Random Stories and Missing Plots

I Can't Imagine

*Author's note: This is a continuation of the previous chapter (Just Imagine It); however, none of the previous characters are in this story.*

I tightly clutched my scratchy blue jacket around my shoulders.

Of course Caitlyn had to share with everyone that I was creative. A thinker. An "Imaginist." Everyone saw me. They all looked to see. Wow, who was this bold, outspoken creator, who was so brave to stand up to the Thieves?

Not me, that's for sure. I'm not brave. And since she told everyone that I can think, I'm a target.

They only gave us two rules to protect ourselves. Don't tell anyone that you can create, and don't walk alone, especially at night.

After Imagination was created, everything got better. Depression rates decreased, suicide rates decreased. People just became happier.

But then, that stopped working. Bad people, people who didn't need help, starting stealing the medication. Got it from people who threw it out, stole samples from volunteers, even faked disorders just to get it. When the authorities started cracking down, they needed a new way to get their drugs.

They decided that the best way to do that was to get it directly from the source.

People started showing up at weird places, saying they had been attacked. However, they couldn't describe their attackers. They couldn't picture their faces. Nor the faces of their family and closest friends. They didn't forget them, just couldn't tell you what they looked like.

This is when Imagination went illegal. That was about three months ago. I managed to lay low since then, but now, thanks to Caitlyn, I was in serious trouble.

And, thanks to my ignorant teachers, I was now walking home. Alone. At night.

I shivered, glancing around. A streetlight shone ominously on the sidewalk. I strolled under it slowly, taking in the surrounding street. Most of the shops were already closed up; I didn't realize how late it really was. The time on my phone blinked happily up at me: 9:03. I stared at it in disgust. What kind of teacher keeps their student for 3 extra hours after school? I kept walking, head down, jacket tight.

It was cold out tonight.

I had just passed under another streetlight when I heard something big rustling to my left. I whipped around, turning on the flashlight on my phone. It glared into the face of a man, hunched over and looking through the garbage. He was well dressed, almost in what you could call a suit and tie, but not quite as classy. He raised his hand above his face to block the beam of light.

"Oh, thank goodness." His voice was sweet, gentle. A bit like the one you would hear on a teacher telling you that you were wrong, and here's why. "Could you help me out? I dropped my phone, and I can't find it."

"Why are you out this late?" I started boldly. I was not going to be tricked like a fool.

He responded calmly, in his little honey-dear voice. "They had me late at the office working on a project for tomorrow."

"What kind of project?"

"Just a proposal. A new advertisement idea."

We stood awkwardly in the darkness, my light still directly on his face.

He rocked back and forth on his feet. "So."

"So what?" I snapped back at him.

He raised his other hand in defense. "Hey, hey, relax. So, are you going to help me find my phone?"

I stood, thinking it over.

"No," I said finally. "I have to leave, it's not safe out here. You should probably go too, though, and get your phone in the morning." I turned to leave.