Changing Lanes

Date: 10/21/2025

I realise I’ve become lucid. What now? I think. I mustn’t waste this opportunity. The air is ripe with possibility, thrumming like a pause before thunder. Feeling somewhat macabre, I address the invisible audience — universe, source energy, higher self, whoever’s listening. “Show me what death looks like.” I think I mean ‘after’ death, but before I can correct myself, my body starts convulsing. My heart flutters like a frantic hummingbird. My bones snap and shift like ice cracking on a frozen lake. My teeth loosen and tumble into my mouth like coins in a wishing well. My body aches to be released from itself. I am dying. Giving up the ghost. Wants gone. I panic. “Bad decision,” I plead. But it’s too late. I’m too far gone. “Let’s make a U-turn, shall we?” My heart falters, gasps, slows. My eyes grow heavy. So damn heavy. I glance upwards — three vultures circling the sky, black as ink stains. “This is it,” I whisper. “My time’s up.” A high-pitched ringing fills my skull. I collapse, awaiting whatever comes next. Then — light. I am reborn. No longer human. Nope. I’m a sodding fish. What a letdown. I flap my stubby fins, the smallest creature in this vast blurry ocean. Everything's wrapped in a cellophane haze. Still, I push through the water, gathering momentum— Until I’m swallowed whole. That was short-lived. Darkness. Followed by light. Now I’m a bird, gliding through green canopies, air cool beneath my wings. I feel alive — a freedom so pure it’s almost holy. Until I hear it. “Naughty Amanda,” whispers the wind. “Drop down. Grow a penis.” Before I can protest, I’m standing in an old American house — creaky porch, rocking chair sighing in the breeze. I manifest one. I gaze down. A button mushroom stares back at me. I frown. “Not quite big enough.” By sheer force of ego — or desperation — it lengthens, a Pinocchio’s-nose situation. Better. But just as I’m about to test-drive my new equipment, a herd of hippies bursts into the room, smelling of marijuana and hopeless naivety. I dive into a wardrobe, throbbing member in hand, adrenaline thundering through my veins. Then — The doors fly open. My husband stands there. Arms folded. Disgust rolling off him in waves. I’ve been caught penis-handed. I want the wardrobe to Narnia me out of existence. Palms to face, lucidity crumbles and I am now part of some reality show. Wife Swap, apparently. For the record, I never signed up for this. I’m happily married. My assigned “husband” is nice enough. A bit dull around the edges. I can’t say I’m completely enamoured. He’s the kind of chap who wants his woman in the kitchen, cooking up meat and potatoes with a side of bread basket. I try to engage with him, have light-hearted banter, but I don’t know why I bother. He just grunts at the football, tinny in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Across the street, Selena and Benny are practically mating against their railings. The soundtrack of groans carries on the wind. The horny rascals. I feel hollow. Invisible. A sadness stirs within. I wander down a sun-bleached hill, through brittle shrubs, until I reach a beach that hums with foreign warmth. The sea is a luminescent turquoise — no British sludge here. A small boy sobs by the shore. Latino. No older than six. His mother wades into the waves as though she's in some drug-induced trance. Her eyes are wide, shell shocked. Hair rolls down her back like waves she’s hoping will throw her a lifeline. She’s not lost. She’s gone. I try to reach her, wade through the sea, but she's too far ahead. I watch her disappearing into the horizon’s open mouth. When I turn back, the boy clutches his forehead, pointing to his nose. I tell him maybe it’s just his sinuses. He furrows his brows. It’s like I’m speaking in riddles. Then the waves swallow the scene — his mother, his sobs, even me. I’m back at the depot. The air is thick with caffeine and misery. Jamie-Lee taps my shoulder. “Any chance you’ll swap my Sunday for Friday?” she asks, eyes hopeful. “Oh,” I begin, “truth is, I’ve already made plans.” Her face falls. “But I’ve got a hospital appointment.” Guilt gnaws. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “No can do.” She nods, small and sad. For a moment, she looks breakable, like a paper bird. “Jamie-Lee,” I call after her. She turns. “Can you move your van? I need to get out.” Her face hardens, and she walks away. So I move it myself. Fifty bloody point turns between five red vans. “Fuckety fuck fuck,” I mutter, sweat slicking my neck. Finally — freedom. I pull onto the road, heart still racing. Then, in the rear-view mirror: three vultures. Circling. Patient. Eternal. And suddenly, the whole dream folds in on itself — like pages of a book meeting spine to spine. The fish that swam too far. The bird that fell. The woman who waded into oblivion. The van wedged between five others. Each of them was me, rehearsing the same lesson: how to let go. Maybe death isn’t an ending, but a series of small permissions — a loosening of grip, a surrender of form, a slow unbuttoning of what we thought we were. I glance once more at the vultures. They’re not circling to feast. They’re waiting to guide. And for the first time, I don’t see death as a void, but as a car park finally emptying at the end of a long, chaotic shift. I keep driving. The road stretches ahead like an artery. The sky blushes open, pink and endless. And somewhere between heartbeat and horizon, I understand: I was never dying. I was just changing lanes.