Chapter One
"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."
Snow. With its cold and dampened feel, it pounded down on the May soil, leaving frosted depression fixed onto every tree, car and single entity within its deathly grasp. He was awake when it started, and fell into a restless sleep while it was still going. When he awoke in his basement flat, it was still falling, just as hard as it had been when he retired to the sanctity of his own bed, which, night by night, seemed to be more and more cold and isolated from the love he wished he could still feel. Isolated from anything, for that matter. In fact, he wished he could feel anything; he was dead to himself. He noticed that his flat seemed cleaner than usual, maybe Taylor had spent the night, cleaned, then left, all before he arose. No, Taylor hadn't stayed the night, he remembered last night vividly. The reason being quite absurd, but he remembered it very clearly nonetheless. It shone like a crystal, sparkling its way to the forefront of his mind, lodging itself firmly in his right temple. He had wished. He tended to wish quite a lot these days, saddening him very much so. He wanted to be happy, he wanted Taylor to be happy. He wanted them to be happy together, but alas, he was growing wearily into a darkening depression. He wished for it to be December again, a time when he was happy. He was with Nicole then. He don't know what made it so special, so different, it just was.
Now, with Taylor, Alex felt trapped. He was stuck, every day they would fight and he didn't understand it. They argued over such simple extremities that it had begun draining him. He felt like killing himself. Out of the corner of his eye, a sparkle gleamed off the table. He took the razor, questioning why in God's name Taylor would leave these things lying around, and slashed maniacally at his wrists. The wounds formed, but no blood began to bleed. He laughed slightly, something which disturbed him. He had no blood left to bleed. It poured out for so many others, leaving none left for himself. A chill ran over him. He shivered. The blood finally trickled down his arm. As he was preparing to leave, deciding upon his fitted attire for the day to be, and cleaning his recently accomplished wound, he noticed the calendar by the window. He wondered how he had manage to miss it before when he checked the weather, which he noted again was just as horrid as previously. The calendar was set to December.
No. It's not possible. He must have flicked it back over before he passed out. No, it was well into May, he had a new calendar. In fact, he remember very distinctively throwing the calendar from the preceding year into the trash. So how was it that it was hanging on his wall, just above his bed? Maybe some sort of sick joke? Who knew. He ripped it down before he left. He scaled down the moaning stairs and left his flat without a second look back. He waited at the bus stop for what seemed like an eternity. The snow was coming down in record amounts now. Alex looked for the sun, which he couldn't find. The sky was canvassed a dark grey, and the snow bled from whatever opening it came from. It was a depressing scene, in the all aspects that surrounded it.
The sun's not yellow, it's chicken...
The bus was running late. The cold was eating at him. Finally, the bus appeared, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. He hadn't seen it coming, but that didn't surprise him, it was impossible to see in this mess, his hair proving more of a visual challenge then the snow that lay beyond it. What had surprised him was that he hadn't heard the bus coming. Those buses come driving up to the stop with a terrible roar, reminiscing the sounds of an army convoy, driving up for the first strike against enemy forces, to blow them all to smithereens. But today, the bus was just sort of there. It was sometime, in the confusion of the bus arriving unannounced and the cold despair eating away at him, that he realized he didn't have his bus pass. He couldn't remember leaving it anywhere. Anyone that has ever needed to use public transit has had this happen to them. You know how the scene goes. Scrounge the pockets for change. The bus driver looks at you, with a look you interpret as anger and impatient. Hurry the hell up god damn it! Those are their thoughts. You want to apologize, but it seems unnecessary. You haven't done anything wrong, it's their own damned fault for being impatience. Then you scoop some amount of change out. It doesn't matter if it's the right amount, just as long as it's enough to bluff the driver into assuming it is. You pay, service with a smile. Keep walking down the lane, pretend no one is looking you, when you know they are. All eyes on the freak.
He found Taylor in the seat before the last. He waved to her, getting a dull nod in return. She moved her bag rather reluctantly, allowing him to sit. Thanks a lot, he sarcastically envisioned himself saying. A brief chuckle. No, no, can't let her see you're happy, she'd try to kill it. That was her goal, to kill his happiness.
"How are you?" he asked, rather politely. She mumbled something in return. No point in asking what it was, all he'd get is a verbal beating. One more peace effort, he decided. The average thing all couples do: hold hands. He tried not to make it into some sort of event, just reach over and slid his hand in place with hers. She seemed different today, so different he was almost against the idea. Another laugh, can't let that escape. It's just holding hands, just do it. So he did. A deep breath, moving his hand, which seemed as though it were weighed down, as if trying to grab something underwater. Almost there. And we're there, just slid palm to palm. What happened next was almost what he was expecting, although he didn't know why. It started with a kind-of-whimper, more of a startled cry. She seemed appalled.
"What are you doing?" she inquired, in a sort of scared tone.
"Huh?" Alex replied. He was lost. What had he done this time, he just wanted to hold her hand, and this was what he got?
"Could you, uh, leave me alone? Please?"
The words hurt. He didn't know why, it had been a long time since he felt feelings for her, but maybe the simple rejection, so subtle, yet so cruel, had actually phased him. Nonetheless, he got up, although rather slowly, and moved down to the other end of the bus. The sky is crying. When the bus arrived at the U, he tried to apologize to her, maybe at least save his reputation, or whatever he had left.
"Taylor, look, I'm unsure of what I did, but I'm sorry, things seem to always be my fault, so I can understand, I probably did something wrong to deserve that." Very fair, he thought. He was begging for sympathy a tad towards the end, though, he hadn't done jack to deserve the pain he had garnered, yet he said it with a tone that seemed so true, anyone within earshot would have believed him. Hell, he might have even convinced himself.
"No s**t."
Ouch. That one hurt. Thanks a lot, b***h. For him, he considered this the final encounter, and vowed, on the spot, never to speak with her again. Why not? She seemed to hate him already anyways. He hurried to class, little hope in his heart and feeling mixed between generosity that the weight was lifted, and sadness that he had lost Taylor. Sure, she wasn't exactly what you'd call a high-class girlfriend, but she was a girlfriend. He arrived to class late. I don't feel tardy. Wait, what's this? This isn't applied physics. Where is Andrews? And the giant model of the atom they held with such high regard, that sat at the front of the class? Had he gone to the wrong room? No, impossible, this was the same classroom, that was his seat over there. Suddenly, a clenching fear grabbed at him. Quick! Get out before anyone realizes you're here and starts questioning you. He made a dash for the door. During his quick venture of escape, he noticed a calendar on the poster board. It was of gigantic size, impossible to miss and, to his astonishment, read, in big, bold, black lettering: December. Once he had left the room, he checked the room number, although he knew it was his room. Yes, there it was, Room 138, above the entrance. A sudden fleet of feelings fell over his frozen frame, a strange cocktail of confusion, anger, sadness, loneliness, relief, vertigo, the sort of feeling you get when something you're anticipating something, and it seems like it won't work out, but then at the last minute, with a flash of luck and an ounce of fate, things go according to plan and you have the utmost feeling of satisfaction. Alex would have compared it to a bad drug trip, something like taking one too many hits of ecstasy, and going off the deep end, yet still filled with up-to-the-brim-happiness. The hallway began to falter and shrink...
Through the looking glass.
Another morning without feelings. She was getting to see life as a light, every day closer to burning out. And, what was this? Snow? In May? C'mon! She just wanted peace. Forget the past, whatever will be, will be, que, sera, sera, just leave it to die. She felt like crying, just break down right here, in the sort of makeshift den that doubled as an office, and let all the months of pain and sorrow run down her cheeks. But no, she had no tears left to shed. Or at least not for this passage of time, set forth in the den, at 7:42 AM on a Monday morning. She managed to make it to the bathroom. Flick the lights on, push back the shower curtain, spin the water on, a rain of cold cleansing doused her instantly, turn the hot water on, face yourself in the mirror. Stare down this beast that isn't you. What had she become? She didn't know. On the outside, she was still herself, nice, beautiful Nicole, flowing with generosity and kindness. But on the inside, she saw someone else.
She saw a monster, some sort of fiend, lifeless and horrid. Or so she thought. Others argued against her own claims, saying she was a stunning girl, but she could see into her own eyes. She knew all she had done and it sickened her to become what she thought she was: an empty shell of herself. And thus began the crying. Flick the lights off. Dark showers are the best. It doesn't allow you to see the shame as it's washed off of you. She sobbed and sobbed. Crying over the loss of life's greatest treasures. Love. Happiness. Even sadness had left her alone. She was nothing, or so she felt. The tears built up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, caressing over her perfect body, eventually becoming one with the pouring water that washed her clean of all sin. She was living a tragedy, building in agony, that seemingly left her alone after every turn. There was a moment, just a split second, where she could feel, and, oh, how she felt. It was as if all the propelled droplets of water had become nails and chunks of broken glass. If all her bones were to creak and moan, then finally break. If her skin and flesh were to peel back and expose all her muscle and inner tissue to this barrage of intense hurt. And then, it was gone.
A sudden realization over a cup of Joe.
Alex' head had been done in but the unforgettable drought of sustenance. He needed food. Now. But, he wasn't hungry. He never was anymore, his hunger was rationally split into periods which made sure that no one would question his eating habits, yet allowed him to keep up his fasting. He hadn't been hungry in a long time. Not since December. His depression was spiralling out of control. He was always tired, and instead of eating food to give him stamina, he would partake in mass amounts of caffeine to supply him with needed energy. By some strange act of God, he had managed to drag his deadlift body to the lounge-type area and get to a coffee machine. He almost forgot about the blackness appearing at the corner of his vision. It had become something of a normality. He was so used to seeing the pending fear in his peripheral vision, that it had become accustom. Today was different though. Today that darkness shot across his vision in ever growing spurts, every time sending a curdling sting through his head. It was like a migraine headache every interval, as if someone was beating his brain in with a shovel. After what seemed like an eternity, his coffee was ready. Those god damn machines take too long, he could be well on the way to the hospital with an aneurysm by now. He drank his coffee down in a matter of seconds, burning his tongue very thoroughly in the process, but he didn't care. He bought another coffee and found a place to sit down. Near a window, in the corner, secluded from the rest of the lounge by various plastic plants. Sort of his solitude. It was still snowing he noticed, without any signs of stopping. Then he noticed it. To be more exact, he noticed them. The tinsels, the wreaths and all in between. It's Christmas time in the city...
"There is no one who compares with you."
She stepped out of the dark-shower onto the freezing linoleum flooring. Shivering, she dragged her lifeless body back to the solitude of her own room. Dressing herself was pertinent. She slipped on her clothes with elegance of a godess of the Roman empire. She still felt ugly. She trudged up the stairs, gleefully leaving the coldening abyss of the basement to warmer expenditures. Sunlight blinded her as she made her ascent and the smell of gingerbread filled her nostrils. She felt alive for the first time in weeks.
"Good mornin', honey," a voice said, softly. She attributed that voice at once to the only person who'll love her, forever and ever.
"Mornin', Mom," she replied, with mixed emotions. She almost didn't recognized her own voice. Bitterness and a harsh tone fell upon her words. She trudged to the fridge, opened the giant, metallic door, and stared in. She knew damn right she wouldn't be eating anything. She figured she'd become anorexic. Or that's what other people would say. She just couldn't eat anymore. Whenever she was forced to, she was overcome with feelings of intense sickness, burning straight to her stomach.
"Don't forget to come straight home after classes, we're going Christmas shopping, 'member?"
"Wha..?" was all she could bring herself to say. Her mother repeated herself, although with much more irritation this time around. It hit her than, almost instantly. She began piecing it together, bit by bit. The snow, the smells of gingerbread, and, suddenly, she remember: the wish. She doubted its credibility but couldn't exactly ditch the thought. It must have been, to some effect at least. She couldn't have just woken up in December. Not without some help. But it was just a wish... Just a toss at luck. Things don't just work like that. Or do they? She felt dizzy...
Chapter Two
An unprecedented understanding usurped our unsung hero.
It must have been the wish. Still, even if the wish did work, which he doubt very much (he had wished almost every other night, why did it work last night, of all nights?), that wouldn't be possible, or explainable. Still, there it was. The wreaths, the tinsel, the misletoe, all of it. He remembered Taylor yelling at him and it made perfect sense: they didn't know each other yet! He felt the utmost relief once again, as if chains had been lifted off him. Then sorrow. He stood up, and walked towards the hallway, muttering under his breath all the way. What day is it? What day is it?! Goddamn it, what day is it?! Finally, about three classrooms down he found what he was looking for: a calendar. This one, although not to his surprise this time, also read Decemeber. Each day was marked off with a big, black 'X', indicating the date as one more then the latest 'X'. December 19th. He had gone back five months. Five long, tiring months. So many things were changed. He was taking different classes (it was still the first semester now). He was dating Nicole, not Taylor. He didn't smoke anymore as well. Strange feelings bestowed upon him. Retribution took its toll and gave way to a calming after-effect. It was around this time that he noticed the ever-deafing silence that shook the pedestal of his existance. The darkening kiss of anarchistic chaos left him delusional.
Had Nicole cheated on him yet? Was she aware that she would? Did she happen to serve the same fate as he had? So many questions circled throughout his mind. He felt like throwing up. Wearily, he retired back to the lounge act, sat, and helped himself to a third coffee. Was it really December? Had time really gone back five months prior? Logically, he knew it was impossible, but all the signs were there. The next thing question to spark within his head was that of what he should do. Should he confront Nicole and rebuild what he had lost to deviance, lust and infidelity? Rebuild something that might have technically not been lost yet? Indecisiveness flocked him into a stupor. He noticed a rather drab, young lady standing by the window, staring attentively outward into the cold underbrush of society. She looked troubled. Alex had to resist the urge to go over there and talk to her. He felt the need to talk to her, this lonely mistress of the cold and dreary December's wind. He wanted to comfort her. She looked lost, but he didn't want to ruin the perfect aspect that held her high. She almost seemed like a picture, her beauty and exposition of true elegance almost brightened up the surrounding areas of the window-seat, in which she placed herself. He was reminded of a Christmas ornament. One of those angels that sits atop the pine tree. The pinacle of his childhood memories in the Yule tide spirit almost all involved her. Not necessarily her, but the angel. She seemed to be sent from heaven to him. It was a hard task to remove his eyes from this godess, but he only did it to see if anyone noticed her. He noticed the clock, facing south on the wall. He had been amazed by this women for almost twenty minutes. When he turned to stare again, she was gone.
He needed to see Nicole. He decided this at once. It was absolutely necessary. He needed to know whether or not he had just gone off his rocker, or if she had fallen with him. It hit him like a Ford hitting a wall at 90 miles an hour. It was December. Nicole was still enrolled at the very school in which he stood. Only, had she gone back with him, would she know this imperative, precisive knowledge? He assumed that she must have, or would figure it out rather soon. He decided on making a trek to the nearest pay phone and giving her a ring, to see whether or not she had left for the day. It wasn't as if he had something better to be doing.
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