Hey guys. Just wanted to say, this is the very first work of mine. It'd mean lots if you guys supported me and dropped your thoughts. Peace.
The name-Foster Ambrose-echoed in the silence of the room, a verdict. Andrew Garfield pressed his palms flat against the wooden desk, anchoring himself. This was real. The bed was real. The sunbeam cutting across the dust was real. The blood on the notebook was devastatingly real.
He had died. And then he had not. He was here, in this skin, in this room that belonged to a stranger.
A frantic energy seized him. He pushed away from the desk, his movements jerky. He had to get out, to see, to understand. The closet stood against the far wall, a large box of mundane mystery. He yanked it open. Inside hung a line of clothes that were not his. Simple, functional trousers, a few button-down shirts, a worn leather jacket. The style was... off. A mix of familiar cuts with unfamiliar fabrics and fastenings.
He grabbed a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons that seemed slightly too large. The clothes fit, but they hung on a frame that felt both his and not his. They smelled of a faint, unfamiliar soap.
Dressing felt like putting on a costume for a play he'd never rehearsed. His mind raced.
_Foster Ambrose. Who were you? How did you end up with my consciousness bleeding into yours?_
His hand went to the pants pocket, and his fingers brushed against cold leather. A wallet. He pulled it out, flipping it open with a sense of dread and necessity. There, behind a scratched plastic window, was an ID card.
Foster Ambrose.
Metropolitan Police Force.
Rank: Officer.
The man in the picture had a lean, serious face. Blue eyes that held a direct, almost weary gaze. His hair was thick and had a blackish-brown color, ruffled and unkempt, but it suited him. He was, objectively, decent-looking. Late twenties. A police officer.
A cold stone of disbelief settled in Andrew's gut. It was one thing to suspect, it was another to have the proof in his hands. He was a cop. He knew nothing about being a cop.
He needed to see. Really see.
He left the room and descended the stairs, each step creaking under his weight. On the landing, a big mirror hung on the wall. He forced himself to look.
The man in the reflection stared back, a stranger wearing a face of panic. The blue eyes were wide with shock, the skin pale. He raised a hand, and the reflection mimicked him, the unfamiliar fingers brushing against his unfamiliar jawline. It was like looking at a photograph of someone else, the mirror basically captured his own terror. Andrew Garfield was a ghost haunting Foster Ambrose's face.
"Foster! You're finally up!"
The voice, young and butterfilled with impatience, shattered his trance. He spun around.
A boy, sixteen years old, stood by the front door, shrugging on a backpack. He was dressed in a uniform-a navy blue blazer and slacks. His hair had the same unruly wave as the man in the ID photo.
"You always oversleep," the boy-Ortego, his mind supplied-scolded, but not unkindly. He bent down to grab a lunchbox from a small table. "I'm late. You're late. Captain Hanson is going to have your head."
Andrew-Foster-could only stare, his mind a blank page. He was supposed to know this boy. He was supposed to answer.
Ortego straightened up and looked at him, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
_I am one._
Foster thought, but he managed a jerky nod.
The boy shrugged, dismissing the oddity in the face of his own schedule. "There's bread and jam in the kitchen. Don't skip it again." He took a quick step forward, wrapped his arms around Foster in a brief, tight hug, and then pulled away. "Gotta run! Don't be a stranger tonight!"
And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Foster alone in the echoing silence of the house.
The interaction had been so normal, so domestic, it was more unsettling than the deaths. It was a lie he was now living.
Mechanically, he went to the kitchen, found the bread, and ate. The food tasted like ash. His eyes kept drifting to the front door. To the coat rack beside it. A long, grey trench coat hung there, looking official and worn. His coat.
He finished eating, washed the plate, and moved with a sense of grim inevitability. He took the coat from the rack. It was heavy. He shrugged it on, the weight settling on his shoulders like a responsibility he didn't ask for.
He opened the front door and stepped out into the morning air.
The world was... wrong. The air smelled different, a mix of coal smoke and something floral. The houses on the street were a jumble of old-world brickwork and modern, sleek windows. An elderly man in a full three-piece suit walked past a young woman in jeans and a graphic t-shirt. The road was cobblestone, yet he could see the gleaming glass front of a 'supermarket' down the lane.
His eyes were drawn to the fence. It was low, wrought iron. Nothing like the high, wooden one around his-Andrew's-old house.
Then he saw it.
The gate.
His breath caught in his throat. It was exactly the same. The same ornate, black metal. The same sharp, spear-like points at the top.
The gate he had crashed onto. Twice.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his chest. The residuals of the pain flared, a memory written in his nerves. He could almost feel the cold metal, taste the blood. This was no coincidence. This was a message, a taunt from whatever cruel universe had brought him here.
He had to pass through it.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his legs to carry him forward. His hand, trembling, reached for the latch. The metal was cold. He pushed it open, the creak of the hinges sounding like a rattle. He stepped through, half-expecting to be flung back into the sky, to feel the familiar and brutal impalement.
Nothing happened. He was on the other side, on a brick-paved sidewalk, alive.
He had seen two symbols of his deaths now. The notebook and the gate. This was definitely not his world. And he was definitely not safe.
He fumbled in the wallet, pulling out a few bills of currency he didn't recognize. He had to get to work. He had no idea where that was. It was time to bet on luck.
He saw a black vehicle puttering down the street, a lit sign on its roof that read "TAXI." He raised a hand, and it pulled over.
He slid into the back seat, the leather creaking. The driver, a man with a cap pulled low, grunted.
"Where to?"
Foster took a steadying breath, pushing the image of the gate from his mind. He had to become Foster Ambrose, Police Officer. At least for now.
"The nearest police station." he said, his voice surprisingly steady.
As the taxi pulled away, he watched the strange, anachronistic world flow past the window. He was a ghost in a stolen life, heading towards a den of people trained to spot lies. And waiting for him somewhere in this city were the very things that had killed him.