Unknown

Trust Cheddar.

O'Leary

Wheeler? That you?

Unknown

Yeah, save my number before you forget it, dumbass.

You’ll need it.

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O'Leary

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It was time for him to get Asher home. His friend was at blackout levels of party irresponsibility and one sudden noise or flash away from a massive attack. Plus, ever since the tequila shots, O’Leary had been running trigger interference and playing party nurse — he was getting tired.

He’d never told Asher, but he’d been researching panic, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorders for as long as his BFF had been diagnosed with them. Alcohol doesn’t help. It may feel like it, for a time, but it always has a chance of turning a mild attack into a horror-level attack. Hard to realize the symptoms won’t kill you when your brain can’t reason itself out of a maze designed for tots.

Asher knew drinking could cause havoc in his mental state, but he also wanted to enjoy a party without fear. So, O’Leary tried to make it possible, while keeping him safe. It’s the real reason when Asher drank — he didn’t.

Wheeler even did his part by curating music that avoided some of the more obvious trigger sounds — screeching tires, sirens, or loud crashes were just a few. It’s also why Wheeler spent a stupid amount on fireworks, but the inside was lit by dim, steady lighting. Fireworks gave the party some flash and were one of the first major sounds Asher worked through with his doctor.

Asher was their captain, even before he wore the C on his jersey. It was worth it, but it was also time for O’Leary to get him home. He found Asher leaning up against the kitchen’s island, muttering to himself and looking like he was about to fall over. He wasn’t ready to leave, of course he wasn’t. This was the first time he’d let go in months.

O’Leary would have to approach this slowly. He spoke to let Asher know he was there and gently laid a hand on his back. Asher rambled about paper and something about his memory — had he had an attack? No, this was something else. Then he was going to charge after Leah. Nope, it had gone far enough. He reached out to grab Asher by the shoulder.

Asher twisted, lashed out, and shouted — something. O’Leary didn’t catch it. His friend’s eyes flashed, and his hands slammed forward.

O’Leary saw spots. Felt pressure on his chest and then he was falling. Every muscle in his body tensed, preparing for the impact with the kitchen island, but it didn’t come. Instead, he went right through.

The world went dark. A wave of dizziness struck him as flashes of purple lightning lit up an open black sky. The steady rhythm of music replaced with the crack of thunder on repeat.

There was a pulling sensation and then he was on the other side, gasping for breath as a weight, a feeling of heaviness, shook through him and he slammed into the fridge. He flinched as he hit, unable to hold back a grunt. “What was that, eh?” he asked. The words had come slowly, like his mouth forgot how to form them, but he forced each syllable out. Tears blurred his vision, his arms trembled at his side as he tried to raise them to clear his eyes. His legs quivered and twitched as he tried to shift them to stand, so he could better express the outrage he felt.

“Asher? Buddy? What the hell, man? Why can’t I move my arms or legs? What did you do?” His breathing came in short and fast through his nose — the smell of spilled beer replacing sour sweat and ozone. He looked left, then right, forcing his neck muscles to respond with gritted teeth.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Help. Anyone? Over here. Help! Please?” He tried a few more times, but nobody came. The music! It must be the music. They couldn’t hear him over it, but why couldn’t they see him? Someone flying through the kitchen’s island should raise at least a few eyebrows, and there’s no way Asher wouldn’t check on him — even in his condition.

O’Leary swung his left arm up with his shoulder, forcing his hand to grasp the lip of the island, then his right, before he dragged himself into a standing position — grunting as numbness turned to flaring pricks. Flaring pricks? There was a Wheeler joke in there somewhere.

“What the hell was that, man?” His head cleared the counter’s edge. O’Leary flexed his muscles to get them moving, even though each flex sent another throb through his body. “Were you just going to…?”

His ire trailed off into silence. There were two O’Leary’s! Him plus another one. The one standing on the other side of the island was, like almost everything and everyone else, gray. Like someone had drained the world of color. The exceptions being him, an unopened bag of ketchup chips, the phone buzzing and peeking out of his hoodie pocket, and his nemesis — the potted cactus — on the island.

O’Leary tried to blink the color back, but when that failed, he checked his arms; the long sleeves of his half-zip hoodie were still olive. He didn’t know what to do. He leaned on one arm and mechanically pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was a text telling him to listen to cheese. “Uh-huh.” Then his brain ramped up, making the jump to the next level.

“Am I dead? Am I astral projecting or something? Mom does that new age stuff, did she? No, never mind — dammit.” O’Leary wiggled his toes, biting his tongue as toe skin brushed material and sent pricks up his leg.

“Asher? Wheeler? Anyone? Come on guys, there are freaking two of me.”

Skin flushed; O’Leary’s heart was hammering away. “I know it wasn’t you. Had to be someone else — someone sent the copy, someone messed with my mind. Aliens? Elder ones? God? If you can hear me… Cthulhu?” No one answered. He paused and looked up. No, of course, no one answered.

Taking in a breath, O’Leary scanned the kitchen, his head slowly turning from right to left, looking for any clue. Then Asher heaved. The sound of retching caught his ear and cut his scan short. “Buddy?” His eyes found Asher as he fell to the ground. “I’m coming, man.”

He took a step, but his leg gave out, and he dropped to a knee. The pins stabbed harder with a pulse of pain through his hips and shoulders.

He grabbed hold of the edge and pulled himself back to his feet — it was easier this time. “Dammit, someone help him. Dopple-me! Get in there.” O’Leary watched as the other him treated his best friend like raisins in a cookie. That was enough for him. Aliens or not, he wouldn’t let anyone treat his friend that way — Asher was, at the very least, a chocolate chip. This couldn’t stand. But first, he had to get there.

One step, then another. Using the island for support, he made his way around, letting go and sliding into the puddle of vomit on his knees, suppressing a gag. “It’s going to be alright. I’m here, eh?” he reached out to brace Asher’s shoulders.

“Do not.”

The voice was clear, quiet, and firm — even with the loud music. She was in his head! O’Leary stopped. He didn’t know why, but he trusted the random female voice in his head. “Alien?”

“If you touch him, you will break the shade and he will consume you.”

Why had that sounded familiar? O’Leary shook his head. “I don’t care. He needs me and if I break my shades, whatever, they were cheap and from a gas station, anyway.” That didn’t feel right to him.

“He will turn into a monster and devour your life energy,” the voice said. Shit. That felt right to him.

His arms hung suspended halfway to Asher, and they trembled. “No, I’m sorry, Ms. Alien, but I won’t do nothing,” but he hesitated. He believed her. She was right. He knew she was right. Did he care?

“Move back, Seamus O’Leary.”

He did, shuffling on his knees.

Wheeler came skidding in to help, narrowly avoiding a collision with him.

“Do not touch anyone who is not colorful.”

“Who are you? Why am I listening to you?”

“Because I am trying to help. You may call me Meyonohk.”

“Are you an alien? Some god?” Even the name sounded familiar. O’Leary was experiencing a massive case of déjà vu.

“No. I am Meyonohk. You will not remember, but we are allies. You are somewhere that seems unknown now, but you have been here many times before. The Color Hunters call here the Belly, the Finder Keepers call it the Dinner Table, but to put it simply — you woke up.”

The number of people in the area was getting difficult to avoid. O’Leary climbed up on to the island, careful of the cactus, and let the party continue around him.

“So, just give me the other pill then, eh? The one that puts me back to sleep. I don’t want to be here.” O’Leary felt the lie. He wanted to be here, but why?

“Careful, you almost bumped me again.”

“I don’t understand. This makes no sense. Why can I see myself? Should I try to step back in?”

“No, do not. It will not work.”

Like every ghost movie ever. “Wait, bump you? What the hell does that mean?” He twisted to look around at the island he sat on. Scattered and tipped over cans, the bag of ketchup chips, and the… “wait. No. What?” He pointed at the now half-colored cactus. “This is you!?”