Extra Chapter: Soul Adrift
“Doctor, I suspect I have dissociative identity disorder.”
The clinic’s walls were stark white, illuminated by an even paler light descending from the ceiling, casting a cold glow upon the patient’s pale face as he recounted his symptoms.
The doctor, clad in a white coat, bent over the medical record, the soft scratch of his pen against the paper the only sound.
The patient said, “Since January 1st, I’ve experienced four episodes where I felt my soul had left my body. The duration varies, and there’s no warning beforehand.”
“And then?” the doctor inquired.
The young man sitting in the chair was in his early twenties, his features faint and lips colorless, as if ink washed away by a damp cloth.
He continued, “During the most recent episode, I was at home and went to look in the mirror. I saw a completely unfamiliar face staring back at me, wearing a red suit and trousers—clothing I’ve never seen before.”
“That is ‘soul weightlessness,’” the doctor said. “Currently, there is no cure.”
The young man pulled out his phone and searched for the term. After a moment, he looked up. “This seems to be the title of a poem, a euphemism for dissociative identity disorder?”
“It’s the clinical term, a newly identified illness,” the doctor replied, lowering his gaze to the chart again. “When your soul finally leaves the body and cannot return, your physical form will die.”
The young man smiled faintly. “I came to see you six years ago. I remember you told me then, with absolute certainty, that souls do not exist.”
The doctor’s head drooped drowsily, as if slipping into sleep. “Judging by your symptoms now, you have about three years left—unless…”
“Doctor?”
“Unless there is a God.”
...
After leaving the hospital, Zeiss called Jin Yusheng to relay the diagnosis.
Jin Yusheng expressed disbelief over the phone. “Soul weightlessness? Nonsense! I’ve never heard of such a disease in my life. Don’t let them scam you for hospital fees.”
Zeiss walked close to the edge of the long street, shadows from storefronts cloaking his dark, obscure expression, making him seem like a dangerous creature lurking among the crowd.
He looked toward the pointed steeple of the church in the distance and said, “I went to six hospitals and consulted twenty-three doctors. They all agreed on this diagnosis—and none think I can be saved.”
Jin Yusheng was silent for a moment, then cautiously asked, “Have you ever heard of...?”
...
Zeiss didn’t catch it. “What?”
The call was abruptly cut off, replaced by a busy signal interspersed with unsettling static.
From afar, the church bell tolled suddenly, carrying chants of scripture:
“Fear not death.”
“You shall be saved.”
“The body remains in the world.”
“The soul comes before God.”
...
Is there a God in this world? Zeiss did not know.
He believed in no religion. His devout parents died in a car accident when he was sixteen—shattered completely, blood everywhere.
When he arrived at the scene, he felt no grief. The sharp tang of fresh blood filled his lungs, and he nearly laughed.
He had committed many acts over the past six years that defied mainstream values—yet no retribution came.
It proved to him that hell and the underworld were mere myths.
So, what about death?
Zeiss was not afraid to die, but he despised the idea of a dull death from illness.
Waiting for a known end with a set time was dreadful, like a condemned prisoner’s last hours before execution.
If possible, Zeiss wished to die violently—murder, an explosion—and then have a skilled apprentice prepare his body into a specimen, or send it to Bob’s pig farm.
...
In the field of specimen preparation, there was a certain romance:
Separating flesh and bones into two piles—one stuffed solid to make an anatomical specimen, the other cleaned and nailed to form a bone specimen. Standing the two specimens face to face could create the effect of one confronting oneself.
...
Yet achieving such craftsmanship was no easy feat. Artisans often sacrificed the integrity of one part to preserve the other.
Zeiss had attempted this himself. His talent was remarkable, but it took three failed bodies before success.
Still, how could he apply this painstakingly acquired skill to himself?
With regret, Zeiss browsed the industry’s internal forums, only to find that most practitioners were either clumsy or aesthetically lacking.
He could only trust himself—but preserving himself as a specimen was far harder than training a novice to become a master.
Not long ago, he experimented with his soul form but found he could not touch objects, let alone manipulate a scalpel with precision.
Once dead, he would be helpless, drifting above to watch strangers or acquaintances hurry past his lifeless form.
Without family, he would likely receive neither proper nor dignified treatment; they would handle him carelessly, leaving his garment’s wrinkles unstraightened, tossed thoughtlessly into the crematorium.
The thought of crumpled clothes struck a sudden terror in him. To watch one’s body be handled carelessly by others was utterly revolting.
Perhaps—he thought—he should leave nothing behind for others, or only a pile of unrecognizable remains.
His thoughts scattered, logic failing to yield a feasible path. A clear conclusion remained obscured in a dense fog of confusion.
Once again, this non-living being felt troubled.
That night, Zeiss climbed to the rooftop and gazed downward.
A sea of dazzling lights stretched endlessly, layers upon layers reaching the horizon like a grand fireworks display, igniting the ten-mile street in eternal blaze.
He stood for a long time, hesitating longer than he ever had.
Long enough for his body to collapse once more, instinctively falling backward onto the cold, hard ground rather than forward over the railing.
He watched his soul rise slowly, drifting into the sky like a faint wisp of smoke.
For a fleeting moment, he saw ghosts everywhere—but none were familiar.