Dear wherever you are,

My love, writing this letter makes me no happier, yet there is an awful satisfaction in facing my biggest fear. I have conquered my demons through writing to you, and my worries, for one minute, fade away.

“Why,” you may ask, “do you write to me now, after all this time?” I have no answer, aside from my crippling fear. The truth is, darling, I’m the definition of a wreck. The clock ticks seconds away as if counting the days of sanity which remain ahead of me. I am, to my core, sorry that it took such a long time to do this. Again, I am scared, my muse.

“What scares you?” you may ask. You see darling, I told myself I would not write this letter until all hope was gone. I told myself this letter would signify the end of you, and that fills me with terror.

My love, I must say that it hurts me beyond belief to write this. I wish to stop hoping. I wish I would never allow hope to sprout in my soul, or wrap its fateful branches around my heart. Again you will ask “why?”

Hoping hurts. Ever since you went missing, it hurts. I only wish to let go.

If I drop this pen which dances so sorrowfully across my paper now, it will be the end. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I should have tried harder. I should have searched further. I should have done everything to find you. I said I would go to the ends of the earth for you, to the moon for you. I am sorry I let you down.

If you are out there, you are invisible. Otherwise, I surely would have found you by now. We would be together by now. Our eyes would meet once again. But you are gone. Dead, even. You would not want me to fall apart, but to pieces I descend. To the depths of my pit I return. This time forever, not hindered by hope.

When you love someone, you fight for them. When you lose someone, you die for them. Half of me is dying, the other half is numb.

At this time, with tears clouding my vision, and sorrow clouding my judgment, I bid farewell. Goodbye my love. Goodbye my muse. May I join you soon.

Wherever you are.

For most people it’s sad to think about: Two subjects deemed fit for a sick experiment disguised as a technological advancement. The trial is the first, and could easily be the last.

It’s interesting to observe the popular movie trope and cliche first hand, as I am doing while watching Cade and Jasper. We’ve all heard of time loops from books and shows, an anomaly which Cade believes he is in. Jasper, on the other hand, doesn’t believe much of anything. As far as she knows, all of this is real life. She is really serving coffee to a stranger, his name is really Andrew, and she really loves her job. All of these are really not true. That’s what I mean by the “sad” part. The higher-ups will say that since she came from such a terrible life, it’s okay to use her for a study. It’s a harmless experiment, right? Jasper was a victim of an abusive relationship, hardly ever able to leave the house. She was brought here with scars and bruises like you’ve never seen. So is it okay for us to waste weeks, maybe months of her life because it’s “better” than what she had before? Good question.

Cade comes from a bit of a different story. As I mentioned before, he thinks he is in a time loop. In a way he is, but not through some anomaly of science or alternate universe. Instead through psycho-manipulation and a little bit is sedatives.

Geez, I’m getting ahead of myself. If you’ve got a moment I’ll explain. I’m sure this all sounds pretty confusing.

Cade and Jasper were brought here 74 days ago, Jasper with serious head injuries and Cade with a concussion from a fall he took after passing out. Both members sustained some sort of memory loss from the incidents, which our team took advantage of. The new discovery we are testing is called Psycho-Telepathic Pairing, or PTP for short. While Jasper and Cade’s brains were in a vulnerable, injured state, surgery was performed to tap into what we call “No-Man’s-Land.” You know how they say humans only use 10% of their brain? That’s a myth. However, there is one nearly microscopic region that remains unused and has been inactive since humans began writing things down. That’s No-Man’s-Land: unused potential in the brain. These surgeries’ goal was to inject a unique atomic compound called Neuro-7 into the No-Man’s-Land of Cade and Jasper. In theory, this “bluetooth” chemical is able to send signals or data from one cell to the other if separated. All this happens on a microscopic, atomic level of course. The other part of the theory is that No-Man’s-Land was once the region of the brain which allowed for, well, telekinesis. I know, it sounds crazy.

This area of the brain has been inactive for all of recorded history, due to the evolving of humans, their language, and artificial stimulants. Again, this is theory as we don’t know for sure why telekinetic energy disappeared in the first place. But what about this seemingly sick experiment? Well, the experiment is a carefully constructed scenario played over and over, meant to create the perfect environment for telekinesis to flourish. We believe it will take a long time for Cade and Jasper to develop that part of their brain, which will then allow for the Neuro-7 to take root. It’s like that section of their brain is still an infant; it needs to be developed, just like how a baby learns to walk. Now, about the experiment.

Cade thinks he is in a scientific anomaly time loop. He goes to the counter, grabs his coffee, drinks it, and everything goes black, starting the loop again when he wakes up. He can’t get out of the room and the waitress, Jasper, isn’t much help. Well, the coffee does in fact make him black out, but nothing more. Once he blacks out, a team swoops into action, resetting the scene. The coffee is removed, his posture is reset, and we wait for him to wake up as if the loop started over. And Jasper? She is drugged with the same stuff that’s in the coffee, only in gas form. The little coffee shop acts as a cage of sedative gas when the time comes. She falls asleep, we reset the room, brew a new cup of coffee, and wait. When they both wake up, the sedative will have erased their short-term memory, leaving only hand-picked long-term memories.

So why do they both believe they are in different realities? Well, Jasper was brought here with severe loss of memory and identity. She didn’t know who she was or where she came from. We proceeded to tell her that she was Jasper Collins, which she was, and that she was a barista, which she wasn’t. She loved this job and she would never want to quit. Things like that. Surprisingly, it worked. A little friendly brainwashing never hurts. So, she believes she is in real life, hence the continual happiness, diligence, and lack of asking questions. Cade is quite the opposite. A former drug addict, Cade was found on the streets raving about random science gibberish. He was delusional, using phrases like “space-time continuum” or “multiversal transportation.” But the most common delusion phrase he yelled was about a time loop. He was clearly influenced by mainstream sci-fi and would be easy to convince. He was put into a coma directly after his surgery and forced to listen to podcasts about time loops, movies about time loops, audiobooks about time loops… really anything mentioning time loops. All of this while in a concussed, once again vulnerable state. This influence, plus his prior drugged-persona of a mad scientist, instilled the idea firmly in his long-term memory. Just like that, the subjects were primed and ready.

Finally, the details. I promise it’s almost over. We believe it is important for Jasper and Cade to slowly build the ability to speak telekinetically on their own. We want them to hear each other’s thoughts. We believe they might even be able to feel each others’ feelings. So, that is why we gave Cade the alias of “Andrew.” He knows his name is Cade, but never tells Jasper out loud. He only thinks it. After all, what’s the point if he’s in a time loop? She would never believe him, and it wouldn’t make a difference. So, if Jasper ever begins to feel as though the name Andrew is a fake name, we will know it’s working. He told her in his mind.

We also believe telekinesis flourishes in a romantic relationship. It’s the strongest bond and not a lot of words are said. Like having a “moment.” There is a lot of room for sub-speech communication in these situations. This is why Jasper’s beauty is so paramount, so that Cade will be attracted to her. When she begins to look around in a panic, realizing something seems off, Cade will reassure her without saying a word. He’ll think “don’t worry,” and somehow she won’t. What can I say, he’s a romantic.

The success of this experiment largely banks on Cade not trying to convince Jasper that they are in a time loop; and her not believing him if he does try. Cade is conditioned to believe no one will ever take his word. He has always been the crazy addict on the corner, never able to convince anyone. Jasper, too, will never believe him. After all, she wouldn’t want to. She is sure she lives the perfect life she has always wanted, and doesn’t want anything to get in the way of it. She would never start to believe anything which puts her “reality” at risk. Her trauma from the abusive relationship feeds this disassociation. It really all works together perfectly.

So here’s the end of the theory: Cade will eventually telepathically tell Jasper that his name is not Andrew. She will understand, although she won’t know how she gained that information. Surprised, he will work to tell her more and more through his thoughts. After all, someone finally believes him. The more he tells her, the more they communicate, and the stronger their bond. Once they have developed their telekinetic ability over time, she will realize it, and confront him about it. Their brains will have molded together via both of their No-Man’s-Land and the Neuro-7 compound. By the end, they will both be aware of their telekinetic connection. Then the experiment will have to end. After that, who knows. There are too many variables in the next stage, so we haven’t planned any further. We don’t even know if it will work in the first place. I am skeptical, but I’ve got hope. It would be devastating for this to all come crashing down, leaving two scarred, brainwashed, and chemically altered people. No lives, no homes, and no memories.

If it does work… I don’t want to imagine what will happen to them. Nothing. I’m sure nothing will happen.

Yet I’m afraid something will happen.

Something terrible.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

I call out a second time and he still doesn’t move an inch. I’m sure he’s hearing me, as there isn’t much in the room to distract him. It seems to me as if he’s staring at the ground, lifeless. Sort of strange, isn’t it?

I realize I don’t know “Andrew,” or at least I’ve never seen him before. Come to think of it, I don’t really know much of anyone. That can’t be right. Surely I know someone? Sheesh, maybe I also need a coffee right about now.

My waffling is interrupted by a slow movement in the man’s upper body. He straightens his back and begins scanning the scenery nearby.

The large foyer the two of us inhabit is quite the sight. An art student’s nightmare; or maybe their dream? The furniture is all constructed of a beautiful green leather, almost pistachio in tint. It has curves, no edges, and a vaguely hilly appearance. It reminds me of a field of grass or even mountainous meadows. The carpeted floor is soft and orange, almost like a fading burnt red. It is reminiscent of a dry mesa filled with that rust-colored dirt whose stains last forever. I’m not sure how I know that, since I have never been to such a place. I guess the little fact seems believable enough. My little shop is tucked away in a corner, unsuspecting but charming enough. The walls of this large abode are off-white, vaguely gray. I think they match perfectly with the other colors, bringing out the vibrance of the furniture-on-floor contrast.

I love working at the cafe, though I’m still unsure why. It just feels embedded within me to take pleasure in it. It’s why I don’t easily lose patience with unpunctual customers. Customers like Andrew, it appears.

Speaking of Andrew, he is on his feet now. The warmth of the cup spreads to my hand as I wait longer yet. At last he turns and makes his way towards me. Now I am sure I do not know Andrew. Meeting someone as handsome as he is would have surely lingered in my memory. That is a crazy thing to think, Lor.

I realize how odd it is that I’m still standing here with this stranger’s drink. Normally, I would set it on the counter and let them grab it on their own time. Why am I doing this? Do I want something from him? What do I want?

“Andrew, right?” The words come out sweet and friendly. Hopefully now he will know I’m not being impatient. We have been looking at each other for a bit now, as if both of us have agreed to do so until each has sufficiently studied the face of the other. Once again, he is very handsome. Oh, Lor. Not again.

Now I actually look at his eyes. Now we are actually making eye contact. Now say something. You have to say something.

“Are you… sure you don’t want sugar or…” I give up on that sentence. This is happening and I suppose it’s best not to try and stop it. There is such a look of peacefulness on his face, making my nervous comment seem pathetic. It seems like he’s done this a thousand times before. It is clear he has. It is clear I’m shook. Guess I should give him the coffee. My thoughts are sarcastic. I fall into these moments far too easily. Our fingers brush in the process of trading the cup. Well, more like his finger touches mine. I’d rather be on the receiving end of this situation…

You know that feeling when your stomach flutters and your heart beats a little faster? The room quiets and all distractions fade to black? Why do I even know what that’s like? Oh lord I’m blushing. I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks, and I can only imagine the rosy pink color. It’s sure to expose my vulnerable state of mind.

Suddenly, I’m struck with an unfamiliar feeling. A sensation. Who am I staring at? Normally I would feel the caution and nerves which come from talking to a stranger, but not now. Andrew is different. This room is different. What are you thinking? This room is the same every day. I try to picture the past customers I’ve served. Has this ever happened before? Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember any previous interactions. Surely there have been some. Of course there have been.

Now I’m scanning the room, breaking the bond of our eyes. Soon enough I’ve surveyed every inch of wall, floor and ceiling. Not a single door. Not a window in sight. Where am I? What kind of place has no doors? I want to ask Andrew if he has ever noticed this. Should we be worried?

Before I can speak I feel fingers grabbing mine. His touch is light and careful. It cares. He cares. He shakes his head as if to say “Don’t worry.”

Spinning.

My head is spinning. I forget my worries from a minute ago. I’m falling.

Falling in love? Yes, somehow.

Then nothing.

I pull my fingers away from their tender embrace.

I’m back between the light colored walls, above the burnt orange carpet, and nearby the man I love. I love him? Why do I love him? I don’t even know him. That’s true, but it doesn’t change the fact. I have to say something. Once again he makes his move just as I think to speak. He swipes his drink off the counter to my left and turns his back on me. I can tell he doesn’t wish to leave me. He has to.

As he makes off towards his seat, I squeeze out all I can think to say.

“Why do…” Lor, this is ridiculous. “Why do I love you?” Obviously he doesn’t know the answer. He doesn’t break his stride. This is where it normally ends, but I continue thinking. Normally I can’t reason through anything like this. I’m often stumped by such situations. Nothing really makes sense at all. I love a man I don’t know, yet I think he knows me somehow. He knows what I’m thinking, better than I even do.

His name… it’s not Andrew.

A wave of nostalgia washes over me. I’m overwhelmed with fear, dread, hope and elation. Memory of a plan, a consequence, a life. No details. A whole book with chapters, paragraphs, sentences, but no words to be found. It’s on the tip of my tongue, the whole answer. Even his real name. The hurricane in my skull intensifies. My mind is a whirlwind. This has never happened before. Just as he lifts the cup to his lips, I spit out all I can think to say. The mere thought makes me smile.

“Your name isn’t Andrew, is it?” I’m beaming now. I smile from ear to ear. I know this man, and I am near a breakthrough which will change my life. I will be happy again, picking up where I left off. My dream partner whips his head around with such speed he nearly falls off his seat. My smile doesn’t fade. There is a look of shock so potent in his expression. His peaceful disposition transforms to one of excitement. I know I said the right thing.

Oh…

He looks unwell.

Then he falls.

I shut my eyes.

I can never bear to see him hit the ground.

It happens every time.

I come back to earth and inspect the steaming cup within my grasp. I need to stop zoning out. I was making this for someone, right? What was their name again? I scan the cup, eyes landing on a name written in Sharpie. Ah yes, Andrew. Medium black coffee. Seems bland. I wonder if he wants sugar or anything? I’ll be sure to ask.

“Andrew?” My call rings through the near empty atrium. All I hear is a faint buzzing across the rust-red carpet. My ears ring faintly from lack of noise.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

“Andrew?”

The green-eyed barista calls out in anticipation. I hear her, but make no reaction. Pretty eyes scan the empty foyer, coming to rest on the back of my head. She waits an instant before following up.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?” Her voice is questioning, slightly confused, but not annoyed. I react this time, re-focusing my eyes after their long blurry gaze into space. I could have fallen asleep. She’s calling me…

I wait longer, my hands folded in my lap, seemingly unaware of the girl’s stare. A dull buzz creeps in from somewhere distant, far from this vacant atrium. It tickles my ears. The room I find myself in is garnished by solitary juniper furniture on a brazen, orange floor. The collection consists of small couches, chairs, futons, coffee tables and loveseats (or just seats, really). Each piece possesses its own features, bubbly and imaginative like a bad art school project. The legs of said objects are hidden out of sight underneath the avocado leather, creating a levitating effect. There is nothing else in the room, aside from the tiny nook-turned-cafe. Much too large of a room for the two of us.

I scan the floor now, taking in all the burnt amber carpeting and patches of shadowy, rusty coffee stains. Such a shame to spill one’s “energy juice.” At last I stir. Noiseless and with ease, I stand and meander my way towards the corner. Each step is silent, yet feels hollow, as if hinting at a hidden room below. Perhaps a room of brilliant navy or deep maroon. Could there be grand, royal magenta on the walls, far surpassing the “beauty” of the eggshell walls here? Maybe there is dandelion yellow, rose red, or brown like the bark of an ancient oak. Or more black. Probably more black abyss.

I have arrived. What do you want?

Shamrock eyes gaze up at me. I love those emerald eyes. They always give me butterflies, but only green ones. Yes, tiny, green butterflies.

“Andrew, right?” The pupils remain fixed on mine. I love this part. I say nothing, keeping still, tranquil. I do not smile, but am not upset. “Are you… sure you don’t want sugar or…” She gives up. We exchange the cup, fingers brushing each other in the process. The butterflies are happy to flutter mindlessly in my abdomen, forcing a breath from my lungs. I like to think there are moments where the clocks stop, just like in the movies. The buzzing quiets. All feeling in my body lifts from me. I can’t feel the dull, apricot carpet under my shoes. Then it is gone. Now I am holding a cup of warm, plain coffee. A girl stares and stares, questions whirring through her head, left, right, up, down. Never through her mouth, though. I can see clearly the moment she realizes the room we are in has no doors. Or windows for that matter. After a lifetime, she breaks our connection and her lime eyes dodge and dart around her. Now I smile. She is pretty when she’s nervous. Lightly grabbing her hand, I rebuild the bridge between us; her pupils to mine. I shake my head. After a second she nods, before realizing I have her hand. She lingers, but pulls away soon enough. A draft hits my neck, and the hairs stand in salute. Her cheeks begin to change color. Such a transformation from pale to precious. From a quiet tan to a rosy pink. It lights up the room. Green surrounds me, her eyes feel nearer. The colors blend, twisting and turning, hugging and stretching. It’s impossible to put into words. I feel myself in a whirlwind. My vision is cloudy. All I see is her.

Then it is over.

We are close.

I feel a semblance of someone.

We never touch.

We never speak.

We never will.

I turn around in a moment and swipe my coffee from the counter.

“Why do…” She speaks with faltering tone. I can hardly bear the sound, almost a whisper. “Why do I love you?”

I don’t know.

Upon reaching my seat, I lift the cup towards my lips. To my surprise I hesitate. What? There is no need for that. There is no more here. There never is. I close my eyes and tilt back my head, waiting for the hot sensation of liquid on my tongue. Just as I feel it, I hear a voice sound out once again.

“Your name isn’t Andrew, is it?”

Shock rocks my still frame and my head jolts forward. What did she just say? She’s not supposed to say that. That isn’t part of…

I fling myself around, half of me hanging off the olive futon. My vision begins to darken, blots block my view. I stay conscious long enough to see the girl, my girl, standing upright in the entrance of the cafe.

There is a smile.

A radiant, sunny smile.

A glimpse of heaven, or paradise below.

I cry out, reaching to grab at nothing. My own shrieks sound distorted and strange. Then nothing.

My serene, auburn eyes peel open. I am still. I feel nothing at all. Nothing is new, nothing feels off. My hands are folded in my lap. I hear nothing but the distant hum of some lost hopes and dreams. This room is way too big for just me. I almost smile at the thought.

Finally I hear the voice call out across the vast expanse of furniture. Not louder, not softer; not confident or shy.

“Andrew?” A pause.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

Dear little me, somewhere far in the past,

I envy the days that went by, far too fast.

With time moving quicker and plots growing thicker,

I start sadly wishing that those days could last.

To me, at the old house where fun always grew,

Adventures and stories came easy to you.

Through nature you’d go, and ideas would flow,

You learned that all things could be poetry too.

I love that you wrote tales and journaled your dreams,

Imagining beautiful, colorful scenes.

You never did stop and your pen didn’t drop,

Until you expressed every thought in your being.

Nothing did stifle your creative side,

Living out life having nothing to hide.

No one could hold you, the world did not mold you,

Your mind was a place you could safely abide.

When growing meant busyness, drama and friends,

Your innocent passions came close to an end.

Your mind was twisted, one blink and you missed it,

You now view the world through a foggier lens.

Dear little me, I regret now to say,

Things are much different than back in your day.

There’s pressure and trauma, immeasurable drama,

But trust me, the storm ends, and all is okay.

Oh little me, though so much here has changed,

You and your writing were never estranged.

You keep on writing and I’ll keep on fighting,

To gain motivation for one final page.

I call it The Island. On the surface it’s a beautiful scene. There are tall, shady trees and glistening crystal waves. There is sand, the finest in the world, the kind that falls through your fingers with weightless ease. The sky is never smudged by the grey hue of clouds, but remains a joyous blue.

That is The Island. It doesn’t exist of course. It is a construct. It is a product of compartmentalization. That is a big word which simply means the art of blocking out life’s many troubles. Blocking it out is only the first step for me. What comes next is a wonderful work of creativity.

In glorious delusion I pick up my brush and lay it to the canvas of my mind. My thoughts as the paint, my emotion as the inspiration. I move the brush in the direction of my sorrow and loneliness, my anxiety and hurt. Soon, my hands stop the motion and my heart takes control. Spiraling, weaving, tracing, heaving, the brush moves in rapid expression. The scene unfolds in explicit detail and reality is covered up below the deceptive medium. Ah, yes, reality. The brush falls to the ground…

All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I step back and view the spectacle for the first time. In the process of creation I had closed my eyes. Now I say a splendid scene. A tropical travesty with sparkling tides and spreading trees overhead. Sand whose grains are near microscopic and a sky whose color remains the same. It is The Island.

However I cannot go there now. The ship called Reality has returned to take me home. Some home this is. Yet I will return to revisit this reimagined region, and will again construct those shady shores in remembrance of their healing power. After all, it is not so much dwelling on The Island which gives me rest. No, it is in the act of creation that the peace comes. But the serenity is only so for a time, and never lasts long. So I will wait. I will travel the oceans, heading nowhere, seeing nothing. But along the way I will find my brush again, and touch is once more to the canvas of my mind.

Maybe it was the way the clouds floated still, not moving even an inch. Outlined by the dim, orange glow they hung motionless under her dazzled gaze. Yet, when her staring was interrupted, diverted to the external world, they seemed to shift at an immaculate pace. When she returned her dark eyes to those cottony spectacles, she found they had shuffled into a new, dimmer, yet equally stunning array. A more somber and ordinary scene ensued, finding the clouds less illuminated by the sun’s waning color. The reverse-dawn had taken its toll, disguised at first as a beautiful sunset, but now only an oncoming veil of dark abyss. With the darkness came reality, and with the sun went hope. The sentimental meaning she had been searching for revealed itself. With the last streaks of color leaving her view came that sad analogy: depressing truths shaped like motionless, dull, grey clouds.

It was quarter-past-twelve, and the boy gazed blankly over the leather-covered steering wheel. To his right, another figure leaned motionless against the half-fogged window. Through cottony wisps, the glowing orb inched, illuminating the beaten pavement ahead. Brighter, blue-ish nights like these held a strange nostalgic power over some, which was enough to draw a soft sigh from the driver’s nose. This atmosphere prompted the twenty-one-year-old, named Ani, to a feeling of loneliness. Of course, he wasn’t alone at present, yet the feeling persisted and filled his chest with a quivering mixture of dread and sadness. There was a shuffling noise beside him, and he turned to find his only sibling awakening from a light, relaxed slumber.

“Where are we going?” said the slumped passenger, rubbing one eye and squinting the other. There was obvious confusion in that youthful voice, forcing a false laugh from his brother.

“Hah! You must’ve been out cold. I just took the scenic route home. We’re not too far away now.” These sarcastic words normally put the inquiring counterpart at ease, but this time, he persisted.

“No, like what road is this? I -I don’t think I’ve ever been…” He paused. With a light groan, Jack twisted up in his seat, scanning the surrounding scenery. His older brother finally turned to survey the confused kid, waiting for him to complete his thought. He never did. That was when Adi’s smile became legitimate, finding genuine amusement in the apparent discombobulation. This went on, and Jack began muttering under his breath.

“What’s your deal?” said the older boy, breaking the silence with a poorly suppressed chuckle. When he received no answer, he shook his head rhythmically. The delusional fellow must have fallen back asleep now. Adi was under this impression for at least a minute until suddenly…

“Bella’s okay, right?”

Jack’s concerned voice froze the driver in an instant. Both hands gripped the wheel like iron, heart skipping a beat. His breathing became choppy as he processed the recent words.

“What do you mean,” he stuttered. The attempted facade of composure was not effective enough for the clearly worried younger brother. Jack glared at Adi with a look of upset inquiry, racking his brain as if failing to remember something. “Bella?”

Entering a heavily misted stretch in the road, Adi lifted his boot a little off the accelerator. He hadn’t heard the name of his brother’s girlfriend in nearly eight months.

“Why wasn’t she there tonight? Wh- what is going on? Adi I can’t…” said Jack.

“Bella who? Our cousin Bella? I’m not sure —” his voice trembled.

“No, not her… it’s something — shoot, why can’t I — remember?” Adi felt the panic welling up. The doctors hadn’t prepared him enough for this, and he had no words to calm the deluge of emotion striking his brother. He feared nothing would soothe him now. Stupid treatment, stupid doctors, stupid decision, he thought. Jack continued to mumble under his breath, and it would surely get worse if he —

It was then that Adi remembered back to the first informational meeting he and his parents attended. The doctor, called Greene, had given them a brief lecture on the dangers of the treatment. He explained it was not tried-and-true, the method, and would not work without the weekly pills for upkeep. Adi also remembered the hypothesis of what would happen if Jack suddenly broke out of the “Memory Deficiency Core”, as they called it. The grief which this treatment removed was not gone forever, only delayed. The feelings of sadness, trauma, guilt and anything else would continue as though the traumatic event had just taken place. Adi knew they shouldn’t have accepted this seemingly inhumane antidote, seeing it as an unworthy risk. The hope that Jack would forget his accident forever was shattered as the memories came flooding back. If nothing changed, he would remember it all.

The older brother’s foot resumed its pressure of the gas pedal as Jack’s breathing heaved quicker and quicker.

“Something happened, Adi, what…” began the poor boy, flinging hands over head. He ran ten scrawny fingers through a dome of curly hair, brow twisted in distress. The feelings were returning, yet he still hadn’t remembered why. “What did I do? What did I do?"

“Nothing Jacky. You’re still dreaming. Go back to- ”

“No, no no. It was horrible…” he released an anxious groan. “It’s my fault.”

Adi took this opportunity, shifting slightly to fit his brother into view. He spoke now in a low monotone.

“What’s your fault? I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” There was silence as Adi steered the vehicle around the last curve, soon to reach their destination. Surely his parents knew how to combat this tricky conundrum. The lack of noise made him cringe, as he could hardly imagine what his brother was recollecting now.

Skeeee.

The car came to a halt with brakes screaming. There was still no sound from the subject in the passenger seat. Just when he thought this nightmare had blown over, he heard a subtle sob from his loved-one. And again, a gasp under his breath.

“O-oh Lord.” The teenager’s voice was a whisper, low and wavering. Not a hair on his body moved. His brother knew what had just occurred and unknowingly held his breath. Staring out the windshield, with a single bead of sweat escaping down his brow, Jack opened his mouth to speak.

“I killed her” was barely audible.

It was over.

He had remembered.

With a slightly malevolent grin, the crooked man took his perch atop the roof‘s only seat. The small, wooden bench from carvèd oak made a creaking at his doing so. And now he waited.

With nothing better to do, and no sign of untimely disturbance, he crouched. It wouldn’t be long now.

The promise, so fantastical, so magical in nature, rang out inside his brain. No one else knew, no one else cared, so he waited.

He would get his wish, his less-than-humble desire. He would get all he ever wanted. For that, he waited.

The sun had now begun to set on the tail-end of this long foretold day, and a spike of doubt pecked its way into the figure‘s soul. When that pang grew, morphing into an awful talon of dread, he began to feel hope slipping away. As he contemplated climbing down from his rooftop abode, he felt the brush of breezy wings on his back.

“Ah,” he remembered, “an owl never arrives on time.”

“It’s 11:55 Ray, we saved a sparkler or two for you.”

Upon hearing this familiar voice, the man at the desk drew a breath. He lifted his head out of his hands at a snail’s pace, resting a tired gaze on the woman in the doorway. Through the tangled locks, he observed his lone supportive companion, the only one who remained. Now the poor being observed the surrounding wasteland through dark, stressed eyes. The paper stacks, books, binders and folders, all full of strange pictures, hieroglyphics, scribbles, proofs, and theories. The empty cups, plastic plates and utensils, all like rotting bones under the humming fluorescent lights. It seemed the anxiety which filled the past three years had now reached a torturous peak.

“I- I can’t,”. His voice was barely audible. “I have to wait.” The standing figure’s face distorted with disappointment as her last-stitch effort fell short. There was loud silence now, as the whirring of the lights continued to fill the room. The pretty woman adjusted her footing at the entrance of the room and bit her lip to keep the tears inside. “I just thought-”. Unable to continue, she slowly rotated and began her exit.

“I’m really sure this time.” said the man with more effort and volume. It caused his friend to halt abruptly and her shoulders slumped. The shaky sigh from his best friend nearly broke the man’s heart right there. As she cracked open the door leading downstairs, there was a resonating flow of laughter. Many voices were audible, merging into a merry melody of enjoyment on the floor below.

“Please Jill, I know he’s coming, please.” His voice trailed off into a whisper, unable to suppress the whelming emotion any longer. He observed as his friend struggled also to hold back the tears. Through blurry eyes he saw her turn, brow bent in furrowed frustration.

“Why can’t you see it? No one knows when he’s coming back. No one. It’s not the end of the world!” She said, unable to continue with the impending sobs. With a quivering lip, the woman quickly began her descent back to reality below. Now the man’s head fell once again into his palms. His hunched back shook with every sob until there were no more drops left to fall.

According to the mechanical time-teller on the nearby wall, it was two minutes before midnight: a time when the eternity of waiting would conclude. The time when all the research, all the late nights, and all the endless strife would be proven either worth it, or a waste. For a trio of years, he had longed for and dreaded this day- the dawn of the 21st century. He questioned the confidence that had built up deep in his heart over these forlorn years. He had given up all hope of a normal life in order to pursue his wild fantasy of a prediction. If the Savior would not return in two dreadful minutes, at the stroke of midnight, he would have no more reason to live. So he sat, awaiting his dubious introduction into the kingdom of Heaven.

Now, however, he glanced hopelessly through the cracked door, left ajar by his closest comrade. He found himself in a limbo of decision, with two paths in front of him. The musty, forsaken scene around him was a desolate landscape of pain and hope, simultaneously. Down the flight of stairs was a place of elated celebration. Celebration of something known, something set, and something guaranteed. Down that single flight of stairs was a party of truth, and a gathering of like-minded friends. He longed for that. He wished for something guaranteed. But he had come too far to give up on his prophecy now… he had to see it through.

It was a little over a minute until midnight, and the bulbs overhead still buzzed a melancholy tone. This was when the memories began flooding in, like a dam had broken inside his mind. A flow of past arguments came rushing, overwhelming the sad, huddled figure. He remembered when he first stopped attending church, and the calls he received in search of explanation. He heard the voice of his father and the words he spoke near the beginning of this madness: Not one man knows when he will return. Give it up before it’s too late. Well, now it was too late, no matter what the greatest influences in his life would say. How many people had called him crazy? How many had abandoned him along the way? All the events leading to his downward spiral of insanity came to him at once.

With straining, he lifted his head to that clock, with its hands of destiny ticking. Thirty seconds remaining. Soon enough, the beings below would begin their chanting, every word bringing him closer to his impending doom.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-five.

Overwhelming doubt attacked at the helpless form, its pangs of dread like daggers in his flesh. He pleaded with the God he thought he knew, asking for Him to once again send down His son. Verses of hypocritical prayer left his lips as beads of sweat dampened his brow.

Twenty-one.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

There were no more words to be uttered, and his focus shifted to the window at his side. The view created from this opening was of hellish darkness and gloom. There was nothing to be seen at the moment, but he sat in expectation of a glorious illumination.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

The chanting grew louder, synchronized in cheerful anticipation.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

This was it. He had not only reached the precipice of no return; he had jumped and now found himself free-falling with no influence on the outcome of this action. The only hope was that there was some sweet relief to cushion his fall.

Five.

Four.

Three.

A set of bloodshot eyes closed tightly.

Two.

One.

Silence.

There was a sudden flash of light, like the sun had collided with Earth. A ringing shot through the man’s ears as he shrieked in terror. Fading in and out of consciousness, he gripped and crawled along the ground. With superhuman effort, he blinked furiously and stared upwards from his place near the floor. There was a glimpse of a man, wrapped in that light, and then all went to black.

He woke, but kept his eyes glued shut. Disorientation plagued his brain, and he clawed at the ground once more. Then, in a moment of stabbing realization, he jerked up into a sitting position. Blink opened his eyes, quickly adjusting back to the gloom. He had been right. He had succeeded. His years and years of work had proven… worth it?

There was no buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs, and no chanting of the friends below. There were no cheerful laughs and no signs of life at all. Nothing suggested the man wasn’t entirely and utterly alone. There was a pounding, a thumping in his breast. His eyes grew wide and desperate. Another flash ensued, but this one seemed dim and orange compared to the heavenly beam that preceded it. Whipping his head towards the window, he exhaled a sharp gasp. There was the moon, glowing a bright red, and taunting him through the cotton clouds.

It’s not the end of the world!

The woman’s words sprung to his mind instantly, and he cried out in horror. In surrender, the man fell to his knees.

She was wrong. It was the end of the world…

… But he had been left behind.