W

That was an... an. En. 'N.' That was N.

West picked up the pencil, pinching it with three fingers like Ms. Clalisso had taught him to.

He held it really hard, and the pencil slipped. It rolled off of the slanted desk and onto the floor before he could get it.

Oh no.

West looked around. No one had seen the mistake. He leaned sideways to try and see it on the floor, but it was gone! Had it rolled away?

Adam was looking too. He had seen. Adam was part of West's circle-up and sat in the desk next to him. He was the oldest boy in the class. Seven years old plus four-and-a-half months.

Adam bent over to reach under his desk and found the pencil. When Adam got back into his chair, he banged his head against his desk.

"Ow!" Adam said, angry. He sat up straight in his chair and was rubbing the back of his head where he had banged it.

The rest of the circle-up was watching. Asha and Omar were watching. Asha laughed at Adam. Adam stopped rubbing his head.

West felt bad. It was his fault Adam had banged his head on the table.

"I'm sorry," West said, "It was an accident."

Adam slammed the pencil onto West's desk, and then picked up his own. He looked down at his paper so he wouldn't see Asha laughing.

"I'm sorry," West said again. Asha kept laughing.

Adam got hurt. She should stop laughing at him.

Asha started to stop. That was a good thing.

West picked up his pencil and held it tightly so it would never escape again. It almost did, too, which was scary. He fumbled and then held it a little bit less tightly. Then, he looked at the top part of the paper to remember what he had to draw.

W

En. N.

No, that wasn't N.

With his other hand, West counted the lines. One, two, three, four, five lines. N had four lines. This was am. Em. M.

West drew M. It was hard because the lines on the paper were so small. He drew three straight parts and then a curvy part. The last part went out of the lines he was supposed to be staying in.

"No erasing," Ms. Clasillo had said earlier. West huffed and tried again on the next line.

The teacher walked around the room, looking at everybody's letters.

"Good job!"

"Great work!"

"You're almost there, Evie! Keep it up!"

When she got to West, she picked up his paper to look at it. West waited and wondered what she would say. He hoped it wasn't something mean.

"Very close, West! Em and dubbo-yoo look a lot alike. Can you show me a double-yoo?"

She put the paper back on the desk and watched him. West picked up the pencil and thought.

Dubbo-yoo. Double-yoo.

West sounded it out in his head, but he couldn't remember. What did double-yoo look like?

West looked up at Ms. Calisso and shook his head.

"That's alright. Do you remember when we learned vee? Show me your best vee."

Vee. Like Tee Vee.

Okay.

West drew a rectangle on the dotted lines. When he was done, he saw that it was wrong. A shape wasn't a letter.

West saw Asha in the seat across from him. She was leaning over, trying to see what he had drawn. Ms. Calippo picked up the paper before she could see it.

She looked at it and smiled, "It's ok if you can't remember vee. Here, let me show you..."

West continued to get it wrong until the teacher moved on to other students. It was a bad start to a very bad day.

After school, his parents mentioned getting a call from Ms. Kalypso. Papa explained having similar problems as a kid. This problem apparently 'ran in the family.'

Dyslexia.

Mama said they would look for a tutor, and assured West that he would be alright.

Papa hadn't been so sure. He kept talking about how hard his life had been.

As West finished his first year of schooling, things didn't get much better. As it turned out, Papa was right.

First and second grade were brutal, and West asked himself many times whether he was too dumb for school.

It wasn't until third grade that he saw the first hint of light. The school had established a structured way for dealing with West's disability. When tests and quizzes took place, West was escorted to a private room where he could receive the exam orally. This made a world of a difference, and he went from nearly flunking out of third grade to being top of his class.

'Gifted.'

That was what some of the teachers called him. This baffled West for many years before he understood the distinction. How could he be 'gifted' but not know how to read?

'Special' was the other word used to describe him, but never by a teacher.

The classmates.

They knew something was wrong with West, and they tended to assume the worst. They would occasionally throw around less favorable words, like 'slow' and 'backward' and 'retard.'

Most often, they called him 'Weast,' joking that he wouldn't be able to read a compass if he got lost. It was a dumb joke, but one that stuck.

This bothered West, partly because he agreed with them. He understood that his teachers and parents wanted him to be comfortable, but he just wasn't sure about the 'gifted' thing.

Maybe the teachers were giving him easier tests to boost his confidence? If that were true, he appreciated the sentiment. He kept the thought in the back of his mind and revisited it every time he scored a 100%.

They're giving me an A+ because they feel bad. I didn't earn that grade.

When middle school started, the social harassment got worse. So did the workload.

The teachers started handing out homework, projects, and essays. Each provided a unique challenge to West because he was still operating at a first-grade reading level. The only task which offered no complications was math homework. Unless there were word problems.

Group projects were the worst.

One of these projects saw him paired with two others to complete a one-page essay and diorama. The topic was photosynthesis.

Adam was one of his partners. He still told everyone he was the oldest in the grade, even though he wasn't anymore. It was clear that he didn't think much of West. In fact, West could tell that Adam resented him. There was a slight edge to his voice whenever he addressed 'Weast.'

The three of them took the same bus home one afternoon with the plan of completing the project as quick as possible. Oren unlocked the door to his house and showed everyone inside. He and Adam tossed their bags onto a couch, producing a shuffling sound as their books were jostled. West tossed his and it made a noticeably lighter thump.

"My mom saved me a shoe box. I'll go get it!" Oren said, turning and sprinting up a flight of stairs. His mess of blonde curls bounced from the choppy motion.

Meanwhile, Adam took a brown notebook from his bag and tore out a sheet of paper. He also took out his science text and began flipping through it.

While they waited for Oren, Adam said nothing to West, focusing intensely on the page flipping. West might have broken the silence, but Adam was signaling not to.

Oren returned with a shoebox, scissors, some glue, and a plastic bag full of multi-colored pipe cleaners. Oren started to speak, but Adam talked over him, "I lost my bookmark. What page are we on?"

Oren just shrugged.

"528," West supplied.

Adam shot him a glare, "Yeah, right."

West said nothing. He was sure it was 528.

Adam said nothing when West turned out to be right. That was fine.

West and Oren got to work assembling the diorama. West handled most of the work, while Oren continually found reasons to take breaks, leaving the room and bringing back drinks and snacks. West didn't mind. Oren had some good snacks at his house.

Twenty minutes in, Adam spoke up again, "Oren, what else do plants make? I wrote down oxygen. What else? I can't find it."

"Glucose," West answered, recalling it from memory.

A light flickered through Adam's eyes. Recognition of the right answer. He masked it with a dark expression.

"Lucky guess," he asserted.

West was unbothered. Maybe he was lucky? His memory didn't always work like it should. He still had trouble remembering what written words sounded like.

Adam finished writing the paper before the diorama was complete. He read it aloud so that Oren and West could critique it. It was good, but West noticed a mistake.

When Adam was done reading, West spoke up, "That was really good. I think we should talk about the other things plants need, too. Plants don't just need sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide to grow. You should add a part about how the roots absorb minerals from the dirt."

Adam was quickly losing his patience, "Yeah, right, yeah, right. You're wrong!"

"No... he's right," Oren said, hesitating at first, "You should add it."

"Yeah? Should I? I think Weast should," Adam said, holding a pencil out to West.

The sudden tension in the room could be felt. West visualized it as a physical force, pulsing out in waves from the pink of the eraser. No one spoke.

West looked up at Adam from where he sat on the floor next to the diorama. There was no easy way out of this one. West had expected things to go badly, but he hadn't expected it so soon.

"Adam," West began, nervously, "I wanna help, but I can't write as good as you. But I think it's really really cool of you that you're doing the whole paper by yourself."

"Yeah," Oren agreed, still hesitant, "Thanks for doing that. Really cool."

Adam considered, and then decided to double down, "'I'm sorry' this. 'I'm sorry' that."

West shook his head, "I never-,"

"You're always sorry. Why can't you learn to write like the rest of us? Hm? It's easy. You must be really retarded."

The words slammed into West like a hand smacking a table. West felt a pressure swelling in his fists. The tight grip of his younger self trying to hold a pencil.

West wasn't violent, and he didn't want to be violent. Even thinking about it made him uneasy.

But he could yell.

"He's actually not," Oren stated, firm, "He did most of the diorama so far and he did a really good job. He also keeps getting things right. You don't get to call him retarded if he's not."

West couldn't track the emotion that followed. Couldn't pin it down.

He unclenched his fists, and he felt the rest of his body unclench, too. Something else unclenched inside him - something more abstract.

Someone was defending him. Why?

Adam snarled and crumpled the essay into a ball.

From here, everything fell apart and came together in a different shape. Oren called for one of his moms and explained what had happened. She drove Adam home and spoke to his parents. Oren and West wrote the paper together, while Adam was forced to complete the assignment without a group.

West also learned a new skill that day.

Diplomacy.

From then on, West's social life was made easier and even became rewarding. He learned how to make everyone around him feel included and motivated. Small compliments and acknowledgments could go a long way. His peers began to look up to him. Making friends became second nature, and he was generally well-liked. His nickname faded from existence, as did most of the slurs and insults.

He didn't quite make valedictorian, but he did graduate as the senior class president. He took pride in the achievement and recognized it for what it was.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A purpose. A role to serve.

And he was happy.

♣

West forced every drop of water down his throat, then tossed the bottle in the trash. Six down. Four to go. Four till the end. A countdown.

Would it work? How soon? He didn't want it to happen during work hours.

I want...

He needed it to happen after work. He was set on his course. He would go through with this. It might already be too late.

And that was okay. He was okay with that. After all, there was no point.

No point to any of this. His life, this world. How could there be?

I want to die.

Nausea was settling into his stomach, and his head felt heavy.

Would it be painful?

Did it matter?

I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.

The chant became a whisper, said in the quietest, harshest tone, "I want to die, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die..."

His earpiece crackled to life, and a female voice beckoned him, "Handling a return, bossman. Need your passcodes."

Layla.

West made his way out of the break room and onto the sales floor. He had to keep up the guise. If he doubled-down now, they might catch on and call an ambulance.

I will die soon. Soon.

He walked through the store - his store - and tried to feel something. That old sense of achievement.

All manner of household appliances were arranged to his left. To his right, the most expansive wall of TV's in town, offering more variety than most major retailers.

All of the TV's displayed the same content - music videos for whatever songs were trending, playing in both HD and 4K. Some of the TV's had soundbars hooked into them, and they were currently broadcasting audio from 'Dressed to the Times.'

"Don’t look at my body

I treat it like crap

My life is a void

And this dress is a trap"

Yeah. Right.

Different problems for different people. But it was all the same, wasn't it? Same tone, same sentiment. Relateable.

Soon.

West barely registered the paper he was holding. When had he picked that up?

He stopped walking and stared at the blocks of text. Even with the paper held still and close to his face, it was impossible to read.

A reminder of his curse. A limitation which had steered his life. Narrowed his options.

It will be over soon.

He had to wonder, would literacy have shaped him into a happier man? Would it have given him a larger purpose in this world? Or was it all so pointless?

Didn't matter. The clock was ticking towards his end. He resumed walking.

For now, his purpose was to help Layla. He could reflect on the bitter things after the store was closed for the night, which would be soon.

West entered the circular customer service hub in the center of the store, setting the unreadable paper on a counter. Layla stepped away from a computer so he could handle the return on a toaster.

The customer was seething, and there were two black squares of toast smashed all over the counter. Rude, but so what? Whatever.

He's mad because he burned his toast. He's actually mad about it. None of this matters. Truly.

When he was done and the customer gone, Layla held up the paper, and asked, "What is this? Was this you?"

"Not mine. Didn't even read it," West answered.

"Neither did I," Layla smiled, crumpling it into a ball and shoving it needlessly deep into a trash can.

Ah, Layla.

West checked the display on his flip-phone. Still twenty minutes till closing time.

Too long. He was ready to be done.

"Is Maisie around?" he asked.

Layla took the time to finish sending a text before responding, "Maisie? Bathroom. Why?"

"Tell her the two of you are free to leave. I'm closing early. I'll see that you're still paid for the full hour."

Layla chuckled-

And then choked. West snapped out of a daze he hadn't realized he was in.

Papers had appeared in their hands, and this time they had seen it happen.

"What the fuck?" Layla said, reading the paper with widening eyes.

West looked at his own paper, and saw his name printed on the top in bold lettering. What did the rest say?

Layla scoffed and tried to bend the paper, but it was stiff and solid. She tried breaking it over a knee...

West watched the attempts at destruction, still coming to his senses. He was shaken to the point that he could put depressing thoughts on hold. For now.

Something important was happening.

"Haha, what are you doing, Lala?" Maisie asked, returning from the bathroom. She, too, held a stiff sheet of paper.

Layla grunted in response. Then she grabbed a drill from one of the cabinets, cranked up the torque, and held it against the paper. Not even a scratch.

West looked down at his paper and touched it. Half of the text on the page disappeared and was replaced with new text.

That...

This was...

It wasn't...

I want...

"Call an ambulance," West demanded with uncharacteristic intensity.

"What? Are you okay?" Maisie asked. Concern and emotion contorting her face.

This is a mistake. The wrong move. I should let myself die. I might not get another chance.

And yet...

"I feel sick. I feel like I'm dying," West admitted, taking a seat on the floor of the hub.

Self-inflicted, but I'll spare them the details.

West had chosen his method carefully. Left himself a back door in case he got cold feet. He could play it cool, pretend he wasn't aware that drinking lots of water in a short amount of time was lethal.

Maisie dialed, while Layla gave him an inquisitive look.

"You don't look like you're dying," Layla remarked.

"You're gonna have to trust me. I can feel it," West tried.

"Whatev's."

"These... things," West said, holding his paper up as a reference, "I don't think they're normal. Try tapping on it like a smartphone."

Layla put down the drill and did so.

"Huh."

"Is that normal? Am I losing it?" West asked, desperately. He was staking a lot on this. He was... he was allowing himself to endure. To live out more of his meaningless existence.

"No and yes."

West sighed, "I feel like I'm reaching here. But there's something off about them. Something magic. Something not-of-this-world."

There had to be. It had to be true.

"Yup. Yeah, you're losing it."

No, he wasn't though. This felt real. This felt... important.

And he was dying. Could the paramedics even save him at this point? What options did he have? Would hurling help? How did he get the water out of his system?

"I don't think so," West said, staggering to his feet, "I have a hunch these things aren't normal. We need to show other people! Spread the word!"

He was sharing his thoughts so Layla didn't trash the papers after he was gone. Whether that be to the hospital, or just... gone.

How did he drain himself? Would forcing himself to pee do anything meaningful? Would it matter? Could he eat something?

Salt was absorbent. He remembered that from chemistry. There were salt packets in the break room...

West ran for it, leaving the girls behind. Maisie called after him, but the soundbar audio drowned her out.

"I’m on the outside looking in

Can’t turn my eyes away"

He shut the door behind him and looked around. Salt packets, salt packets...

No. First there was something that needed doing. Something that needed hiding. Something that couldn't be found by the paramedics if he passed out right now.

West fiddled through his pocket and found the silver USB stick. He had carved a letter into it with a box cutter.

"I'm not ready to go yet...," he muttered, still winding himself down. Convincing himself that he wouldn't regret his decision later.

But he would regret it. He knew himself. Life was meaningless, after all. Purposeless.

All at once, his legs buckled. Nausea overcame him and he fell forward towards the floor. Darkness closed around his vision like a shutter.

And the white light bathed him. All of the pain was washed away.

♦

Blinding when so close to the eyes. Not a painful brightness, though. A healing kind.

"Can we talk?" he whispered.

Photo answered by sending more of himself towards West. Seven lights gathered around him. Warming him. Making him feel alive in the good way. He needed courage and they gave it to him. He needed courage...

The eighth light fell into Alec's outstretched hand. West saw the ease spread across the boy's body. He watched the boy tear and claw at the sky when the light abandoned him. It was a relatable sentiment - the touch and go of happiness.

He's so young. So lucky.

His companions slowly drifted away and disappeared inside of the floating break room. He was left alone with Photo. Left alone with the task. A duty to fulfill.

Photo stayed attached to his body, their lights fixed to his joints and appendages. Was that intentional? Was he doing it to comfort West?

Could it be the reverse?

West shrugged and embraced the ambiguous hug; he needed it. Photo spoke to him.

Yes, we can talk.

West gathered his thoughts, gathered some more courage, and then spoke, "You said the Zeiton were coming to Earth because 'true life' exists here. Photo, you don't gotta mince words with me. Were you referring to yourself?"

Was it selfish that West wanted them to say no?

All light born in this universe is diluted and hides in shadow. I am a star fallen from another heaven, where light reigns and darkness is put to rest. Your world was always bedeviled, but I am the glint in the Zeiton lens.

Such a long response for a being that was pressed for time.

In fewer words, 'yes.' Photo being here was attracting the Zeiton's attention. If Photo left, the Zeiton scout would follow, and all of humanity would be safe.

And all would remain meaningless.

Photo could change that. Photo was offering to guide humanity home, to the universe where they belonged. A promise of purpose. An opportunity that might never come again.

This next part was even harder to say.

"I wanna be reborn as a spirit. Now. So I can help drive the darkness away."

He wanted it, despite everything he was feeling now. All of the renewed sense of purpose. Being captured by the light had changed him physically. Mentally, too. Like a drug - one that forced him to be okay and even happy at times. He no longer wanted to die, despite not having a purpose. And yet...

The greatest purpose he could serve demanded death. A suicide mission.

You would help me to outshine the darkness?

One of the orbs rearranged itself into a stepped pyramid.

My gloss tells me that we could not purify the scout. The Oneness is not present to intone our victory.

"That wasn't my plan."

You would guide the darkness away from here?

"Yeah."

West let the warm light ease his nerves. It was done. He had agreed to do it.

I will dim my light to empower your spectacle. West McCaskill, I bless-

"Wait!" West cried out when the lights on his body changed shape.

You hesitate?

"Nah, it's not that. I just... wanna say goodbye before I go."

♣

He fell into the break room, and before the men had a chance to stop shouting, it was quiet. Not literally. It felt quiet, in his head. White noise.

Like being lucid during a dream.

Every sound was distinct in the quiet room. The uproar, the prattle of fingers on table, Maisie's hurried footsteps...

West held a hand out to Maisie to stop her.

He had wanted to say goodbye and he found that he couldn't. If he tried, he would never leave. Humanity would be doomed because one gifted, retarded sad-sap refused to let go of what? A friendship with two of his employees?

Yeah.

"Thank you, Maisie, but I needa talk to Alec, preferably alone."

Maisie looked terribly worried. She knew something was wrong. He could see it in the way she was tensing her muscles, holding herself back.

Alec was oblivious to it all, pointing at himself in confusion. His thick brown hair was swooping in three different directions, and he rarely wore an expression on his face. Flat smile, dead eyes, monotone voice. No sense of how others perceived him. In a lot of ways, he lacked awareness.

He had to admit, the emotional deficiency was part of the appeal. This goodbye would be easier.

Alec was also the right choice - the one he could trust. Not as practical as the others, from what West had seen, but that didn't matter. Alec was a doer with a steady head on his shoulders. West would put his faith in him.

The others were looking at him, trying to get an idea for what was going on.

“Please. Some privacy is all I ask."

Alec reached him, and spoke in a hushed voice, “What’s this about? What was that business with the light creatures?”

“I can’t say, because time is short. But please hear me out. This is important," West breathed in, trying to suck the emotion from his voice, "Maisie and Layla are complicated people, but I care for them a lot. Whatever happens, will you see to it that they're taken care of? Protected? Loved? If you return to Earth, can you please help them find their way home? Or- or-,"

"West. Tell me what's going on," Alec demanded, his voice no longer a hush.

Others would hear.

And West couldn't blame him. The emotion had caught up with him, making him speak faster, choosing his words less carefully. The others might have noticed that as well, but West didn't dare to meet any of their eyes. In fact, he had already said goodbye to the image of Layla and Maisie. He wouldn't look at them again. They were memories now. They were memories. He wouldn't look.

"Keep them with you if you can't make it home. Keep Layla busy and tell Maisie to take breaks. If either of them-,"

"West," Alec repeated, this time in a voice that others would definitely hear, "We're all here for you. You need to tell us what's going on. Did Photo threaten you?"

West shook his head furiously. They needed to trust Photo or this would all be for nothing.

"No. No, they didn't," West added for good measure.

Soft footsteps were approaching now. Familiar footsteps. West looked down so he wouldn't see her, and blurted, "I left something in the salt drawer and I have to go and I'm sorry and I love you and-,"

West felt Maisie's arms closing around him in the same moment that Photo extracted him. He was pulled out of the room and back into space with the eight lights.

He stared at the floating room for long moments. Second-guessing and third-guessing and tenth-guessing his decision to do this. To leave it all behind. To not give them a proper...

Goodbye.

Photo attached themself to his body, filling him with ambient pleasure.

This universe can be a lonely place. There are mere glimpses of light in a sea of black devastation.

"Photo, please," West begged, "Can you just... do your thing? I can't dwell on this decision for much longer."

Photo responded by starting the process. West felt his body and mind begin to change. Everything fell apart and came together in a different shape.

It was uncomfortable, difficult, even painful in a lot of ways. It seemed to go on forever.

Throughout the experience, West kept his hands clenched tight. Two fists holding onto a past which he hated, and also one that defined him. Gripping the pencil. Learning to work within his limitations.

He remembered the toughest moments. Adam calling him names and pushing West to break past his boundaries. Would he have punched him, if Oren hadn't stepped in? Bruised him? Would he have gone down a different road? What was his capacity for violence?

He channeled a rage which he had pushed aside for thirty-two years. A quiet contempt at the universe for dealing him a bad hand. For being so damn pointless. He needed the rage now, as fuel. He would embrace it and follow it down a new path. He would triumph over the Zeiton scout, or at least buy humanity some extra time. How much time would be afforded? Days? Weeks?

The transformation took hold and West left his body behind. It fell away into the void. Empty of life.

West was starlight now. A ball of heart and mind.

He tested his flight capabilities, and the earth disappeared from the sky. Gone.

...gone. All at once.

A more wholesome kind of panic took over. Somehow, the panic felt okay, even though it wasn't. West could see what was around him, at every angle, and the earth was nowhere.

Why was he so okay with this? So 'chill?' This wasn't okay. Where was the Earth?

Lost. West had moved too fast. Too fast to even note which direction he was flying. He may never find his way home again.

That was fine; he had been prepared to leave. He needed to lure the Zeiton scout off course. In this new form, could he sense-

-yes. There it was. West could sense the Zeiton. He could feel that sense of worry, of cold. A negative feeling, like a clenched fist all across his form. It felt most powerful in a certain direction.

West turned on his flight and moved in that direction. Again, all of the landscape around him changed in a second. The stars and the sun moved to different places. He was fast.

The feeling was stronger here. He was close. He moved closer.

He could somehow sense when the scout changed trajectories. The negative feeling stopped moving along West's surfaces and instead grew heavier. Pressing in.

The chase was on.

West took off in the opposite direction and breathed in the fullness of the universe. He couldn't feel the rush of adrenaline in this form. It felt like life itself was flooding through him, and he reveled in it.

Stars moved all around him like clouds drifting across the sky. It didn't take long for him to lose sight of the sun. West absorbed all of the sights and feelings, and something grabbed at his attention.

The stars were a language, and he could read them. He could see the connections they had to other stars. Trajectories, histories, timelines, and destinations. Connections to the planets which orbited them. He could even trace them back to earth if he concentrated. It was incredible and it overwhelmed him. A realization forced its way to the surface.

The realization that he had never truly cared about the label of 'special' or 'gifted.' 'Weast' or 'retarded.' If he was being true to himself, being 'normal' was all that had ever mattered to him. Being accepted as 'West'.

He was West now, more than ever, and he wanted to continue being West for as long as possible. How long did he have? Weren't the Photon supposed to be immortal?

The Zeiton scout was gaining on him, despite his speed. West felt the approach as a wedge being driven between all of his thoughts. Each part of his identity being separated. He held it together by thinking of his identity under one label. Just 'West.'

But the attack grew stronger as the distance closed. Worse, the act of concentrating on his identity slowed him down physically. Why was that?

When the darkness reached him, the passage of time became a crawl. West looked at the scout and saw how it distorted his perception of everything around him. There wasn't anything to see, besides the distortions. A smear of star guts on a black canvas.

Time slowed more and more as the being reached out to smother his light. West didn't know what to do; he was helpless. What was he supposed to do? He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die! Life finally made sense! How was this fair?

When West's light had all been vanquished, the darkness turned and left, rippling back in the direction it had come from. West stared, wondering why he had been left alive. The mission had failed, but he was alive at least. He was alive!

Where to go next? Back to Earth to try again? That seemed like a good start, now that he knew the...

...way.

...no...

He didn't know the way anymore. Couldn't visualize it.

West tried to move, but there was nothing to move. He tried to read the stars, but he couldn't read them anymore. He tried to detect the darkness, but he couldn't feel it. He...

He couldn't feel anything.

Couldn't do anything.

Wasn't comprised of anything.

He was only a clenched feeling that would grow with time.

Dread tickled at him, and he had no hands to stop it from tickling. Was this death? Was he dead? Something else?

West looked all around him. No sun, no planets nor asteroids. Nothing but far away stars. He was nowhere and he was nothing. Would that change? Would that ever change?

How long would he be here? Forever?

No...

No...

Nooo...

Please, no!

No no no no no no no no no!

He would have screamed the words if he could. Done anything to express his mounting sense of dread, if only he could! But he couldn't.

In an empty corner of space, West could barely remember what it was like to whimper.