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1
BRANDON
What am I doing here?
Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text.
A text I should’ve very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the number.
A text I shouldn’t have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough weight to intervene with my decision-making.
I did.
And that’s the reason I’m here.
I did.
And now, I’ve put myself in an irreversible position.
I did.
And I’m not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility of having no choice.
In reality, I do.
I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.
The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of information.
It wasnota choice and certainlynota situation I could’ve escaped.
The reason I’m here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.
I’m at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that cover their features.
We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls and an ancient tower on the far right.
The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing becomes.
My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air.
Tick.
The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to settle.
Tick.
I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters. Once and for fucking all.
Tick.
My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp at my side.
It’s fine. I can do this.
Breathe.
You’re in control.
