life before it happened except that it seems normal now. It was probably something like yours. I didn’t believe just like many of you don’t. Maybe that’s good in a way and maybe it’s not. If nothing happens it’s great but if something bizarre happens—believe me, you just aren’t going to be ready for it.

My advice to you, for what it’s worth, is to not accept the world about you the way it seems. Always leave your mind open to the possibility, however absurd it may seem to you, that there are things we have not yet experienced, things that we cannot yet see, hear or feel, that seem unexplainable and illogical to us humans, yet they do exist.

Some say that we each have a doppelganger--another being, an exact double of ourselves that lives in a world just like ours in another dimension, and each lives a similar but not exact life. Maybe I’m my own doppelganger and the other me still lives and exists the way it was before it happened. If that is so, I wish him a happy and fruitful life, even without having experienced what I have.

As for me, whoever I am and whatever dimension I live in, I cannot go back to the way it was, and I now accept the concept that this is the direction my life was supposed to go, at least in this dimension.

I will begin this account by saying that everything seemed normal to me before. I had a great life and thought I had a great job. Everything seemed normal--until that night. I had gotten home late from my grandmother’s house after I had helped her paint the spare bedroom. I had done most of the paint work. She had done most of the supervising part of the job.

I was pleased with the way the room had turned out. Of course, I guess the supervisor had a lot to do with it, always pointing out spots I had missed and just how to paint the wood trim so the paint saturated the intricate crevices. My breaks consisted of getting something to drink and some chips and then heading for the living room for a few moments to stare at that picture on my grandmother’s wall, as I had many times before.

I always seemed to gravitate there since she had pulled it out of her attic and hung it up a while back. It was that picture of a high school homecoming event in her school’s gymnasium back in the 1950s that fascinated me so much. I was drawn to it like a magnet to a steel door--not because it was a relic of the nostalgic 1950s, but rather because of her…  

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