Emerson Castell loves facts.
Enjoying the how and why of everything, she never fails to let her obsession seep into every aspect of her life, including her relationships - or lack thereof.
Leo Caruso is no stranger to a busy social life, but after...
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Five Reasons to Stop Smoking sounded like a best-selling nonfiction guide that would grace the front shelves of Barnes and Noble for months. It would be written by someone who had an MD and had spent years researching the complicated field of addiction to once again win over the American public. They, however, would likely read half of it before letting it dust in their bookcase along with Ten Ways to Lose Weight, Fifty Tips to Stop Procrastinating and How to Get Your Life Together in Three Easy Steps.
Only, I didn't have a hard-earned medical degree and certainly wasn't going to be writing a book about that topic—well, yet, at least. I had just brought myself into the complicated task of giving five solid reasons to someone who I would have hated to see keep going down the path he was on.
I didn't know Leo at all. The only things I knew were the bits and pieces I'd mentally gathered from the few times we had talked.
He was reserved, yet it didn't seem to be his natural disposition; rather, it was almost like he was forcibly disconnecting himself from everyone. He was hiding an amazing brain under that thick crop of dark hair. And he held a small package of potentially lethal objects in his pocket wherever he went, even though I was sure he'd endured the same anti-smoking lectures in elementary school as I'd had.
Being the person I was, I thought about him a lot. I began to wonder about what his background was like and his family dynamic and dove into a world of possibilities about someone that really shouldn't capture my attention this way.
I drifted off to sleep around ten-thirty p.m. after running out of thoughts about Leo. I turned from one side of my double bed to the other, kicking my feet out of the sheets and mashing my face into the pillow.
Suddenly, I was in a classroom. It was devoid of any other desks, students or wall décor that gave it a semblance of a high school classroom. There was one simple wooden desk in the middle of the room, and I sat there dazed while I looked left and right for anyone else that would help me understand what was going on.
When I looked down at the desk, a test was there, pages long and written in print that even with a world's worth of squinting I wouldn't be able to decipher. I flipped through the pages in a panic when I realized a countdown clock had appeared on the screen at the front of the room, counting down from one minute. I began on the first page, but my mind went blank.
I couldn't think, I couldn't understand, I couldn't breathe.
I brought the paper closer to my face, but all I could see were jumbled words of English. It was supposed to make sense, but when I tried to at least attempt to write something down, the countdown had ended, and all I could hear was menacing laughter. I screamed and nothing came out of my mouth.
My mind was betraying me faster than the clock on the screen had counted down to zero.
My physics book slamming against the ground as it slipped off my bed made me shoot up from my bed with a gasp. I looked down and found myself gripping the edge of my bedsheets with white knuckles, and when I reached one hand up, a stray tear dripped slowly down my face. I wiped it away and sniffed once, looking at my phone. 3:37 a.m.
