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I consider this for a while as we walk. Noticing there’s an extra set of footprints ahead of us.
I recognize my own, but a much smaller set is beside them.
Gillian.
“She is your assignment, Xander Sixteen. Your life together, the children you’ll raise. It is your life’s work.”
“But?” I try to form a question, a reason to explain everything. To try to understand it better. So I can explain it to Gillian.
“Everything knows, Xander,” he continues. “Everything knows all in the end. We are all connected.”
“So why did I come back?” I ask, hearing my voice echo the question before I find myself alone on the beach.
You came back one last time to remember where you come from. You came back to remember your home before you make a new one.
Waking with a start, I’m naked. I shiver, feeling weaker than I ever have.
My joints ache, my throat burns and cracks when I try to swallow.
Putting my hands up to my face I open and close them, watching my huge fingers folding into my palms.
Feeling something inside myself, like a bubble, I automatically get out of my bed and race for the bathroom. Throwing up.
Something I’ve never done before.
My back aches and I struggle to even stretch to stand upright.
Glancing in the mirror I groan in horror. I look terrible.
I find some clothes, a sweater, and track pants, pull them on and crawl back into my bed.
My bed.
I’m in my bed.
I sit up with an even bigger start, laughing out loud before I wince from the pain in my throat.
“I’m in my bed!” I call out, wanting to leap from bed but only managing a slow and steady exit as the room spins a little.
Phone, gone.
Keys, gone.
A quick glance through the curtains and I can see it’s afternoon but no car in my driveway.
If everything’s gone to plan, then Gillian should be here, at the cottage.
But it’s just me and I don’t even know what day it is.
I fumble for the remote, flicking on the TV.
The local news bulletin fills the screen.
“…with reports of glowing lights over the suburbs Sunday night.
In other news, police are still looking for missing college Professor, Xander Sexton. Wanted for questioning in relation to a woodland shooting early Saturday night.
Despite public and online rumors from the UFO community, the professor’s link to studying UFO phenomena, the lights over the city, and his alleged disappearance have been all been dismissed by police as an unconnected coincidence.
Anyone with information regarding the Professor’s whereabouts is urged to contact-”
I stab the remote. Switching off the TV.
It’s too much to take in.
Puffing air out from my cheeks, I try hopelessly to get more back in. My mind feels like it’s been dipped in glue, and piecing one thought together after the other hurts my head to the point I can feel it pounding.
The one thing, the only thing that matters slowly lifts itself to the surface in my mind.
Gillian.
I remember everything. Except right after we—
I have to go to her. I need to find her.
The sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive makes me sigh in relief, it must be her.
She must’ve just gone to the store or something. Hopefully for some cough syrup and aspirin.
I hurry as best I can to the door, swinging it open, but take a long step back. The afternoon light hurting my eyes.
I shield them, seeing it’s not Gillian at all, but a police cruiser.
Straining against the silver shards reflecting in my eyes, I can see it’s an out-of-state patrol car.
“Professor Sexton, I presume?” A cautiously friendly voice asks.
I try to speak, but feel myself lurching sideways, gripping the door frame to keep upright.
“Easy, easy,” The voice says firmly, helping me inside with an equally firm grip and setting me down on the couch. I want to lay down, to sleep again, but I need to know what’s happened.
“Where’s Gillian?” I ask hoarsely. “Is she safe? Just tell me she’s alright,” I manage to get out, gripping at my throat as I notice the suited man’s expression.
He’s about my age, stocky, and looks like he can handle himself.
A thinning shock of graying hair and a few days’ worth of stubble, along with the stained tie and smell of his pits tells me he’s a detective on a case.
My mind’s clarity is gradually returning and a split second before he tries to announce himself, I know everything.
I remember everything.
“I’m—” he starts to say, holding out his badge.
“Detective Michael Parker,” I inform him, shifting myself forward enough to extend my hand, trying to smile.
“I’m Professor Sexton. Xander. We spoke on the phone.”
“That we did,” he affirms, sounding a little less friendly as he ignores my outstretched hand.
I swallow painfully again, and the detective helps himself through to the kitchen, bringing me back a bottle of water.
