A person awoke in the comfort of their bed. It was something like a queen size mattress stuffed into a motel room that they had broken into, and "comfort" described it poorly. They sat up to take in the atmosphere of the dark place.
There wasn't anything to take in. Sitting up and to his right, there was a window blockaded with newspaper clippings and the exit; to his left a bathroom and closet. Little decoration — a hardy and poor place to live.
To ice it, her head was also beaming; her eyes were full of pressure and very may well could have exploded, like a tanker. She wanted to plunge her thumbs into them, rub her head, or anything to ease it, but it was a temporary cure. Sort of like massage therapy. A shitty, short-term solution.
The headache was largely due to a lack of good sleep. Ever since moving into this motel, sleep was a privilege that they had not been granted. Whether it be a lack of adjustment, or the other thing on their mind, they couldn't figure it out.
He looked over at the little nightstand and locked eyes with the silver phone resting atop it. "Maybe it's worth another shot?" he thought to himself in a pitiful, almost funny way. Unfurling the safety blanket he had carried with him since age seven — which was now half his size — he grabbed the phone, and dejectedly dialed ten numbers into the thing;
Three-One-Eight, Something-Something-Something, Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah
The phone rang for a few moments. Then a few more. "Why won't you pick up?" she muttered off. Then it went to voicemail.
"Hi, this is Huxley. If I'm not returning my shit, contact my dear Chancellery. I'll probably get back to you unless I've been abducted or raptured. Bye!"
They were shook. It wasn't just some bad dream they could sleep off; they had wholly lost themselves.
beep!
With a quivering voice, he spoke: "Huxley, if you can hear me. Please, it's me, it's… I don't remember my name. Please, I need you to help me. Please answer me. I know you've been getting my calls. I don't know if I did something wrong or what but I'm scared and I need you. Don't leave me."
That's all she said. She dropped the phone to the bed and rose, stretching and allowing herself a brief bliss. It felt good.
They limped to their closet and threw on the first things in reach; an overcoat two sizes too big, loose bell-bottoms, and a feather trilby. With that, they unlocked their door and took a good step outside.
The stale air of IHOP blew past him, and the first thing he felt wasn't quite "welcome." He took note of the clock on the wall, reading 9:07.
She walked to the counter and was greeted with a waitress, her little tag identifying her as Basil. This Basil figure greeted her and led her to a booth and handed them a nice little menu to order from, before asking for which drink she would be calling for today.
"Coke, please. And can I get more ketchup?"
Basil left them to their own devices with the simulated promise of a drink and a ketchup bottle. It allowed them plenty of time to think about themselves. Away from their car — a dingy Toyota Camry — away from the outside, away from the highways and the room and just off I-20. A quiet place where their head wouldn't bother them as much.
What happened to him? When did he start being so screwed up? It seemed to have happened so fast; some time, a blur of days ago, he was with Hux, some backwoods, when he seemed to have heard a noise, maybe? Or maybe he saw something in the corner of his eye. Or he smelt burning, or felt a tapping on his shoulder.
It doesn't matter, really. What matters is that she thought something happened and she got pulled away from Hux and, in their moment of separation, a struggle commenced. What started as a scuffle that she had perceived as a prank turned into a full conflict and, in weakness, she fell, maybe hitting her head against a hard wood and suffering some sort of delusion.
Waking up, they naturally sought out their love, only for him to flee at the sight of them. It was harrowing for them, and only worsened by their new inability to remember themselves. Or even to see themselves.
And that's all he remembered, too, prior to and following the incident. The only thing on repeat in his mind for this new few-week life was his motor coordination, his speech and his love. It was agonizing.
She gave up trying to remember past that place for fear of driving herself mad and beheld a still-empty table. "Well, what the hell?" she quipped in her own mind. Then, she checked the time.
9:27.
Now that's just unacceptable. They tried waving down passing waiters, but ended up totally ignored. So, in retaliation, they stood, marching to the counter in a manner that declared war and ringing the little bell. In a moment, Basil was out of wherever-she-was and greeting them with a "Hello! Give me a moment and I'll take you to your seat" before going back. They returned to their booth and sat down, eyeing the counter.
Basil didn't come back out.
He stood back up and walked over to another booth — one in which its occupant had been excused to the restroom — and grabbed the plate of waffle and syrup, then returned to his seat to eat the unfinished thing. As he suspected, when the patron returned to his table, he was nonethewiser, and finished the second plate without a problem.
She scarfed the waffle down and then left the restaurant. Not like anyone would take her cash if she left it on the table anyways. Entering her Camry, she went back home.
They creaked open the door and haphazardly tossed the hat onto the bed, already fully exhausted simply from going out to eat.
He sprawled himself across the bed, letting himself soak in the dust and warm light. Then, reaching out, he fingered for the phone that was on the bed somewhere.
You have: [1] voicemail!
She yelped and quickly held it up to her ear to see what Huxley had to say. "Pleasepleaseplease dear I need you to come through."
"Listen, this is the fifth time you've called this week. I don't know what you want from me. I don't know if you're some trickster, o— or like, a fucking scammer or something, but Chancery went missing weeks ago, okay? You don't even sound like them. I swear to God, leave me alone, or I'll call the cops and I'll have you arrested, or something I— I don't know. Stop calling me."
He didn't know how to react. He sat still on the bed with the phone still to his ear as it beeped once more and he was reminded there was nothing else.
The phone dropped again and she ran to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding painting the seat of the toilet as she puked into it, the putrid, unfulfilling waffle from earlier returning. She flushed and sat next to it, breaking down into a cold, tearful panic. All she ever wanted was to love and it was ripped away for no reason at all.
They stood up and grabbed a rag to wipe their mouth and saw it. Themselves. In the mirror. It was as if there were nothing in the place of them, but at the very same time, something. It was indescribable, yet in their grasp. Their face had no features, and they were half-blended with the rest of the bathroom.
It made him sick. He struck the mirror in fear and anger, sending into thousands of tiny little shards, and stormed out of the building.
She stood on the ledge of a parking complex, overlooking a little town not far from where she was, as well as a river. Certainly steep enough to take her out.
They sat down for a moment to take in the morning. How quickly it had all happened. And the fact that nobody would even notice them up here, or if they left the Earth.
He braced himself, unlatching and getting ready to fall off into the sunlight.
"These yours?"
A voice behind her beckoned.
"Huh?" They turned around and a figure was standing there, supported by a cane, holding their blanket — neatly folded up — with their hat resting on top.
"Uh. Yeah. Thanks."
"No problem," the man replied sweetly while handing the items over. "What brings you up here in the morning anyways?"
He looked back out at the river beneath him. Then at whoever stood behind him; they weren't dissimilar to himself. The difference is in coat and cane; this cat had a smaller tailcoat and a stick which looked to have flames painted onto the bottom of the "shaft," rising up towards the crown. This was in stark contrast to the lousy trench coat and small safety blanket that he received and was now wearing.
"I was uhm, just sightseeing."
He laughed. "I can see right through that, you know?" He limped over to her and mantled up onto the ledge, then hung his cane onto it between them. "You were here to end your life."
"Yahtzee. I just… haven't got much to live for I guess? At some point apparently some weeks ago I lost my mind or something and nobody will acknowledge me anymore. My love ran away from me and I can't bear to look at myself in the mirror." They teared up again. "I forgot everything. I might as well be a stupid baby."
"Hey, be easy on yourself. I know it's a lot, but I was there too, a long time ago, right in your two shoes. Only difference 'tween us is that you managed to piece together how long it was since you were yourself way quicker than me!" He grabbed his cane and started twirling it with his left hand. "You know how long it took me to learn I was a British Loyalist?"
He looked back up. "Really? That's cool. I like history."
"Yeah. Let me tell you, Washington is a lot shorter than the books make him out to be." They shared a laugh. "But, uh. Take it easy buddy, okay? I know how rough it can be, but believe me, it's an opportunity to learn new things, and a new way to live. You know how much stuff I learned to do? I'm more than a magician, let's just say that."
"Show me a trick," she requested.
"Just like that?"
"Yeah!"
The figure requested that they hold up any secret amount of fingers behind their back. They held up their pointer and middle fingers.
"Four."
"Gotcha!" He removed his hand, only to see his ring and pinkie fingers were raised as well. "What? How did you do that?"
He laughed. "I told you. More than a magician." She was comfortable knowing that someone could laugh with her and guide her. Even a complete stranger.
"So what else aside from magic can I do anyways?" they asked.
"You can help people; you can be with the dying in their final moments, you can guide people to the right at the crossroads, you can help animals and Mother Nature, and plenty of other arbitrary examples. Ordinary people don't know about us, but we're not ordinary people. You're not alone, and you can make plenty a life out of this." He hung his cane back up. "It can be small, too. It doesn't hafta be something bombastic, given there are no restrictions on your lifespan. You can live however long you'd like and take any approach. It's not all bad. You very well may have lost your mind and soul, but your heart is still in there."
He smiled. "How will I find the others you're talking about?" he asked.
He looked back at her. "You'll find out with time. And you should probably start a journal, believe me." After thought, she decided to hug him. "You know, it's rude to hug before asking."
"Does it matter right now?"
He responded by reciprocating.
"Thank you for helping me, whoever you are."
"My name is Pluto, but really, I'm nobody. Better question is who're you?"
They released each other and sat in silent company for a while longer, as the cars on the bridge below them crossing that river fizzled into a blur.
"I'm gonna be going," the figure suddenly spoke, breaking their silence. "Farewell. Though, it's safe to say we'll meet again." He grabbed his cane and turned around, limping away.
"Bye-bye, Pluto."
They pulled back into the parking lot of their little Inn, exiting the vehicle and taking a moment to see the beautiful evening. Being a part of the scenery the same way the birds and clouds and all the good stuff was, well, maybe it wasn't as bad as they thought.
He walked away from the car and up the stairs, holding the railing with their left hand, so as to not hurt their cut and bloodied right. His legs were tired, but it was easy to shrug it off now. He was shrouded by his blanket.
She pushed open the door and walked into the room, the smell of old paper and dust hurling itself at her. She reached into her trench coat, pulling out a new journal she had "borrowed" from a dollar store down the street. Then, she took a pen from her nightstand and opened the little book, just to write about the way she had felt that day.
Nov 13
Well, I've had a morning. I guess I'm just, not quite me anymore. I really appreciate that Pluto figure for helping me. I guess we aren't different.
Sorry this is awkward I dont ever do diaries or write. not that I remember anyway. And my handwriting is so messy. I think its time to find a new "me" now. away from Huxley and from people. With nature for the time being. I like treehouses
I'm gonna delete Hux's number and let him grieve without me. I love him so, and I'm gonna have to love myself as much. Once I dress this wound in my hand (apparently im a left-handed writer) Im gonna take a nice nap. The word "Proteome" comes to mind, maybe I was a biologist. I think i'll take it as a name