CHAPTER 1: I CHOOSE YOU
Fail.
Try as he might, the image of his student registry wouldn't leave his mind. It's not my fault. Who thought it was a good idea to push me into college at seventeen?
Miles sighed and leaned back into the backseat of the Uber. The semester was over, and he was heading home for summer. The evening sun bathed his face and the interior of the car in a gentle gold. With the window half open, his dyed dull-golden hair was restless. They'll be mad when they see it, he thought.
No friends? College pressure? He rehearsed his reasons. In truth, he had friends and could be considered moderately social. He wouldn't go out of his way, but he didn't shy away when spoken to. He had, in fact, parted ways with two of them not more than an hour ago.
Maybe I should go to my sister's first. She'd be more than happy, and Miles loved his niece and nephew—though they did get overwhelming sometimes. Slow music played from the car stereo, low. Though not usually to Miles' taste, it was fitting.
The car came to a stop.
"No tip?" the driver said, looking at his screen.
Miles felt the tightness of the words and scratched his head. "I paid what you charged. And you aren't exactly cheap."
The driver drummed the steering wheel. "Just get out."
Grabbing his suitcase, bags, and heavy black jumper, Miles did as told. "Thank you," he said.
His suitcase stood knee-high, his jumper draped over it while his bag weighed heavy on his right shoulder. He scratched his forehead and looked around the calm neighborhood—clean pavements and well-kept lawns. Too clean, too orderly. Doesn't match well with failure.
His shoulders relaxed and he took a step forward, his heavy boots pressing down on the concrete. Black—that's what he liked. Simple. He'd tried exploring different tastes, even taking inspiration from others, but always felt like an imposter.
The air was good here, he had to admit. It didn't feel condensed. They'd spent most of his childhood apartment-hopping before his parents bought this property two years ago. Their house loomed over him like a dragon's cave, each step forward echoing from afar.
He got closer, dragging his wheeled suitcase, when static—like a distant waterfall—rang in his skull. Slowly, it grew louder, a throbbing pain building behind his eyes. His bag dropped and he brought his hands to his temples, stretching his jaw muscles.
One. Two. Three… ten. He counted in his mind. This wasn't the first time he'd experienced this, though it had never been this bad. They seemed to be increasing in intensity.
He waited for the episode to pass. He pressed his eyelids shut, blinked a couple times, then rubbed his face. A remnant ache lingered around his eyes. He looked around, wondering if anyone had seen.
He knocked on the door. "Mom. Dad."
A few moments later the door clicked and swung open.
"Miles." His dad's warm smile met him. He was shorter than Miles, though not by much, his skin already starting to hung low on his face. Miles grimaced, it had been three months since he'd seen them and it hurt to see them grow old. "You made it, we—" His words died as his eyes landed on Miles' dyed hair. "What did you do?"
"Yes." Miles went in for the embrace. "Is Mom home?" he asked, stepping inside, tapping his father's shoulder.
"She is," his father said, closing the door behind him, "but we are talking about the hair."
"I just got back." Miles turned with a smile, his arms spread.
"Ou! Colorful." His mom's voice came from the stairs. She had just stepped down.
"He's getting it redone or cut, first thing tomorrow," his father said, taking a seat.
"I don't know." His mother straightened her glasses. "It's not too bad." She winked at Miles. "Well, settle in. We have something nice planned for tonight."
A wave of anxiety washed over him at the thought of the conversation they were about to have.
"Food or guests?" Miles asked, eyes darting. "If it's guests, I'll go back now."
"Guests? For you?" His mother scoffed, hands on her hips. "Speaking of settling in, no bags?"
"Oh." Miles laughed where he stood and rubbed his left ear. "I forgot them outside."
His mother's brow furrowed. "On the pavement? How?"
"It's that hair," his father cut in. They all laughed. He won't let this go easy, especially after a few days.
"I'll go get them," Miles said, hopping back out.
Opening the door, he looked at his luggage on the pavement and shook his head with a smile. When he was about to pick up his jumper, the static came back, this time building much faster. As usual, he pressed his eyelids shut, hands on his temples. He staggered and opened his eyes. It had never been like this, twice the same day and this strong?
With his gaze down, he saw the pavement stretch like gum being pulled. Turning around, he raised his head and saw his house stretch like a ribbon, towards and away from him. So did the trees, grass, and everything around him. The sunlight dimmed, all of reality stretching toward a single point.
He felt himself step out of his body, stuck in a state of neither floating nor falling. The waterfall static ravaged his mind. He screamed but only heard it echo back, delayed, from some faraway place. Bright light flickered in his vision like a fast heartbeat.
Snap!
Darkness. He couldn't feel his body, but his awareness remained. Somewhere far, or maybe close, a point of light flickered into existence. Then another. Soon, the dark space filled with a vast expanse of starry brilliance. Flowing dark nebula warped the points of light wherever they drifted.
Even the stars and nebula stretched like ribbons to an indescribable height. Miles felt like an ant in a cosmic lightshow. He looked toward the vanishing point, and just as he was about to glimpse it—
Bang!
He sprawled hard onto the ground.
His head rang, the static ebbing away. Blood trickled from his eyes, nose, and ears. He wheezed and coughed, spitting blood, nearly coughing out his own heart. His ribs ached, his muscles foreign to him. The light was violent when he tried opening his eyes.
After a minute of relentless body torture, the coughing finally died down. He groaned, too lethargic to stand. Another ten minutes and his senses began to return. Slowly, he lifted his torso, his neck heavy before raising his head.
Vegetation filled his vision, but his face had lay on hard, cold concrete. Wind howled. Ten minutes later, he managed to hold himself up.
Above the greenery stood his house—or what was left of it. Ancient. Barely standing. The trees and vines wrapped around it seemed the only thing holding it up. He looked around—more of the same. Behind him, the road was cracked like lightning.
His gaze fell to his hands. The concrete beneath them was clean, the grass around him neat and untouched in a small, perfect circle. So were his suitcase, bag, and jumper. His mind tried to wander but snagged, unable to follow a thread of thought.
He raised his right hand, nearly falling. He touched his cheek, neck, chest, slowly feeling through his own body.
What… what's going on?
The wind blew. The vegetation sang. The cloudy sky threatened rain. He became aware of how much he was shivering. He reached for his jumper and slipped it on. It didn't stop the shivering, but at least he felt less like a zombie and more like someone with a heavy cold.
Tap! A drop of rain fell.
Miles didn't wait for the rain to pick up. Gathering his strength, he dragged his suitcase and bag toward the house. By the time he made it, his hair, clothes, bag, and suitcase were drenched.
There was no door. He had to wrestle his bag free every time the greenery snagged it. The smell of damp wood and decay filled the air. He looked around at the skeleton of his old home.
"Mom. Dad." The words slipped out, low. Their home had been fine a moment ago. Now decrepit, vegetation gripping every surface. Rain pounded outside. He didn't realize how long he'd stood there until he shook himself free. Pulling his luggage in, he set them against a wall.
The house had been modest. He walked down the hallway that opened to the kitchen. The stairs to his left, leading to the first floor, looked like they would collapse at a finger's touch. He remembered when their dog, Cleo, had once fallen down them in a rather stupid way.
The kitchen wasn't any better. In one corner, however, the vegetation had been pressed unnaturally flat, like something heavy had pushed down on it in a wide, bowl-shaped mark.
He stepped back out into the hallway, deciding to check his room upstairs. Halfway down the hall, he froze. His heart surged to his throat, muscles straining tight.
In front of him, by the door, a massive shape moved where he'd left his luggage.