joyride

It was a boring evening, a Friday night that was no fun at all. No one in the whole city of Whiteridge seemed to have thought of making this night one to be remembered. None of the rich kids was having a party. There wasn’t anything on TV but stupid Barnaby Jones reruns. There was absolutely nothing in the city cool enough to gather up a crowd. Nothing special was going on. Real boring. Everyone seemed satisfied to just stay inside their houses and count sheep. Everyone except Kevin and Brody.

Kevin Dobson and Brody Reynolds. The former, a blond, blue-eyed next-door-type kind of guy with an “attitude”; the latter, a skinny, spiky-haired techno buff with a devil-may-care philosophy. A friendship comparable only to Beavis and Butt-head. These two teenagers wouldn’t settle for a night like this. They would always make sure that they’d have a damn good time on a Friday evening. Like last week they went into Old Mac’s, the convenience store up in Burrows St., and thrashed the place the way they saw it in the Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979” video. And about a month ago, they had the done the same to another store in the neighboring town, Jemelle. They got away clean and easy in both cases—with a Budweiser six-pack and some chips, thanks to their friend, Rick Green, and his dad’s Toyota. Unfortunately, Rick was grounded for the whole week. The car got scratched when they went drag racing last Sunday, and there was no way his dad wouldn’t find out about it. But this simple problem wouldn’t stop Kevin and Brody. If they needed a car, they could always get one for themselves.

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monstrous

Accidents do happen.

As paramedics and nurses rushed the bleeding Sarah Carter on a gurney down the hallway, her boyfriend Quinn Myers stayed close behind them. He chased after them as they hurried towards the operating room, people keeping away from their path. He wanted to talk to them about her condition, but he decided not to disturb them, knowing that they couldn’t waste any time in such a situation. He wasn’t a crier, but at that moment, he felt like he was about to burst into tears. He looked at her worriedly, lying under the blood-soaked blanket, eyes closed. She was breathing very slowly, but she was breathing. She was still alive. But for how long?

“Hold on, Sarah…” he kept whispering.

Voices shouted all around her, giving orders, making him even more worried.  When they turned to a corner, the operating room only a few meters ahead, one of the paramedics patted Quinn, and asked him to stay in the hall. He complained, he wanted to be with Sarah, but the paramedic insisted. His heart pounding with fear, Quinn stopped following them, and watched them push through the double doors.

He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at those doors, waiting for his girlfriend to come out. After what seemed like forever, he took a seat on one of the chairs.  The black guy in a suit beside him spoke.

“What happened, buddy?” he asked.

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the secret

day one:

During this time of the day, if I was back in Mycroft University, I’d be having lunch with a co-teacher of mine named Laura Lindsey. We would probably be eating at McDonald’s; me, munching on a BigMac while she nibbles on her French fries. Then we’d start talking about things like love, marriage, that kind of stuff. And then Laura would smile the most wonderful smile I have ever seen making me feel so warm inside as if there’s no such word as “stress”. But that is not what’s happening today, this very hour of Monday. I’m nowhere near Mycroft, I’m not eating my favorite meal, and I don’t feel relieved of any stress. Instead, I’m in a place called the Psychopathological Research Center, or in simpler terms, a lunatic asylum. A nuthouse. A large building in an isolated part of the state where hundreds of crazy people live in.

The letter came to me about a week ago. I was in the middle of my lecture about the works of Sigmund Freud, when an FA handed me an envelope sent by a certain Professor Armand Ibanez, asking me to work for him. The message pointed out that I was “the most qualified individual” for the case he was working on and that it would be his honor to have me on his research team. Three days later, after several hours of meditation, I left the school and went to the outskirts of Dark Valley.

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nine

When Mark reached the fourth floor landing, he paused to rest. He dropped his bags on the floor and leaned on the banister, breathing heavily. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and looked ahead at the narrow hallway. Three windows on the left, five doors on the right. His eyes focused on the fourth one. That was the door to his apartment. His new apartment, the one he’d be calling home for the rest of his college years. And, thank God, it was only a few more feet away.

Mark sighed in relief and dragged his luggage towards the room marked 4D. From his jeans pocket, he took out a key and opened the door immediately. Once inside, he turned on the light and he threw the bags into the closet. Then, he jumped on the bed and stared at the ceiling wondering what poster he should put there.

It was Sunday evening, his first night in his new apartment. The following day would be the start of school, his second year in Beakman College. Just last week he had moved out from his old dormitory to try living alone, tired of all that noise and mess.  He was lucky enough to find a vacancy at that time of the season, thanks to the help of his best friends—and ex-roommates—Dale and Ricky. After hours of going round and round Crown City, they found this old, semi-gothic apartment building called The Gray Castle. Mark liked it because it was a bit creepy, and the rent was pretty cheap. Plus there were some cute chicks around.

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