least one past life.”
That was true.
My GUT is generally benign, but if all the stars align just right, it can be powerfully terrifying, sparking a bonafide past life regression. It’s only happened twice in my life.
The first occurred when I was a kid. My mom had decided to take us boys to visit an old friend in London.
I was just ten-years-old, so I don’t recall where we were exactly.
All I know is this—one minute, I was walking through a perfectly modern British doorway with my mom.
The next—I was rushing into a Victorian bedroom, thrusting a bowl under the chin of a pretty woman just as she vomited bright red blood.
Suddenly, I was thirty-year-old Michael Strickland—London MP—and my sister, Anne, was dying of consumption. A terrified maid hovered nearby, wringing her hands around a handkerchief.
I was fully immersed in the past.
I could smell the metallic blood. I heard Anne’s labored breathing as she lay back, trembling hands clutching her cotton nightgown. Felt the cool wet of the washcloth Michael used to wipe her face. Spoke Michael’s words of love and support.
I had been at her bedside for nearly a week, tending to her, watching her slowly slip away. So much grief and frustration and loss. The heavy weight of silence filled the room. I focused on Anne’s chest, stuttering up and down. Tasted the tears on my upper lip.
I watched, spellbound, as Anne gave one last gasping, rasping breath. Blood bubbled from her mouth. She choked and then lay still.
The agony of that moment . . . I collapsed over her body, weeping . . . ugly, soul-wracking.
I surfaced from the regression into the same room. Only back in the present.
Shocked. Stunned. Sobbing uncontrollably.
I turned to see my mother with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She had experienced everything with me. But from Anne’s point-of-view. Mom had been Anne. Felt the agonizing pain, the terror of drowning alive. The knowledge that she was leaving her beloved brother alone in the world . . .
Branwell, who had seen us pause, said it was just like a blink. A stutter of only milliseconds.
But for me and Mom, it had been much longer. Minutes. Maybe even half an hour.
The experience was traumatic. It had taken months before I could even talk about it without crying. I clung to my mom, worried that she would die like Anne.
The whole episode was a watershed moment for everyone. Our ‘talents’ had never affected anyone but us three boys. But now we knew the GUT had fractured so much it could involve outside people.
I had experienced another past life regression with Branwell in college. That one . . . well, let’s just say I still had nightmares about it.
Fortunately, the regressions implied that most of my past lives had occurred along my mother’s Scottish and English heritage, not my father’s Italian one.
Which was a relief. I probably had experienced few, if any, past lives in Italy. Which meant the chances of walking down a street with Chiara and suddenly watching her die from a knife through the chest were slim.
It’s the little things in life.
But what did this mean for the present situation with Claire?
I looked at Branwell while eating another bite of pecorino , pondering.
“Love might still be key.” He shrugged. “We’ve always assumed that love in this life was the connecting factor. But what if that’s wrong?”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe love in past lives affects it too. So if you loved someone in the past, you can’t see the shadow of that life, which would result in someone looking sputtery.”
“Are you saying I loved Pierce and the Colonel in some past life?” I snorted in disbelief. “Because that seems . . . unlikely.”
“They’re your past lives, dude, not mine. You must have some freaky stuff in there.”
“I don’t know—”
“There are two options here.” Branwell reached for another slice of cheese. “One, your GUT is going haywire. Or, two, our previous
That was true.
My GUT is generally benign, but if all the stars align just right, it can be powerfully terrifying, sparking a bonafide past life regression. It’s only happened twice in my life.
The first occurred when I was a kid. My mom had decided to take us boys to visit an old friend in London.
I was just ten-years-old, so I don’t recall where we were exactly.
All I know is this—one minute, I was walking through a perfectly modern British doorway with my mom.
The next—I was rushing into a Victorian bedroom, thrusting a bowl under the chin of a pretty woman just as she vomited bright red blood.
Suddenly, I was thirty-year-old Michael Strickland—London MP—and my sister, Anne, was dying of consumption. A terrified maid hovered nearby, wringing her hands around a handkerchief.
I was fully immersed in the past.
I could smell the metallic blood. I heard Anne’s labored breathing as she lay back, trembling hands clutching her cotton nightgown. Felt the cool wet of the washcloth Michael used to wipe her face. Spoke Michael’s words of love and support.
I had been at her bedside for nearly a week, tending to her, watching her slowly slip away. So much grief and frustration and loss. The heavy weight of silence filled the room. I focused on Anne’s chest, stuttering up and down. Tasted the tears on my upper lip.
I watched, spellbound, as Anne gave one last gasping, rasping breath. Blood bubbled from her mouth. She choked and then lay still.
The agony of that moment . . . I collapsed over her body, weeping . . . ugly, soul-wracking.
I surfaced from the regression into the same room. Only back in the present.
Shocked. Stunned. Sobbing uncontrollably.
I turned to see my mother with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She had experienced everything with me. But from Anne’s point-of-view. Mom had been Anne. Felt the agonizing pain, the terror of drowning alive. The knowledge that she was leaving her beloved brother alone in the world . . .
Branwell, who had seen us pause, said it was just like a blink. A stutter of only milliseconds.
But for me and Mom, it had been much longer. Minutes. Maybe even half an hour.
The experience was traumatic. It had taken months before I could even talk about it without crying. I clung to my mom, worried that she would die like Anne.
The whole episode was a watershed moment for everyone. Our ‘talents’ had never affected anyone but us three boys. But now we knew the GUT had fractured so much it could involve outside people.
I had experienced another past life regression with Branwell in college. That one . . . well, let’s just say I still had nightmares about it.
Fortunately, the regressions implied that most of my past lives had occurred along my mother’s Scottish and English heritage, not my father’s Italian one.
Which was a relief. I probably had experienced few, if any, past lives in Italy. Which meant the chances of walking down a street with Chiara and suddenly watching her die from a knife through the chest were slim.
It’s the little things in life.
But what did this mean for the present situation with Claire?
I looked at Branwell while eating another bite of pecorino , pondering.
“Love might still be key.” He shrugged. “We’ve always assumed that love in this life was the connecting factor. But what if that’s wrong?”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe love in past lives affects it too. So if you loved someone in the past, you can’t see the shadow of that life, which would result in someone looking sputtery.”
“Are you saying I loved Pierce and the Colonel in some past life?” I snorted in disbelief. “Because that seems . . . unlikely.”
“They’re your past lives, dude, not mine. You must have some freaky stuff in there.”
“I don’t know—”
“There are two options here.” Branwell reached for another slice of cheese. “One, your GUT is going haywire. Or, two, our previous
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