00: In Too Deep
April 10, 2013
 
 
It was another illusion. Or maybe a hallucination, he wasn't sure. His hazel orbs, tinted with gray, saw only red. It dripped below his forehead, cheeks, gravitating toward his chin and onto his chest; the crimson drops falling down pale skin and onto the sheets below.
 
He wanted to close his eyes and believe it was nothing but a dream, a deception of his making.
 
But he even saw the glistening crimson with his eyes wound tightly shut. The image was vivid in his mind's eye.
 
Blake opened them at once, hands grasping the sheet, clenching it as he hugged it closer to himself. The blood continued to cascade down his body while making a pool of the liquid around him, surrounding and enveloping, sinking into his bed and bleeding into his clothes. It was an abnormally cold sensation.
 
It wasn't real. This wasn't possible. It was solely in his head, a lucid dream, deafening, spinning out of control.
 
Yet, those silent whispers did nothing to ease his straining heart. Every night. This phenomenon happened at the same time--around midnight--no matter where he was or what he was doing.
 
He could feel his sanity slipping and his heart tearing in half. The illusions, coupled with a severe migraine, did nothing but leave an unending ache that seeped into his very being. It was a nightmare he feared he would never wake from, forever caged inside the hell created by no one other than himself, forever shrinking until there was nothing left.
 
Blake reached up to rub his face, nearly screaming when his hand went right through his skin, transparent, dull, and missing whatever made it solid.
 
"Damn it! This is not real." He chanted that line over and over again, muttering it as he lay on his side. He wrapped the blanket around him, the red-stained material lost on the ground by his bed, feeling less comforted by the warmth than he dared admit. His body continued to tremble and convulse, the movements now uncontrollable, unfathomable and unreal.
 
Blake was locked in a prison he created, suffering for reasons he couldn't fathom. His physical body succumbed to the torture, the suffering, day after day. His mental capacity was thinning at an alarming rate. It felt as if he was being consumed, like someone was eating away at his cortex, nibbling gradually as if savoring the slow descent.
 
It was when he finally fell asleep that the moon bathed him in its light from the window, showing nothing but white, and a dark shadow that loomed over the side of the bed. The figure hovered over him, its coal-colored fingers wrapping around Blake's neck.
2: 01: Doppelgänger
01: Doppelgänger
September 10, 2012
 
 

He was leaving reality behind. That's what it felt like to him, anyway. The days were blending together and it was hard to differentiate one from the other- school, work, studying, exams, chores, and even sleeping was all blurring together into one daily mess: his life.

Instead of reading, something he normally did to pass the time, he spent most of his day working at the local bookstore. Even being surrounded by things he loved, Blake couldn't keep up the facade of being happy anymore. His smiles were always fake, pushed out and overall strained. It fooled most people and that was enough for him.

His shift ended early and he left with just enough time to head out into the city. New York was crowded at night, but he knew he'd have to steel himself if he wanted to make it to the book signing of his favorite author. People of all shapes and sizes crowded the streets, and it was only by sheer luck that the family owned bookstore he was headed to was right inside the city limits.

The wind was cold against his exposed skin, the remnants of summer almost nonexistent. The beginning of September was always the busiest month for him. With college starting back up and the chilly weather coming in, he often found himself sick with something, whether it be a cold or the seasonal flu. Even after twenty-two years, his body was still weak, and instead of getting better, he only found himself missing more out of life.

The door jingled as he made his way in the bookstore. The only thing alerting Blake that he was in the right place was a poster on the wall labeled "Book-signing Today" in handwritten letters. It was sloppy and it looked more like a toddlers font than anything else.

The line was stretched out from the first bookshelf and five tables down. It wasn't crowded at all, but that was expected since he came at the last minute. Even if right outside the building people were huddled together, inside the store was the complete opposite. It felt like he was in a world apart from his own. It was crazy to think a door separating the two could make so much of a difference.

Blake kept his hands in his pockets and waited in the slowly diminishing line.

The author was a kind enough lady. She was older, in her mid-fifties and it showed: unkempt shoulder-length ginger hair curled around her face while too many freckles adorned her olive complexion. A shirt that looked like it was meant for a fifteen year old hugged her upper body tightly, showing off more than he ever wanted to see of her. Thick-rimmed glasses laid next to her pen, and he caught himself wondering why she didn't have them on, other than the obvious "they get in the way" or "they make me look too old." He would admit to liking her writing, but her looks were another story.

She left him a note in his newly-purchased book. He saw the heart next to her name along with her number, and despite feeling intimidated, Blake smiled and thanked her.
There were more people behind him still waiting their turn as he slid past them and made his way back to the front, noting that the line had made it all the way to the entrance. He was tempted to stay and read, but shook his head no as soon as the thought passed his mind.

Blake's shoulder collided with someone at the entrance. He quickly turned around to apologize, stopping short when he came face to face with himself.

His eyes widened and a muffled "sorry" passed his lips, but otherwise he couldn't move or say anymore. Dark brown hair, unnatural murky yellow eyes with a touch of gray, a sharp jaw line and curved nose-it was a split image of his own person. The thought that he had a lost twin was an explanation, albeit a flimsy one considering he was an only child to a deadbeat dad and a mom who passed away when he was born.

The stranger was the first to break eye contact. With a raised eyebrow and an amused look, the Blake look-a-like caught up to the line that had become smaller in the (what felt like minutes) seconds they had encountered one another.

Blake kept his sight forward, fearing what he would see if he chanced a look back.

He headed home with a heavy head and a surreal feeling that floated around him. It wasn't that unusual to find someone that had similar features to yourself, but that stranger didn't have just that; they looked exactly like him. What were the chances they would be at the same place and at the same time?

The street lights lit the path home. Normally Blake would be rushing home to slip into more comfortable clothes and read on his bed by the window, but he was lost in a world of his own creation, replaying a few seconds of time over and over again.

The only sign that proved he was still somewhat in reality was Blake covering his head with the red hood of his jacket as the sky opened up and rain drops nestled on strands of brown hair.

A dull, throbbing pain made its home in his forehead, mostly forgotten in the throws of the storm raging above.
3: 02: Memento Mori
02: Memento Mori
 
September 14, 2012
 
 
For the past couple of days, Blake had found it hard to sleep. More than once he would stay up through the night, feet hanging off the bed, sheets askew, eyes staring up at the ceiling, the demons in his head calculating impossible scenarios over and over. They usually ended with him either dead or inert - technically the same thing.
 
Now he found himself hunched over a medical journal, courtesy of his Anatomy and Physiology teacher. Every couple of minutes he would drift off, only to wake up with a jerk when his head slipped out of his hand. He couldn't concentrate; those sleepless nights were to blame.
 
It had been over a week since the incident at the bookstore, but besides his lack of shuteye, and the slight throbbing in his head along with it, life had returned to normal.
 
With a sigh, finally realizing, or admitting he wasn't going to get any studying done, he packed up his things and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He weaved his way between the assortment of students and chairs, stopping only when a girl blocked his path.
 
"Excuse me," he said and tapped her on the shoulder.
 
The girl whirled around, long black hair almost whipping him in the face. Black eyes stared him down, contemplating, watching him until thin eyebrows relaxed and the girl stepped aside.
 
Blake nodded his head in thanks, but couldn't shake the eerie feeling that she watched him leave. Like clockwork, his imagination ran at the ghostly awareness that sparked when thinking of what he now called his 'other self'.
 
He vigorously shook his head in hopes of easing those memories, even if only a minuscule amount. He remembered hearing something on the radio about how there was at least two of every person. It sounded far-fetched, and thinking back on it, the commercial continued with something about facial cream for a younger-looking you. He lamented, the subject better forgotten.
 
The crisp fall air assaulted his exposed skin upon exiting the school library. It was late in the evening, and after treading the usual path, he noticed the streets were quiet. Nothing unusual for a Monday night. A car horn beeped in the distance, drowning out the monotonous pitter-patter of rain as his ears focused on the more potent cacophony. Another beep followed by someone screaming profanities he could not make out, partially due to distance, mostly due to his lack of caring.
 
He arrived at his fourth floor apartment without issue and searched his bag for the key while wiping his black boots on the welcome mat. Although he feigned ignorance when anyone asked him if he was a neat freak, it was safe to say they were right.
 
The entrance of his comfortable two bedroom apartment greeted him along with the hall light, dark yellows reflecting onto the walls and enlarging any shadow it touched. The sound of the TV floated into his ears and it was obvious he had a visitor. It took more than he would like to admit to contain his sigh. He was doing a lot of that lately.
 
Without even glancing toward the living room, Blake made it a point to be extra loud as he threw his book-bag in the chair at the dining room table, an expensive red oak piece he indulged in last year. He grabbed a brown coaster off of it, and with aimed precision from years of practice, chucked it at the lump laying on his couch.
 
"Ow, dammit, what the hell!"
 
A messy blond tuft of hair peeked out from underneath Blake's favorite fleece blanket, emerald orbs looking over at him. "Welcome home, baby."
 
Blake exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Turn off the hall light next time you decide to make yourself at home in my apartment."
 
"That's going to cost one round on you at the bar tonight. What'dya say?" The serious tone Leon tried to take made him roll his eyes.
 
Blake went straight to the fridge, remembering the donut he had specifically saved for after classes.
 
"Has my offer left you speechless?"
 
"Stop messing around." Blake continued to dig through the refrigerator, hands searching and eyes wandering as he tried to spot the raspberry-filled donut. "Did you see my donut in here?"
 
"Mmm," was all he got in reply.
 
Blake peered around the wall to see Leon reaching for a bag, no, the bag he had gotten from the bakery down the street yesterday.
 
"You ate my donut, didn't you." His eyes narrowed. It wasn't a question. Leon helped himself to anything and everything in his kitchen as if it were his own, and while Blake was happy he had someone he was so close with, he deeply regretted it at times like this.
 
"I was doing you a favor since It was sitting in there all lonely next to a half-eaten sandwich." Leon crumpled the bag between his fingers. "It was going bad..."
 
Blake tried not to snort at the comment. "This Friday, two donuts, my work."
 
"What?!" the blond practically yelled. "I have a date this Friday. Nope, no can do, buddy." Blake wondered why bringing food to his work would ruin said date, but opted against saying anything, not trying to rouse an argument.
 
"You and your date better like to read," was all Blake bothered to reply. The task of finding something else to eat was at the forefront of his mind, but even after sifting through all the contents the fridge had to offer, he was less-than satisfied. He shut the fridge door--harder than he thought, possibly annoyed at losing his dessert--and sat down next to Leon on the couch, absentmindedly wiggling his toes in the plush carpet.
 
His friend was sitting up now and had the blanket wrapped continuously around his body, looking less like a man in his twenties and more like a child.
 
"So. . . how about that bar I mentioned?" Leon sounded hopeful, even desperate.
 
Blake purposely kept silent. He knew better than anyone that it irritated Leon to no end, and soon enough he would be spouting anything, mostly nonsense, to get Blake to change his mind. Oddly enough, he was staying mute.
 
The silence lulled Blake into a sense of tepid comfort, washing away the anxieties from the harsh reality of life. The TV flickered a few feet away from him, the flashing lights acting like hypnosis, capturing his attention as he stared aimlessly into the depths of the screen. It wasn't until Leon spoke again that he snapped back into existence.
 
"-donut?"
 
"What?" Blake asked, clearly missing the first half of what ever Leon had said.
 
Leon crumpled his nose and squeezed his eyebrows together. "Are you okay?"
 
"Yeah, just. . . fine. Tired. What was it you said?" That dull, pulsing ache was back in his forehead.
 
He gave Blake a funny look, but didn't mention it further. "If you go to the bar with me, I'll uh, buy you a donut?"
 
"Are you really trying to bribe me with something that was mine in the first place?"
 
"Would you just cut me some slack?" Leon crossed his legs and continued to complain. "I texted you and you ignored me, so I decided to wait at your place, but you took forever to come home and so I kinda fell asleep. And maybe ate your donut."
 
"There's no 'maybe ate my donut.' You did." Blake found himself smiling, amused at his friend's antics.
 
"That's not the point. You've been acting weird lately and I figured you just needed to get laid or something." Leon was fidgeting and refused to look Blake in the eye. "So, the bar?"
 
If Leon thought him getting laid would solve all of his problems, than his best-friend was a simple man indeed, but he meant good, and that was enough for him.
 
He pushed the blanket off of Leon's head and flicked him in the forehead. "A raspberry-filled donut."
 
Like a christmas tree, Leon's face lit up. "Yes, of course! Oh, but only one."
 
"Should I ask why?"
 
Leon rubbed where he was hit, but the corner of his lips turned slightly upward. "Remember, my date Friday?"
 
Blake figured it was better not to ask him how a donut, a measly ninety-nine cents, could affect his wallet. Not to mention they were about to go to a bar and spend an unmentionable about on beer.
 
The bar was packed with people. Tacky disco lights lit up the entrance all the way down to the bar, its skittle-assorted colors revealing throngs of males and females alike, each dancing and chatting to the tune being played across the loudspeakers.
 
Blake sat on a bar stool with a donut in-hand, munching away whilst watching everyone around him. He spotted Leon in the distance surrounded by girls, arms flailing around, mouth working a mile a minute. He probably did something stupid again and was trying to make up for it, and while watching him was always entertaining, he wasn't really in the mood.
 
He waved over the bartender and was currently nursing a Green Apple Cider beer. Blake was smart enough to pop a couple Tylenol before leaving the house, noting his headache was less noticeable, but still there, heavy and malaise.
 
A few ladies had approached him, making small talk and showing interest, yet he found it hard to come up with anything to say. He would feign interest before politely fleeing, either finding somewhere else to sit or turning his back on them altogether.
 
Maybe it was the flickering lights, or the constant vibrations on his feet, but after an hour Blake was starting to feel less and less aware. He waved to Leon in the crowd of people, lucky enough his friend was looking his way, and pointed toward the bathroom, giving him a thumbs up when he saw his concerned look. Leon didn't seem amused by the gesture, and after waving off the females he was chatting with, he made his way to Blake.
 
"I'm fine," was Blake's first words when Leon appeared next to him. It was hard to tell if he heard him, the music changing from a slower song to an upbeat one.
"Do you want to leave?" Leon asked, concern evident in his voice. A sudden unexplainable feeling took over Blake, calming his apprehension.
 
"I think I drank too much." An obvious lie, and he didn't think he could fool his blond-haired companion, but knew he would get the underlying meaning: I just need some space.
 
Their bodies were pushed apart when a couple of guys, slurring their words and running into others, broke them apart. The warmth provided by Leon vanished instantly, a creeping cold making its way up Blake's spine and deep into his bones.
 
He shook his head and waved to Leon, motioning for him to go back.
 
Without looking behind him, he sauntered around the inebriated men and women, squeezing through and dodging any advances his way. By the time he made it to the bathroom, he was exhausted.
 
The bathroom was small, containing only one urinal and two stalls. He bypassed them and went straight to the sink, its once white surface now covered in dirt and white powder that lined the edges.
 
The practically burning running water did nothing to ease his conscious nor his frigid skin. His reflection in the glass mirrored how he was feeling, sunken-in eyes with a pale disposition. His headache was replaced with a buzzing sensation that got louder and louder by the second.
 
"This sucks," Blake mumbled to himself and splashed water on his face, the warm sensation doing nothing more than giving him a momentary lapse of quiet from his churning thoughts.
 
The door creaked open, the noise so sudden it had Blake opening his eyes and glancing up, only to be greeted by an entirely different scene.
 
As he looked up, into the mirror, into what was supposed to be his splitting image, he would have screamed at the picture that was instead facing him if he hadn't just suddenly lost his voice.
 
Blood. Rose, tangerine, azure, black blood. His blood? No, no one's blood could be such an array of colors. The bathroom, in the span of a few seconds, had transformed into a blurry mass of a what could only be called hell.
 
Blake reached his hand to his cheeks, stopping short of his actual skin. He was scared to touch it, fear gripping his insides and keeping him from moving anymore, but he had to know if he was real, a corporeal being. This reminded him too much of that day he was trying so hard to forget, the nostalgic, deja vu type of awareness was frightening.
 
Then everything stopped: the pain, scenery, all things simple and complex. His world turned stark white, everything in existence reverting back to what it was at the beginning: nothing.
 
The only thing he could make out was a black shadow gripping his shoulder, staring at his face through the mirror. His body froze, his soul swaying in rejection to whatever had paralyzed him.
 
And then, in the blink of an eye, the world began again, this time the only thing he could visualize ended up being himself, his other self, whispering into his ear. The voice was feathery and smooth, so unlike the intense beating of his own heart.
 
"It's time to take back what's mine."
4: 03: I Tried
03: I Tried

September 14, 2012

 

"Blake, are you okay?" The bathroom door had opened; it was something he had forgotten in his panic. It was the concerned voice of his best friend.

Blake looked up into the mirror, hands shaking beside him, eyes glazed over with dismay and uncertainty, but he was still able to nod in reply. He wanted to say something, anything, to reassure his friend, but his thoughts had ceased and it was hard to form words, interference in the form of being tongue-tied. 

Leon clutched his shoulders and turned him around; his eyes closed at the touch, wondering if that was really Leon or someone, something else, a fabrication. He opened them slowly when his body stopped quivering and focused his vision on the blur before him. 

"Leon?" the questioning tone was impossible to discern.

"You've been in here for a while. I just, eh, came to see if you were okay." He left the end of his sentence in the air, but it was easy enough to guess what else he was going to say -- you've been acting weird all night. 

Blake ran his hand through his hair, noting the hint of sweat at his roots as he glided them down and out.

"I think I'm going to head home," and possibly shower in cold water until he woke up from whatever lucid nightmare he had found himself in. Dread was gradually creeping in and the bathroom suddenly seemed too small. His nerves, already short, seemed to explode and without warning. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had pushed past Leon and shot out of the bathroom.

Leon's perturbed voice reached him through the walls and was drowned out by the slamming of the door. 

"Is that you, Leon?"

Blake whirled around to come face to face with a tanned, petite, blonde-haired woman who had too much make-up and -- funny how he noticed these things when he was tired -- too short a skirt with a tank-top that covered up close to nothing. Despite looking like a girl out of a porno, she was attractive and exactly his friend's type.

Then, suddenly, it hit him that the lady had said Leon's name, and Blake felt even more guilty for making him worry. He had his own agenda for the night, and he doubted "taking care of the insane best-friend" was on his to-do list. It was obvious he already had plans for the remainder of the evening.

"Excuse me," Blake whispered as he moved around her and onto the dance floor. He veered around groups of people and knocked into a few others, muttering a quick apology when needed. There were too many of them, too many to observe. Every couple of seconds he found himself glancing behind to see if his "other self" was there, but was relieved he never was. The sensibility that he was being watched didn't vanish; he had a feeling it never would.

Cigarette smoke assaulted his senses as soon as he exited the bar. A group of smokers huddled together by the door for warmth, chatting aimlessly, sharing stories and laughing loudly. Unlike the people inside, they were covered in sweaters and adorned fingerless gloves.

Blake dug his hands into his pockets and started the walk back to his apartment. The cement in the sidewalk was chipped away in places and covered in graffiti in others. The towering buildings and inky alleyways did nothing to ease his growing anxiety, and his once peaceful walk home became more trouble than the usual enjoyment he got out of it. Instead of clearing his mind, it made his thoughts race.

The lampposts that were supposed to bring comfort to nighttime travelers only made him jump at his shadow or any other dark embodiment that entered his line of sight. The slight possibility that it was something else played in the back of his head, a constant worry he couldn't shake.

His hunched back eased as his apartment building came into sight. The familiar landscape brought a calm he hadn't felt all day. Even though the darkness touched him as he counted the steps to his door, they didn't engulf him. His frantic heartbeat began to revert to a more natural pace. 

An impression of normalcy was all it took to set him at ease.

Unsure if what transpired was real or illusory, he knew that one line breathed into his ear would replay over and over until it drove him into a state of absolute terror. Yet, right now, nothing could sway him from the complete calm he felt. It was abnormal and misplaced, but welcomed nonetheless. He knew his mind was blocking out the unwanted, but he fell for the trap, only wanting to erase the days struggles.

He swore he heard those select words as he fell asleep that night, soft trickles of "I'm going to take back what's mine" on his eardrums.

* * *

It had been over a week since the event at the bar and Leon had made it a point to crowd around Blake. Just having him hover in the vicinity, constantly at his side, had him seriously stressing out more than if he was alone. The trepidation he felt slowly vanished as the days wore on, now just background noise to his everyday workings.

Even now, mid-afternoon, Leon made himself comfortable at Blake's workplace. With his feet kicked up on the chair in front of him and his body leaned back, said friend was napping at one of the bookshops few tables. It was impossible to avoid him at work altogether. It was at times like these his friend showed his intellectual side, yet not when it really mattered.

It wasn't as if he was going to get terminally ill and pass away in the blink of an eye. The last time he was hospitalized had been when he was a teenager, and the sickness had laid dormant ever since. 

"Can you get that for me?" a timid voice asked from somewhere behind him, jerking him back to the present.

A little girl, no more than five years old, pointed to a shelf next to him, it's wooden shelves enveloped in books.

"Which one?" Blake questioned, smiling. Children were innocent in a way that made him envious. He had his childhood snatched away from him, leaving him to wonder what it would have been like to be a normal kid with family outings and school trips. 

"The blue one!" Her voice was lively and cheerful, like sunshine after a foggy day. 

He kneeled down and handed her the book of her choosing, its bright-blue cover painted in different shades upon closer inspection. "Here you go."

"Thank you, mister!"  

He watched her go, waving to her mom in the distance before they walked away. If his mother hadn't of died and if his father would of taken responsibility thereafter, would he have turned out that way too? Jubilant and carefree? Ignorant yet free?

He shook the thought away and decided to concentrate on something he could control. His hazel orbs went straight to Leon before his body followed suit. Trouble was brewing around the bend, and he had every intention of stopping it before it started.

"How long are you going to follow me around?" Blake finally inquired, the annoyed tone in his voice amplified by his irritated look. He had crossed his arms over his chest.

"W-what are you talking about?" So he wanted to play stupid. This wasn't anything new or something he hadn't tried before. Their disagreements often turned into heated arguments before cooling down like ice under hot water.

"I'm fine, you know." It was supposed to be a reassuring line, but instead Leon's face crumpled together in controlled anger.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am." Blake's hands motioned down his slim frame. "Nothing different here."

"You're lying! I know you, Blake, and this is not you."

"And I think I know myself even better. I'm. Fine." This was escalating faster than he imagined. "Don't tell me you skipped out on your date the other night because of some hunch you had about me?"

Leon's fist tightened at his side. "That's none of your business." 

"I can take care of myself, but you, you need to start thinking about yourself. Not everyone is going to give you a second chance." This scene was one of many that repeated themselves, the same arguments, the same weighted phrases in a whirlwind of emotions that played out like a board game of monopoly, seemingly never-ending. 

"This isn't about me, damn it!" 

A cough from behind them interrupted their bickering. It was Blake's manager, and she looked anything but thrilled at their little altercation. 

"You should go," was all Blake could say. He couldn't find it in himself to watch Leon go, but he did feel the impact of his blond companion's shoulder as he knocked into him on his way out.

It was obvious to anyone, including himself, that Leon was only worried. Having seen Blake through the worst of his illness years ago, it was understandable why he was so on edge, frustrated and concerned. But that didn't make it any easier to handle. What was plaguing him now wasn't something he could explain, and even if he did it would only sound insane. How do you tell your best friend you're seeing an exact copy of yourself, haunting your every move?

Even that sounded psychotic to his own ears. 

His world was quiescent now, but the smaller afflictions remained -- headaches and heightened anxiety.

To drown out the misery, the suffering, the apprehension and torment, he did the only thing he knew: stick his head into his books and lose himself in a world where when things went wrong, they always got better. An escape from a time that did nothing but elicit endless anguish. 

Blake brought his hands to his face and crouched down, hands trembling. 

How could he reassure Leon he was okay, when he wasn't even sure of that himself?

Diving In Deep
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5: 04: Denial
04: Denial
September 23, 2012
 
 
 
He felt like the world was out to get him. The days were dragging by, today no different. His college professor, usually captivating, did nothing but lull Blake into dreamland. Even though the lecture was informative enough -- the process of rigor mortis and the decomposition of muscle -- all he could think about was his cozy memory foam bed.
 
Blake took sip after sip of his coffee in a feeble attempt to keep focused, but instead found himself concentrating on how much of his drink he had left and not enough on the teacher. His hand cuffed the foam cup, its inevitable warm exterior a slight comfort.
 
At some point his head had found the lab table, charcoal and cold, blinking out until shaken awake.
 
His classmates talked around him, their feet shuffling around, the occasional bark of laughter was enough to confuse him. Did he manage to sleep thorough the entire class? Another shake, shoulders shifting back and forth. His mind was still fuzzy and his brain lethargic, but he did manage to bring his head up.
 
A girl stood before him, raven-black hair touching the ends of his table, some tickling his skin. It was adversely long.
 
She must have noticed, for she tilted her head back and apologized, her face stayed blank. "Welcome back."
 
Sarcastic too. "Thanks, I think." He wiped the wet spots from the corners of his eyes with his sleeve, darkened circles left behind on the fabric.
 
"Hmm." She paused, tilted her head to the side, and hummed before continuing with a finger pointed at him, neon pink nail-polish right in his face. "You're bleeding."
 
All of the specks of slumber still lingering were swiftly erased. "What?"
 
Blake reached up to touch his skin and jerked his hand back when he felt a moist substance on his fingertips. Garnet in color, the image made his stomach swirl with an unpleasant feeling.
 
Wasting no time to idle, he mumbled a hasty thanks, grabbed his bag next to the chair and dashed out of the classroom. He kept his hand over his nose, what seemed to be the source, until he entered the bathroom down the hall. The white walls and the glossy, square flooring made him feel as if he was in a hospital, probably the last place he wanted to go.
 
The community college was lacking in color and decor, the outcome somewhat painful to his still-adjusting eyes.
 
No one paid him any mind as he jogged to the bathroom, his attention fully on keeping his hand in place along with his wandering thoughts. The psyche was a incomprehensible part of any human, and since he was majoring in Neurology, it was only a matter of time until he had to do some in-depth research on the subject.
 
Someone held the bathroom door for him before leaving themselves. His feet ached, the flimsy, five-year-old pair of Nike's outwore their use a long time ago.
 
Staring back at his persona through unclouded glass, the source of the blood was clear. He grabbed a couple paper towels and sprinkled them with cold water before dabbing the blood around his nose. Some of it was dried while a fresh amount continued to percolate down.
 
His heart was racing, but with relief.
 
Blake subconsciously paid attention to a toilet flushing and a latch being undone behind him.
 
He went to wet another one, this time aiming to peel off the caked on amber on his upper lip. It must have happened while he was sleeping, the cold weather and dry air an acceptable reason for it. Acceptable, not any less threatening.
 
The faucet turned on next to him, instead he blatantly ignored it and continued to scrub the remaining flecks. No matter how much he scrubbed, some of it would not come off. His skin was starting to dry, an encompassing heat around his lips.
 
"Dude, I think you got it all."
 
Startled, Blake shifted back. A lanky, cocksure student peered down at him, eyebrows raised. Unsure of what to say, he dumbly stared back until the stranger shrugged his shoulders and left, mumbling something about idiots.
 
Blake confronted the mirror once again, his eyesight perceiving a thin, fresh line running down his nose and past his lips. The taste of copper lingered.
 
* * *
 
Blake's room was hot. The fan whirled above him, the light breeze it emitted barely touching his skin in a sad attempt at cooling it. In an effort to calm down his body temperature, he removed his thick blue socks and hung his foot over the edge of the bed, socks thrown carelessly on the floor. His arms came above the covers while one rested on his forehead, the other nestled on his comforter.
 
Hazel orbs - usually a chocolate brown in the blackness - watched the monotonous motion of the fan, its constant buzzing ringing in his ears. The dark blue walls reflected his mood; the pitter patter of his heart like a drum.
 
Another sleepless night. He wasn't afraid to sleep, even when night terrors consumed his dreams; it was more like his body refused him that comfort. Even though he couldn't control his dreams, they were often less scary than his reality. At least when he was dreaming, he would always wake up.
 
At that moment, his phone placed atop his nightstand started to somberly play "Jesus bleibt meine Freude," which heightened up the percentage of this being another reason he had so many nightmares. The music itself was enough to send chills and make anyone contemplate their own life while listening to its macabre beat.
 
Without even looking at who was calling, he answered the call with a muffled, "hello" assuming Leon was the only one who bothered to call him at this hour.
 
He was surprised when it was the deep, jagged and raspy voice of his father. For a split second he wondered what he had done wrong to ignite his father's flame so late at night. He hadn't talked to him in months, there was no reason for him to be calling after midnight.
 
"Hello, Father." He hated being so polite to that man, his so-called father: the man wasn't worthy of such a title. At times like these, he wished he wasn't raised to be so polite. Seething, hateful words were at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't dare speak them out loud. His father was anything but pleasant when angry, flickers of past memories were all he needed to swallow words he might regret.
 
Blake gripped his cell phone tightly, sweat accumulating on his palm and sticking to the phone. "It's late, is there something you need?"
 
The other line was quiet, only the sound of static reached his ears, prickling, sending a sense of worry. And then he heard it, each syllable like a needle piercing his already worn flesh. His words, as expected, were clipped and right to the point. Blake silently berated himself for expecting anything else, there was no love to be found in that man.
 
Blake craned his neck to hold the phone against his shoulder while searching his nightstand for a pen. "Just a second," he said, more to ease his father's impatient huff than anything.
 
"I'm ready for it." Blake scribbled down the number as fast as his mind comprehended it, knowing that he would not get to hear it a second time. To someone like his father, you were either considered perfection, or useless.
 
Only four more words were said before the other line clicked and went dead: don't let me down.
 
Blake had an idea of what he was supposed to do, but that didn't mean he accepted it or liked it.
 
He stared down at the paper, each number holding more significance the longer he looked. It was the number to his bank.
 
Anger began to well up, threatening to break free if only given permission, but Blake swallowed the feeling and crumbled up the paper instead.
 
Against Blake's will, he found himself in front of the bank at nine am sharp the next morning. His hands were in a fist in his pockets, the one was holding onto a familiar piece of paper, crinkled and sweaty in his palm. Even though the morning air was chilly, Blake found himself sweating underneath his jacket.
 
No matter how many times he told himself he wouldn't give in to his father's wishes, some things were easier said than done. Year after year of being brought up one way made it near impossible to change, as if his actions were coded into his DNA. One step forward had started a familiar process, one he had hoped was behind him.
 
The inside of the bank smelled like cheap flowery perfume mixed with bleach. Blake wrinkled his nose at the scent. A couple of men in suits stood off to the side, engaged in what looked to be a serious conversation, papers held in their hands, one flicked the side in assumed anger, head shaking.
 
The white linoleum floors often blinded him when the light hit it at just the right angle, intense pasty and gold lights flashing in his line of sight. An island stood near the middle of the room help papers and advertisements for all to see. Uncomfortable looking chairs were placed in front of it.
 
Ignoring the small offices against the wall, Blake made his way to a pudgy lady sitting behind a beige desk, cheeks flushed, mouth moving rapidly while she chewed whatever food she had snuck in. A bucket of assorted flavored suckers and other hard candies lay off to his right, mostly full. Nothing caught his eye.
 
The transaction was smooth, as expected, but Blake couldn't help but fidget while awaiting the money. It was a large amount and it was hard to miss the worker's raised eyebrow when he spoke it aloud. The Trust Fund he received when he was eighteen led to most of the arguments between him and his father. He knew his father wouldn't accept him, even if he gave him all of the money he owned, but Blake felt less guilty after trying.
 
She returned minutes later with an envelope in hand. Thick fingers produced the money and started to count it in front of him. Just knowing who he had to give it to left an ill feeling in his gut. Leon had asked him on more than one occasion when he was going to stand up to his father, but it wasn't a inquiry he had an answer to.
 
"Two-thousand and you're all set to go." The woman before him smiled while pushing the envelope towards him, the front labeled "NY Bank" in emerald. "Have a nice day."
 
Blake nodded back numbly, thoughts still swirling. It wasn't until he stepped back outside that his head cleared. Maybe, just this one, he would hold onto the money for a little while. He knew it would only agitate his father, yet he wasn't ready to give away the money his mother had worked so hard for to ensure he had some semblance of a future. Did she know this would happen? Was Blake's unease toward his father not unneeded?
 
He started home, not getting very far when a familiar face caught his eye. The girl he had seen yesterday, the one in his Anatomy and Physiology class, stood before him, back resting against the brick wall, hands twirling a pen around her fingers. The bright pink nail polish stood out among the gray around them. As if noticing someone's stare, she looked up, onyx slits studying him.
 
The silence was anything but comfortable, Blake unable to find anything to say. The way she held his gaze frightened him, as if his thoughts were brazenly obvious for all to see. Dread started to consume him, the thought to run before she read him completely a not-so-distant idea. The money felt like dead weight in his hand.
 
"It's not worth it." The words were said slowly and without restraint, a bored tone lacing each one. Her features stayed the same, flat and humdrum.
 
Without another look Blake's way, the girl pushed off the wall and started to walk away, dark hair dancing wildly behind her, pen tossed to the side hitting the sidewalk without a noticeable sound. He found it bizarre that she donned a skirt in September, then again, Blake never truly understood anything about women.
 
His legs must have had a mind of their own, because before he knew it they had carried him to stand behind her - without much thought of the consequences. Blake grabbed her arm, silently noting how thin her forearm was. He had to know what she meant.
 
Instead of getting hit, like he suspected, or having a slew of cuss words thrown his way, the girl before him turned to face him, head tilted, the start of a smile tugging at her lips. Blake's grip faltered and she let her arm fall to her side.
 
She nodded her head, as if confirming something, the notion easily missable unless she had ones full attention. Another glance at his face showed that her prior mood - he started to wonder if he imagined that smile - disappeared and was replaced with her previous monotonous stare.
 
He heard her click her tongue before taking off. Blake didn't have the energy to stop her, although he watched her until she was out of sight, oddly entranced by whatever she knew, or didn't know.
 
There was no way she perceived what was going on, but her words stung, striking closer to home than probably intended.
 
The money creased between his tight fist, squeezing as hard as he could, letting his frustration out. He would hold onto the money a while longer, if only to spite the one person on this planet he truly loathed with newfound courage.
6: 05: "See you tomorrow"
05: "See you tomorrow"
October 9th, 2012
 
 
 
The peaceful day he had planned was ruined. Blake glared over at his best-friend who sat across from him, chair kicked back, a goofy half-smile on his face. Leon was too engulfed in whatever comic he was reading to indulge Blake, but that didn't make him any less annoyed.
 
He returned his attention to his homework. After a couple more minutes of idly tapping his pencil on the desk, Blake relented, not in the mood to study anymore. He needed a break, maybe some coffee and a snack to get him back on track. The library was quiet, unusual for a Thursday night, but welcome nonetheless. The aimless chatter that normally bugged him was missing. He glanced back up at Leon. It was too bad one problem always ended up replaced with another.
 
As if noticing someone was staring at him, Leon took his eyes away from his book to turn them on Blake. He waved his comic in the space in front of him to keep his attention, loose pages swinging swinging back and forth, head tilted toward the exit. His friend read his thoughts. He wanted to take a few minutes to gather his thoughts before putting his nose back in the books, so he nodded in confirmation before standing up.
 
They sat on a sofa right outside the college library. Blake's vision took a minute to adjust to the illuminating lights in the hall; the dimness in the library spoiled him. Now he was back in the real world, a headache he felt coming earlier pushed its way forward, a mellow strain against his skull.
 
"This sucks. Why are we here again?" Leon sounded anything but happy though Blake could hear the hidden playfulness in his voice.
 
"I'm here to study."
 
Leon snorted. "Like you do anything else."
 
"I take offense to that," Blake huffed, shoving his index finger in the blond's space. "Knowledge is--"
 
"Yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah, anyway." He swatted Blake's hand away.
 
"I'm never going to forgive you at this rate." Which was true, considering Blake still judged Leon for that fight a couple weeks back at his job. His manager was anything but understanding, and he got stuck with register duty for the rest of the week.
 
It was all pointless banter, but he might have opened the floodgates to something deeper. Leon, despite his outgoing, tough personality, was nothing but a softy underneath that rough exterior. He knew Leon only acted the way he did because he cared, and that was more than anyone else had ever given him.
 
"I already apologized." He said it like that was end-of-argument material, but he should have known it wasn't.
 
"To my manager," Blake argued, arms now folded across his chest. "And she still doesn't forgive you."
 
"Who cares about her," Leon mumbled, a spark, missing before, now evident in his emerald orbs. "Now if that one worker, uh, what was her name again. The brunette?"
"What does this have to do with my apology?"
 
Leon stopped and dropped his hand to his chin, thinking. "I really wanted her number, man."
 
Blake sighed, louder than he intended, but it got Leon's attention. "Are you done?"
 
He raised an eyebrow, proving he considered the notion. Blake decided it was better not to give him time to think. Nothing good ever came of it. He fished into his jacket and came back out with a five dollar bill and shoved it in Leon's face. "Coffee. With Cream, preferably hazelnut."
 
"I think I deserve to be forgiven after this." It was an offhanded comment, one Blake chose to ignore. Realizing he wasn't getting an answer, he shook his head and left, hands in his jeans. He looked like a pouting kid.
 
It was not intentional, but Blake was being stubborn and refused to forgive Leon. Even though the only crime he was guilty of was caring, it was hard to accept his help. Blake felt like this was his issue, and no matter how many times he mulled over, it never felt right to bring Leon into it. They strained to keep their friendship the same as it always had been, but the awkward moments were still there, sucking up the comfortable aura that once surrounded them.
 
He interfered in Leon's life enough. His best-friend could think whatever he wanted, but Blake was doing this for him. Or at least, he thought he was.
 
Leon returned a couple minutes later, coffee in one hand, chocolate in the other. He wanted a truce, for now, and Blake was more than willing to accept it. One day he knew he would have to confront the blond, but today was not that day.
 
Thirty minutes was too long a break. Now Blake was having a harder time concentrating than before. His headache was less prominent with the dim lights, even if it was still there like a leech. Leon got up to use the bathroom, but fifteen minutes passed and he still hadn't returned. The thought that he abandoned him crossed his mind, but it left just as quick. Leon was a popular guy, so getting stopped by someone he knew was highly probable. The only problem was that it left Blake alone to stew in his own thoughts.
 
He had been keeping a lot from Leon lately, his father and his weird nightmares the bigger issues. His father had yet to contact him, to this moment he still debating if that was a blessing in disguise or not, the former sounded better to his ears. Blake had yet to see that strange girl since that one time at the bank. She was conveniently missing from his Anatomy and Physiology class ever since.
 
He never lied to Leon, but that was a crappy point that did not make him feel any better about it.
 
At some point he lost himself in the wonders of the Parasympathetic Nervous system. He failed to notice someone had taken the seat in front of him until he reached for his tea on the table. Glaring black eyes tore into his own, which at that point he imaged to be a light brown sparkling with yellow given the lighting.
 
Blake became tempted to open up a conversation, their last encounter still lively in his mind's eye, but she had a book open in front of her and refused to acknowledge his presence again.
 
The feeling of being confined hit him hard then, his breathing hitching in his throat. The sensation was so abrupt that he didn't have time to prepare. He could sense her eyes settle on him again, but did not dare look up. It felt like he was having a mini panic attack. He fisted his shirt, the area near his crazed heart, and took in deep breaths. His once dull headache was now pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, an unbearable pain seeping into every part of his being. Flashes of places he had never visited, or assumed since they looked anything but familiar, passed in front of him at lightning speed.
 
It felt like his blood was boiling and navigating the disturbance around his body. He forced his eyes shut, the searing pain behind his eyelids enough to make him faint. He felt detached from reality. Skin, as white as a ghost, tore apart from the inside out. The clothes encasing his smaller frame felt like pins and needles with every slight contact with his skin.
 
It was when he felt a hand on his--the one still on the table trying to hold firm to the world of the living--that his world calmed. Blake took a moment to get himself together before facing the girl again, the only one in his vicinity to become so close in that short amount of time. His attention focused on her frigid fingers while he reverted his eyes to her.
 
A molten, ash-colored iris still lingered on him. He must have looked shaken up if not insane. The effects from whatever episode he just had still lingered, although held back compared to before like the eye of a storm. His body trembled in small fits. His hand on the table lay still as if absorbing her calm facade.
 
"Lisa." That was the second time he heard her speak. He assumed it was her name, but couldn't focus enough to be positive.
 
"Um, it's Blake." Her hand was still on his. It was as if she knew what he was thinking because she moved it to hold her book instead. When she didn't reply, scared she might not have heard, he repeated it again," My name; it's Blake."
 
Lisa blinked before replying with a simple," I know." As if that explained everything, she went back to ignoring him.
 
Time kept ticking by, neither saying a word. He forgot she was there as he made considerable progress on his notes. The panic from earlier vanished, but a touch still lingered. He had no plans to recognize its presence anytime soon.
 
Abruptly, out of nowhere, Lisa stood up. Her chair was shoved back, its' wooden frame inches away from a passing student who elicited a sharp gasp. More than a few people eyed their table.
 
"Someone's been following you." It was out of the blue, and if it wasn't for how quiet the library was, he could have sworn he misheard her. She gathered up her things and left without another word.
 
Out of curiosity he watched her go, only to see Leon standing there with an unreadable expression plastered on his face. He turned on his heel and bolted as soon as their eyes met, a flat look giving away nothing. Blake knew better; it gave away everything.
 
He refused to let people get close to him, not that many wanted to either. Blake didn't pride himself on being a popular guy. But, with the way Leon was looking at him, he knew he made a mistake. Somehow, somewhere, he messed up.
 
Blake let someone else in, leaving his friend on the sidelines. He wasn't stupid, and it hit him that his blond companion had been there for longer than just a few seconds. It was likely he saw everything. From the outside looking in, it was hard to imagine how innocent it did not seem. He failed to understand what was running through Leon's mind, but he had a fair idea.
 
Leon was his rock, his best-friend, companion, the one who had been there when no one else had or refused to be. Something else was stirring in the blond's head to make him act that way, and yet, Blake was so caught up in himself he never noticed how much Leon was hurting or even why. Did Leon lean on him as much as Blake had?
 
Creeping, bit by bit, he was losing a part of himself, the parts that made the shattered bits worth holding onto. The ticking of his watch became redundant and loud, resonating in the quiescence that surrounded him.
7: 06: Standing Still
06: Standing Still
October 24th, 2012
 
 
 
"You think I'm possessed?" Blake was baffled by the idiotic question and annoyed at the same time.
 
"Yeah, probably." She took a bite of the apple cradled in her hands. It didn't look like she cared to elaborate on her theory, but Blake continued to stare at her in bewilderment. The feel of someone's eyes on her must have made her glance back at him, but soon gave a noncommittal shrug and went back to her snack.
 
He had once again found her sitting in the library, at what he considered his table. It was decided before he sat down that he would ignore her and get his lab essay done. Easier said than done, for as soon as he got comfortable obscene ideas came out of her mouth.
 
She was unusually talkative, although he continued to indulge her, somewhat baffled by her theories. For not knowing anything about him at all, she sure seemed to know a lot.
 
Blake rolled the idea around in head, but nothing shouted "possession" at him. The signs weren't there, and even the ones that were close to his case fell to the wayside, mostly unimportant.
 
"It's not possible," Blake concluded out loud. "Where did you get that idea anyway?"
 
Lisa pointed behind him. "He's still following you."
 
He turned, seeing nothing but an empty row of books and a couple students talking quietly. "That's a really bad joke." Blake refused to show the relief on his face. It was true, he constantly felt like someone was watching him lately. He chalked it up to feeling guilty about withholding money from his father.
 
She didn't say anything to that thought, but her quiet "hmm" was enough to show she was thinking about it.
 
They spent another half hour in silence before she spoke again. "Doppelgänger." It was only one word, but it sent his heart pounding.
 
"What did you just say?"
 
She raised an eyebrow, positive he had heard her. The apple was down to its core, petite fingers twirling it by the stem over and over. Though she got bored fast, twirling it off the table and to the floor below. The quiet thump ended her entertainment, the bored expression back in full effect on her features.
 
Getting anything out of her was always a challenge, one Blake was starting to really loathe. He knew repeating his question would only annoy her and keep her lips sealed, but his frustration was winning out over his sensibility.
 
"Lisa." She hated when he called her by his name (even if he wasn't sure why), although he got the reaction he wanted, glare included.
 
"It's a superstition. Look it up." She made a shooing motion with her hand before laying her head down on the table, signifying she was done talking and ready for a nap.
Lisa didn't give him much to go on, but it was enough until she woke up. Trying to get her to talk when she fell into this mood was useless; she only spoke when she deemed it necessary, and now she was done. He'd use the free time to research this so-called superstition - they were in a library after all, sources abound.
 
The back section of the library was dusty and had an old book smell to it that reminded Blake of his childhood. He knew the library like the back of his hand, but this section was a little more unfamiliar to him. He never found a use for mythology in his scientific studies at the university.
 
There wasn't anything specifically explaining a doppelgänger theory, but he did come across a book labeled "nōmināre" wedged in between two other titles. It was at times like this where his Latin class came in handy. The word nōmināre was latin meaning "no name". He flipped the book over, noting the yellowed pages. The summary was less-than exciting and nothing stood out, but the last paragraph had the magic word he was looking for in it.
 
By the time he made it back to the table, Lisa was nowhere to be found. In the few weeks he had been talking to her, her little quirks had come out and rubbed off on him. Now he just ignored them, more or less realizing she was odd in her own way and left it at that.
 
Blake was worn from a day of nothing but studying. Even though it was earlier than he usually left, his body was screaming at him to get home and relax, muscles stiff, thoughts unclear.
 
The sun was still high in the sky as he weaved through the copious amounts of people on the sidewalk. October was anything but a warm month. Between him and all of the people conversing the streets, the confined and stuffy feeling was worse than usual.
 
His phone vibrated in his pocket, the short yet frequent vibrations tickled him through his flimsy jacket. It was most likely Leon.
 
The buzzing of chatter around him died down around his own apartment complex. Blake had researched the place before agreeing to rent it. Somewhere off the main street was a must for someone like him who preferred studying to partying, silence to noise. The sound of cars and groups of people were muffled except for the ones, the few that traveled the side street. He wasn't completely alone, but he wasn't too close either. It fit him perfectly.
 
To his expectation, the door was unlocked. Even with all of the confusion between him and Leon lately, his friend never ceased to keep the same habits. Leon lived at home with his family, which consisted of his three sisters and his mom. The girl to guy ratio was enough to send any man insane. Blake was surprised Leon hadn't moved out yet, but understood that he could never leave his mom to take care of all all of his sisters on her own. They varied too different in age.
 
Blake toed off his shoes at the entrance. Leon was nowhere to be found, his usual spots in the living room and kitchen were void of all life. After dropping off his stuff, Blake checked his phone. The texts were all from Leon. Nothing important was in any of them except that he was stopping by.
 
He flicked the hall light on and peered into his room. Leon was snoring loudly, tangled up in his bedding. Blake would say he was surprised he fell asleep so fast, only minutes since the last text was sent, but he wasn't.
 
He shut the door halfway, grabbed the book and made himself comfortable on the couch. A couple of pillows were stacked at the edge, a hideous puke-green color. Blake set them up behind him and laid back with the blanket covering him, the only skin showing being his arms to hold the book. The radiating warmth set him at ease.
 
A bottle of aspirin and an empty cup of water lay on the table next to him. Although his headache wasn't as painful as it normally would be, he popped a few pills for good measure. Being sick all of the time when he was young had its merits, taking pills dry was one of the few. The thought that his current condition had to do with an old sickness made him wary, but not enough to dwell on it. The past was the past for a reason.
 
Blake took a quick look at the index before flipping to the page labeled "Doppelgänger" and a couple sentences underneath the font in Latin, italicized in the center of the page. It read "Eram quod es, eris quod sum", which roughly translated to "I was what you are, you will be what I am." It was an odd quote, something that would be inscribed on a grave. Saying it had an ghoulish impression to it would be correct, but it also held an enigmatic curiosity.
 
He contemplated the text as he began to scan through it. The word was of German origin and meant "double-goer". Most of the text relayed the words history and how it came to be. Considered an apparition, seeing your double meant an omen of death while others witnessing it lead to said person becoming ill. The double had no shadow and offered malicious advice with evil intent. A couple stories and an old painting followed, but none of it was of interest.
 
The idea was intriguing, but scientifically impossible. Not like anything that was occurring made sense either. His thoughts wandered back to the day of the book signing, where he saw his supposed double, but nothing stood out besides fear, mostly attributed to his lack of sleep that day.
 
This was stupid and he knew it. This was all myth and superstition, none of it ever proved true. Lisa was probably just spouting nonsense to send him on a wild goose chase through the library. Blake wouldn't be surprised if her sense of humor was as deranged as her personality.
 
Not once did he ever see his " twin" again. That night at the bar came swimming back, bringing his unease with it. All a trick of the mind. Leon didn't act as if he saw anything.
 
He was about to put the book down, annoyed that he was even taking any of it seriously in the first place, when a sentence caught his eye: "They may also attempt to plant ideas into one's mind". That day at the bar -- as if he had forgotten -- came flooding back, feeling inhumanely real, as if he was watching the event all over again.
 
"It's time to take back what's mine," he said in sync with the returned memory. Unadulterated dread attacked him in waves, the feelings felt then back, his hands shaking and numb, blood seemingly stopped flowing. It was impossible to control what was happening, terror and despair enveloping his being.
 
Impossible. Insane. Psychotic. Unreal.
 
A knock at the door brought reality back to him, but his limbs refused to move. The unease from seconds before began building at a rapid rate. His fingers were aching and clammed up.
 
"Are you going to get that?"
 
Blake glanced around to see Leon, hand covering his mouth as he let out a yawn. He couldn't speak.
 
"You look out of it. You just wake up too?" Leon didn't wait for an answer, instead he grabbed Blake's hands, helping him stand up. Blake was surprised his legs were working at all. A push on his back sent him moving toward the door.
 
He didn't want to. What was waiting for him behind that door? Apprehension kept his footsteps from moving too quickly. By the time he made it to the door, the knocking had become even louder, echoing into the apartment. He looked up at Leon.
 
All he did was roll his eyes, but shrugged in front of him and opened the door.
 
Blake's heart dropped, anxiety like a fresh wound all over his flesh. But it was different this time. It was still fear, another kind.
 
Before him, in his doorway, smiling, was his father.