Project Nebula

To Not Consider

Void. Inhaling the dust particles of shredded copy paper. The dripping of a coffee machine, brewing. The conference table was polished, and the chair was cushioned. There was no color. Instead, just a distorted, black and white prison. The door had a giant, metal lock chained around the handle. I reached to scratch my leg, but all I could touch was the chair seat. The shadow figure was staring directly at from the door.

"Where am I?" My voice turned to a cloud of mist that echoed throughout the room.

The figure came sharpened the more steps it took towards me. They leaned against the table. He spoke to me through his vibrant, crystal eyes, and keeping his thick, deep hair out his face with his hand.

"It's your turn, Castor," his rich voice didn't echo like mine, "You can be me."

"I look nothing like you, Peirson," I said, "I shouldn't be here."

"You're here for me. . . You can't stay away from me."

With the wave of his hand, he produced a transparent glass of water on the table. He stood behind my chair, creating a cold atmosphere around me. Since I couldn't see him, I figured he wasn't even there. Just a voice responding to me. I picked up the glass. It was only black coffee. The refreshing scent put a smile on my face.

He leaned in closer to the back of my head, and towered over me. I shuddered. The scent of the coffee grew more prominent. I felt warmth spread throughout. I observed every corner of the room. Color came back.

Car engines sounded off around me. Then I felt the seat of Chance's car. Blinding sunlight poured through the driver's window. Chance sat up in the passenger's seat with a greasy, brown paper bag. The cupholders held two foam coffee cups. A wet napkin was placed on my left eye, which got warmer every second.

"Hey, Castor, I got you something to eat," Chance said, nearly robotic and tired. He took a wrapped breakfast sandwich out the paper bag and lazily tossed it into my lap. My pants were swapped for black, loose-fitting jeans and a lemon yellow sweater. I slipped my hand underneath my shirt. I felt nothing. As if my hand wasn't even touching my own skin. No recollection. I just accepted it. Like it always there. Chance turned to with while eating his sandwich.

"How's your eye?" he asked, "How are the clothes?"

"I don't remember this. . . When did I change?"

"We have a half hour till school starts; I'm driving."

Still broken and fatigued, I got out the car to switch seats with Chance. In a matter of seconds, we took off in the disjointed traffic. I felt like I was in a whole other universe, or like the past two days happened in a few hours.

We arrived at school to be met with a full parking lot. People I'll never remember the faces of sitting on the hoods of their cars and kissing their partners and making out in handicap parking spaces. Every phone, in my eyes, was another excuse to talk about trivial gossip. Some off it flooding my brain of dread. I stuffed the wet napkin he put on my eye in my pocket. I stepped out the car and looked down at the concrete as my mad emy way for the front doors to the lobby. It's been a while since I've seen the black staircase or the giant doors to random rooms I've never been to. I sped across the rotunda to get to the teacher's lounge entrance, but a smooth, low-pitch voice called my name. Or Peirson's name.

Behind me was a tall, slender, tan woman in a black suit and tie. Vice principal, Colver. She held out a thick piece of paper and a black ribbon attached to it. Every word scribed in some calligraphy. At the bottom of the page was a signature: Peirson Ralston.