Chapter one: The Switch
Friday, May 13th 2017 6:42pm The grayish matter spread in chunks against the bright Pollock piece that hung neatly against my office wall. I slide my chair closer and mush the pieces between my forefinger and thumb. It’s much warmer than I expect but it chills quickly from the sudden air exposure. I write my name in the blood as it glistens from the lighting in the room. “Dame, are you even listening?” Evan barks with a tinge of annoyance. God, how could one person be so bland? I decide to spare him the truth about me fantasizing of blowing my brains out. I settle for running back his last few lines on bringing in a new department to expand our longest running book series. Maybe I shouldn’t be so bitter with Evan, I consider. He’s a good guy with good intentions, it’s just that we’ve been over the details a million times and my patience has thrown a fit and sprawled out on the floor. I imagine it rolling around on my vintage maroon rug. Which seems to be fraying at the edges, I notice. I should really get to work on fixing that up a bit. Maybe I’ll give Rand a ca —shit.
I catch Evan’s eye and by the looks of it I’m about to get the speech of a lifetime. Before he has a chance to grill me I start, “I’m sorry, it’s just been such a grueling week. And I know that you of all people are aware of this, but I need some time to gather my thoughts.” You can almost hear the desperation in my voice, but it was all true. Surprisingly enough he seems relieved. My nerves calm as I watch his face loosen and his shoulders go slack. I hadn’t even noticed he had been so tense. Once Evan retires to his own office I quickly snatch my things from the desk and dart for the door. I couldn’t wait to finally be home.
7:10pm My computer pings just as I slide through the front door. I quickly pour myself a hefty glass of bourbon and take a few stress reducing swigs before making my way over to my desk. I flop down in my well worn computer chair and wait for the familiar squeak as I lean back and get situated. I sigh into my glass when I catch the company name on the screen in a quick once over. My face scrunches as I imitate it in my best android voice.
"Brandon Ible Writers. The pioneers of Great Anecdotal Healing and Destruction"
We typically referred to ourselves as “Gahd” for short. Our customers easily took to the name as well, which was impressive considering we had a huge fan base; one of the biggest in the world. After skimming through the email I release a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I was afraid it’d be more work. Luckily it was just a flyer with an event reminder for gaining our 10,000,000th subscriber to our website. It was a rather new development for the company, but it had grown fairly quickly over the last couple of years. It was exhilarating landing a job with such a huge company for a small scale writer such as myself, but what a stressful ride it is at times. My branch of the department handles most stories related to the destruction, death, and famine of those in the futuristic western world. Which was perfect for me since one of the main reasons I struggled with landing anything was because of the morbidity of the content of my portfolio. So many companies wanted too much fluff and much less authenticity. It was disheartening when I was told to change my perspective. As I think about my time with the company I feel my head get heavier and my neck loosen. I blink myself awake and finish reading through my messages.
11:45pm Later that evening I woke with a start. I must’ve passed out at my desk and sleepily made my way to the couch. That happens more often lately than I care to admit. My stomach grumbled with a fierceness as my feet touched the cold tile of the kitchen floor. I grabbed the block of sharp cheddar out of one of the drawers in the refrigerator and broke off a jagged chunk like a bread offering. A “thinking slice” is what I like to call it. I mulled over the pros and cons of going to the company event in the meantime. The only true pro is that there’s an open bar, but I decide it’d probably be best to attend either way. I hear a faint ping from the other room. Staring quizzically at the analog clock above the opening to the kitchen I make note of the late hour. Who would be trying to contact me at midnight? I lazily shuffle back to my computer screen to see if the email is anything of importance. The subject line reads:
"Re:Re: 10,000,000"
I assume it’s some sort of duplicate of the company email that was sent out earlier. I open it anyway just to be sure there isn’t any additional information that I’d need. Hopefully it’s a cancellation, I thought, but I knew that was hoping for a bit too much.
"On the night of ten million our worlds will collide. You will feel your own wrath of written death, pain, and genocide."
They’re getting more advanced with the level of spam nowadays. Drawing from previous emails to construct a new one seems to be a bit troubling and something I haven’t ever seen before. I was too tired to dwell on it too much though. I carry myself off to my warm, dim lit room to rest up. As I burrow into the comforter I drift off to blissful thoughts of the weekend ahead. I appreciate Friday’s much more as of late.
Saturday, May 14th 2017 7:37am A blinding strip of sunlight runs across my face and creeps up on my eyelids pulling me out of my slumber. Rolling over to my side helps until that familiar ping from my computer makes its way into my room time and time again. I must’ve counted about fifteen of them before I got concerned enough to leave my little cave. With my toothbrush jammed into the side of my cheek I shuffled into the den as the number of pings increased. It must be a group email, I assume. The screen reads:
"Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000"
My brow furrows with confusion. It’s filled with the same message for a couple pages I realize as I sift through. I open one to see if the content is still the same.
"On the night of ten million our worlds will collide. You will feel your own wrath of written death, pain, and genocide. We will switch in this glitch."
There’s an extra line now too, it occurs to me, this has to be one of those app pranks. Sometimes I wondered how people had so much time on their hands for such pointless activity. I mark them as spam and tend to some chores around the house. The place sure could use a little tender love and care.
Overtime I’ve learned that it’s always easier to hop right into the shower after cleaning so the bathroom is one of the last things I get around to. As I bring the cleaner to the cold glass mirror I take a minute to examine myself. My freckles seem to pop out more now that the sun spends more time on my dark golden skin. My hair is still a bit coarse, but my new natural journey has been a much healthier one. I take a minute to apply some coconut oil to my coils. As I massage it into my scalp I close my eyes a bit and run through my list of things left to do for the day.
As my eyes focus back in my chest fills with a hot pang of fear and I freeze looking at the mirror. A lump builds in my throat and I try to rationalize what I was seeing. I refuse to blink or avert my eyes for fear of forgetfulness. My brain reels as I try to chart every detail of this face staring back at me. It’s my face. But it’s not my face. Where there was once a scar above my lip it’s now smooth, unblemished skin. I put my fingers to my face to compare. My reflection did the same. The scar is still on my face. How odd. Maybe it’s just my vision? The mirror shows me with a short buzz cut where there should be a coiled fro. I move my hands back to my hair to assess, unblinking. My reflection reaches to caress its scalp as well. The coils are still intact it seems. The blood rushing through my ears gets louder. I can hear my heartbeat. I try and swallow without choking. Maybe I inhaled too much of the fumes from those cleaning products. Good lord, I’ve got to do away with that bleach. I try and slyly pull my phone from my pocket without breaking eye contact. Luckily I can access the camera without looking at the phone. As I snap a photo the glass cracks so loudly that I instinctively jump back and shield my face. My leg is bent up to my chest while my hands criss cross over my face. I hold the position until I feel safe enough to straighten my posture. A large jagged gap runs through the middle of the mirror and I stare at it in awe for a few seconds before the fear sets back in. I remember the phone. I scoop it up from the floor and frantically search for the photo app.
In the photo was the “other” me. The hair at the back of my neck stands on edge and a sense of coldness washes over my body. I’ve never felt so uneasy. I quickly add it to my cloud and make my way out of the bathroom. I desperately needed air. Once I was outside my feet hit the pavement hard as I rounded the corner. The photo was etched into my brain, but I still wanted to examine it. This has to be stress related. There’s no other logical explanation. The bus stop bench isn’t far off so I decide to stop there to gather my thoughts. The bench is rickety and loose so I sit lightly, but taking the calm approach is more for me than it is for the old wood. Either way I’m thankful for the few minutes of sanity; I can’t be too sure how much of that I have left. As I stare at the photo I still feel an immense amount of fear in my chest as it moves up like heartburn. This isn’t going to work if you aren’t thinking rationally. I breathe so deeply I get lightheaded for a while. Okay, try again.
I begin to notice a few more differences between the two of us upon further inspection. The concerning thing about it is they’re all from things that would have happened overtime. All of the features that I was born with are untouched. So scars are different, but all of our freckles are the same. Where I have a tattoo running along my forearm, this other version of me doesn’t. If this were just a random photo someone had shown to me I would assume it was a long lost twin, but considering the circumstances that can’t be it. What sick games the mind plays. I remember the proof is sitting in my hand before I write it off as insanity.
My concentration breaks as I get a flood of notifications from my email. The email, how could I forget? I’m almost too afraid to check. I navigate back to the home screen as I bring my free hand up to stabilize the shaking. Just do it already. It’s exactly what I’d hoped it wouldn’t be.
"Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 00,000,001
Re:Re: 10,000,000
Re:Re: 10,000,000"
I quickly mark them all as spam when I notice one that isn’t quite like the others. I open it. It reads:
"On the night of ten million our worlds will collide. You will feel your own wrath of written death, pain, and genocide. We will switch in this glitch. 'A thing long expected takes the form of unexpected when Atlas comes.'"
Atlas. That was me, although no one had called me that in years. I had gone by my middle name, Dame, for quite some time. The line was one I had heard a million times over. My Dad used to recite it daily. The original quote was from Mark Twain, “a thing long expected takes the form of unexpected when at last it comes,” Dad thought he was so clever for that one. I absentmindedly smile thinking back on it. I talk myself into going back to the house and getting to the bottom of this as the dread of knowing that I can’t tell anyone about it sets in. My friends and family would think I had gone off the deep end and I wouldn’t give my colleagues the satisfaction of thinking I’ve been under too much stress. I’ve worked much too hard for that. I slowly pick myself up off of the unstable bench and begrudgingly start the path back home.
Saturday, May 14th 1:18pm I float from one mirror to the next throughout the house until I get back to the bathroom. My face appears to be mine again. What a relief. Next I plop down in front of the computer. I had just worked up enough nerve to write up an email in reply. I had to make sense of all of this even if it was somehow a distasteful joke. My fingers rest on the key as I try and think of where I should begin. Short and to the point should be the best course so I shoot for that.
"Who are you? What do you want from me?"
I get a reply almost instantaneously after pressing send. If I wasn’t sweating before I certainly am now.
"I am you and you are me just not now and certainly not then. When you become me and I you, we will both understand."
What is with the book of riddles? This all seems so childish. Maybe I shouldn’t even be entertaining this creep, but for some odd reason I want to continue asking questions. I get another.
"The stories you write are not only in fiction. It is you that is the beholder of such vision. The pen in which you scribble is the director of scenes in my world. It is you, the controller of my life since I was a young girl. You write no positivity, but all of it as fact. It is in this small window of time my life I will get back. If that means replacing mine with yours then so be it, it is settled. For it was you that created this desolate hell show of all things disheveled. As you sow, so shall you reap."
Well, “the pen in which you scribble is the director of scenes in my world” —I repeat aloud— “you write no positivity, but all of it as fact.” This is so wild, I think. How bizarre to think that what I’ve written has materialized. I chuckle as I picture a fanatic obsessing over creating extended versions of fanfiction to my series. I was flattered, sure, but this was a bit much. It still didn’t explain the mirror incident, but these two things could quite possibly be disconnected in every way. My nerves calm as I consider the situation. I feel a little silly for having been so worked up. Another glance at the clock gets me started again. I hurriedly skip off to my room. I was going to be late to the event if I didn’t get a move on.
8:10pm The setup was elegant. The tables were covered in beautiful dishes and everyone was dressed even more beautifully. The gold decor glistened everywhere and it was hard not feeling like a celebrity. It seemed to make everyone want to converse more. After mingling for much longer than I thought I’d last I try and dip out for some fresh air. Even outside there were guests crawling all over. There was a patch of grass covered by a couple trees off in the distance I notice as I squint and move in that direction making sure I don’t make eye contact with anyone on the journey. It felt great to get away. As I get closer to the patch of grass I can see the outline of something. A headstone? It was chipped and pretty worn. Grass had grown over most of it. How typical of me to leave a party to hang out with the dead. I sit down beside it “It’s nice to see someone else was bored to death of the dreadful conversation,” I laugh at my own bad joke. “What’s your name anyway?” I stand to brush away some of the debris as I catch the name through dirt covered fingers.
Saturday, May 14th 2360 8:34 The truth was as plain as day chiseled into the marble slab.
“Once met, never forgotten.
Atlas Dame Traveler
1986-2017.”
That’s me, but here I stand in the flesh.
Submitted March 31, 2017 at 09:54PM by CatchTheBandwagon http://ift.tt/2opDpyo WritingPrompts
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