❝ and those, those were the days we lived for. ❞ — unknown
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W E D N E S D A Y
december, 2019
"Thomas?"
It's his Geography teacher, Miss Kennedy, shaking his shoulder. He's groaning into his elbow, still on his way back to consciousness, the white flash fading away, the whirring noises slowly coming to a stop.
And then he sits up with such a startled jerk he almost knocks her out, hitting her right in the face.
He doesn't even have the words to apologise because his eyes have widened in astonished shock, and he's twisting in his chair to gawk at the students around him, who are equally gawking right back at him.
There's a few murmured whispers; that soon turn into mocking laughter, at him.
What the fuck?
Glancing down, he sees his schoolbag slouched at his feet, the keychain pocket-watch clipped to the side of it. His heart is thumping so fast in his chest and he can't hear anything besides his own erratic breaths, and he knows he needs to calm down because if not he's going to fucking black out.
Thomas breathe. Breathe, man. You did it. You're back.
Miss Kennedy is holding her nose, and she'd stumbled a few steps back, but the concern is still evident on her face. "Thomas? Are you okay?"
No. No. I'm not okay. How is it still now? How am I still here, in this chair, in this room with these people?
"I'm fine," he manages to croak out, hoarsely, before he has to grab his schoolbag and high-tail it out of there before he gets sick.
Don't think it, he's telling himself — warning, himself, as he almost runs through the empty school corridors to the toilets. Do not fucking think it. You know it happened. You know it was real.
And yet, despite his own conscience, Thomas hurls himself into an empty stall and opens the toilet lid, relieving his stomach on the bare, unnerving, terrifying thought that it had all been a dream.
It couldn't have been, and he's vomited into the toilets and his head is spinning, It was real. You know it was real.
Wasn't it?
There's a sharp pain gnawing at the back of his skull, prominent and irritating. His bag is next to him, and from where his cheek is smushed into his arm, he sluggishly adjusts his head so that he's facing it. The keychain is right there — and he wonders, foolishly, for a moment, if it had been a mistake.
