Action.
Scene 220.
Take two.
---
I could hear humming. It wasn't soothing or rhythmic. It was jarring, like nails scraping against a chalkboard—relentless, shrill. A symphony of discomfort, reminding me that I don't want to be here.
School. I don't particularly hate this place. I'd rather be here than alone at home. My parents aren't really present, and at least here, I get the chance to learn something.
But there's a weariness in the air—the constant chatter, the constant backtalk. The hum of voices all blending together, swirling around me in an inescapable cloud. It's worse than the never-ending lectures. The teachers... miserable. Ironic, right? They're supposed to be accessible, approachable. They're the ones we should turn to when things get too heavy at home. But if a student is more willing to confide in their teacher than their parents, doesn't that mean something's already broken?
Clamp!
My pen hit the floor. I didn't pick it up. The class was already ending.
The sunlight bled through the glass, golden, warm. But the wind... the wind touched my skin with a chilling bite. I could smell something, too—a faint, floral scent, like roses. It twisted my senses.
The students stood up, shuffling, their movements mechanical. The girls chattered aimlessly about anything but school or their futures. The boys? Laughing at mind-numbing jokes that've been recycled a thousand times across social media.
I don't hate school. It's just the people in it that make it unbearable.
---
Scene 221.
Take one.
My legs felt heavy, reluctant to move. Each step was an act of defiance—like I was dragging myself through wet concrete.
Creak!
A sudden noise caught my attention. I turned. My gaze landed on Mr. Jesse. The janitor.
Or at least, I think that's who he was.
He had long, unkempt blonde hair, the kind that should've looked wild but instead just seemed... wrong. His pink undershirt peeked through his unzipped overalls. His hat was too long—unnaturally long, like a carnival prop. But what really stuck with me was his right eye. His blind eye. It was a pale, milky white, utterly lifeless, and it seemed to watch me from behind his mop, like it could see more than it let on.
I stood there for a moment, too focused on the strange way he worked—mopping the floor in an endless, rhythmic back-and-forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The movement felt hypnotic... like it wasn't going to stop.
"Hey, kid, you forgettin' somethin'?"
His voice was low, gravelly, like it was coming from somewhere far away.
I blinked. "What?"
"You were just... staring." His finger twitched, pointing to his mop.
I pulled myself out of my trance. "I've got a lot on my mind. You know... narrating a lot."
His head tilted, confused. "Narrating? What's that even mean?"
I could feel the frustration bubbling in my chest. "Uhm... I'm a NEET, so I don't know!" I snapped, the words falling out with no real meaning. My thoughts felt fragmented, half-formed.
"Well... I'mma see you later?" he asked, his tone half-question, half-order.
Step one.
Step two.
Step three.
I turned, but then I heard him again.
"Wait! I got somethin' I wanna ask you, kid..." Mr. Jesse called after me, his voice strangely... insistent.
I didn't want to talk. Not now. Not to him.
He took a step closer, a strange smile tugging at his lips.
"You're Ayo, right? That second-year student always topping the charts, always in the top three on the honor list?"
I froze. Figures. My records have been out there for a while now.
"You're lying," he continued, his voice thick with amusement. "You ain't no NEET." He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "Makes me wonder why you'd lie."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but the air between us felt thick. "Yeah, so? Doesn't matter much. Doesn't mean it's something to be proud of."
His eyebrows arched. "What? You're exactly what most parents dream of for their kids."
"What's the point of being proud of a title anyone can earn with enough work?" I muttered. "It's not about the status—it's about the will to work for it."
Mr. Jesse's grin spread wider, too wide. His expression felt... strange, unsettling. He continued pushing the mop, the wheels squeaking as it rolled forward, inching past me to another classroom.
There was a shift in the air. A nagging curiosity bubbled up in me.
He stopped at the entrance to Classroom 2B, leaning against the desk with an air of casual nonchalance. But his eyes—those empty, milky eyes—never left me.
"Well, your way of thinking is a little flawed," he said. "You think most people could get where you are, but there are obstacles in their path."
"Like what?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He raised his finger, the motion slow and deliberate. "Physical abnormalities. Missing limbs, brain dysfunction, amputees, dyslexia... There are plenty of examples."
My heart skipped a beat. "So you're saying someone like that can't ever reach the same level?"
Mr. Jesse's eyes glinted with something... almost dark. "Sometimes. A leg amputee wanting to be the best football player? That's a lost cause. But someone wanting to make art? That's a different story."
I couldn't help but scoff. "I don't disagree... but that's not what I meant. Some people just struggle with memory, or understanding certain things. But even that's not an excuse. Memory can be trained. Hell, amputees use their feet to paint, to create incredible art. So why should anyone struggle?"
"So," he leaned forward, eyes narrowing, "you're saying no matter what's handed to us, we can't just accept our fate? That what matters is how we use what we've got?"
I couldn't help but feel a shiver crawl down my spine. "Couldn't have said it better myself."
---
A sudden request.
"So... I've got a favor to ask, kid."
My pulse quickened. I crossed my arms defensively, narrowing my gaze.
"A favor? What kind of favor?"
Would I even want to accept?
"There's a girl named Krish. She's been having... issues."
My stomach tightened, something sharp crawling up my spine. "Krish? Who's that?"
"I could tell you... but you'll have to find out for yourself," he replied, the smile on his lips stretched thin.
He reached inside his overalls and pulled out a piece of paper. I took it from him slowly, my fingers brushing against the edges. The paper felt... wrong.
On one side was a drawing—a figure draped in white, its body rotting, decaying. A sickening, eerie sensation washed over me as I looked at it. On the other side, an address.
"Five Avenue, Riverdale Street...?" I read aloud.
"Yep. Good ol' Krish," Mr. Jesse said, his tone dripping with something unreadable.
I stuffed the paper into my pocket, still feeling the weight of that drawing pressing against me. "I have no idea what I'm even helping her with..."
Mr. Jesse leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, stop pretending. You know exactly what you're helping her with. After all, you've been there before."
What?
---
Action.
Scene 234.
The sky had a faint golden glow, but the warmth was fading quickly, slipping away as the cold of night began to seep in.
My feet dragged along the ground, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. I didn't want to meet this "Krish," but something told me I had no choice.
I stopped at the bottom of the hill, staring at the town stretching out in front of me. The lights from the buildings shimmered like an invitation... But all I could focus on was the weight of the errand I had to run.
Whoosh!
The wind hit me like a slap in the face, my hair whipping wildly as I adjusted my hat.
Soon, I was standing in front of the McDuncan house. Don't ask me about the surname—I've heard weirder.
But something was off. The air had gone... still. Silent. My skin prickled as a cold breeze cut through me.
I glanced to my left.
SNAP!
I whipped my head to the right.
SNAP!
"What the hell is wrong with this street?" I muttered, feeling the hairs on my neck stand up.
I looked down at the piece of paper, checking the address again.
"Riverdale Street... Yeah, this is it." I glanced up at the McDuncan house.
Something felt wrong.
I looked at the other houses around me. They were freshly built, pristine, almost untouched. They looked like they had just been finished a week ago... at most.
But the McDuncan house? It was different. Run-down. The windows cracked. The roof sagged.
The unease in my chest grew. The house seemed to loom over me, casting long, dark shadows that seemed to stretch out of sight. Whispers in the wind.
"Truly, truly.
Daily, daily.
Eventually."
"AHHHHH!"
I yelled, clutching my ears as the sound grew louder, distorted. But when I looked up... nothing. The house was normal again. Silent. Still.
Doesn't matter. I'm not meeting some girl named Krish.
I nodded, resolved. Turning, I began walking away.
---
Action.
Scene 235.
Take one.
"Yeah. Definitely the right choice," I muttered to myself.
Then, I realized I was still holding the paper. That cursed paper. The one with the creepy drawing and the unsettling address.
The wind picked up again. It almost felt like it might rain, though I knew it wasn't likely. I stared at the paper, the faint glow of the streetlights flickering in the distance.
"Who cares." I tossed it aside, not caring where it landed.
"Good riddance." I gave a mock salute.
The paper fluttered into the air, spiraling away in the violent wind.
"Well then. Destination: home."
I took my first step forward through the intersection of Dandelion and Brugiswat streets.
And then, it happened.
The moment my foot touched the zebra line, reality twisted.
Everything around me lurched, like the world itself was being wrenched out of shape.
I held my breath, disoriented. My legs pulled me backward. I couldn't scream, but—
It read:
McDuncan Residence.
Wait, what the hell?
Did I just get dragged back here?