Status: a re-upload. currently active.
Shades of Gray
[two]
"Shouldn't you be studying or something?" I say mid-yawn. Jack's staring at a blink-182 t-shirt on the wall of the Monsters & Rock, wondering if he already owns it or not.
"Not really," he shrugs. "I'm taking a break this semester with the extra stuff since the past year and a half have been so rough. I'm only missing like forty credits, anyway."
I almost spit out the lemonade I'm drinking. "You've done three years already?"
"Well, no," Jack admits, ruffling through the shirts for a size because he's decided that he doesn't already own the shirt after all. "I had a few classes in high school that I took. I don't know, it's kind of my goal to graduate early. But it's not that early. Just like, a year. Or a year in a half. So I'll graduate mid junior-year."
"When you say It like that," I say lazily. My eyelids are growing harder to keep open. "You don't sound like that much of a genius."
He seems to lighten up. "Yeah! I'm normal."
I nod slightly, glancing at the clock on the wall. It says 10:04 AM, but it's fifteen seconds off. It's actually 10:05.
This lemonade is adding to my headache.
"Hey," I tell Jack as he looks for another shirt. "I'm going to go outside, I uh- the lights are really bright in here."
He hums for a second, then glances at me, putting the shirt down. "Alex," he says slowly.
The clock in my head matches the beats of my heart. Slow and rhythmic. I can't tell which I'm hearing. I stumble away from the store, eyes cast downwards, but the noise and the light is distracting. I can't breathe.
"Shit," I hear Jack swear, and an arm is wrapped around my chest, securing his hold on me with the other steadying me from the waist. My head is pounding. It' feels like it's been forever since I've slept. Sleep sounds really good right now, I think, seeing double and black edges of the people who have stopped to watch me. Jack tells me something, but I can't hear. The clock inside my head seems to tick out of pattern. A shuddering jolt of panic shoots through me, and I attempt to lift up my arm so I can see my watch, but I'm too weak to move. My eyelids close shut, a shaky breath of air escaping my lips.
I don't know what time it is.
***
I feel worse when I wake up. Now we're in Jack's car, and from my angle it looks like he's going through my phone, probably trying to find an emergency contact. My head still hurts and I can't hear the ticking anymore, which is causing me to panic slightly. How long was I out? Have I missed class? What time is it?
On the upside, Jack's backseat is extremely comfortable. My brain tells me to close my eyes. My body refuses to comply.
Jack glances at me, eyes going wide before he furiously types out a text. Everything moves too fast for me; I can't keep up. A minute feels like a second and my breathing is still uneven, the ding! of my phone ringing. I search around for my watch. My thoughts feel frozen, like I can't work without the gears of the clock to get everything started.
And then I hear it. It's faint. But it's my watch. After seventeen clicks of the second-hand moving, Jack hands it to me, saying, "it's 10:27."
But it's not. By the time he finishes saying that sentence, it's four seconds well into the minute.
I think. I'm not totally sure and that freaks me out. But my eyelids are still heavy and I'm too tired to even think.
Seventy five hours, twenty nine minutes.
"You alright?" Jack asks, and he's rummaging around in his glove compartment.
I give a weak nod. The clock in my head is stuck. What second is it?
Jack leans across the seats, leaning in close to my face. His eyes pass over mine, but they don't linger, and I can almost feel him looking at my soul. I remind myself that he's a psychology minor, maybe not the best of the best in that area, but I'm sure he can easily control what I feel. I am an easily-controlled, gullible person, after all.
"How long has it been since you've slept?"
I give him the numbers. Jack just looks at me.
"That's a hell of a long time," he says after a few moments. I shrug.
"How do you feel?" he inquires, and I know he's pulling the whole let-me-practice-my-new-college-knowledge-on-you-that-I-just-learned-last-week thing on me, because he's giving me that look, and after a year and a half, you know the look. Everyone who thinks they have a shot to preach something smart does it, even if their thoughts and opinions aren't actually theirs. College kids, these days, are a bunch of meaningless sheep.
Although, I suppose if you're actually learning something smart and factual (ah, the number one reason I love facts- they don't change without proof, and they're the same every time you say it), like non-theoretical math or non-theoretical sciences, what you say is probably true, and hey, you are smart. I can't tell if Jack is pulling another thing he learned in his psych class, or possibly letting me in on the sexy doctor-type neurology genius side.
"Weird," I say evenly and normally as I can, but it still comes out slow and slurred.
"Why don't you sleep?" he says, and I'm not sure if he means it by 'you can take a nap right here' or 'why the fuck aren't you lying down in your bed every night and sleeping?' but I take it as the latter and look sloppily at the floor of the car.
"Don't wanna," I say quietly and sadly, and if I had the energy I'd be beating myself up because I sound so small and frail.
"Do you have nightmares?" he asks me, and I snort, or try to, you know, the kind they do in books, but it comes out more of a choke on dry saliva.
"No," I defend, squinting out the window. "What kind of grown man has nightmares? I'm not a fag."
He scoffs, but it's more of a mocking gesture. "I have nightmares. Does that make me a fag?"
I don't point out that he told me he was pansexual, and for a second I can't remember if the conversation questioning my asexuality because of a guy took place with him or my friend Lisa.
"Nightmares," he explains, "are a basic principal of dealing with traumatic events or stress. They're the same as dreams. Are you saying you don't dream?"
I give a sigh, securing my watch back around my wrist. "I don't dream."
"Of course you do," he counters. "Everyone dreams. Maybe you don't remember you do, but you do."
"Well, I don't. I'm not even sure I sleep. It's more of just a recharge," I explain.
It's 10:31 AM.
Jack leans over the side of me, propping me up in the seat and securing the seatbelt over me. He pulls it taut, and for a second I panic because holy hell, what if he's kidnapping me? but then I recall the fact that I have my phone.
The psychology minor shifts himself so he sits comfortably in the driver's seat. My phone dings with a message from Josh. The engine turns over, and I ask where we're going.
"I want you to meet someone."
"Not really," he shrugs. "I'm taking a break this semester with the extra stuff since the past year and a half have been so rough. I'm only missing like forty credits, anyway."
I almost spit out the lemonade I'm drinking. "You've done three years already?"
"Well, no," Jack admits, ruffling through the shirts for a size because he's decided that he doesn't already own the shirt after all. "I had a few classes in high school that I took. I don't know, it's kind of my goal to graduate early. But it's not that early. Just like, a year. Or a year in a half. So I'll graduate mid junior-year."
"When you say It like that," I say lazily. My eyelids are growing harder to keep open. "You don't sound like that much of a genius."
He seems to lighten up. "Yeah! I'm normal."
I nod slightly, glancing at the clock on the wall. It says 10:04 AM, but it's fifteen seconds off. It's actually 10:05.
This lemonade is adding to my headache.
"Hey," I tell Jack as he looks for another shirt. "I'm going to go outside, I uh- the lights are really bright in here."
He hums for a second, then glances at me, putting the shirt down. "Alex," he says slowly.
The clock in my head matches the beats of my heart. Slow and rhythmic. I can't tell which I'm hearing. I stumble away from the store, eyes cast downwards, but the noise and the light is distracting. I can't breathe.
"Shit," I hear Jack swear, and an arm is wrapped around my chest, securing his hold on me with the other steadying me from the waist. My head is pounding. It' feels like it's been forever since I've slept. Sleep sounds really good right now, I think, seeing double and black edges of the people who have stopped to watch me. Jack tells me something, but I can't hear. The clock inside my head seems to tick out of pattern. A shuddering jolt of panic shoots through me, and I attempt to lift up my arm so I can see my watch, but I'm too weak to move. My eyelids close shut, a shaky breath of air escaping my lips.
I don't know what time it is.
***
I feel worse when I wake up. Now we're in Jack's car, and from my angle it looks like he's going through my phone, probably trying to find an emergency contact. My head still hurts and I can't hear the ticking anymore, which is causing me to panic slightly. How long was I out? Have I missed class? What time is it?
On the upside, Jack's backseat is extremely comfortable. My brain tells me to close my eyes. My body refuses to comply.
Jack glances at me, eyes going wide before he furiously types out a text. Everything moves too fast for me; I can't keep up. A minute feels like a second and my breathing is still uneven, the ding! of my phone ringing. I search around for my watch. My thoughts feel frozen, like I can't work without the gears of the clock to get everything started.
And then I hear it. It's faint. But it's my watch. After seventeen clicks of the second-hand moving, Jack hands it to me, saying, "it's 10:27."
But it's not. By the time he finishes saying that sentence, it's four seconds well into the minute.
I think. I'm not totally sure and that freaks me out. But my eyelids are still heavy and I'm too tired to even think.
Seventy five hours, twenty nine minutes.
"You alright?" Jack asks, and he's rummaging around in his glove compartment.
I give a weak nod. The clock in my head is stuck. What second is it?
Jack leans across the seats, leaning in close to my face. His eyes pass over mine, but they don't linger, and I can almost feel him looking at my soul. I remind myself that he's a psychology minor, maybe not the best of the best in that area, but I'm sure he can easily control what I feel. I am an easily-controlled, gullible person, after all.
"How long has it been since you've slept?"
I give him the numbers. Jack just looks at me.
"That's a hell of a long time," he says after a few moments. I shrug.
"How do you feel?" he inquires, and I know he's pulling the whole let-me-practice-my-new-college-knowledge-on-you-that-I-just-learned-last-week thing on me, because he's giving me that look, and after a year and a half, you know the look. Everyone who thinks they have a shot to preach something smart does it, even if their thoughts and opinions aren't actually theirs. College kids, these days, are a bunch of meaningless sheep.
Although, I suppose if you're actually learning something smart and factual (ah, the number one reason I love facts- they don't change without proof, and they're the same every time you say it), like non-theoretical math or non-theoretical sciences, what you say is probably true, and hey, you are smart. I can't tell if Jack is pulling another thing he learned in his psych class, or possibly letting me in on the sexy doctor-type neurology genius side.
"Weird," I say evenly and normally as I can, but it still comes out slow and slurred.
"Why don't you sleep?" he says, and I'm not sure if he means it by 'you can take a nap right here' or 'why the fuck aren't you lying down in your bed every night and sleeping?' but I take it as the latter and look sloppily at the floor of the car.
"Don't wanna," I say quietly and sadly, and if I had the energy I'd be beating myself up because I sound so small and frail.
"Do you have nightmares?" he asks me, and I snort, or try to, you know, the kind they do in books, but it comes out more of a choke on dry saliva.
"No," I defend, squinting out the window. "What kind of grown man has nightmares? I'm not a fag."
He scoffs, but it's more of a mocking gesture. "I have nightmares. Does that make me a fag?"
I don't point out that he told me he was pansexual, and for a second I can't remember if the conversation questioning my asexuality because of a guy took place with him or my friend Lisa.
"Nightmares," he explains, "are a basic principal of dealing with traumatic events or stress. They're the same as dreams. Are you saying you don't dream?"
I give a sigh, securing my watch back around my wrist. "I don't dream."
"Of course you do," he counters. "Everyone dreams. Maybe you don't remember you do, but you do."
"Well, I don't. I'm not even sure I sleep. It's more of just a recharge," I explain.
It's 10:31 AM.
Jack leans over the side of me, propping me up in the seat and securing the seatbelt over me. He pulls it taut, and for a second I panic because holy hell, what if he's kidnapping me? but then I recall the fact that I have my phone.
The psychology minor shifts himself so he sits comfortably in the driver's seat. My phone dings with a message from Josh. The engine turns over, and I ask where we're going.
"I want you to meet someone."
♠ ♠ ♠
second chapter. again, thank you for reading, i really do appreciate it.