Friday, November 4th, 7:45 a.m.
Christopher's eyes shot open. He knew something was wrong.
The alarm that he set for 3:30 a.m., half an hour before his scheduled wake up time to reset his sleep cycle was not blaring. The red, digital glow of 3:30 a.m. was not displayed on his ceiling. It read 7:45.
This has to be some sort of mistake.
Heart racing, Christopher sprang to his feet and shucked off the worn T-shirt and basketball shorts he slept in. Shorts still around one ankle, Christopher opened his closet and unzipped his Friday outfit from its wrapping. His eyes widened in horror at what they found. A blue spot, no bigger than the point of a tack, dotted the breast pocket of his white dress shirt. He couldn't conceive a situation where the spot could've slipped through the defenses offered by his pocket protector. Christopher made a mental note to throw this particular shirt out, and retrieved his backup Friday outfit that he had bought for this type of eventuality.
Christopher completed the ensemble at a manic pace hoping beyond hope that his alarm clock had malfunctioned and his body clock had awakened him at the appropriate time. He prepared to leave his bedroom to complete the rest of his morning rituals and noticed his tie was askew. Rectifying the mistake, he dashed down the hallway trying to pay no heed to the bedroom doorway's torment.
Upon reaching the kitchen, Christopher's fears were confirmed. Sunlight streamed into his living room around the edges of the blankets he'd tacked over the windows.
I'm going to be late for work.
Christopher felt a meltdown encroaching on him on the edges of his vision, but he fought it off. He couldn't allow that to happen on a Friday. His students required his tutelage, and he refused to let anymore people down.
Armed with his morning Mint Chocolate Chip Pop-Tart and Clif Bar in hand, Christopher lurched down the steps three at a time. He stuck the unopened Pop-Tart in his mouth and fumbled with his keys trying to unlock the door before he arrived. The second he turned the key, Christopher eyed the digital display.
7:54
It took him seven minutes to get to work adhering to Idaho's traffic laws. He needed to break the law if he was going to get to work on time. Christopher pulled out of his parking complex and hit the gas. He watched the needle climb to the thirty five miles per hour mark and let it sit there for a few moments before depressing his foot on the gas pedal. Once it stopped at the forty seven miles per hour mark, Christopher steadied out and let the needle hold there. According to quick mental calculations, that speed would get him to work on time.
A large benefit of a town the size of Lancet Falls was the complete lack of traffic at any given time of day. Christopher weaved through the streets and couldn't help but feel a certain degree of satisfaction. Before his first day, Christopher looked up Lancet Falls on Google Earth and mapped out the exact combination of streets that would maximize his efficiency using the ratio of full stops to dips in traffic.
Today of all days, he forgot a pivotal landmark of his route, Officer Wylie Simmon's speed trap. Every morning, the officer hunkered down in the parking lot of Cole's Quality Foods with his morning coffee and newspaper. Simmons was known for storing his radar gun between his legs, so that he could whip it out at the slightest hint of speeding. His prowess with the radar gun had become somewhat of a legend to the people of Lancet Falls, and Christopher had just sped past him going twelve miles over the speed limit
Christopher cast a glance at the rearview mirror, and the patrolman was pulling out of the parking lot in Christopher's direction. Indecision gnawed at Christopher. He didn't know whether to slow down and take the ticket or to hold steady and make it to work on time. Christopher held steady. He really didn't have a choice in the matter; work started at eight o'clock and the his clock read 7:57. If Christopher wanted the judge to know he was a reliable member of society, he couldn't show up to work late.
Flashing red and blue lights started to glare at Christopher angrily, and the police cruiser ate up the distance between them at a pace too fast for Christopher's comfort. He felt his breath start to quicken. His heart started to beat so fast that Christopher knew it couldn't be fulfilling its job of adequately pumping oxygen to his brain. He started to feel light-headed. The meltdown rushed at Christopher like a juggernaut, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to get out of its way.
The cruiser held Christopher transfixed by its gaze, and he was powerless to tear his eyes away. The road became a secondary concern. He wanted to close his eyes and wish for it all to stop. Christopher had to hold on for two more minutes, and he didn't know if he was up for the task. The mental fog that shielded him from the world was encroaching upon his vision once more, and Christopher wanted to welcome it more and more every second.
Officer Simmons was now close enough to read a license plate, and Christopher let the meltdown take over.
I'm sorry Gracie.
When Christopher let go, he felt something release that he hadn't even known was building up in his body. For some reason, Christopher pictured a rubber band being pulled to its maximum threshold and then set free. Christopher's rational mind couldn't hope to explain the scene that proceeded to play out in the rearview mirror.
A brilliant wave of coruscating violet light shot from the back of his car. It rushed down the road bearing down on Simmons' cruiser. The black and white cruiser was eclipsed by lavender energy as the wave washed over it. The wave kept on traveling, unaffected by the cruiser, before it terminated after another twenty feet.
Throughout the entire sequence, the speedometer needle held at forty seven miles per hour, but Christopher's car was now rapidly widening the distance between it and the cruiser.
Did Wylie stop? Was he hurt?
What Christopher saw next answered his question, but asked several more. A boy on bicycle going in the opposite direction had stopped moving as well. At first, Christopher assumed that he had stopped to watch the chase, but his feet were still on the pedals. Christopher had been quite some distance between them, but it was almost as if the boy's feet were still pedaling forward in slow motion.
Hallucinations meant that he would need to give Dr. Lewis a call after work, but he would worry about that later.
In a daze, Christopher pulled onto Interstate Road. At the sight of Lancet Falls High School and the digital 7:59, Christopher heaved a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be alright; he was back on schedule.
The chaotic mass of students pushing and shoving their way through the hallways had never felt so warm and inviting. Christopher plunged into the mess, his need to be in his classroom outweighing the incidental human contact. He slid his key into the door of Room 17 and placed his coat on its hook. The familiar, apathetic faces of his students as they took their assigned seats gave him comfort
Christopher started to sketch the four macromolecules that made up the human body on the board and informed his students they should do the same. When he was teaching, Christopher was able to forget his discomfort with human interaction. Science was his element and it gave him joy to see his students engage in his passion as well. He even fancied that his students liked him. They laughed at great deal of what he said even when he didn't tell a joke. Christopher knew people laughed when they liked each other.
The sea of students that comprised his first hour biology class did not fail him. Christopher needed to regain his equilibrium and sense of normalcy, and their behavior was like clockwork. Every morning, thirteen of them drifted in and out of consciousness while six students engaged in the lecture.
In the middle of a sentence, Christopher stopped himself, an extra student was at rapt attention, Jessica Kinghorn. Most mornings, Jessica chose to nap. When confronted, she would justified her lapses of consciousness by saying she needed her beauty sleep. Christopher learned that it was best to pick his battles carefully, and this was one that he was not going to win, her father was the principal of the middle school after all. Despite being Christopher's uncle-in-law, Jessica would win the battle, the man could take Christopher's job away as easily as he had gotten it for him.
This morning, Jessica's eyes bored into Christopher, and he was finding it hard to focus. Instead of the customary drooping of the head that signaled the battle against sleep had begun, Jessica's head or spine never wavered. Christopher couldn't discern any wasted movement, no fidgeting, gum chewing, or even a turning of the head. He had her undivided attention, and he didn't want it.
His students' consistency did a good deal to put him at ease. When a student did something out of character, it ground against Christopher's psyche like a grain of sand in a microchip.
High school students have a sixth sense for a weakness in a teacher, and Christopher's inattention was the weak link that signaled them to pounce. They whipped out their phones and started engaging in tawdry gossip. The few students that loved his lecture still gave him their attention and did their best to ignore the heathens. In a way, Christopher was thankful for his students' lack of attention today. Jessica couldn't resist a good gossip session, and Christopher suspected she would choose elective surgery to attach her phone to her hand if given the chance. While the other students took advantage of Christopher's weakness, Jessica still hung on his every word.
The remainder of the class passed by in an irksome blur. When the bell rang, Christopher offered a silent "Thank You" to the universe and collapsed in his chair. The exhalation of air that escaped the leather of his chair was music to his ears.
One period down, four to go. Then everything will be back to normal.
Christopher registered movement in the corner of his vision; Jessica was standing at the line of duct tape that demarcated Christopher's safe space. His students knew never to cross that line.
Jessica Kinghorn could only be described as classically beautiful. She possessed the perfect symmetry of facial structure that human beings strive for at a subconscious level. Despite his efforts not to notice, Christopher couldn't help but be aware of the chest she took great pains for people to look at. Jessica made it a game to stretch the dress code to its absolute limits. In the dead of winter, she still chose to put her powerful, long legs on display. Biologically speaking, she was a paragon of her gender, but today, that only lent to the alien nature of her demeanor.
"Can I help you Jessica?" Christopher asked.
She walked right past his symbolic tape barrier and ended up less than a foot away. Her proximity made him uncomfortably aware of the distance between he and his coat hanging on a hook across the room.
Please don't touch me.
"Mr. Stroud, I have completed my missing assignments."
He scooted his chair backwards.
"That is superb Jessica, why don't you go turn them in? The turn in tray is over there, a fact you should be familiar with by now," Christopher said motioning towards a grey, plastic bin by the door.
Jessica took another step forward.
"I thought you would like to grade them right away," she replied in a monotone that had little to no inflection.
Jessica's natural cadence of speech consisted of many ummms, likes, and other filler words. The difference in her new speech was jarring.
"I suppose that is alright. You may set them on my desk, and I'll grade them during lunch."
Although it was against procedure to not use the tray, Christopher would do anything at that point to get her out the door.
Jessica reached past Christopher and placed the worksheets on his desk. As she leaned forward, Jessica pressed too close for Christopher's comfort and seemed to smell his shirt. Her body shuddered as if she was experiencing great pleasure.
"You smell delightful Mr. Stroud."
Her admission made Christopher hyper aware of her own scent, citrus with a hint of mint. The last thing he wanted to be aware of was the scent of a student.
He scooted farther backwards; the wall to his back was too close for comfort. Jessica's proximity triggering a minor feeling of claustrophobia.
"I find that highly unlikely considering I haven't showered this morning. Now, I think it's best you take your leave."
She smiled, and Christopher wished she hadn't. Facial expressions were always something he had a hard time identifying, but as of late, he felt that he'd made a good deal of progress. This smile was alien to him. He didn't understand what emotion it was supposed to convey, and he was ninety-nine point nine percent sure that he did not want to know.
"Of course, I wouldn't want to be late to my next class."
She turned and strode out of the room. Her movements struck Christopher as mechanical in origin. Each step bespoke efficiency of muscle and bone, any extraneous movements had been eradicated. When she no longer darkened his doorway, Christopher felt his muscles relax and heart slow down. She'd triggered his autonomic nervous system fight or flight response. A subconscious part of Christopher's mind had perceived the situation as dangerous.
Christopher collapsed in his chair. The day was draining him at a breakneck pace and it had just begun. He let out a deep sigh. The puff of air ruffled the papers that Jessica had laid on his desk.
Jessica turning in assignments without additional prompting was a peculiarity in and of itself, and the event had piqued Christopher's interest.
What he saw on her paper was small and inconsequential compared to the harrowing experience of that morning, but it may have affected him more than all of it combined. Christopher found that he could tell a great deal about a person based on their unique style of handwriting. He had gotten to the point where he could tell what student had turned something in just by a small sample of their handwriting.
Jessica Kinghorn always signed her name with a garish swooping g while always dotted her i's with an insufferable pink heart; neither of which were present in this signature.
Christopher didn't know who had signed these papers, but it wasn't Jessica Kinghorn.
SaintCole again bringing a juicy Friday update,
This chapter was difficult to write. I was trying to capture a frantic feeling throughout to take a snapshot of Christopher's mental state. If that didn't work please let me know in the comments.
Guys, we're getting dangerously close to 500 votes. :) Keep up the good work please, and give me a star if you enjoyed.
What do we think of the introduction of Christopher's power? What's going on with Jessica? Let me know if we have any theories as of yet.
As always, thank you for keeping The Permutation going. All your excitement increases my excitement for this story and I appreciate all of you :)