Jack was in his lab. After years of research, he finally concocted the formula. It was night outside. The moon was full. He got a syringe. He stuck it into the vial containing the serum, and pulled the plunger up, filling the tube. He put down the vial. He thumped the syringe, removing all the bubbles. He carefully unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. He took a deep breath. In one swift motion, he plunged the syringe into his arm, and pushed down the plunger. He found that he had closed his eyes. He opened one, then the other. He withdrew the syringe. He put it down. He curled and uncurled a fist several times, and looked at his hand.
I'm not dead. Yet. That's good.
He sat down at his chair and grabbed a book off the table. He read a few lines, but couldn't hold any focus. He got up and walked around some. Ate some snacks. He decided to go to bed. He flopped down on the mattress, and fell asleep before he could even pull the covers over himself.
He dreamed of his alma mater that night, being back in high school.
Jack woke up the next morning. He lay in bed with his eyes open for a few minutes, in no hurry to start the day. Then his eyes went wide, and he sat bolt upright.
The formula.
Jack noticed he was breathing hard. He closed his eyes and took deep, even breaths to calm himself down. He held his hand up in front of his face. Then, he slowly opened his eyes.
Holy. Shit.
Before Jack's eyes, he saw only a sleeve. He could
feel
his hand. He even knew exactly where his hand was, the way you do when your eyes are closed. He could even touch his nose, touch his two index fingers together.
This is amazing.
Jack hopped off the bed and ran to the closet. He stood in front of the full-length mirror. There he was. Or wasn't, rather. In Jack's mirror stood Jack's t-shirt, Jack's button-up, Jack's boxer-briefs, Jack's socks, and Jack's sneakers. But not Jack. At least not as far as Jack could see. Jack considered his success.