Sunday, September 23, 2012

Flash Fiction: Onset

“What happened before this?”

“I was sleeping! I woke up like this!”

“No, what happened in the days leading up to today? Was there anything that stood out?”

“Nothing. Everything was normal—I was normal. The past four months have been the same day, every day. I wake up, go to class, come back to my dorm, eat, sleep and repeat—every day except today. Today I woke up and I couldn't see the same. Everything is broken—it's like I'm looking through shattered glass. I see all the pieces, but they're not where they were before. Nothing's whole.”

“Look, don't worry. Don't freak out, okay? I almost don't remember whole, I've been like this for so long. This isn't bad, it's just different. You'll get used to seeing things this way. I have. Sometimes I run into things I can't see, but I understand now—more than I understood when things were together.”

“I—”

“You're going to be fine. Just promise me—you have to promise me you won't tell anyone. Can you promise me that? If you tell anyone, they will send for you. Their doctors will cut out your eyes and try to make them like before. And if they can't, they will keep them and give you someone else's. Then you won't be able to see me, and I can't come back with Simon Cowell to save you and the others. We'll all die, you understand? Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

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