Sorry if this one seems kind of filler-ish and more exposition than dialogue heavy. I do hope you like technical details though cause here's where Ryan first experiments on his push :D
Please feel free to tell me what you think of the chapter with a comment and vote if you liked it. I'm always in dire need of criticism.
---
Chapter 11
I slept a troubled sleep that night. I had a nightmare. Not really something new because I've had nightmares ever since I ran away. But now, it was more vivid. It was the same one of course: that horrible memory of the night I ran away. I saw once again, the furious eyes of my father bearing down on me, his hands clasping my arms and throwing to the ground. I remembered the thoughts that went through my mind then, even more distorted in my dreams, and then a silent click as if something snapped into place. I saw again, in the horrifying slow motion that only dreams could make, how my father's eyes widened in surprise and then become dull in their sudden lifelessness; how he then fell to the ground, his cigarette falling on a puddle of brandy on the floor, sparking flames that set fire to that whole room.
Shouts and cries (my own) ringing in my ears, I watched from afar as the fire began to eat away at the frail-looking house, the house I grew up in, until it was reduced to mere embers. That was normally how the dream ended, the remaining embers dying down into blackness before I woke up in a sweat. But that's not how this one ended.
With a surprising sense of awareness, an awareness that I knew shouldn't have been there during REM sleep, I began to see more. The embers didn't die down but instead sparked further to life, burning brighter and brighter until they became...a fireplace. It was fireplace, an object that I knew I'd seen before at some time in my life.
I was aware that the dimly glowing hearth was where I was disposing of a bunch of G.I. Joes that my dad got me for my birthday. I was aware that it was raining hard at the time and that was the only reason why I wasn't enjoying the normally good weather of (what place was this again?). Most importantly, I was aware that I wasn't alone in the room. The tiny den smelled of the familiar perfume my mother always preferred and something else - honeysuckle? Dust? Through the eyes of the child I knew I was back then, I looked up and saw an old lady in a rocking chair. She turned to me, smiling. There was a flash of silver (her teeth?) and then I woke up.
A cop out ending, but enough to wake me up in the cold sweat that I thought would come earlier. I woke up in the way that only someone who was still bone weary and hadn't gotten enough sleep would: his eyes slowly opening and just lying there on the bed, not moving a muscle. I must've stayed like that for a bit, just staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft drone of the ceiling fan in my room, my bed slowly getting soaked with sweat. I was only dimly aware that there was a throbbing in my head but whether it had anything to do with my drinking session with Jamie last night or something else, I couldn't tell. Add that to the other bodily pains that were one by one waking up, and I've probably just woken up to my worst morning in a long time.
Though I was sure I was alone in my room without anything else making a sound, it still felt unbearably noisy. The small light seeping through the curtains was brighter than my interior lighting and I felt the need to vomit. I reined the sensations in, however, and tried to keep them under control through closed eyes and burying myself under a pillow.
Out of the corner of my eye, still too weary to move my head, I could see on my digital clock that it was only half past five in the morning. In only thirty minutes, I was due to start my morning ritual before I went to work. Working at Campbell's had taught me how to get by with only a few hours of sleep under my belt but I was still human. Less than three hours of rest was probably going to take its toll on me.
Well, might as well get the most out of those thirty minutes. Those less than three hours were apparently enough to clear up my drunken mind, despite the headache, and I could think much more clearly than last night. I used the free time to sort everything out.
It was time to face it: I was not normal. I know, I know: I've mentioned it dozens of times. But now was the only time I could truly accept it. In fact, even now, the whole thing still felt surreal, as if it never really happened and didn't belong in this reality. Was what happened really enough proof?
Last night, Reginald was on the verge of wasting me for good, but I stopped him along with all of his friends. His throat had caught the moment I told him to shut up and he ran away when I told him to jump in a lake. I'd knocked out his friends with nothing more than a simple thought and a little help from my "trigger" (I mentally cringed at the word - it was still weird for me to refer to the pain like that).
A thought came to me all of a sudden and I quickly found myself scouring my memory banks. I found what I was looking for in the form that sharp jabbing pain in my head that surfaced the moment I willed it to. It was there, concrete evidence that it wasn't just something I dreamed up.
Why would I think of it as concrete evidence? It stood out from the rest of my bodily pains in a way that it was actually something I could control. Whereas the parts of my body that physically ached could only be silenced with a good dose of painkillers, this particular pain was something I could influence. When I want it to be there, it would appear; when I willed it gone, it would simply fade away into nothingness.
Almost gleefully, I started tinkering with my trigger, making it reappear and disappear repeatedly like mental push-ups. Admittedly, I know I should be worrying whether or not this thing was good for my health seeing as it was basically pain - a sensation made to tell your body that something's wrong - but at the time, I had a lot more going on my mind. One: it was just a relief to find out that I wasn't crazy, that I didn't just imagine everything that happened to me in the past year. Two: I really did kill my father, and that wasn't something I could ever take back.
Eventually, my reverie was shattered by the alarm on my clock going off. I stubbornly got out of the bed and got ready. Normal or not, I still had to work to keep my job, right?
My morning rituals normally involved a thorough bath but given my condition, I decided to settle on a quick one, that is, after taking a good dose of painkillers that didn't do much for what I thought was my very first hangover but helped lessen it enough for me to think more clearly. A glance in the only mirror in my apartment was enough to give me pause. Vain? Nope, just surprised. I hadn't realized how messed up I really looked.
In the span of almost a year, I was really surprised by how much my looks had changed. I was no longer built like the bean sprout I was when I left my backwater town. All that leanness was replaced by muscle as a result of all the heavy work Arthur put me and Jamie through. My face that used to teeter between the softness of a child's and the angularity of an adult had taken on a harder and firmer look. My eyes that used to be a bright and vibrant blue had dulled to a grayish-blue color much to my dismay - the blueness of my eyes was one of the things that reminded me of my mother and losing that just felt like losing another part of her. My naturally black hair seemed just as dull, making me worry whether or not I would develop gray hair any time soon. I really didn't think that one year would make much of a difference on how I looked, but it did.
All these changes, however, were now masked by my most recent bruises. My entire body was painted black and blue, though thankfully there wasn't much swelling. The upper torso suffered the worst of it, with gashes that I didn't even realize were there. I was glad that those would be covered with clothes. My face was covered with similar patches but not as bad, with what was probably the largest gash on my upper left eyebrow covered by gauze courtesy of the Campbells. I would have to thank them later.
I won't bore you with details. I mean, who wants to hear every excruciating detail about how a person got ready for his day - what shampoo he used, what clothes he decided to wear, blah blah blah.
Once I was ready to head off to work, I made one more stop - the Rodriguez apartment. I still don't know what went wrong last night when I could clearly feel my trigger now but I was hoping it was just a fluke. To my dismay, they had already left. I knocked on their door several more times with no answer. Never mind, I decided, I'll get him when I get back from (school?) work.
The minute I stepped out of my apartment building was the only time I noticed one important thing: I had left my bicycle. Oh, crap, I must have left it at the street corner. The bike may not have cost me much but at least it was mine. It was the first thing that I'd ever bought for myself. I made a mental note to check on whether or not my bike was still on that street corner later that night but for now, I would have to walk.
The short trip to Campbells made me realize another thing: knowing that the trigger was there wouldn't be enough. I needed more proof. So I tested it. With a deep breath, I summoned the trigger again to the forefront of my mind and held it there. I wasn't sure how it worked completely - if I was merely supposed to think of a command or if I should think about every step. So I tried both.
Boston mornings were busy mornings but of course, where wasn't it busy? As such, there were a lot o people on the streets, ergo a lot of subjects.
My first test wasch on a business-type man who was sitting on a bench, reading his newspaper and drinking his Starbucks. One simple thought laced with the pain of my trigger was all it took: Stand Up. The man stood up, effectively surprising many of the passers-by. I looked back at him as I passed and watched as he shook his head in a daze and sat back down.
I tried it again on another person. This one was just in front of a café where the man appeared to be using his laptop. This time I detailed everything in my head from how the brain would send the impulses up until the actual movement. I took up a psychology course, remember? Contrary to popular belief mostly thanks to Dr. Phil, psyology was an actual science - the science of human thought processes. And one integral part of that was the relation of each part of the brain to thoughts and actions. There was no single connection between thoughts and the brain, but there was a connection between the brain and movements.
For someone like me who had an entire bookshelf dedicated to psychology books, visualizing each and every part of the process of standing up was still difficult but not impossible. As expected, the man stood up from his laptop and blinked in a daze.
I smiled to myself as I processed what just happened. It didn't appear to matter whether my thoughts were specific or not. I could either order someone to stand up or force his body to stand up by hijacking his motor system. I guess I should've figured as much. People never really tried to remember every excruciating detail of what they do (hence, the whole morning preparation part). Some actions as mundane as walking or standing up become so instinctual that we aren't even aware we're doing it at times. Like right now, I'm walking down the street, somehow narrowly dodging a speeding truck, even though my entire thought process is dedicated to this internal monologue.
That's probably why the simple order worked just as well as the detailed one - the guy already knew what "stand up" meant; his brain just linked the order to the respective action saved into his mind, just like a computer. Of course, whether or not that included people who say, didn't speak English and would never have understood the order, "stand up," was still subject to further experiment.
One other thing I realized while I watched a man in an SUV flip me off: testing a talent you were just getting used to could be dangerous to your health when walking down the streets of Boston, especially when you've only had less than three hours of sleep. I decided to continue the experiment some other time. I needed to get to Campbells preferably without suffering an automobile accident.
The first thing I did when I got to work was indulge in my morning cup of coffee. In this case, it was a mug.
"G'morning, Ryan," Jamie said cheerfully.
I nodded to him and may have growled a less than couth response. Why wasn't he suffering?
Jamie must've heard my thoughts because he answered, "Hangover? Yeah, I used to have those too," he said, whistling a sunny tune. I told him where he could shove said tune.
"I told you not to get drunk," Arthur said disapprovingly as he passed me, placing a heaping plate of bacon and eggs. I was thankful for that but not for him taking away my coffee and replacing it with a tall glass of orange juice. "Coffee just makes hangovers worse," he growled before I could protest. "Eat and rehydrate yourself while the crowd's still thin."
"Thanks," I muttered and started eating. "But my professor says the coffee-hangover myth is still up for more experimentation."
Arthur just rolled his eyes. "You should've just taken a business course like Jamie. Maybe then, you'll actually learn something helpful."
I smiled to myself. "You have no idea how helpful it's gonna be."
"What was that?"
"Erm, nothing. So how did your date with Susan go?" I asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
"It wasn't a date," he replied defensively.
I resisted the urge to laugh as I watched Jamie mouth from behind Arthur, "It was a date," while nodding.
"Well then, how did your not-date go?" I said mockingly, recalling how he'd referred to my day out with Sophie similarly.
Arthur gave me glare. "If you have to know, it went okay. Now keep eating."
"So did you get any?" I asked innocently, recalling Jamie's other inquiry.
At that point, Jamie started laughing heartily as Arthur gave me a disgusted glare. I tried to laugh to but it just worsened my headache.
"No, honey, he didn't as you say, 'get any'," a woman suddenly said, making me jump at her sudden appearance.
I looked tentatively over my shoulder and found myself looking at a dark-skinned woman in full on business attire. I mean really business-y: she wore a dull gray blazer over a similarly colored skirt and a white blouse. Her hair was bundled up in a severe bun that reminded me of stuck-up headmistresses. She bore a large leather briefcase that I assumed was filled with a lot of business stuff.
"Who-" I began to ask but Arthur beat me to it.
"Susan," he said, the tone of his voice carrying an obvious happiness that I've never heard from him before. Arthur quickly set down the tray he was holding and moved in to embrace Susan.
I exchanged a glance with Jamie in which we both mouthed with questioning expressions, "Susan?"
"Artie," Susan breathed. "Such a charmer. I thought I'd drop by for a bite before I went."
"Artie?" Jamie blurted, his voice bubbling into laughter. "Uncle Artie."
Apparently, not even Jamie's antics could dampen Artie, erm, Arthur's suddenly cheerful mood. "It's on the house," he said gentlemanly as he sat Susan next to me.
Arthur introduced us before he went to the kitchen. "So, Ryan, who dug you up from your grave?" Susan asked conversationally. I gave her wry smile but I could already tell I was going to like her.
"Ryan has girl trouble," Jamie explained as he sat down on her other side. "So, Ms. Gordon, if that's your real name. How does a girl like you meet a guy like Uncle Artie?"
I rolled my eyes, ignoring Jamie's jibe. I could tell he was going to be milking that new nickname for what it was worth even though I could find nothing wrong with it. "Ignore him. I think he's still drunk."
"Oh please, I'm not the one with the hangover," Jamie replied, sticking his tongue out childishly.
Susan laughed. "You must be Artie's nephew, Jamie, right?"
Jamie grinned. "The one and only. I see my reputation precedes me."
"Oh, it does," she replied smilingly. "Now, don't take this the wrong way but I've been curious ever since Artie brought it up. Did that Chihuahua really bite you in the...you know?"
I laughed at that and ended up spurting a mouthful of bacon, which sucked. I really liked bacon. It may have been worth it though to see Jamie's priceless expression - red, embarrassed, and probably shocked that Arthur told Susan about that little misadventure with one of the customers he flirted with.
"I like you, Susan," I said, high-fiving her.
"Why thank you," she said brightly.
Jamie muttered something but I couldn't hear. Arthur arrived then with a plateful of so much egg and bacon that I wondered how Susan stayed so thin. Of course, since the morning rush wasn't all that bad to begin with, Jamie and I forced the two lovebirds to tell us their story.
It was a sweet one actually. They had met at an AC/DC concert (I mentally chuckled at the idea of Artie rocking out) not just a few years ago as he had told us, but at least a decade, and hooked up. Apparently, they had a lot of different wants in life that led to their break-up. Arthur wanted to settle down and have a family of his own, which he admitted then was out of envy of his brother, Jamie's dad. Susan wanted to pursue a career as a lawyer first, which she had accomplished while they were apart.
Now here's the real surprise: when I asked why she didn't settle down yet at the time since studies or not, they could have still been husband and wife, I was surprised to learn that she was still in her early twenties and wanted to experience more of life. She told me she was just in her early thirties at the moment, much to mine and Jamie's surprise, which almost made her slap us. Susan was basically twenty years younger than Arthur and even though they never said it outright, it was obvious to see that they were in love.
To be fair, I could see how they would be attracted to each other. Arthur wasn't the most handsome person in town but he was the nicest one. He was a good person and maybe I was biased but I was pretty sure he'd make a great husband and family man. Susan may have looked older than thirty, like maybe forty, (I mentally reminded myself never to tell her that, ever), but she was young at heart. Her tough, all-business exterior was easy to ignore when you saw her eyes, which were all too bright and earnest, bringing the only smidgen of color to her dull ensemble.
It was inspiring actually. Even through all their differences, they were still in love. They didn't care about the surprising age gap, or how much Susan had broken Arthur's heart all those years ago when she decided to leave instead of settling. All that mattered to them was their now. It was a sappy love story that I would go far to say was cheesy, but even to someone like me, it was impressive as hell.
I would've liked to hear more about Susan and Arthur's love story but she had to leave for her job. She was helping on a big trial involving someone they called Jackson. Both assured me that the guy was bad news and that Susan couldn't wait to put Jackson behind bars for good. We said our goodbyes and I finished my meal. Maybe there was something to Arthur's hangover remedy because afterwards I was feeling a whole lot better.
I worked the kitchen the whole day since according to both Campbells, the way I looked at the time might scare off customers and while the it kind of hurt to hear them say that, it was nonetheless true. I honestly did look like crap and it was settled when one lady immediately left the pub after seeing me. Now, unlike Jamie, I didn't know how to cook much. I could handle breakfast easy since most of the dishes just needed frying, reheating, or a minute in the waffle iron. Lunch, however, was a disaster with me burning up a lot of things. Arthur had to step in when I accidentally burned a grilled cheese sandwich. Don't laugh; it could've happened to anyone. He ended up having to cook all of the dishes we would be serving for the dinner rush in advance so that I would just have to reheat them.
Honestly, I was grateful to the Campbells for putting me on kitchen duty. The reheating part was something I was more than used to. I did it a lot when I lived with my father. Before mom left, I would help her out in the kitchen by reheating leftovers and such so that she wouldn't have to cook much. After mom left, microwave meals, fresh and reheated were my specialty.
Another reason would be the much needed thinking time it gave me. Cleanup and cashier duty both required hands-on relations with a lot of people. The kitchen gave me the isolation I wanted so badly at that time. It probably would have been different if I had to fix the meals from scratch, but the reheating didn't require much thought, leaving my mind free to wander. I started thinking about the implications of having my ability. There was a lot to consider - physical, mental, and most troublingly, moral - and they all followed me until I went home that night.
----
This chapter was getting much too long (as in over 10 pages already :|) and I still had plenty more to write so I decided to cut it here to compensate. Also, I did it to satiate my minor OCD lol. Sophie was originally supposed to appear here but I decided against it since her part fit more in the next chapter. Again, sorry for the long stretches of explanations if you like dialogue more. So what did you really think of it? :D