It hurts.
…
My name is Alex, my friends call me Al, or at least they did.
I sit down at my desk and place my backpack next to my chair. My seat is in the middle of the right side of the classroom, opposite the window.
The classroom is mostly empty; it's early, before class starts, and the teacher isn't here yet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, filling the silence with a faint buzz.
"Did you get the new game for me as I asked, Professor Eli?" I hear someone's voice from the corner of the classroom. It's Dane Mercer, a famous bully at school.
Eli isn't a professor – he's a student picked on by Dane and his buddies. Dane gave him that nickname when Eli answered a question Dane got wrong. The name sticks, as do Dane and the rest.
"Yes… Here you go…" Eli mutters and hands over a physical copy of a new game that just came out.
"Thank you, Professor! I really appreciate it!" Dane says mockingly.
He holds the game up and spins it in his hands like a trophy, making sure everyone who wandered in early can see.
"Wow, look at this, guys! Professor Eli comes through after all," he jeers, laughing with his friends.
I open my laptop. It's 8:12 a.m., and it's Tuesday. Maths first, then physics, English, chemistry, and finally, history.
Somewhere behind me, I hear Dane's antics, but I pay no mind. I rest my head on my palm and lift my gaze as someone enters the classroom.
It's the class president, Sally Adams. She strides in with her usual air of authority. "Dane, stop it or I'm telling the teacher," she says, voice firm but calm.
Dane freezes for a moment, the smirk faltering, and glances around at the few early arrivals. "Relax, Sally," he says, leaning back in his chair with mock innocence. "We're just having a little fun."
Sally narrows her eyes. "Cut it out."
Dane takes one final glance at Eli, shoots a malicious smirk, then heads to his seat, his friends following him.
Eli keeps his head down, pretending Dane doesn't exist. I can't tell if he's used to it or just forcing himself to ignore it.
…
It really hurts.
…
Students drop in one by one, filling the classroom with chatter. The teacher enters and signals for everyone to quiet down.
I take the AirPod from my left ear when the teacher arrives. He can't tolerate music in class, but he won't notice the right AirPod because of my position on the right side of the classroom.
I turn on my music and pretend to be invested in the lecture.
"We'll be going over equations of planes in three-dimensional space. Specifically, how to find the equation of…"
…
A sudden rustle fills the room as the bell rings. Students start packing their laptops, and the chatter from two hours ago returns, bouncing off the walls like echoes of the morning. I stay in my seat a moment longer, beginning to pack my bag once the teacher finishes rambling about homework and upcoming preliminaries.
The chaos Dane brought to the classroom is long gone; he must have gone to the nearby convenience store. The corridor is quiet now, filled only with the soft echo of students' footsteps and the occasional locker slamming shut.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and adjust the straps, scanning the familiar hallway. Sunlight spills across the floor, catching the scuffs and scratches on the tiles.
As I approach my locker, I notice something's off—maybe it's just my instincts. I open the locker door and find nothing out of the ordinary. I take my wallet from my bag, hang it in the locker, and reach for my shoes at the bottom.
There's something white in the shoes. A letter. A letter? "It's the 21st century; who still uses letters?" I snicker inwardly.
I pull the letter out of the shoe, turning it over in my hands. The envelope is plain, unmarked, and the handwriting unfamiliar—neat, deliberate. My stomach knots, but curiosity wins.
I slide the envelope open and unfold the paper inside. A few words are written in precise, careful script:
"Meet me outside in the orchard at four. Don't be late."
A big, drawn heart next to the writing catches my attention, and for a moment, I let myself be distracted. Reflexively, I slip the letter into my pocket, hiding it from the view of the students passing by in the hallway.
Who could it be? It's just a prank, isn't it? I'm not particularly handsome or… well, I'm not sure I have any redeeming qualities at all. My thoughts spiral as I walk down the corridor, ignoring the faint pounding in my chest. After all, I've never experienced anything like this before.
My pocket feels lighter than it should, the paper making me conscious of its almost weightless presence.
I close the locker door with a soft click and recollect my thoughts. Right, I'm supposed to be going to the store now. It's already been five minutes of my twenty-minute break. Sigh. Will I make it?
It's a long day; I have to make it. I leave the school grounds and start lightly sprinting toward the store, careful not to draw too much attention. Physics is next, and the teacher is strict with lateness.
…
It hurts so much.
…
I make it to the store, and with my breath still winded, I pick out the oddly-shaped, stale bacon-cheese-bread "pastry" on sale. Its greasy aroma does little to tempt me, but I shove it into the bag anyway. I move quickly to the cold aisle, grabbing an energy drink, my steps quick and slightly uneven as I navigate around other customers.
At the self-checkout, I notice I forgot my phone at school. No bonuses for me, I guess. I silently pay for the purchases. With a bag in hand, I start heading back to school. The streets are quiet, the late-morning sunlight warm but not overly bright.
I'm three minutes late for class. I stuff down the tasteless pastry and chug the energy drink as if I've been parched for a decade. The bitter taste lingers unpleasantly at the back of my throat, making me wince.
Today, physics class is held in the chemistry lab, which means no food items are allowed. I glance nervously at the door as I approach, hoping the teacher won't notice. My stomach churns uncomfortably, a small, nagging reminder that I shouldn't have hurried so much.
I miss my chance at sitting at the back of the class. Disappointed, I take a seat at the front, carefully placing my backpack under the desk.
I look around the classroom. The teacher is giving a lecture about the lesson's contents, but I won't bother listening. Sally attends this class as well, and I notice her following the lecture attentively.
"I guess I'll do the same," I think to myself.
I try my best to focus on the lesson, but it's no use. By the end of it, I've managed to complete only two tasks.
When the lesson ends, I head for the school cafeteria to grab some lunch.
I push through the crowded cafeteria, the familiar smell of fried food and plastic trays filling the air. I glance around for an empty seat, but most tables are already taken. I settle at a corner table, trying to eat quietly, my thoughts still tangled in the letter from earlier.
"Hey, mind if I sit here?"
I look up to see a girl in a crisp blazer – the kind students in the council always wear. Her hair is tied neatly, and she carries a clipboard, the way someone who's used to authority does.
"Uh… sure," I mumble, moving my tray to make space.
"I'm Avery Chen," she says, offering a polite smile. "I'm part of the student council. You're… Al, right?"
I freeze. How does she know my name?
"Yes," I say cautiously.
"We've noticed your… skills," she continues carefully, scanning her clipboard. "Organization, focus, discretion. We think you might be a good fit for a project we're running. Nothing official yet, just an invitation to see if you're interested."
I blink. Skills? Discretion? It's like she's reading a different version of me than the one I see in the mirror.
"I… I don't know," I manage.
"Just think about it," Avery says, standing to leave. "If you want to know more, come to the council room after school. We'd love to meet you there."
I watch her walk away, clipboard clutched under her arm. First the letter, now this? Lady Luck must have her eyes on me today, I think, my chest tightening with excitement and a dumb, subtle smile plastered across my face.
…
Stop. Stop screaming, stop staring, just go away. It hurts.
It was a great day too. A letter, probably a confession waiting for me. An invitation into the student council, what more could I dream of?
Here I lay, motionless, cold on the asphalt.
It's so cold it burns.
I remember reading somewhere that humans release a strong psychedelic during death to produce strong hallucinogenic experiences and ease the pain. DMT, Dimethyltrip- something something. I was never that good at chemistry.
That was all bullshit though.
The cold seeps into my bones, gnawing at me from the inside out. Every breath feels like fire scraping down my throat. My chest tightens with a weight I can't push against, and my limbs feel like lead, dragging me further into the asphalt. Pain isn't just something I feel anymore – it's everything. Sharp, relentless, and spreading, radiating through my arms, my legs, my skull.
It burns. It stabs. It twists.
I try to focus on anything else – the letter, Avery's eyes, the faint sunlight on the pavement – but nothing exists outside this searing, all-consuming ache.
Life flashing before your eyes? Where's that? I can barely think of the present.
Every thought splinters, every breath slices like glass, and the world narrows to the rhythm of pain, punctuated by nothing else.
Through my blurry vision, I see flashing lights, a woman crying, presumably the one that hit me with her car. The sirens are muffled, getting quieter by the minute– or second, I don't know.
I pass out and feel a stinging, sharp pain again. I'm being carried through the hospital. The ache has eased slightly, and fragments of my family drift into my mind. I had a sister, a younger brother, and a widowed mother. I can't see their faces. My memories are hazy; I can't cry, I can't move.
I blink, and the scene changes.
The pain vanishes. A cold shiver goes down my spine as a water droplet drips off my back.
An odd wave of serenity washes over me as I open my eyes. The pain is gone and the chaos has settled.
Before me stretches a vast cavern, its walls alive with vibrant crystals. Torches march along the venue, casting flickering light across the glimmering expanse. The body I inhabit seems to be part of this venue.
To my right, a reflective crystal catches my gaze. Within its surface, the image of a young man stares back at me, eyes like endless voids. A question forms unbidden: who is this?
The pale young man in the crystal returns my stare, silent and inscrutable, and in that moment, I realize – I am looking at myself.