The Reset

The first breath after the RESET is always painful. I’ve never understood why, and I’ve been doing this for — well, I’m not even sure anymore. Decades. Lifetimes. Eons. At this point, it could be millennia, I imagine.

Either way, that first breath hurts like fire in the bone marrow, the second only slightly more bearable.

I stared down at the innocuous black moleskin notebook, sitting innocently atop the piles of files and paperwork, shoved and stuffed into the grey plastic tote that only partially stored the remnants of Uncle Grayson’s life. I took a moment to breathe through the pain of being RESET.

Of Being Back.

I knew what I would find in those lined pages, unlike the first time I opened it so, so long ago. Back then (now, and yet distant), I’d felt mild irritation at being saddled with the effects of an eccentric old man that no one knew well, let alone how he was my Uncle of all things.

Nobody could place him, not one other family member I contacted. Granted, we weren’t a super close family anyway, but the only answer I consistently got was, “Oh, him? I think he had a book made into a movie but I know he had a house in New England — some old monster of a house but he didn’t have kids.” No idea how he was related to us. No idea how he even knew my name or why he’d left me everything after his death.

The funeral was… sad. Lonely. Exceptionally quiet. I’d come back to the (indeed, 'monster of a') house in a well-to-do suburb of Boston with the executor of Uncle Grayson’s will. A quiet, polite man with little round glasses, he’d read the will to the only person to listen, me. The reclusive old man had left everything to me - what money he had left, the vehicle, the house, and all of his possessions.

The lawyer had left me in the living room, which was cramped and tightly boxed in with totes of papers, files, books (so many books) antiques, and old, well-worn furniture. No pictures, nothing really to identify the man and his personal or family history.

I had suddenly acquired his whole life and had no idea what to do with it what was left.

So when I began opening boxes and digging through them, I didn’t really have a goal in mind, an outcome. I just was curious about this man and what he’d left me.

I remember picking up the notebook, fanning the pages. At the top of each page were 6 numbers, a dash followed by a number and a letter (usually the letter B or M), which was then followed by a series of 3 to 8 indecipherable symbols (at least then), and finally, a listing of future dates under the bold chicken scratched word of RESET. 240 pages filled, front and back, with the same outline - just different numbers, symbols, and future dates under each page's RESET heading.

The first page I saw had the numbers 4, 26, 42, 50, 60, and 24 next to 1B. The symbols were 3 crosses, a broken heart, and two dollar signs with a line drawn through them both. The dates under the bold RESET heading had all been months, years, sometimes decades into the future. I’d scoffed then, laughing off the weirdness of it all before sticking the notebook into my blazer pocket.

Later, or not so later depending on when I looked back on it, I’d learn to not laugh at what rested in my pocket.

I’d gone into the farmhouse-style kitchen and found bare cupboards and an empty frigidaire. The liquor cabinet had also been distressingly empty. In a fit of indignation, I nabbed the keys to the vehicle that had been left in the will to me off of the counter and drove into town.

I took no notice then, but the neighborhood was rather nice; covered in snow and ice, some yards filled with snowmen and snowwomen, brightly colored scarves tied around their necks. It was only after my 18th RESET that I took the time to look. That had been a terrible RESET.

But that first time, my mind was only on two things. Food and alcohol. I only had about 30 dollars on me, so I swung by the first Bodega I saw, ordered a sandwich with a bag of chips. While I was waiting for my sandwich (toasted cheese is amazing, don’t argue with me), I glanced up at the neon sign announcing the Lotto jackpot prize amount - 1 Billion Dollars.

I remember blinking in surprise at the number, before slowly pulling out the notebook from my pocket and reaching for the lotto number sheet to enter my numbers. With only a moment of hesitation, I penciled in my choices. 4, 26, 42, 50, 60 and 24.

My choices made (I can still feel that absurd “What are you thinking, you moron?” gut flutter, no matter how many times I chose) I paid for my lotto tickets, my food, and a truly terrible bottle of wine.

The drive home was quiet, my ticket tucked into the pages of the notebook along with its receipt safely in my blazer pocket. I tried to ignore it, put it out of my mind but that notebook with its numbers and dates was mildly freaking me out.

So, I returned to the monstrous house left to me by some unknown wealthy relative, ate my (admittedly, really good) food, and drank my (truly) terrible wine. As in, the whole bottle.

In the Great Retrospect of my lifetimes, probably not my best decision.

The next morning dawned far too early (if a hungover waking at 11 am could be considered dawn), and I scrolled through my smartphone for the news as I ate a handful of chips and glared at the empty bottle of wine.

I was too old for that kind of behavior then, and now with so many RESETs, I definitely was too old for how many times I had to repeat it.

The headlines were screaming about how the winner of the second largest Lottery amount had bought their ticket at a random bodega just inside of town. The winning numbers chosen were brilliantly illuminated at me.

4. 26. 42. 50. 60. 24.

I stared at those numbers far longer than I should have, before signing the back of my ticket in a rush with a brilliant smile, running out the door as I searched for what I needed to do to claim my winnings.

That was 239 pages ago. I had no idea what had happened, how it all worked. All I knew was that I had just won 1 Billion Dollars and my little book had everything to do with it. Looking back now, I really should have paid more attention.

Over the course of 31 years after winning that jackpot amount, I lost 3 children to death, my spouse to divorce, and I lost everything. Twice. On my last leg, with only my notebook, my clothes, and 2 dollars on me, with the last date under the RESET heading not yet passed (in fact that very day) I played those damned numbers that got me into this mess again.

Went to sleep under an overpass.

And opened my eyes to stare down at the open tote stuffed with papers, files and topped with an innocent (painfully familiar) black moleskin notebook with fire singing in my bones.

The entire lifetime I’d lived only a breath before opening my eyes was wiped clean. It had never happened. The pain and memories that I’d experienced were still there in my mind, but it was as if I had imagined it. Dreamed it up.

Frantic, that second time I was far more careless in grabbing that notebook. It opened to a random page in the book with the numbers 1, 13, 32, 50, 68, and 24 next to 280M followed by 2 tear-drops, 1 cross, 4 broken hearts, and a strange bursting explosion type symbol.

I thought nothing of it, instead flipping to that first page. But it was blank. Erased. Empty. No numbers. No RESET dates. No symbols. I was breathless with relief, confusion, and a little bit of fear.

That night, I found myself in that inherited car, parked in front of that random Bodega with 30 dollars and the notebook in my blazer pocket. I mindlessly went through the motions of getting my sandwich, chips, the terrible wine - and found myself in possession of lottery tickets with the numbers 1, 13, 32, 50, 68, and 24 chosen for the 280 Million Dollar Jackpot drawing that night.

The next morning proceeded in a distressingly familiar way - hungover, slightly stale chips and winning the lottery. I took what I learned from the first go around and applied it - but 15 years later I found myself miserable, angry, and drunkenly rechoosing the numbers on the most convenient date and being RESET.

Fire in the bones; glass in the lungs; same crowded living room; same tote, same papers, and files; same notebook. Blank pages of the numbers of already used and a fresh set of numbers burned into my brain.

The rules, in the end, had been simple though it took me a few dozen RESETs to realize and really understand them. The notebook gave the winning numbers to that night’s lottery, the amount and the symbols represented what I would experience in that lifetime. I had to play the numbers on the first page I saw when I opened the notebook. The dates below the RESET heading were the dates I could replay those winning numbers and be sent back. Once I was sent back, those numbers were erased from the book and that lifetime would be gone - except for my memories.

There was no choice though - I had to open the book. I had to play the lottery. I still don’t understand how, but whenever I RESET, no matter how hard I fought it, I would find myself in that bodega, buying tickets with the next new numbers. I could change the food I’d buy, the drink I chose, but I could never NOT buy a ticket to that nights drawing, with new numbers from my notebook.

Using the symbols to anticipate what I would experience did me little to no good. It never changed a thing, the knowing. It made it worse, sometimes.

Some of the page lifetimes were bland - no death of loved ones, but no living, thriving, and loving either. Some pages' lifetimes were filled with grief and betrayal, others had love and laughter but ended in tears and loss. All of the ones I’d used, though, I felt that there had to be something I was missing. Some key piece or decision that I didn’t do that left me feeling so…

Blank. Empty. Unfulfilled lifetimes stretched behind me like an eternity of echoes and I could find nothing in them that made me regret the RESET.

No matter the amount of money I won - I hadn’t been happy. Oh, there were moments I was happy, but there was always a sense of doom looming in my heart and making my chest ache. I had always felt as if there was more I was missing, something that was lacking.

So, finally, at last, I’ve arrived at this moment. This last time. last page. Last numbers. I’ve caught my breath, and the texture of the notebook cover is as familiar as my own skin in my hand.

Fanning the pages, I see what I already knew - only one more set of numbers. No RESET dates. This is my last life.

15. 22. 37. 55. 60. 2. 20T - the lowest amount of the entire book. And only two symbols next to it - a sun, a smiley face.

I grab the keys.