Go look at the A/N at the bottom to vote on a survey thingy
JORGEN
Or what?
My throat was burning.
Or what?
Why did I say that?
Or what?
The bricks were wet against the sides of the alley, mossy, slick to the touch from algae.
Or what?
There was a small stash of needles under the fire escape of the complex to my left.
Or what?
Kazian Phillips was still a mute, still had long hair, and didn't even have his first binder.
Or what?
Zak Hampton's nose was bleeding.
Or what?
I was eighteen, standing on two feet.
Or what?
There were sirens in the distance.
Or what?
I can't even remember his face.
Or what?
The barrel of the gun, however, is crystal clear.
Or what? Or what? Or what? Or what? Or what?
***
I jolt awake, sweat running down the crease of my hip, goosebumps roaring through my body, pricking against the sock over my thigh. My arms and shoulders are quivering and feel like jam for toast when I lift them to wipe the sweat off my face.
I hate being back in Chicago.
And I hate that I never remember the dream after I wake up. I have no recollection of that night, nor the days following, and I know it's in there somewhere, blocked out. I've yet to grasp it, yet to pick it apart like I so badly want to. Yet to take what I know and line it up with what my memory provides.
Memories change every time you recall them, as you store only the last recollection, a systemic deterioration. I've yet to consciously remember the night so what I have is as infallible as a memory can be.
And still I can't scrape it out of myself. Not for the police, for my friends, anyone at the hospital, not even my team nor my closest friends.
It's not there.
My memory goes black the night before March 29th, then picks up again April 6th. One day conscious, six days unconscious. Then it fills back in again.
I roll over, one foot on the floor, and pick up my phone off the charger, opening a text.
JORGEN: dream
That's all he needs to know, he knows the condition I wake up in, he knows I don't remember it, he knows it's about that night. He knows all that I do.
He writes it down, keeps track of it, keeps tabs on all parts of me so that he can catch it if I start to slip.
He's been warning me for weeks, keeping a closer watch on me, keeping everything around me stricter. I know why but I don't want to admit it to myself.
RON: this time any different?
It startles me that he's awake at four in the morning to receive texts, much less respond to them.
JORGEN: not different, just worse when I woke up
RON: are we blaming being back in Chicago or are we blaming something else?
JORGEN: not sure
I leave it, standing up on my leg, bending over to pick up the crutches off the floor. I'm just going to get water and putting on my prosthetic would take too much time and effort.
Antipsychotics.
He's considering putting me on antipsychotics. I don't need antipsychotics. I'm not bipolar or schizophrenic. I'm just off. All the time. I haven't been right since 16. Something happened one day and it knocked a screw loose. A rather important one, considering the state of affairs.
Then there it is again, subconsciously. The need to peel my skin from my bones, the shivery quivering feeling of hating every single tiny atom that makes up my body. The shakes, the need to change something, fix something, hurt something.
I set my forearms down on the cold kitchen counter of my childhood home, pressing my head to the granite.
"Jorgen?" My mom peeks into the kitchen, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, "I thought I heard you come down here."
"You did," I mumble, forehead still pressed to the cool stone.
"Why? Are you alright? You seem sweaty."
"Just a nightmare," I pick up my head, stretching upward. Six foot five and my back is not forgiving an inch of it. "You can go back to bed, I'm alright."
She shakes her head, approaching me, one hand reaching out to rub across my back, "do you need anything?"
"No, m'alright."
"Are you sure? Have you told Ron about this one?"
I nod, "already did."
"Has he said anything?"
I lie, "no, it's the middle of the night, he's not on duty with me all the time."
"Was this one any different?"
"No," I respond, Mom knows everything that happens with the dreams as well, that's as far as I'm willing to share, Ron, my parents, Nico Callahagn. "Just the same."
The same everything, the same jolt in my stomach, the same severed nerves screaming in my leg, the same punched feeling, the same wake up. All of it. Just a different bedroom in a different city.
"Are you up for the day or are you going back to bed?"
I sigh, looking out the kitchen window onto the street. The sun won't rise for another hour but I doubt there's any way I'll be able to stay asleep if I go back upstairs, "I'm up."
"Do you need anything to do?" Her hand is still on my back.
I shake my head, "no, I'll just see if the boys are up. I've yet to drop by."
She lets me go, taking her blanket back to bed with one last look over her shoulder. I know she's worried about me but I really don't know what I can do to help ease that.
I shower off the sweat and the shakes, find as lightweight of a long sleeve shirt as possible, considering it's mid-May in Chicago and I don't exactly run cold.
I love my family, sure, yeah, but I don't like being home. I know they have jobs in the summer and mine slacks so it makes sense for me to be here instead of them being with me but if I had the choice, I'd never touch the air in this city ever again. I used to love it here, it was my city, I knew it front to back which is hard to do because cities are constantly changing environments, one day they're one thing and the next they're entirely different, city life requires adaptability, freedom at heart.
When I worked closely with the city I saw all of it. I saw the 'good' kind of people and the 'bad' kind of people and I treated them all the same, the good kind of people laid on the same stretchers as the bad kind. The good kind received the same aid.
I saw the whole city, the penthouses and the dirty back alleys, under the bridges and in the court houses. Emergency Medical Services.
The Barn, the one where most of my friends still live, is a beat up brownstone. It's got a window boarded up and the houses around it are either empty or sparsely inhabited, but this one is full and lively.
Nobody's really sure who bought it, Zuchs, maybe, but he's been in jail for four years so honestly I can't even ask.
I park my Mom's car down the alley next to it, making sure not to block anyone else's car. I don't want to have to go back outside and move it when someone needs to leave this morning.
The front door is locked and padlocked but that's not how people get in. The front door is for visitors.
I head up the stairs to the side door, slipping the metal card I keep in my wallet behind the lock, pulling it. I jostle the door to keep it from falling back into the hole. I put the card in my teeth and then push up on the deadbolt, pulling back on the door. It's finicky if you don't have a key but I've been out of here long enough to know that my key doesn't work.
I pull back on the cap over the deadbolt holding and it pops, dropping back and opening the door.
I slip inside, locking it again behind me. The kitchen is just to my left, the living room to my right. Nobody's on the couch which is good, we're not housing anyone at the moment.
I turn to the kitchen but stop, noticing a slight motion behind the counter. It goes still again.
I set my foot down on the tile, then my other, walking toward the end of the island.
The kitchen is dark, completely dark, but the sink is dripping, showing me that someone was just in here seconds ago, if not still here. I pause, leaning over the metal basin and glancing in. A mostly-full container of water sits in the bottom, placed not thrown.
In a moment's notice, I smack my hand against the wall, throwing the lights on, then turn the corner of the island, hoping to have the upper hand on whatever is going on here.
I'm met with a small figure, huddled up behind the counter in hiding. She's got bright red hair tied back and big scared eyes. In her hand is a knife. I keep my eyes on it.
She's not at all who I expected to see here at four in the morning mid-May. She's someone I thought I'd never see again but it would take an idiot not to recognize her eyes.
"Jessie Kingston?"
***
Hey guys so if you've read sttm you know that this was at the end of that (it's the same chapter) BUT this one has something different at the bottom which is: I don't know what college to go to so you guys get to put your opinions.
for the love of god please comment because idk where to go and at this point it's fair game for all of them.
just comment on the rows if you know someone that goes there or if you do or if you've heard something or have an opinion (plz):
University of Maine (honors, engineering)
Pros: honors college, cost effective, maine, good hockey
cons: not as prestigious as some of the others, cold, middle of nowhere
University of New Hampshire (environmental engineering)
pros: near the ocean?
cons: i don't know too much about it
University of Vermont (college of agriculture, i misclicked on the application, i meant to do college of enviro)
pros: it's uvm. everyone i know that goes here likes it. good in programs i like, good food, good location, very accepting atmosphere
cons: not really sure, again i don't know many bad things about it, not-so cost effective but not miserable
University of Massachusetts (engineering)
pros: i've got an uncle on staff, cost effective, good food, good hockey
cons: everyone that i know that goes here isn't too excited about it
Marquette University (core honors)
pros: core honors, i love Milwaukee, good size, cost effective, one of my favorites at the moment
cons: jesuit/christian affiliated, far from home, i'm not sure if they'll accept my identities b/c of the christian affiliation and i'm not sure i'll find people here i'm excited to befriend because of demographics
Clarkson University (honors?)
pros: good engineering school, good size, good hockey
cons: i'm not sure i want to pinhole myself into engineering,
thanks gang
-rabid