“Nothing happened.”

“Well, remember, this is not an exact science. It can take a few, maybe even a dozen sessions before your body and brain learn how to accept hypnotism.”

“But I’ve already been here a number of times. I’m starting to think this is a scam. You’re just trying to get me to pay—“

“I tell you what. I won’t charge you for this session. How’s that? Fair enough?”

Brian stood up. “Yeah, I guess. But, I mean, I would really like to know if it’s real. The past lives thing. I hear people talking about it, and, I don’t know, it’s sort of, I just want to know.”

“I understand. But remember, in spite of what you see on television, not everyone was Cleopatra or Elvis. Most people just lived regular lives, did regular things.”

“I know,” Brian said, grabbing his coat from the rack and opening the door, “that’s what I’m curious about. If it’s true—if hypnotism can really help me look back into my past lives—I would hope for that. To see into the mundane everyday. That seems more interesting to me, more important.”

“True, true. I only wish more people felt the way you do. To see the beauty in the simple things. Until next time.”

Brian walked along the street, the wind picking up, causing the rain to mist his glasses. He forgot his umbrella again. He wiped them clean, only to have the process repeat itself, his vision never quite clear, light distorted through liquid and glass.

At home it was the same Hot Pocket and Budweiser while he flipped between Jeopardy! and ESPN.

A sharp pain hit him, likely indigestion from his chronically terrible diet. He sat up, the pain feeling like it was in his chest. He made a note to get antacids before drifting off in his recliner, the blue lights of the TV bouncing off his glasses, the Hot Pocket and beer unfinished.

The weeks were all the same. Coffee. Toast. Bus. Work. PBJ and Mt Dew. Work. Home. Hot Pocket and Bud. TV. Bed.

Each week he dared to dream that the session would be different, that he’d see into a past life. Each week he threatened Professor Mundrake that he would stop coming. Each week Professor Mundrake told him about how it was never a sure thing, that hypnotism was an art in which both parties had to be fully present and willing, and that past life regression could be amazing and enlightening, or it could be haunting, dim, terrifying.

Each week he came back.

It wasn’t that Brian was unhappy, he just wasn’t happy. There was no tangible thing he could point to that would fix it. If he felt lonely he could get a date. If he was bored he had friends. If he wanted adventure he could afford to travel. Nothing in his life was missing, except for everything. Nothing was real; Nothing mattered. Everything was simply there, like his life was a Wal-Mart of memories and experiences, filled with people and noise and smells, where people wandered in and out but he could never leave.

He had done well in school, but had no desire to go to university. He had done well at university, but had no desire to work. He had landed a good job, but had no desire for a promotion. He loved women, didn’t want to marry. He loved children, theoretically. He didn’t even have a dog.

He just… was.

So, for $75 a session, four sessions a month, he saw Professor Mundrake and tried to gain understanding into his past lives in the hopes that something was there, something that would explain why he never quite fit into his own personhood. Why he always felt he was watching his own life through someone else’s eyes.

Monday again. Time for the next session.

He knew the routine.

“I want you, this time, Brian, I want you to really let go. To really try to understand what’s happening, what the process is. I want you to let go of yourself, to let me guide you. Remember, you cannot relive the past, not really, no matter what the latest charlatans on YouTube might claim. It is not a possibility. All you can do is observe. I feel you, Brian, I feel you resisting, wanting to take control of the process, but you must let me guide you. Believe me, you wouldn’t want it if you could have it: Reliving the past. The past is not mailable, it is permanent. So, you must stop resisting if you want this to work.”

“I know, professor,” Brian said, reclining into the soft leather chair. “I know.”

“Can you imagine? Well, no, I don’t want you to imagine. The idea of reaching that state, to be stuck reliving the past, it is the stuff of nightmares from which I do not know if I could even bring you back. But, no worries, it’s only theoretical and cannot happen. So, shall we?”

Brian relaxed, listening to the soft, soothing voice of the professor as he guided him into semiconsciousness.

Into a state of being and not being.

Asleep but not asleep.

Into…

“Nothing happened.”

“Well, remember, this is not an exact science. It can take a few, maybe even a dozen sessions before your body and brain learn how to accept hypnotism.”

“But I’ve already been here a number of times. I’m starting to think this is a scam. You’re just trying to get me to pay—“

“I tell you what. I won’t charge you for this session. How’s that? Fair enough?”

Brian stood up. “Yeah, I guess. But, I mean, I would really like to know if it’s real. The past lives thing. I hear people talking about it, and, I don’t know, it’s sort of, I just want to know.”

“I understand. But remember, in spite of what you see on television, not everyone was Cleopatra or Elvis. Most people just lived regular lives, did regular things.”

“I know,” Brian said, grabbing his coat from the rack and opening the door, “that’s what I’m curious about. If it’s true—if hypnotism can really help me look back into my past lives—I would hope for that. To see into the mundane everyday. That seems more interesting to me, more important.”

“True, true. I only wish more people felt the way you do. To see the beauty in the simple things. Until next time.”

Brian walked along the street, the wind picking up, causing the rain to mist his glasses. He forgot his umbrella again. He wiped them clean, only to have the process repeat itself, his vision never quite clear, light distorted through liquid and glass.

At home it was the same Hot Pocket and Budweiser while he flipped between Jeopardy! and ESPN.

A sharp pain hit him, likely indigestion from his chronically terrible diet. He sat up, the pain feeling like it was in his chest. He made a note to get antacids before drifting off in his recliner, the blue lights of the TV bouncing off his glasses, the Hot Pocket and beer unfinished.