CHAPTER 5 – Three Wooden Crosses

Lying in the dark, listening to the oxygen meter, Lana Zacanissian decided that she had a decision to make.

This was because, for all intents and purposes, she was no longer Lana Zacanissian.

It was the classic Mind and Body dilemma, only in her case, her circumstances were a little too literal.

At Wharton, U Penn, one of the most popular “clout-building” courses had been PHIL 2851. Naturally, Lana took it. In it, she had to debate Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am,” against the merits of Physicalism. Her conclusion, after many days of assigned team debates, was that the prettiest girls in college received the fewest rebuttals from the arts nerds.

Lana was not one of the “pretty ones”, at least not before she made her golden millions, and had to actually rationalise the existential quandary of Qualia—the Elmer’s glue holding together the physicality of Euphemia’s continued existence.

Presently, her dilemma was this: Euphemia was a philosophical zombie. She was Eppie Fontaine down to the final atom of her mismanaged split ends—but there was no one home. The Eppie that leapt off the fourth story of the main building at LAPA had gone to a better place that night, and after a short vacancy, eminent domain was exercised by the [System].

And now, she was faced with an inevitable quandary.

In this world, there was no Lana Zacanissian, or at least, she hoped not.

To the world at large, the world of new experiences, sensations and memories, she isn’t Lana.

The memories she created henceforth were the memories of Euphemia Fontaine.

The friends she makes will be Euphemia Fontaine’s friends.

The songs she sings, the art she transmigrates, will be by Euphemia Fontaine.

The words of praise heaped upon her will be for Euphemia Fontaine.

And as the years went by, assuming she survived and her [Causality] was as abundant as UAE oil, the ratio of Lana to Euphemia would change daily, until one day, she would be more Eppie than Lana.

For two hours, she listened to the sounds of the hospital, the beeping of oxygen meters, the nurses chatting, the faint hum of the machines, the footfalls in the ward, which the cheap fibro ceiling could not block.

In between her indecision, midnight came and went.

“Let there be light,” Lana said to the darkness.

She read the name tag on top of her [Potential] over and over again.

Lana was Gaelic, meaning little stone. Knowing her parents, they probably just liked the sound of it. They were suburban folk, quiet and unassuming, never imagining that their daughter would pay off their mortgage before she was 25. The last name was more distinct. The Z, for example, made her last in every role call. It was a topographical name, meaning the “son of Zacaniss,” originating from Eastern Armenia. Her family was, however, as American as apple pie. Her mother was a therapist, and her father was a teacher at a private college; they had every trapping of American life, including credit card debt, 401Ks and Annual Passes to Disney California.

Not that it mattered now.

Memory was collective. Without conversation, exchange and recollection, the name of Lana Zacanissian shall melt into air, into thin air.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with sleep.

It was only now that she understood Mrs Watson’s reason for electing The Tempest for her AP Lit reading.

If she has to move forward as Eppie, then Lana Zacanissian must be freed.

“I am Eppie Fontaine.” The consciousness formerly known as Lana said to herself.

“From this moment, let there only be [Euphemia Fontaine].”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Dr Jane Hughes didn’t know whether she should be proud or sad because it was so rare for an injured patient to come into the studio to restore motor reflex, only to leave with greater function.

As the principal PT for their young local celebrity, she wrote SOAP notes that read like an urban fantasy involving lesbian vampires.

A week ago, Eppie arrived in a wheelchair and focused on warm-up exercises, ultrasound tissue massage, and low-intensity reps that toned knotted muscles.

Now, her protege was perfectly flexible, falling short only when compared to perfectly healthy junior athletes. On the treadmill, Eppie was running at full-sprint intervals before she broke a sweat, reaching five minutes before she fought for breath.