Chapter 1: Impulsive

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"Let's go to the planetarium this Sunday", a familiar female voice gleefully utters as the man beside her felt a gentle caress on his right hand. It was a gentle touch that felt so familiar yet all too foreign.


"I can't," the man answered almost immediately. He is certain he just heard himself speak. 'What a horrible time to be so impulsive,' he thought. But as he realized the circumstances in which he finds himself, he was taken aback. He does not know where he is, nor does he know what he is doing there.


Suddenly, as if the gods have acknowledged his perplexity, his viewpoint revealed what seemed to be his grasp on a wheel on both sides. A steering wheel. It was starting to make sense now. He was in some car, driving into the starless night.


"I have plans that day," he hears himself say coldly. But who was he talking to? He wills himself to take a quick glance to his right, but his body defies the command. Well, for one, it is a given-He is, after all, driving.


The seconds ticked by on the digital clock, reverberating through the quiet duration of the trip. It wouldn't be this awkward had his body succumbed to his wishes. The next thing he knew, he glimpsed a beautiful stranger in the passenger's seat. Maybe his body was as sick of the tension in the air as his conscious mind was. And again, he felt as if the generous gods watching from the skies acquiesced to his passing whim.


Her hair was an iridescent shade of burgundy, flowing in waves to adorn her glowing, porcelain-like skin. Her almond eyes, framed by long lashes, had a vibrant glint of hazel that seemed to brighten the world. A straight nose, full lips - she seemed the picture of perfection. Had she smiled, the world would sigh with contentment. Had she laughed, the world would laugh with her. And had she wept, the whole world would want to comfort her to think that, after only a glance, he had committed to memory every aspect of her physical being. Under the inadequate source of illumination that was the moonlight, no less. If he was himself, he would feel the heat creep onto his cheeks, by now. But since he is, well, not...



"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so cold." With those words, he hoped to gain some sort of vindication. Or at least, he thought so. Has the conscience in him finally conceded? It is the first time tonight that his thoughts are actually in sync with his words. Who knew a single glance at his companion would have such an effect on his estranged mind and body? He began to feel a tad like himself as he caught a glimpse of his now-softened eyes in the rearview mirror. And yet, he is not entirely sure who he is to begin with.


Silence fills the air. 'Now what?' he thought. He figures he cannot do anything to influence the outcome of this situation-Nothing but to wait and see where the impulse of this shell of a body would lead him.


Her lips part slightly as if she were to say something, but decided against it. Noticing this, his curiosity stirs up, tugging a bit at his sanity. 'What is it? Please tell me,' the words collect in his thoughts but his attempts at utterance were in vain. He suddenly yearns for this girl, to befriend her, to please her, to protect her (...from himself).


He musters all his will to say it-heck, if he just manages to roll one word off the tip of his tongue, he would be so happy. If he succeeds, he swears he will drown himself in euphoria before finishing his sentence (and then possibly celebrating victory for having to have this girl for himself).



"What is it?", he mindlessly begins. 'Did it work? Have I regained control of my body yet?' he muses as he concentrates on lifting his right hand to lay atop hers but to no avail. "You can tell me anything," his 'other' self continues in the same indifferent tone he had earlier inhibited. Unlike him, there was no sick desperation in his tone as he would have otherwise said it. How appalling it is to be deprived of your identity, to witness this wanton reality.


He fears that she would not answer him. Not with the current tension emitting from his apparent antagonism, anyway. "I..." she tentatively begins. He was allowed one more glance at her before she abruptly revealed what seemed to be troubling her.


"It's just that... I don't know..." she trails off, her voice was barely above a whisper. A pregnant pause. The vehicle suddenly halts as the brakes leave a squeaky sound in its wake. Unclasping her seatbelt and then exiting the car, she trod lightly to his side, reluctant to confront him. Glistening hazel meets deadpan azure.


"...who you are." 'You are not being yourself.' Her voice just was barely above a whisper, unaware that she had repressed the lucidity in her message by inaudibly uttering the last half. She turns her back and finally leaves, hurt and confusion marring her features. Not that, 'he' is aware of it.


He wasn't even given a moment to form a coherent, sensible response... to explain to this lady his current predicament... to make her understand what he has been struggling with, all evening.


His gaze is still glued to the girl's back as she sets foot on what seemed to be the doorstep of her apartment. He was unsure whether the body of which he was possessing remained his eyes on her in a protective manner, or in an appreciation of the eye candy. He will never know. If he was granted the will to, he would have carefully studied the girl, make sure to permanently imprint the image of her in his mind. Heck, he is very much obliged to because one thing that had slipped him before was, this girl-this complete stranger whom he feels a connection to-is essential to uncovering the mystery of him.


He starts the car and drives away. Tonight has been very weird, but how should he feel about this? He notices his hands twitch. A sign of repressed anger, he reckons. For a brief moment, he marvels at his coolness before snapping back to reality.


Just who exactly is he?


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⏰ Last updated: Jun 05, 2015 ⏰

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