Chapter Twelve: C'est la vie.

Life's not fair; live with it.

He was told that all the time, beginning with his toddler years. You know, the two- and three-year olds that you see in the grocery store being dragged by their mothers and whining for this or that, screaming "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" when they're told no.

"Life's not fair" is the generally accepted, and used, parental response, leaving the toddler grasping for arguments. Finding none, they proceed to throw themselves on the floor and wail despairingly. Yeah. That was him as a child.

He couldn't comprehend the intensity behind the words that so effectively halted all his begging, but later in life he thought he understood. The odd thing, though, was that he still didn't agree with it. Well, only to a degree. Life was most certainly unfair, and that was undeniable.

But there was always this nagging feeling in his stomach that told him no, life wasn't fair, but there was something especially unfair about his situation. Like, he didn't know, he was supposed to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else, but by some twist of fate that life didn't decide (life knew how to be unfair in a fairly fair way) he was directed wrongly.

There wasn't any actual proof for this theory, and it was a stupid theory to begin with, but that didn't help. He still had that sensation, and sometimes it grew and sometimes it waned. When he laughed with his friends, it grew until he was SURE that life's intent was for him to be laughing with other people, and when he was alone it waned, because life had always intended him to be hermitical.

And then... then, there were the times that he thought for a split-second that he was living the life meant for him. He'd turn to look behind him, opening his mouth to say something to the person who was always there, but it was empty space. He never knew what it was he was going to say or who he was going to say it to, but when he realized that he couldn't, his chest hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he refused on principle to cry for something that he never had--at least, that he couldn't remember.

Sometimes he called people the wrong names, names that he'd never heard before. As this tended to happen most often when he felt emotional (an uncommon occurrence for someone as stoic as him), he assumed that it too had to deal with the life that he didn't lead.

One day, as he wandered aimlessly as he always did on Saturday afternoons, something else happened.

Browsing his way slowly through the outdoors art fair being held that particular day, something possessed him to stop at a jewelry stand. It wasn't the girly, sparkly type that was infused with gems, but rather a masculine collection with fierce pendant designs and thick rings sculpted into shapes. As his eyes scanned the table, they latched onto a circular pendant that was sitting father back and slightly hidden behind a gaudy metal wrist-band (that honestly looked more like a gauntlet, he thought as he mocked its creator for their lack of taste).

Extracting it from the pile of accessories around it, he admired it closely. It was about the size of his palm, made with silver (or something similar-looking) but with some parts coloured red to accent the ridges and curves of the piece. The shape itself was complicated; a circle containing a smaller circle, with spokes and even smaller circles connecting the two. Around the outer edges were spikes, and when he ran his finger over them he felt that they'd be able to cut his skin with enough pressure put behind them.

A sense of familiarity came over him as he looked the pendant over, and he quickly passed the $25 necessary to buy it over to the seller without a word, and she nodded at him before moving away to help others. Still examining the object in his hands he slowly turned his head and shoulders, and inside he knew that he was instinctively turning to the person-who-was-never-there.

"Hey, doesn't this remind you... of..." his voice trailed off when he tore his eyes upward and instead of the consciously expected empty space, he saw a subconsciously just-as-expected person standing there.

The man was tall, taller than him by a head, but it didn't feel awkward or intimidating. There was fire-truck red hair that couldn't be natural, and green eyes that had to be contacts, but he also knew that they were completely hereditary. Two triangular teardrop tattoos (he almost laughed out loud when the alliteration flew through his mind) lay upside-down on his cheekbones, and he didn't begin to think they were out of place.

Even the large grin that the man's mouth twisted into, both predatory and gentle, didn't alarm him.

"Roxas," the redhead greeted. Roxas nodded hesitantly, wondering why it wasn't creepy that this person knew his name.

"You know, you took your damn sweet time. I thought we agreed we'd meet up?" the other continued. Roxas gave him a confused look, which sent a disappointed frown to replace the man's grin. Sighing, he reached into his pocket with long fingers and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.

The moment the engraved lighter clicked open and a flame flickered to life, though, Roxas' mind either shut down... or lept into overdrive.

Fire. Fire was red, red was like his hair but he'd always said he liked Roxas' hair more with green eyes flashing over him that he had left and forgotten and never came back because he vanished and then he saw him die.

The sensation of memories that felt like his even more than the ones he'd thought were his (until less than a second ago) left Roxas feeling like he'd been run over. Blinking multiple times in surprise, he looked back up at the redhead. "...Axel?"

To be continued...?

Roxas and Axel (c) Square Enix

Chapter Eleven: Lost in these words.

Sharpies in all colors of the rainbow.

A cold, bubbly soda to sip at through the hours.

Inside jokes between friends.

Thoughtless doodles of lines forming an intricate design.

Knowing that you can do something.

Making a fool of yourself.

Pleasant silence between friends-that-are-siblings.

Understanding the joke.

The pounding of shower water against your back.

Vibrations from the speakers playing music way too loudly.

Straight-edge punk.

Trusting in others.

Fog, low to the ground.

Really bad horror movies.

Realizing you were just smiling unconsciously.

The Kitten Treatment.

A work of art with emotional value.

Goosebumps when you hear an inspirational song.

Early morning meditation.

Feeling at peace with the world.

The fleeting joy of reading a fanfiction.

Sharing a viewpoint.

Standing at the top of a mountain, alone.

Assigning theme songs.

Rhyming and reasoning.

Rhythm and syncopation.

The urge to dance.

Laughing with others.

Reading of love.

...These are a few of my favorite things,
like warm summer-winters
and green-kissed life springs.
Like seeing yourself
scattered love-letter flings,
or awe in the fearsome
war nature's love brings.
As wedding bells toll
so Seraph ere sings,
as surely light spreads
so birds take to their wings.

And lost evermore in these words shall I be,
but simple pleasures return and set our souls free.

Chapter Ten: Agree to agree to disagree to agree.

Repeat until it makes sense, over and over and over like waves. Waves across what I liked enough to show to you in a moment of love, moment of bonding, breakingdownthesewallstoreachandunderstandyou...

Across The Universe.

You know what? I had hoped, stupidly maybe, that you might've ended up liking this movie. That you might see the same things in it that I do.

Instead, you say that it blatantly supports drug culture and only represents a small fraction of the population in the U.S. during the Vietnam war. "Where's the story?" you ask.

Where's the story? What do you mean where's the story? Did you fall asleep? Were you not paying attention as it told the story of a brit looking for his father and found something more, of the good girl who just wants peace, of the lesbian that wants to be accepted, of a guitarist and a singer who lose what they had and find each other? Why is that not a story?

And why is it that I cannot say these things to your face? I go from shock to speechlessness to anger to disbelief to hurt to helplessness. What help is there for those who cannot help what they know they help, they cannot, they don't know?

"It's a love story," Mom says a little disbelievingly to you.

"Love isn't a story," you reply, a little scathingly I think. I can't tell 'cause I'm trying not to cry. "Love is an event."

I don't hear anymore because I'm already gone, gone from the room and the next one over and moving as far as possible towards my refuge with tears and a face that scrunches itself unpleasantly when truly upset.

And I don't even know why what you said hurt so much, or why it feels like my hope has been crushed.

Why are you unable to accept something at face value? Why can't something be wonderful just because it is? Why is it you can't see the theme and the plot and separation and happy ending? Why does it have to present some higher statement? Why do you have to make derogatory comments on what I like? Why is it that you say that the only worthful, useful, meaningful part of the movie is when the moment is broken and her hope and trust and naiveté gone?

"I thought it was the other side that dropped the bombs."

You're fighting. I can hear. For once, I don't want to sit in the hallway and listen quietly. But it doesn't matter, because now you're both screaming and I can hear every goddamn fucking word. Can't you go somewhere else? Can't you agree to disagree? Just for once?

Now there is quiet, quiet but no crickets or birds or sound but the clacking of the keys and my heart, clacking through my heart to the keyboard to the screen to the internet of people who exist in reality. Now there are dried tears on my face and I can tell because when I blink I can feel the dried salt on my skin.

But I don't want your anger. Please?

Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to strawberry fields.

Across The Universe, directed by Julie Taymor, musically produced/composed by Elliot Goldenthal. Sony Pictures, Revolution Studios, Colombia Pictures.

Chapter Nine: Tamper with my Brain.

5.30 in the morning really wasn't a good time for thinking about difficult topics, I mused. My eyes crossed and began to slowly close without me even noticing, but I soon jerked them back open and attempted a half-hearted glare at the bottle that sat not two feet away from me. I failed.

I liked my medicine, I really did. It helped. When I took it I actually felt the drive to complete things, all sorts of things. Things that normally I'd pass over in favor of more interesting (to me) pursuits. I actually completed my homework on a daily basis, and felt the energy necessary to attempt to write something, even when nothing came.

It was the side effects I wasn't so fond of. Appetite suppression caused by dry mouth? I'll pass. My stomach would grumble demandingly all day long, but every time I looked at food I had no urge to eat, not unless a soda or some water was offered to take sips of as I ate in order to get rid of the "dry mouth". There was also the constant talking; starting at about ten in the morning, I couldn't stop having conversations, and my mouth would run ahead of my mind by miles per minute.

The worst of all was the... depression? No. It wasn't depression. It was more of a lack of outward emotional displays. While I could talk and listen better than ever, the smiles that I remember used to be so frequent had almost dried up. Where was my laughter, the one that people knew? Where were the spouts of giggles when my mind thought of something hilarious, and everyone else would be left asking, 'What? What? What's so funny?' Where was the old me?

That was why I didn't like my medicine. I liked the new me, but I didn't want to lose the old me. I didn't want to let go of the late nights that were later than any before, or the attacks of 'Fangirl Epilepsy', as I liked to call it, that had me running into my brother's room giggling and babbling like an idiot before shaking my head until it rung.

It was then that an equally disturbing notion reached me. What if... people actually liked the new me better?

Sighing, I wiped away the unshed tears that had gathered in my eyes and popped open the small container. Removing one blue-and-red capsule, I swallowed it dry and replaced the cap. It didn't matter, did it? In the end, it was my education and motivation and completion of work that mattered most. Even if the cost was me.

Now, I was glad I had dyed that indigo stripe in my hair. It was a reminder of who I was, who I would have to pretend to be... for now.

After all, Mom said the side effects weren't supposed to last forever.

Chapter Eight: The Soothsayers' contrapasso.

It is almost an absolute rule of the universe that whenever more than two teenagers, especially friends, are gathered in a room, there will be conversation. Lots of it. At moment, though, it seemed that that particular law would have to take a break; five teenagers--two girls, three boys--were sitting in a bedroom, all in various positions and locations around it, being completely silent.

Terra's eye twitched as she stared at her book. Who had started the idea of a Saturday study group to prepare for the finals, again? Dan, she thought, and on her mental to-do list she added 'poison Dan's cereal'. Dragging her imagination away from the idea of laughing over his twitching body, and then being able to do whatever she wanted for the rest of the day, Terra again tried to continue reading Dante's Inferno before finally giving up and shutting it as forcefully as you can shut a paperback.

"This is such bull!" she growled, glaring at the cover. Stupid Dante. What kind of a name was 'Dante', anyways?

Jim and Calais looked relieved at the sudden interruption, not having enjoyed "study time" very much either. Dan just sighed, while Ellie looked up, frowned at Terra for breaking her concentration, and tried to continue studying for her European History final on Monday.

"I thought you liked that book, though?" Calais asked.

"I did..." Terra said in frustration.

"And what's wrong with it now, that you had to distract us for?" Dan asked. He really didn't want to fail his Pre-Calculus class, and was taking extra precautions to memorize all of the formulas necessary.

"Well," Terra began to explain, "I didn't really want to do anything else, so I decided to read a few cantos ahead. Have any of you read Canto XX?" Everyone shook their heads.

Terra flipped open her copy of Dante's Inferno to the page she had been on, and began to read:

"And when my gaze moved down below their faces,
I saw all were incredibly distorted,
the chin was not above the chest, the neck

was twisted--their faces looked down on their backs;
they had to move ahead by moving backward,
for they never saw what was ahead of them."

When she finished reading the two tercets, the others were quiet. "And... why does that make you upset?" Jim raised an eyebrow.

Terra sighed, flipped a few pages, then read an excerpt from the translation notes, "'15. for they never saw what was ahead of them: Note the appropriate nature of the punishment: the augurs, who, when living, looked into the future, are here in Hell denied any forward vision. See lines 38-39.' Yep. Well, I'm basically going to hell."

Once again, silence met her quotation. "Does it say anything about turning into a moth being a sin?" asked Calais. He smirked, obviously the only one to find it funny.

"No, but apparently turning into a beast is related to the sins of Violence," Ellie pointed out. "And Terra, just remember that that was written in the Middle Ages, a time when personal opinions greatly influenced how people interpreted God's words."

Terra sighed. "Yeah. I know. Whatever." She turned her attention back to the Inferno, and decided for once to just skip that canto. She could always get someone else to summarize it for her, later.

The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, translated by Mark Musa.

Chapter Seven: A ceiling-row view.

I stared apathetically down into the room. Huh. Well, this was an odd sensation. I tried to turn my head to the left; nothing happened. I didn't move. To the right? Nope. Up? Can't. Down? No go. If I can't turn my head, I might as well just get used to staring in one direction, huh? Staring at this room for all eternity.

This room... I've seen it before. Definitely. In fact... I honestly can't remember seeing another room, ever. It seems that I've already been staring here for an eternity, apparently.

There's a bed in the room. A dresser. A desk. A door that leads into the hallway, though I don't know how I know. Another door that must surely lead to the bathroom, although I can't see from this angle. Never have been.

A pounding at the door. My ears register the sound, but they're not ears, are they? Nope. Oh well, I can still hear. A stirring on the bed tells me that no, I'm not the only one here; however, this other person can move. She's a teenager, brunette, with hair that would hang halfway down her back if she sat up, I can tell. She covers her head with a pillow and tries to go back to sleep.

"Wake up, you newbie! You need to get up now!"

A voice adds to the pounding, and I can only conclude they are coming from the same source. A boy from the sound of it. A far too cheerful for this time of the morning boy. The girl groans and hoarsely shouts, "Go away!" I don't think she realizes that she's yelling in the wrong direction.

"Look, either open this damn door or I'll break it open!" the male voice responds, somehow both sounding irritated and retaining the friendly quality.

"Fine, go ahead! I don't care! Not my fucking door!" The pounding stops. There's no reply from the other side of the door. Did he leave? I thought that he meant the threat. I realize that he did, indeed, mean it, just as the door bursts open, slamming against the wall. Someone will need to fix that dent.

When the door swung open violently, the girl had jumped into a sitting position. Now, she stared at the person standing in the doorway. I was right; it's a boy. There's a youngish quality about him, probably from the extra fat that is making him slightly chubby. Combined with the red hair falling into his face constantly and green eyes that smile along with his mouth, there's an intrinsically friendly quality about him.

"I told you I'd break open the door!" Even if neither of them know that I am here, as my presence has not been acknowledged, I can feel the triumph in that statement.

"Uuuhh..." the girl supplies. I suppose she is confused, but I don't know why. I think I have seen this boy before, though... the smile seems familiar.

"Forge Limiter." That's his name. Yes. I can remember it now, but not where I know it from. The girl continues staring; I am beginning to think that her IQ is less than sufficient to hold adequate conversations.

"I'm sorry, what?" Why does she apologize?

"That... that's my name. Forge Limiter." The girl has never met him before, then. Unless she doesn't quite remember, like me. Somehow I get the feeling that our situations are different, though.

"Oh." She seems embarrassed by her slow thinking. "Well... I'm Te--"

Forge Limiter makes a sudden jump towards her, startling her into cutting off. What was she going to say? "No real names!" he hissed. "None!" Her name. What was her name? It starts with a T. That's what I will call her, then.

T pauses, before beginning to glare. I am sure that there is a crucial piece of information I am missing, now. It is just a name, and should not make her this upset. Apparently, Forge Limiter is just as dense as he is friendly, when it comes to reading facial expressions. He plows through.

"Right. Well, you need to come with me pronto. Dr. Jacobs said she hasn't checked you out yet, and we don't want to keep her waiting--"

"No," T says firmly. Forge Limiter doesn't understand, and neither do I.

"No what?"

"No, I will not come with you anywhere, period." T crosses her arms to make it clear that she means what she says. Forge Limiter frowns; I can tell he is irritated.

"Hey, look, I know I came in and ruined your sleep and stuff," Forge Limiter decides to drop the friendly attitude he formerly had. "but that's no reason to treat me like crap! So get over your issues!" Issues that T most definitely has.

"I would like to think that at the moment I have the right to have issues," T hisses. Good. Everyone is now aware of the fact that something is wrong with her. But doesn't she want it fixed? It seems not.

Forge Limiter laughs in the back of his throat, and it emerges as a snort. "Yeah, right. And why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know, because I was fucking kidnapped from my house last night by you creeps!" At hearing this, Forge Limiter changes moods once again, quite seamlessly.

Now he's gone from slightly angry to apologetic and awkward. "Geez... I--You're... one of those? You didn't respond to the employment letters at all or anything?" He runs a hand through his hair, and I can tell that it isn't because it was falling in his eyes, but rather as a nervous habit. "Man--I--...I'm sorry."

T looks taken aback. She probably deserves it. But she's confused, too. "Employment letters? And--you didn't know I'd been kidnapped?"

Forge Limiter drops his hand from his hair and shakes his head back and forth. "The employment letters that they send out to their potential employees starting at legal working age. You're supposed to get one every two months, but if you don't respond for two years..." The legal working age is fourteen, I believe. If the implied consequence of not responding to these letters is kidnapping, then T is probably 16. Barely able to drive. Forge Limiter reaches up and pinches his nose between his eyes. "Geez. I so don't need this headache. You're one of, like, three people--four, now--that ended up here like that."

Where is here? I know this room. I know this boy, this Forge Limiter. I do not know this girl, T. Exactly where am I, and why can I not remember any specific thing prior to this event?

"Listen... I'm sorry for acting horrible at first." T is speaking. By the tone of her voice I can tell she feels a bit guilty--I can't see her face; I'm located above and a bit behind her. "Do--do you think you could get me out of here, using whatever it was you used on the door?"

I think I would like to go with them. But Forge Limiter's face seems to be folding in on itself, his eyebrows slanting downwards and his eyes drifting towards the floor. Sadness. Apology. Guilt?

"I can't. Not because I don't want to," Forge Limiter breathes in, and it's a bit shaky. "but because there are about 50 security guards patrolling the place at any given moment. Even if I did somehow manage to get you past all of them... well, the Trackers would bring you back within a day or so, and we'd both get in trouble."

I can tell what Trackers are from their name, but the way Forge Limiter says it--I know there is more to that word than first glance reveals.

Oh! But, now I remember. I remember why I am stuck in this position, this angle. I remember why I don't have any ears. Why this room and that boy look so familiar.

I'm a security camera that was installed two years ago.

Chapter Six: Just between a vampire and a Nobody.

Jim was lost. Lost in his mind, lost in his heart, lost in his soul. Absolutely spinning. Everything hurt, but it wasn't physical. He was exhausted and wired to the point of breaking at the same time. A crying jag sounded really good right about then, but Jim wanted to laugh, too. Laugh and shout and break down in tears.

"It sucks, doesn't it?" The voice came out of nowhere. Jim blinked sluggishly, not used to hearing someone else talk to him. He'd been rejecting all visitors, so who could this be? Looking around the room with his reddened eyes, he saw that there was indeed no one there.

"It's okay, I don't really exist." If anything, that just sunk Jim down deeper. Now he was crazy, too. Hearing voices kind of crazy. "But, y'know, not existing sucks. So let's say I'm here to listen. C'mon, kid, spill your guts."

"My life sucks." Jim didn't know what had possessed him to actually say that; it just slipped out. He must've been more desperate to talk to someone than he thought.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I'm a fucking vampire, for starters." Jim was starting to warm up a bit to the non-existing voice and the conversation. "All of my friends like to pretend that nothing's changed, but ignore the fact that everything has. They can't be around me, and I can't be around them."

For a moment the voice was silent, and Jim thought it had vanished, and he was alone again, alone with no one and it hurt-- "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You didn't cause this," Jim said. The words were meaningless, they were always meaningless anytime anyone said them, but guilt ultimately forces them out.

"No, you're right. I didn't cause this. But someone has to apologize for the way the world's fucked you over. So... a vampire, huh?" Jim flinched.

"Yes, I already said that," he ground out.

"Vampires are interesting characters, you know. Living, but their heart doesn't beat. Wouldn't you say that's like not even having one?"

Jim shrugged. "I guess. The technicalities aren't really what I'm worried about."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have a heart." Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't? And what do you mean by that?"

"I didn't have any emotions. But then... I died. Or faded back into the non-existence I came out of, either one. Now I'm not sure if I have a heart or not."

"...Right."

"Well, listen kid, it's been nice talking t'ya, but I've got to go find someone now. Someone.. very important to me."

Feeling a lot better, actually, after having a conversation even that short, Jim staggered to his feet, and then to his bed. "Alright, that's fine with me. First, though, could you tell me your name? I just told you some of my most personal thoughts, so it's only courteous that you could do that much."

The voice chuckled. "I'm Nobody, but you can call me Axel."

"Bye then, Axel. I hope you find who you're looking for. Just... just in case he or she drops by like you did, what should I tell them?"

"He. His name's Roxas, and you can tell him that Axel's working his ass off trying to find him, so don't move an inch and wait for me. Oh, and even if he doesn't tell you his name, or can't remember it, or something, you'll know him because he'll be sappy as hell." Jim could practically hear the soft smile in Axel's voice as he talked about his friend.

"Okay. I hope you find him."

"I hope you come to terms with being a vampire. Try to make the best out of it. Maybe if you...." Axel's voice slowly faded out, as if he was walking away. Jim felt his mouth twitch upwards into what might have been a smile.

Make the best of it, huh? As Jim fell asleep for the first time in over 48 hours, he resolved to speak to a representative from Ingravesco Deus tomorrow. Maybe he could look more into that offer about becoming a Pius Unus....

Axel and Roxas (c) Square Enix

Chapter Five: Normal Class Period in Dimension #2.

I blinked heavily, realizing belatedly that I'd been reading the same sentence for the last few minutes. Raising a hand to my eyes, I rubbed them in an effort to try and wake up, before hiding a yawn with the same hand. How much longer until class was over? I glanced around the history classroom with its four cinderblock walls and lack of windows several times before remembering that Mr. Athern (what a weird name...) had taken down the clock so people like me wouldn't constantly look at it.

Giving up on finding a clock, I examined the wrists of those sitting close to me, trying to find someone with a watch. Nope. Then again, there weren't that many people sitting near me--the rows of desks, a small amount to begin with, were mostly empty. I vaguely remembered that they had been full at the beginning of the year. Again, I resolved not to let myself drop out.

"Miss Bellerman?" I snapped my head back to the front of the room to see Mr Athern staring at me. Damn, he just asked a question, didn't he? Couldn't he choose who he wanted to answer first, and then ask?

"Um..." I was stalling. My eyes scanned the pages of the European history textbook in front of me, even though I knew I wouldn't find what he had said there. "I... do not know." At least Mr. Athern was moderately kind to students who had no idea what was going on, like me. Instead of pressing for an answer, asking that I stay awake, or even lingering and staring at me, he quickly moved on.

"Mr. Cook?" It was a ritual. A very well-disguised one albeit, but a ritual all the same. Call on a person who hasn't said anything yet in class. Wait to see if they answer correctly, or even at all. Move onto another person who needed to be called upon. Finally, choose someone that he knew would be able to answer.

That was how he taught us; he asked us questions, we answered. How was one supposed to even take notes over something like that? I 'tch'ed quietly. 'Sorry,' I said in my mind derisively, 'but I'm not going to write down what Snoozy McNosepicker said as something to study off of for a test.'

Crossing my arms over my chest again, I slid down in my seat, then bent my head over until my chin was almost sitting on my chest. Time to go back to sleep, even if this position did give me a bit of a crick in the neck.

Chapter Four: They knew it was coming.

I huddled under my covers. "No school today.... No school today...." I repeated to myself, willing my body to become sick. If I tried hard enough... there. Nausea. Actual nausea. But was it sickness at what I was about to do to myself and my mom, at the thought of going to school, or was this truly a stomach bug? Of course it wasn't the last one. That must have been my inner hypochondriac speaking.

No school.... Those two words even made my heart flutter with what they symbolized. A full day of reading meaningless fanfiction on the computer, surfing the internet and generally having some quiet peaceful time and a chance to sleep in. I kept trying to tell myself that I'd definitely use it to make up the homework I didn't do the previous night, but my subconscious just laughed at me.

Footsteps. I suppose it was a blessing that not only was my room on the opposite end of the house, but that my parents walked like elephants. There was a click and a shuddering sort of sound as my door opened. "Breakfast." Mom simply said, and turned to leave, but stopped when I groaned.

She knew what was coming.

"I don't feel too good..."

"How so?" I can hear her disappointment, her sadness, everything in her voice. The guilt hit me at full force, but I buried it deep, deep under and left it there to rot a hole in me.

"Bad stomach sick." Remember, Katie: keep your words simple, act really sort of tired, keep your lips pressed together as if you're resisting the urge to vomit.

Mom sighed, and sat on the side of the bed. I shifted, moved my leg out from under her, and curled up into a ball. "Well, you have to go to school."

"I feel really, really bad. Like throw-up bad. Like sitting in math class then suddenly vomiting in front of everyone embarrassing myself for the rest of eterny bad." Shitshitshit, no, when you lie don't be that specific, especially when opening your mouth is supposed to make you want to toss your cookies.

"...And?"

"I don't think I should go to school." There it was, the bombshell. Luckily I remembered how blunt I was about wanting to stay home last time I was actually sick, so I can put it into good practice here.

"Eventually, you're going to gather up so many sick days you'll fail your classes." I know. I know. I know. Please, don't make me feel bad. Don't do this to me. "You don't want to repeat another year." IknowIknowIknowIknowIknow. Stop....

"No."

"...You need to call Liz."

I groaned. Couldn't I just sleep? "Can you call her?"

"You owe her. You're staying home sick. Now call her while I call the school." The weight left my bed and the door opened, Mom paused at the exit, obviously waiting for me to pick up my cell phone. I sighed, grabbed it off of my bedside table, and switched to the phonebook. Mom left, and I squinted against the backlight of the phone to make out Liz's number.

It rang three times before Liz answered.

"Yes?"

"Hey Liz... it's Katie."

"Oh, hey." She knew what was coming, too. Was I that predictable now? Had I gone that far?

"I'm... sick." Yeah, right. "I won't be able to take you in. Can you get a ride?"

"Yeah, yeah. You get better, 'kay?" She doesn't believe me. I can hear it, I can hear it saturating every syllable of every word she says, but Liz plays along.

"'Kay. Bye." I slid the phone shut.

I was a horrible person. 'But,' I resolved to myself quietly, 'I'll change.' My subconscious mocked me again, laughing at me as I slipped back into sleep, hoping for good dreams that would make my lie worthwhile.

Chapter Three: Normal Morning in Dimension #1.

"Hey, I bet in another dimension, there's a race of people made from soda cans," I said, holding my Diet Coke up reverently. "Yeah, and they worship at factories and their version of satan are those nasty bottles of soda."

Liz stared at me. "What?" she asked, trying not to laugh.

"No, seriously! There's probably an infinite amount of dimensions out there. Alternate universes. Timelines, where, say, Martin Luther committed suicide. Or Einstein was actually recognized for his brilliance, and was placed in a private school that smothered his creativity, and the theory of relativity never saw the light of day. And there's probably another one where we're celebrities."

"Or there could be no other dimensions at all," Lucy said sarcastically. "Did you think of that?"

"No-- well, really yes, but it seems more likely that the theory of there being millions of dimensions existing and more created every nanosecond is true. Imagine; a whole universe where I ate waffles for breakfast this morning, and not cereal," I said grinning. "What story opportunities!"

"No crossovers, plox," Lucy said. My grin grew even more.

"Why, Lucy, the way you're carrying on one would think you don't like my way of looking at the world like a story or fanfiction!"

"Because it's not."

That made me frown. "Well, duh, but do you have to be so serious about it all of the time?"

"Hold up you two!" Liz broke in. "Let's change the subject now. So... Who watched Gossip Girl last night?"

"ME!" I giggled. "Dan was great!"

"Not me," Lucy said listlessly. "It's garbage."

"Y'know," I said thoughtfully, "I believe there's an old adage about this situation... right! 'If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all.'"

"True dat." Liz nodded. Lucy groaned and stood up.

"See you guys later, then."

"See ya!"

"Tschüß!"