Hello my lovelies.
So, this one has been in the works for...
some time
now - and it's ended up a fair bit longer than anticipated, so I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labour!
Love ya's,
Iri x
CW: questionable consent; rape mention;
CHAPTER ONE - THE POWER
Time isn't real
, I told myself, thinking those words over and over and over again. They flowed around my mind, ingraining and solidifying themselves, just like he said they would. My poor father's last words, before...
No. Don't distract yourself, Brooke.
Time isn't real. Time isn't real. Time isn't...
If I wasn't paying attention, waiting for it, I might have missed it. The cafeteria around me, part of the University campus, paused. Just for a second. Less than a second.
But it happened.
I saw how the clock hesitated. The TVs above the checkout froze, as did the real people beneath them. A sandwich however in mid-air as someone dropped it into their bag, the rustling of its paper wrapping vanishing for a moment.
And then, it all came flooding back. Chatter from the TV, the voices of strangers around me going about their day, talking on phones or in little groups in a booth-like table off in the corner. Reality crashed back in, none the wiser.
I held in my excitement, trying not to laugh or anything - there was no need to draw attention to myself.
'Thanks, Dad,' I whispered to myself, almost like a prayer, before finishing my Cheese Ploughman's baguette.
Stopping time was hungry work.
* * *
'Brooke?' I heard Shannon call as the door shut behind me. Student life meant I was living with three roommates, and three roommates meant a
severe
lack of privacy. So, even though I couldn't see anyone as I shrugged off my jacket and hung it on a hook over the shoe rack, I could hear Shannon somewhere ahead of me - probably in the kitchen, which was dead ahead. Upstairs, I heard a set of feet moving around, and guess that was probably Kloe, who was an avid dancer - gloriously breaking the stereotypes of 'second-year computer programming student' wherever she went. I couldn't hear the dull
mff-mff-mff
that typically signalled Ryan being in his room, so either he was unusually quiet, or he was still out.
My head, aching from my cafeteria training, was begging me for something alcoholic and tasty, so I followed the sound of Shannon's voice after I kicked off my rain-splattered boots and dropped my bag at the base of the stairs.
I pushed through the kitchen door, and a waft of tomato-and-garlic washed over me, making me moan with hunger.
'
Fuck
, that smells good.'
'I'm teaching myself how to make pasta sauce from scratch,' she told me, as she stood over a pan, stirring a well-seasoned mix of chopped tomatoes and sliced sausages, with a pot of spaghetti bubbling next to it. 'You probably don't need anyone asking how you are-'
'Nah,' I said with a smile, opening the fridge lazily, allowing myself to meander around the linoleum floor in my socks. 'I've had enough of that this weekend.'
Shannon nodded, turning back to her food. 'Still. You're back soon. Ryan said we shouldn't expect you back for a week or two.'
I shrugged. 'We weren't close, so...'
She didn't pry, and I thanked her silently for that as I pulled out some cheese, planting it next to Shannon's prep area.
'Thanks,' she said, letting go of her wooden spoon to give me a half-hearted hug around my shoulders. I accepted it, but when she was done I made a quick escape. Up the wooden stairs, slightly slippery under my socks, I headed, stopping at my locked bedroom door to fumble through my keys, when I heard Shannon shouting from downstairs - 'You have some post, by the way! Put it under your door!'
I got the damn thing open, and heard the rustle of paper drag across the carpet as I kicked the post by accident. I picked it up, slipped into my cozy little room, and locked the door shut behind me.
With a sigh, I dropped my bag by the overloaded laundry basket, and flicked on the lamp. Behind it was a mirror, which served to double the amount of light pouring in, and yet the room still seemed darker than it should. It was warm, at least.
My bed, half-made with blue covers, waited for me with open arms, but I resisted for now. I would have plenty of time to cry myself to sleep later. First, I went to the table that sat beneath my window, styled by me into a desk, and pulled the laptop I'd left here out of the top drawer. I opened it, plugged in the charger, and wiped my eyes. All of a sudden, I was very tired.
In my bag was a photo in a frame, given to me by Mum. I wasn't ready to get it out yet, to look at it, but when I did, it was going to sit just here, on my desk. The picture was of me and Dad, from last year. He'd been sick at the time, but it was early-on enough that we were still going out and doing things. 'While I still can,' he'd joked. Not much of a joke, now, though. We were on a ferry, thick coats on, hoods up and hot chocolates in-hand. Behind us were the rocky cliffs of a Scottish coastal island I forgot the name of. Both of us were grinning, cheeks red from the cold and rain.
For the past year, that photo had been on my Dad's desk, back home. I wasn't quite ready to get it out, yet.
My laptop beeped to live, bringing me back to reality.
'Okay,' I croaked, stretching my back and realising I was still wearing my jacket only as it creaked over my straining clavicle. I unzipped it, and loaded up my emails, opening Facebook and all that. The notifications were mostly photo-tags from the funeral, and a strange anger washed over me. It wasn't like it was a wedding - it was a bit distasteful to take photographs at a
wake
and post them online, wasn't it?
I closed Facebook, and looked through my emails.
Spam, spam, spam. Nothing interesting.
Strange, how something as monumental as a person
dying
didn't stop the world from being, generally speaking, completely boring.
I shrugged my jacket off, so it was hanging inside-out on the back of my chair, and grabbed the post. Three letters, two of which looked like spam, as well. The third, though, was hand-written. I pushed my thumb under the flap, and ripped it open. Inside, a side of lined A4, also hand-written.
'Huh,' I mused, giving it a read.
To Brooke,
I hope this finds you well, and I am so sorry for your loss. Your father was a dear friend, and will be sorely missed.
My name is Hugo Ruanne, Professor of Mathematics, Physics and Relativity. I worked with your father on studying his 'condition' - a euphemism that was far kinder before his diagnosis.
I am writing to offer you kindness, and a level of support, though I'm hesitant to specify the subject in writing. If you are, as your father suspected, in possession of the same condition, then please contact me on the number I've included below.
Time isn't real.
Warmest sympathies,
Hugo Ruanne
From behind the letter slipped another piece of paper - another photograph, and again presenting an image of my Dad. This time, however, he was standing with a man I vaguely recognised, bearded and bespectacled. My father, clean-cut and wearing a flatcap he liked to annoy my mother with, had his arm around the stranger's - I assumed, Mr. Ruanne's - shoulders, holding champagne flutes, the room around them a bay window that looked out onto a sunset-painted garden, the carpet maroon and the curtains gold. They looked happy, and the place looked fancy. I didn't recognise it.
I took a moment to absorb the information.
I knew that the
condition
, as it was apparently called, was hereditary. Dad had told me as much, in the little snippets of information he
