If Carpets Could Rule The World (and other stories)

The Last Switched

His brown eyes, the curve of his smile- I grasp at them frantically as the last wisps of the dream tear into reality. The moonlight around me dulls, the room too empty for one. Sleep dances out of reach- it's learned how to keep me awake and spin my thoughts into a web I tangle myself into, every time.

I remember gripping his hand, both of us looking ahead. Neither seeing safety in the rolling, sparking waves of the sea.

I remember the seven-year-old boy who offered me his icecream.

We shouldn't've tried to play the hero. Maybe then, I wouldn't be lying awake, drawing myself deeper into misery.

My mind plays an endless loop of moments.The way we saved each other, over and over, as we tried to save the country.

I guess it worked- the country is free. Everyone's free, everyone who were switched to Earth are back. The only ones who didn't return from the are-

My eyes shoot open again, the thought digging deeper and deeper into me like a cold, iron spade. Digging his grave inside me.

Dead.

That's what he is. Dead.

The superhero who couldn't save himself.

I give up on sleep and throw my blankets off, trembling as the cold hits. I do-don't need a sweater! I chant as I feel my way toward the bathroom.

The ghost of a girl stares back at me, her large, brown eyes blinking rapidly in the flood of light.

Eyes like his.

Way to guilt-trip yourself, Sam. My inner voice refuses to shut up, however - turning each rustle of leaves and howl of wind into the boy I lost.

Each howl chants my name- Samantha- over, and over. Boring into my mind until I want to block out the cycle of hope, of misery, of hope.

Samantha, the wind cajoles. Samantha-

It is Samantha, I realise. Someone's calling my name.

My heart pounds, far ahead of me as I race for the door. I remind myself of all the times I thought it was him and only shattered my heart further- but it doesn't put out the spark I ignited.

The cold tile stings, the wind whips straight through me- but I fling the door open anyway. "Who's there?" I cry out- into silence.

A rustling from the bushes captures my attention, and a man slowly pushes himself out of their leafy shadows, rubbing his head.

This was a mistake.

Then he turns toward me, the moonlight skirting around dark chocolate curls, pooling into dark, brown eyes-

But those belong to me. And they belonged to-

No.

It isn't him, it can't be.

This man must be a ghost- half of me I once loved and lost. An older mirror of myself- but he's too real, too real to be an apparition. And as my brother pulls me into him, wet salt already speckling both of us, I know.

The last Switched is home. 

[an Aim To Engage entry]