Blake blinked his eyes in confusion as a white light transitioned into vague shapes. His brain felt foggy, while his heart hammered within his chest. At first, all he could hear was thudding as the blood pulsed within his ears. However, as he sat frozen within a chair, the muffled sounds shifted to voices.

What happened? I thought I was supposed to die.

When some of the mental fog lifted, he swiftly jerked his head left and right to ensure he was safe from attack. To his confusion, he sat in a well-lit classroom full of students. The room contained at least thirty desks, filled with teenagers that gawked openly at him. At the front of the room stood a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman with her hands on her hips. She stared at him in exasperation.

“Mister Summers,” she barked with annoyance. “If you continue to disrupt the class, you will spend the afternoon in the principal’s office.”

Am I dreaming?

Years after graduating from high school, he had repeatedly awakened from a nightmare similar to the scenario before him, drenched in sweat. Each time, he dreamed that an assignment was due, but he had forgotten to complete it. Then, he would realize that he was in his underwear, and all of his classmates would point and laugh.

“Are you stoned?” the girl next to him giggled.

Blake glanced down at himself to ensure he was fully clothed. When he saw the plain red t-shirt and blue jeans covering his body, he breathed a sigh of relief.

At least I’m wearing clothes this time.

Still convinced he was within a dream, he extracted himself from the small desk. With every eye in the room on him, he walked to the front of the room towards the exit.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Mister Summers?” the familiar looking teacher demanded.

“The bathroom,” he mumbled.

With a huff, she berated him as she waved him out the door. “Next time you need to use the facilities, raise your hand. Don’t make a scene and distract the class from their lesson.”

“Sure thing,” he agreed absently as he pulled open the door and entered the empty hallway.

Once the classroom door latched behind him, he sank to the ground in front of the dark red lockers and closed his eyes. As he tried to regain his bearings, visions of the last battle replayed within his mind. He relived the experience until the very end, where he clearly died.

How can I tell if I’m still dreaming?

Blake pinched his arm, hard, until he drew blood.

“Ow!” he hissed.

Okay… not dreaming. Am I dead?

As he thought about it, he realized that death seemed highly unlikely. He always imagined that heaven would be a wonderful place where he would be forever content.

High school was the opposite.

Could this be hell, then?

Blake laughed to himself. That prospect seemed equally absurd. He had seen countless horrors over the last ten years. As bad as high school had been for him, it paled in comparison to the end of the world. He supposed that everything was relative, and misery and loss brought things into perspective.

Status.

To his complete surprise, nothing happened. For ages, he had used the simple mental command to bring up his information. He had done it so often, it became a reflex. When it failed to work after the second and then third time, he began to panic.

Blake quickly climbed to his feet as his body flushed and began to sweat. As he strode down the deserted hallway with heavy breaths, he found the restroom and rushed inside.

He quickly placed his cupped hands within the bowl of the sink, and the sensor released a stream of water. The water quickly collected and was splashed on his face. He repeated the measure until the cold liquid calmed his nerves and doused his hot skin. Finally, when his breathing came under control, he dried his face and opened his eyes.

Blake froze as a scarecrow within the mirror stared back at him.

At just under six feet tall, he looked emaciated. The clothes he wore hung off him and were at least three sizes too large. Two inch long, greasy, dark-brown hair covered his head while the beginnings of a beard framed his narrow jaw. Sunken brown eyes hidden in shadow were wide in shock as he observed his reflection. However, the most surprising aspect was his age.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He looked eighteen.

This doesn’t make any sense.

The scars on his face were replaced with light acne, and he somehow had both of his ears intact. Blake absently fingered his left lobe and recalled the incident.

Almost a decade ago, when he first entered a portal, he had a close call against a goblin. The small beast-like humanoid had gotten off a lucky swing and its rusty sword winged him. Ear cartilage was mangled and for almost ten long years, he carried the scar. It was a constant reminder that the Apocalypse was not a game, no matter how similar it seemed.

Of course, like the console games he played as a kid, he eventually gained the option of healing the injury fully. Blake, however, decided not to do so. He wanted the constant reminder, in fact he needed it. It ensured that he remained cautious. He was almost certain that the change in perspective the wound gave him stood as one of the reasons he survived so long when so many others perished.

And now it's gone, like it never happened.

A bell played over the speakers. Within moments, he heard doors open and a rush of footsteps clod along the concrete outside the narrow room. Voices of conversation began and distracted him from his observations.

The bathroom door burst open and a group of boys entered the room. They paid him no mind as they rushed to the urinal and stalls. Still in a daze, he meandered out the door and into the packed hallway beyond. He stood still like a stone in a creek as kids streamed by him on both sides. They talked and joked as if everything was fine, as if the world was not being destroyed.

It felt so surreal.

Suddenly, Blake was shoved from behind. His small frame was thrown to the ground, where he deftly caught himself. Instincts from a decade of fighting for his life kicked in, and he shot to his feet, ready to attack. He was unarmed and without magic, yet he entered a battle stance with both arms raised and his left foot forward.

“Hah! Is little ‘Blakey-Wakey’ ACTUALLY going to fight back?” The large, muscular teenager snorted in disbelief. “This’ll be good. Show me what you got!”

The stream of students paused as they witnessed the altercation. The confrontation distracted them from their phones, and they eagerly awaited the conflict. A few egged him on, while others began to record, hoping to boost their social media views and followers with an epic beat down.

Unlike the numerous vaguely familiar-looking people he had seen so far, Blake immediately identified the teenager that had thrown him to the ground. It was his high school bully, Trent. The kid had caused him immense pain throughout school and had made his life miserable.

At least, he thought it was miserable at the time.

For the last ten years, Blake had stood up against hordes of enemies, and destroyed monsters the size of buildings. Of course, that was with the help of nanomachines.

With his current body, he remained at a severe disadvantage. The weakness in his limbs, his slow speed, and the lack of any available magic felt like an anchor, slowing him down. Trent also weighed almost twice as much as Blake, and was heavily muscled. However, Blake ignored the disparity between his opponent and himself.

Never let yourself be taken advantage of.

Rather than verbally respond to the taunt, he immediately launched his left hand toward Trent’s shoulder. The punch was slow and was easily blocked by a raised arm. Which is why the full strength jab at the bully’s now exposed throat came as such a surprise.

Blake heard the kid cough and begin to choke, but he did not relent. Before his target’s legs could begin to buckle, he stepped forward and brought his knee up into Trent’s groin.

A warbling cry escaped from the bully’s mouth as he collapsed to the ground, cradled his injuries, and gasped for air. On instinct, Blake moved forward to finish off his enemy. He kneeled next to the wailing teenager and raised his arm when, abruptly, he forced himself to stop.

Around him, the onlookers were silent as their phones recorded the surprising scene. Their jaws dropped in disbelief at his decisive, unexpected victory. The only sounds in his ears were the rush of blood through his veins and the moaning child beneath him.

I need to get away!

The incident finally pulled him out of his stupor, and the press of the surrounding crowd made him feel claustrophobic. He was not used to being around so many people, especially those unfamiliar to him.

Blake sprang to his feet and pushed through the crowd to escape. They parted before him and recorded his retreat. When he heard his old Vice Principal call his name, he began to sprint. He continued to dodge slow moving students while he threaded through the throng until he saw a double door to the outside ahead of him. Immediately, he changed direction until he forced himself through the metal exit and entered the frigid cold.

Light snow covered the grassy field, and he took care with his footing as he sprinted across the open expanse. A chain-link fence stood as a barrier to his escape before the blacktop road, and barred his passage. With a grunt, he leapt into the air and used his hands and arms to vault over.

Unfortunately, he misjudged his strength.

The freezing metal bar at the top of the fence clipped his leg. With a grunt of surprise, his face quickly fell. He was barely able to raise his hands in time to catch himself, yet he still landed hard. However, Blake did not allow himself to recover, he could hear the Vice Principal closing the distance in the field behind him. He shot to his feet and ran across the empty road to the neighborhood beyond.

After a half mile, he was out of breath and could no longer continue. His feet slammed on the sidewalk as he came to a stop, and he looked behind him for sign of his tail. Luckily, he had lost his pursuit. He leaned over with his hands on his knees and took deep breaths to recover near a copse of Juniper trees.

The cold wind whipped against his face and brought clarity to his situation. As he slowly regained his stamina, he realized that ever since he had awakened in the classroom, just an hour before, he had done nothing but react. He steeled himself and focused on a lesson he had learned long ago - never react. He could only blame his cloudy thoughts on his failure to act true to form.

Okay, first objective: Figure out what’s going on.

Blake decided there was no way he could be dreaming, and it was unlikely that he was dead. To his mind, that only left two options. Either, he had somehow gone back in time to before the world ended, or he was in the middle of a mental breakdown. Unfortunately, the latter seemed more likely.

Focus Blake, focus!

If he was in the midst of psychosis, of true insanity, then there was likely nothing that could be done. No matter what he did, his future would be a padded cell and a straight jacket. However, if the least likely possibility was actually true, and he had somehow either gained a vision of the future, or had reverted to his past with his memories intact, he needed proof. If he were to plan out his future, he could not continue to doubt his sanity at every turn.

Blake began to shiver as his sweat cooled and adrenaline no longer fueled his body. The frigid cold distracted him, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his task. He needed a safe location to plan out his next steps. One that was warm and familiar.

I need to go home.