The Dr. Bloomore Experiment
On August 29, 1964, Dr. Alfred Bloomore conducted the definitive experiment in his subterranean laboratory. Success would mean being remembered for the greatest discovery in human history—a paradigm shift that would turn the world upside down and redefine the very essence of life. On that momentous day, Bloomore was flanked by Peter Melrum, his 24-year-old confidant, psychoanalyst, and loyal assistant, and Robert Terpus, a highly skilled engineer of 34 years. They stood ready to launch a project years in the making, a meticulously crafted endeavor where every detail had been scrutinized to ward off the specter of failure. The core objective was to define the “after”; to find what lies beyond the veil. To achieve this, Dr. Bloomore intended to die.
The lab was a sanctuary of cutting-edge technology and advanced machinery, nestled in a perfect, secluded location. Yet, the heart of the operation was a single machine, to be helmed by Robert Terpus. This apparatus featured a sophisticated system, designed by Bloomore himself, to perform the rites of resurrection. Peter bore the harrowing responsibility of ending Alfred’s life and monitoring his bodily states; if he remained in the abyss of death for too long, revival would become an impossibility. The experiment commenced. Alfred swallowed two red pills while Terpus took command, bringing the machine to a hum. Peter tethered cables to the Doctor’s body as he lay upon the gurney, then reached for a vial of obsidian liquid from the adjacent table.
Can you imagine a society stripped of the unknown? To know, with certainty, what awaits after the final breath? It would extinguish the primal fires of curiosity and fear, resolve the ancient blood-feuds of religion, and provide children with the fortitude to face the passing of loved ones—or their own inevitable end. These questions had haunted a young, seventeen-year-old Alfred Bloomore ever since he witnessed his father succumb to incurable cancer. They shared an unbreakable bond; Alfred was the last soul to speak with Christof Bloomore before he crossed over. “I feel a profound terror,” the elder Bloomore had whispered into his son’s ear with his dying breath.
Gloved and precise, Peter uncorked the vial. With a syringe, he drew a small measure of that lethal venom—a toxin born of his and Bloomore’s shared research. In animal trials, the poison had been swift and merciless. The subjects appeared hauntingly normal upon injection; however, at exactly four minutes and thirty-four seconds, desperation would take hold. They would thrash and bolt in a frantic, hopeless race before collapsing into the stillness of death. The protocol was set: inject the venom, wait seven minutes and thirty seconds, and then initiate the resurrection. The pills—of mysterious origin—were meant to “stabilize” the toxin and neutralize the body, preventing a panicked surge of adrenaline. Prepared for the needle, Bloomore offered Peter a sidelong glance. The dose was administered slowly. A long, shuddering sigh from the Doctor marked the beginning of the end.
“A Great chill raced through my marrow, and my heart hammered against my ribs. Panic flared, but it was fleeting. A strange relief followed—a creeping anesthesia. I looked into the eyes of Peter, then Robert. The moment seemed to dissolve into the ether. I rested my head and stared at the ceiling. I felt no pain.”
Bloomore drifted into what appeared to be sleep. Peter was visibly shaken, despite everything proceeding according to the blueprints. Robert waited, poised and anxious, for the command to begin the revival. Minutes stretched; seconds grew gargantuan in the vast silence of the room. Alfred’s eyes began to heavy and close, though his pulse lingered—the seven-minute mark had not yet been reached.
“Roughly three minutes had passed since I invited the lethal venom into my veins. Though I felt the cold touch of fear, there was no regret. This was the work of my life. Suicidal, mad—the words echoed in my mind, yet I knew it was necessary. The world seemed indifferent to the sanctity of life; people wished death upon others, slaughtered the innocent, or threw their own lives away in despair. I always felt that humanity undervalued death by avoiding its gaze, especially when speaking to children. Why shroud their lives in terror and lies? I had to do this. I have lived a rational, lucid life, but I am an old man now. My time is short regardless; I would rather die carving a legacy than waste away in a bed waiting for the inevitable.”
“The world went silent. I opened my eyes to a void. I moved my head, but I could no longer feel my limbs. I thought perhaps I had slipped into shock, yet I remained strangely calm. It was as if my brain were broadcasting commands to a body that no longer held the signal. It was, without doubt, the most alien sensation of my life—but what followed was beyond earthly comparison.”
The eternal silence was broken by Terpus’s voice: “Is he dead?” Peter, after staring intently at the Doctor for several heartbeats, nodded. A sea of doubt flooded the minds of the two witnesses. They knew they had to wait; only the ticking clock would determine if Alfred Bloomore—a man of forty years’ prestige, a father of three, and a devoted husband to Chiara Gamberini—would be glorified in the annals of history or lost to a fool’s errand. It was the highest honor a man could seek, a pivot point for the species. But to see a man so ambitious that he feared death enough to chase it, yet valued life so little that he would gamble it away… “That would be the true tragedy,” Terpus thought. He was terrified that Alfred might die for a truth we were never meant to hold. Peter confirmed it: Bloomore was gone. The countdown began. The corpse was still. Six minutes down.
“I existed in the heart of nothingness. Brief flashes of brilliant white light flickered occasionally. I was adrift, weightless, formless. Time was an obsolete concept. Then, colors and geometries appeared—spectrums I had never seen, impossible to articulate. Colors that do not exist in the waking world, shapes in constant flux. A strange, metallic drone accompanied the vision. Suddenly, I possessed an absolute gnosis; my being was a vessel for infinite information that poured into me without end. And then, I forgot. Every memory of my life vanished. My form merged with the fabric of the cosmos; I was the universe. I glimpsed a human silhouette approaching—or perhaps I was the one approaching it. Instantly, I was yanked back to the void. I didn’t think; there was no ‘I’ to process thought or emotion. I must emphasize that these memories are not chronological, and pieces remain clouded. A colossal, blinding flash of white light consumed my mind, and slowly, the memory of who I was began to coalesce.”
The time was up. Melrum urged Terpus to accelerate the process, but a gear seemed to slip. The Doctor remained unresponsive, even as the machine labored at maximum capacity, cycling through resurrection protocols. Peter lunged from his seat toward Bloomore’s body, gripping his head and shouting into his ear over the roar of the machinery. Seconds ticked by until, to the immense relief of the room, Alfred’s eyes fluttered open. The experiment was concluding; the machine had held, the venom had played its part, and the pills had held the line. The Doctor had returned, ready to recount the Great Beyond.
“No.” That was the first word Alfred murmured upon his return. Amidst the mechanical din, no one heard him. His body began to convulse, and his hollow, haunted gaze sent a jolt of alarm through Peter. Realizing he could not calm him…
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