AHHHH, formatting the chapters is so much more convenient on a computer, I have no idea what I was doing fiddling around with a phone of all things!!!!
As we eat breakfast, Sophie talks about how Maple, my two-year-old half-sister that I haven't met yet, is newly invested in some book of hers. She keeps asking everyone she sees to read it to her and gets upset if Sophie or Dakota tries to take it away from her. My father seems to be enjoying the story, but I can't seem to focus on it.
I keep going over everything that makes this reiteration different from the others and comparing them to what makes it similar, but there is just too much. Not to mention that my mind drifts off every other thought, getting distracted by something or other and straying from the topic at hand. For some reason, I just can't focus, and it's frustrating me to no end.
My father keeps glancing my way curiously, probably noticing the quiet but impatient tap of my foot under the table, but I try my best to ignore him. In the past, no matter how hard I tried, if he asked me what was wrong, I'd end up telling him nearly everything, and an outpouring of the heart is not what I need right now.
So, with a quiet "Excuse me." I stand from the table, placing my dishes and trash where they belong before heading back to my room. I look around the neatly organized space for something to do, something to keep me busy, to distract me, and spot a thick sketchbook piled underneath a few binders. Grabbing it, I take a pen from the nightstand drawer and flip to the first empty page, not even bothering to look at any of the drawings.
Some part of me, I think, also just feels like it would be an invasion of the past Collin's privacy; I know how some artists treasure their work and don't like sharing with others. But, nevermind, this frustration and my crowded thoughts just need to stop it and get out of my head. That's all that matters.
My hands work on autopilot, scratching dark, jagged lines onto the rough paper in shapes and patterns that don't matter to my over-energized brain. As I draw, circles and ovals and waving branches take form, combining to make an image of chaos.
In the top left, a flower with menacing, jagged petals blossoms from a pool of blood, and overlaps with an overfilled chalice of sorts that spills liquid onto an outstretched hand. That hand then makes a shadow that twists into a strange symbol: an oval with three leg-like protrusions on opposite ends. Then, scrawled in a cryptic font just below the shadow, a jumble of letters: Snyatnii.
I have no idea what it means, but the simple way it manages to calm my racing thoughts is almost hypnotic. The dark lines that I trace with my fingers draw me in, getting all my attention and pulling my mind away from the chaos of my brain. But it also sparks a sort of curiosity: I've never been able to draw, not well. So why can I now?
Is it muscle memory?
But things like that have never mattered in other iterations.
A lot of things that are happening here haven't before.
But what makes this one different? What's so special about this one?
...Maybe...maybe this is the one where it en-
No. Just- just no. I'm not getting my hopes up over something as silly as a stupid drawing. I can't. If I...no. I just can't. This was just a fluke.
Resolute in my stubborn denial, I shut the sketchbook with a soft thud and put everything back where I found it. And, with nothing better to do, left the room to wander the halls aimlessly.
~~~~~~~~~~ Unknown
Finally. It was finally done. I had all the data, all the numbers, all the information that they gathered. And...
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Science FictionCollin is lost, in more ways than one. He doesn't know where he is, who he is, or what the word "reality" even means anymore. All he knows is that he's alone. He's alone. And he can do nothing to stop it. Trigger warning: the whole book is essential...
