The first thing I register in the morning is my head. It’s pounding like the bass line of an AC/DC song. My throat is parched. The next thing I realize is that I’m not alone. My arm is wrapped around a female, her hair spreading over the pillow case. I jolt, my eyes flying open, my head banging the metal railing. Ouch.
The girl’s eyes don’t open, but she turns, seeking body heat. She nestles into me, and I curse the world. She isn’t any girl. She’s my arch enemy, the one drives me insane, basically, the bane of my existence. Why is she here?
***
Dull.
***
The girl is crying. Tears are slipping down her cheeks, her eyes are red. She falls to the ground, her knees hitting the dirt with a thump. Her hands are covering her eyes. She is a pretty, young thing, but she looks awful, like she is half-mad. She screams, her keening sharp with pain.
A black casket is being buried, its mahogany lid closed and sealed. Dirt is being thrown onto it. The sky is grey and stormy, and it looks like it’s going to rain.
***
Roll Eyes.
***
“You want me to what?!” Maria yells at the Speter.
“Yeppers.”
“You. Really.”
“Yes. Really.”
Maria starts, then stops to take off her armor.
“Do I have to?”
***
So. Last. Year.
***
“That Bunny wants to kill us?” she whispers, but her voice cracks at the end, going higher.
The bunny flicks its ears at the sound.
“Keep your voice down!” he whispers angry. “The Rabbit of Dall has amazing hearing!”
“Really?” She rolls her eyes as she says this, but her voice is noticeably quieter.
“Yes, really.” The third person speaks up.
Her eyes flash under the black hood she wears.
“And are we going to kill the thing or what?!” The hooded figure stands up, her cape whirling around her, the sword that she wore at her side raised…
***
Boring.
***
The woman is lying on the couch, her blond hair lying on the arm of the couch as she flips channels. Everything is old, everything she has seen before. She’s watched every action movie, seen every tragedy, heard every variation of boy meets girl. She’s so tired. This was supposed to be her escape, but it’s too much like work. No, it is work. She’s been doing this for ages. She sighs, the noise echoing in the still living room.
Viktora comes in from the second room, her limp audible. Viktora throws the soft drink at her, which she catches without looking.
“So, your reflexes have come back?”
“Yeah.”
“My limp is still…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t leave. ”
“I know, I know.”
***
O-kay.
***
The Television is a work of art in the technological world. It is a masterpiece of looking into worlds without disturbing them, a keyhole into what-could-have-been.
It’s perfect, except in one respect.
Whoever watches it would see only what their world could have been.
And sometimes, see their own.