The Dream Machine

Fifteen

SANDLER

I had met George in sixth grade. Lizzie, Lloyd, and I were already best friends then. I met George since he was in my first period class: English with Mrs. Granger. On the first day, I had sat down at my desk, and George was sitting across from me. A conversation soon occured:

SANDLER: Hey. 

GEORGE: Hello. 

SANDLER: My name's Sandler. 

GEORGE: George. 

SANDLER: Well, nice to meet you, George. 

It all started like that. Nothing was out of the ordinary, until George started speaking again. 

He leaned across the aisle and said, his fiery, red hair swooshing, "Have you ever wondered about you? Your thoughts? How you can read a book and paint a picture in your mind?" Those were the thoughts that drew me to him. 

"No," I answered, "why?" 

"Because I do. They're the questions that keep me up at night." he was talking super fast. 

"But those are just simple things. Not much thought really goes into them," 

"Exactly, but if I don't think about the amazingness and mysteriousness of things, then who will?" 

"I'm pretty sure amazingness and mysteriousness aren't real words," 

"English isn't my strong suit. Deduction is more my thing," he concluded. My image of George than turned into a picture of the great Sherlock Holmes, more Benedict Cumberbatch, then of the illustrations in the books. 

"Deduct this. What are my electives?" I thought I would stump him. 

He took a deep breath and started, "By the way you constantly tap your foot with the absense of music, I would say you're in Band. Since you have a hefty book on your desk," he was referring to my thick copy of Stephen King's Under the Dome, "I can tell that you're also a library-aide." 

We became fast friends soon after, but George soon switched his interests for science, and left deduction begging in the street, waiting to be picked back up. However, it was too late now, because he was dead. 

His heavy head lay in my left hand as I was kneeling next to him. Tears were frozen to my face. My friend laid here, dead, no longer breathing. I felt even more sad for his parents. What would they do? Their youngest son had just bit the dust.

How could this have happened? First, Federick dies. Then, he comes back to life. Finally, George takes his place. Frederick must now what's going on. 

"Do you know why this happened?" I desparately asked him. 

"Touch my arm," he replied, being utterly serious. 

"Why?" 

"Just do it," 

I gently put George's head on the floor, and grabbed Frederick's bulky arm. 

"Good, now they can't detect us," he breathed.

"What are you talking about?" 

"We aren't alone. There's another member of the Consciousness."

I breathed in deeply to unclog my nose, "What do you mean?" 

"I mean, there's a guy who killed your friend. I'm the replacement."

My temper started to boil, "Who could do something so evil? Kill a person without having the courage to do it face-to-face."

"Don't worry, George won't stay dead, but we have to go back to that room." Frederick insisted. 

I knew the room that he was referring to, "What does the guy want?"

"He wants you, Sandler."

I awoke in the room, on my feet with Frederick by my side. It was just the way I planned it. Right before we entered unconsciousness, he taught me how to use my powers. Just think up the thing you want to accomplish and will it. He told me it would take awhile for it to work for me, since I was just starting out, but it was better than going in normal. 

"Good evening," exclaimed a quite old man in front of us, "As Frederick might have told you, my name is Bob." 

"He didn't, but he did mention that you're the one who killed my friend." The room was flooded with yellow light. Frederick was trying to keep his cool. 

"And I will revive him if you agree with my commands," he answered. 

"I know what you want. You want me. You want my powers, but listen here, it's not gonna happen. 

"You think you have a choice?"

"Yeah," I said, matter-of-factly, "you can't harm me. My powers are too strong. Frederick told me." 

"Oh, really." Bob replied. Frederick crouched to the floor, clutching his head. His screams echoed off the walls, as the room's color turned to a bright teal. 

"STOP!" I demanded.

"Make me," he scoffed. 

I pictured an image of Bob being shot for all the things he's done to my friends: holding Frederick hostage and killing George. It may not have been much, but it had taken a toll on me. 

A gunshot rang through the room. Frederick's screams stopped. There was a tiny, bloody hole, right where Bob's heart should be.