《Gods Aren't Real》 Chapter 1: An Average Monday It¡¯s 6:45 AM and I¡¯m already in a bad mood. Despite going to bed at 10:30 last night, I feel like I¡¯ve barely gotten any sleep, and my head is too foggy to even think about getting up. I slap the snooze button on my alarm and go back to sleep. At 7:10 AM, after several more snoozes, I begrudgingly roll out of bed and stumble over to my dresser. Opening a random drawer, I stare blankly at its contents for a few seconds before reaching in and grabbing a pair of socks. I look around my room, trying to find somewhere to put them, and eventually decide to just put them on my bed. Then I turn back around and close the drawer. Opening and closing the rest of the drawers in quick succession, I pull out more clothes from each one and drop them on my white bedspread. A minute later, my entire school uniform is sitting in a pile in front of me. I look at the navy blue hoodie and khaki pants, blinking a few times. Eventually my brain makes the connection and I remember that I have to get dressed, and then I remember that I have to get undressed first in order to do that. Taking off my pajamas, the cold air closes in around me, causing my arms to prick up with goosebumps. I quickly pull on my clothes before I can start shivering. Despite having my school uniform on now, I can still feel sleep calling me, but I force myself to pick up my pajamas from where I left them on the floor and stuff them in the dresser. Then I stagger out my door and down the hall to the bathroom. Once I¡¯m done, I head downstairs to breakfast. ¡°You got down here pretty late today. What happened?¡± my dad asks from his seat at the kitchen table. ¡°Bad sleep,¡± I answer groggily. ¡°Oh, I had a pretty bad night too,¡± he responds, rubbing a hand through his graying hair. ¡°I only slept for four hours.¡± ¡°That sucks.¡± ¡°It¡¯s what happens when you start getting old.¡± My mom turns away from the stovetop and raises an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re not that old, James. You¡¯re only forty-five.¡± ¡°You¡¯re just saying that because you¡¯re the same age,¡± I interject. She turns to me. ¡°Watch out, Scarlet. You¡¯re sixteen; you¡¯ll be getting gray hairs before you know it.¡± ¡°Right. Just let me eat breakfast.¡± ¡°Oh, your mom made pancakes,¡± my dad mentions. ¡°You should have some. They¡¯re excellent.¡± ¡°Finally something good happens today.¡± ¡°Finally? The day¡¯s just getting started.¡± ¡°I¡¯m tired. I just wanna eat,¡± I say, getting a plate and putting a couple pancakes on it. Once my pancakes are completely smothered in syrup, I sit down at the table and start eating. My parents continue talking about something but I tune them out in favor of concentrating on the sugary bliss I¡¯m consuming. Pancakes are probably one of my favorite things to eat. Sweet, soft, easy to make; they¡¯re great. My dad and I usually make pancakes on the weekends, as a sort of father-daughter thing. Well, not as much anymore, but we still make them every few weeks. Sometimes my mom joins in as well, but not very often. Our usual recipe is this one called ¡°buckwheat flapjacks¡± that makes fluffy pancakes that go amazing with strawberries. We haven¡¯t made any in a couple weeks though, so my mom probably thought it would be nice to have some today. When I¡¯m almost done with my pancakes, my dad turns to me. ¡°So Scarlet, are you ready for school?¡± he asks. ¡°Hm?¡± I swallow my bite of pancake. ¡°Oh, right, school. Oh god no. I think this will be the day that I die.¡± ¡°That bad?¡± ¡°Yes. I have so many tests today that I don¡¯t even remember how many tests I have. It¡¯s not even midterms! It¡¯s just random chance! It¡¯s like the universe hates me or something.¡± ¡°Well, you studied a lot yesterday, right?¡± my mom asks. ¡°Yeah, but not enough. I¡¯ll definitely fail at least one.¡± ¡°You know, even if you do, it¡¯s not the end of the world. And you can always make it up.¡± I drop my face in my hands. ¡°I¡¯m gonna die, aren¡¯t I?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be fine. Now go brush your teeth or you¡¯ll be late.¡± ¡°Okay, okay.¡± I scarf down my last few bites of pancake and take my plate over to the sink. Then I pull my pill box out of the cabinet and take my morning pills. I run upstairs to the bathroom where I brush my teeth, and then get my hairbrush out of its stand to brush my hair. As I struggle to get knots out of my hair, I scrutinize myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark brown eyes stare back at me from a round face with pale skin. My neck-length auburn hair flops back and forth in front of me with each tilt of my head. At five foot six, I¡¯m fairly average height, and while I¡¯d rather be a bit shorter, I¡¯m fine with it. My parents say I look nice, and I can see that with my hair, but in general¡­ I kinda disagree. I finish brushing my hair, rush over to my room, and start stuffing everything I need for school into my backpack. My notebook, my other notebook, my school computer, my binder, my other binder¡­ I almost forget my phone, but I shove it in my pocket before heaving the heavy backpack onto my shoulders and running downstairs. ¡°Bye, parents!¡± I yell, opening the front door. ¡°See you later!¡± my mom calls back. ¡°Have fun!¡± my dad says as I rush out the door into the rain. Oh right, the rain. I¡¯d completely forgotten it was going to rain today. I¡¯ve never cared for rainy days; especially not rainy Mondays. They just make me feel all dreary inside. The plants may enjoy it, but I certainly do not. So, I run inside, grab an umbrella from the umbrella stand, and then run back outside. I race all five blocks to school, dashing down soaking sidewalks, across slick streets, and through hoards of honking cars. The rain patters on concrete while car tires hiss on wet asphalt. Trees drip larger drops of water on me from their sagging branches. Despite my umbrella covering me the whole way, I¡¯m soaked by the time I get to school. At the main entrance, I¡¯m greeted by the councilor who stands by the door every morning and whose name I never remember. I quickly shake off my umbrella and stuff it in my backpack, wiping my shoes on the mat inside the entrance. I¡¯m just over two months into my sophomore year of highschool, so I¡¯ve been going to this school for about eleven months in total, not counting summer break. That¡¯s a long time to get used to the stress and relative independence of highschool. I feel like that¡¯s going alright for me, and my teachers seem to agree, since I¡¯m getting good grades in all my classes. Eleven months is also a lot of time to start doing normal highschool things, like joining clubs, making new friends, and staying up all night being nervous about how many tests are happening the next day. So far, I¡¯ve only done the third one. The most recent time was last night, which is why I¡¯m so tired today. As for the other two, they¡¯re not going so well. I¡¯ve lost all the friends I had in middle school and haven¡¯t gained any new ones, and I¡¯ve never joined any clubs because I never had friends to go with. Yes, it¡¯s a bit depressing, but it leaves me with a lot of time to do things that I enjoy. Namely reading, playing video games, uhh¡­ walking, maybe running, I guess, and¡­ not really anything else. Ok, I might need new hobbies. As I walk towards class, I look around at the halls I¡¯ve grown so used to during my time in this school. The white walls are lined with wooden classroom doors and sickly looking, greenish-gray lockers. Some students stuff their bags inside their lockers or take papers and notebooks out, while others rush by on their way to class. A few groups of kids block the hallways, chatting about something or other and generally getting in everyone else¡¯s way. I struggle through the crowded hallways, thinking hard about whether or not there¡¯ll be a test in first period and whether or not I studied for it, but for the life of me, I can¡¯t remember. Stepping into class, I notice that the desks are arranged in rows facing the front of the room, with each desk spaced apart from its neighbors. Mr Reever is standing at the front of the room, handing out a packet to every student who walks in. ¡°Oh no, there is a history test,¡± I mutter. ¡°I¡¯m doomed.¡± I grab a test from Mr. Reever, absent-mindedly curling the corner of the first page as I sit down at my desk. The dreary gray light from the windows mixes with the harsh yellow light of the classroom, washing over me together. Some students talk quietly while others shuffle through papers, getting in some last minute studying. I sit in my seat, shuffling around and getting progressively more nervous as I look at the size of the packet on my desk. Soon, the bell rings, and I remember to pull a pencil out of my backpack. As I rummage around for it, the teacher begins speaking in his signature bland tone. ¡°Welcome, class. You should all have picked up a test. Raise your hand if you didn¡¯t get one.¡± When no one raises their hands, he continues. ¡°The Unit 2 History Test has sixty questions. You will have forty-five minutes to complete them. Some are multiple choice, and some are free response. The final question is a short essay. I trust you all studied, so this shouldn¡¯t be difficult for you. Good luck. You may begin.¡± What the hell? I quickly do the math. Forty-five minutes for sixty questions means an average of forty-five seconds per question. Take out the short essay which will probably take ten minutes, and I get an average of thirty-five seconds per question. That¡¯s including the free responses. How am I supposed to do this? Are all the questions super easy or something? Well, I guess there¡¯s only one way to find out. I turn the first page, and start to panic. An hour later, I¡¯m sitting in biology class, and I¡¯ve finally managed to distract my thoughts from the test I was forced to endure. The questions were anything but easy, and I barely managed to to complete a third of them, but at least I got the short essay done. I¡¯m seriously wondering if something will happen to Mr. Reever for giving it to us. Someone will definitely complain to their parents, or their teachers, or the school. It actually felt like the questions were designed to be as vague and hard to understand as possible! Wait, I¡¯m getting distracted from my distractions again. I need to distract myself more. Suddenly, a voice cuts through my thoughts. ¡°Scarlet? You there?¡± ¡°Huh? Oh yeah, I¡¯m here, sorry Charles. Just thinking about that stupid test again. What question were we on?¡± Charles is an acquaintance I met at the beginning of this school year. I enjoy talking to him, and he¡¯s pretty nice, but I wouldn¡¯t consider him a friend, since we only talk during class and we don¡¯t really know each other. He looks almost exactly like I would imagine a Charles to look like, with a round, sort of chubby face, short brown hair, and light blue eyes. He¡¯s also a bit taller than me, at around five foot seven. He usually wears a hoodie and pants to school, like me. He also doesn¡¯t seem to have many friends, like me, which is weird since he seems pretty outgoing. Maybe he transferred? I don¡¯t remember if I ever saw him last year. I guess it would make sense though. We have two classes together, and we usually partner up with each other for assignments in both of them. Right now, Charles and I are checking our homework against each other. We could just check our homework against the correct answers, but Ms. Barne always insists that we switch with a partner and ¡°have a discussion¡± first. Since Charles is the only person I know in the class, I always partner with him. I don¡¯t know for sure if he¡¯s in the same situation, but either way he always partners with me, so it works out. ¡°The last one,¡± he answers. ¡°Ok, right, I said the endoplasmic reticulum.¡± ¡°Same.¡± ¡°Yay, we¡¯re done!¡± I exclaim. ¡°And we got all the same answers so we must be right!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s how that works.¡± ¡°Ok, we probably got all of them right.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± We sit in silence for a few moments before I get the hint that he doesn¡¯t want to talk and pull out my phone. I mindlessly click through different apps for a minute before looking up to find him staring vacantly off into space. ¡°You okay, Charles?¡± ¡°Ugh¡­¡± He rubs his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s just, you¡¯re usually a bit more lively than you are right now.¡± He sits up straighter and clasps his hands together, before turning to look at me. ¡°Yeah, sorry, I¡¯m fine. My mom was a bit more¡­ annoying than usual today.¡± I blink. ¡°Oh, uh, well, I guess-¡± ¡°All right class!¡± Ms. Barne cuts me off. ¡°Everyone, place your homework on my desk and pick up a quiz!¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. It startles me a bit when she mentions the quiz, but then I remember that I actually studied for this one. It was only fifteen minutes, but memorizing parts of a cell isn¡¯t particularly difficult. Biology is also a subject I¡¯m okay at, unlike history. As we walk to the front of the classroom, Charles starts talking again. ¡°Sorry, I shouldn¡¯t have mentioned that. Just ignore me.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s fine,¡± I pause. ¡°If you want to talk about anything, I guess I¡¯m here¡­ I don¡¯t really know what to say in these situations¡­ umm, yeah.¡± Oh god that came out horrible. I shouldn¡¯t have said anything. I guess this is why I don¡¯t have any friends; I don¡¯t know how to talk about anything deeper than the conversational equivalent of a puddle. Before I can mess up even worse, we make it to the front of the room and trade out our homework papers for quizzes. Our desks are across the room from each other, so we split up to go back to our seats. I quickly start on my quiz, hoping I haven¡¯t ruined another possible friendship with my awkwardness. Two and a half hours later, I¡¯m walking into the cafeteria, thinking about my day so far. After the quiz in Biology class, we spent the rest of the time watching a video and taking notes. I spent too much time putting my stuff away, so I didn¡¯t get a chance to talk to Charles again before he left. Next came Algebra II, where we continued learning about polynomial factorization. There was also a pop quiz on the same subject, which wasn¡¯t very difficult, but with my lack of sleep, I¡¯m pretty sure I got a few questions wrong. My most recent class was English, where there was another unit test. Unlike the unit test in history, I hadn¡¯t forgotten about it and actually studied for an entire hour¡­ at 9:30 PM last night. Okay, I did procrastinate, but I actually studied, so that¡¯s a win. The test only took thirty of the forty-five minutes we had to complete it, and I took a nap for the rest of the time. And that leads me to lunch. I sit down at a table by myself, open my lunch box, and pull out my phone. It¡¯s time for my regular lunchtime experience of scrolling mindlessly through social media, or reading webcomics, or both. It depends on my mood. I do look around for Charles to see if I can talk to him and maybe apologize, but I¡¯m pretty sure he has a different lunch period. Or maybe he¡¯s just avoiding me. I don¡¯t know. So, I turn back to my phone and unlock it. I decide to scroll mindlessly today, instead of reading webcomics, so for the next forty-five minutes my only thoughts are about what people on the internet post and whether or not it¡¯s funny. Finally, lunch comes to an end. First, a few students begin to leave. Then more join them. As I get up and grab my lunch box, the bell rings, and everyone else begins to stand up and walk towards the double doors. On my way through the crowd, I fall in line next to one of my old friends from middle school. ¡°Hi,¡± I say. ¡°Hey,¡± he says back. Then we¡¯re through the doors and we go our separate ways. Physics class comes next, with a marble run project to finish. It¡¯s actually been pretty fun. It would have been more fun if I had a partner, like most of the other students, but I don¡¯t know anyone in the class well enough to partner with them. I like the project anyway, though. For the first thirty minutes of class, I add the last sections of half tubes to my design, drop marbles from the top, and film their descent through the run. My design starts with a steep slope coming down from the wall, which leads into a loop-de-loop and ends with a tube curved to the left that spits the marble into a bin. I¡¯m actually kind of proud of my little marble run made of tape and tubes, and I decide to take a few more pictures to remember it. When almost everyone is finished, Mr. Clint springs a quiz on us about what we learned from the project. It goes fine, but it¡¯s just an annoying way to end a fun project, and it dampens my mood a bit. Then the bell rings, and I¡¯m off to computer science. Computer science is always an odd class. It¡¯s a strange mix of very easy and fairly confusing. Luckily, last week was all about binary, which was pretty easy. And today, as the teacher reminded us so many times, is the test on what we learned about it. It sure would¡¯ve been nice if Mr. Reever had reminded us so much about the history test. Maybe then I would have remembered to study. Ha, who cares? It was an impossible test anyway. Mr. Carter hands out the tests, which are essentially slightly longer quizzes, and everyone gets to work. A few minutes later I¡¯m already finished, so I put my head down to rest for a bit. Eventually, the time runs out, and the teacher collects the tests. Then we begin a new unit on HTML and CSS, which is interesting enough that the rest of the class passes quickly. Finally, I¡¯m on to the last class of the day. My sworn enemy. The bane of my existence. A great evil from beyond reality whose sole purpose is to destroy every possible hope of happiness in my pitiful life. Gym class. The first part of gym class is getting my gym clothes from my locker. Easy, right? Well, it should be, but it isn¡¯t. If only this school was competent. If only the higher-ups would listen to me. If only there were rules in place for this. I don¡¯t know, there probably are. But no matter the rules, someone is ignoring every request my parents and I put in. Which means my assigned locker is still in the boys¡¯ locker room. Why do we even have assigned lockers in gym class? That doesn¡¯t even make sense. This whole thing is stupid. Well, at least the boys¡¯ and girls¡¯ uniforms are the same. It could be worse. Since I don¡¯t feel particularly comfortable with boys (or anyone, really) seeing me changing clothes, I wait outside the locker rooms until I¡¯m pretty sure everyone has left. Then I sneak inside, quietly padding across the white tile floors until I reach my locker. I unlock it, pull my clothes out, and- ¡°Oh, hey Scarlet.¡± I whip my head around, and then sigh in relief. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s just you Charles. You scared me.¡± ¡°You know you don¡¯t have to be so nervous in here, right? It¡¯s not like they gave you a choice.¡± ¡°I know. I just don¡¯t want to be here. And someone will definitely make fun of me if they find me here.¡± I pause for a second. ¡°Oh right, I meant to apologize to you earlier. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable in biology class. I¡¯m kinda good at doing that¡­ Sorry.¡± ¡°No, no, it¡¯s fine. I shouldn¡¯t have brought it up.¡± He smiles awkwardly. We both stare at each other for a few seconds before I look down and see that I¡¯m still holding my gym clothes. ¡°Oh right!¡± I say. ¡°I need to get changed. Uhm, can you¡­¡± ¡°Right. Yeah, I¡¯ll leave. Um, bye.¡± He gives a little wave and turns away. I watch Charles walk towards the door for a few seconds before starting to take my clothes off. It only takes a few seconds for me to be reminded of why I hate gym class. Ugh, I hate this. I look so¡­ wrong. Why am I like this? Why can¡¯t I just- And my gym clothes are on. I don¡¯t need to think about that anymore. I shove my clothes in my locker, along with my backpack and lunch box. Then I run back out of the locker room and into the gym. The gym, like most gyms, is huge. Wooden bleachers sit on either side of the room, with gray rubber flooring in between. Posters about fitness and banners for school teams line the walls, while basketball hoops hang from the ceiling. Double doors leading outside sit between two bleachers on the left side of the gym. The class is sitting in rows facing the wall at the far end. I quickly walk over to my spot at the back of the fifth row and sit down behind Charles. I remember a few weeks ago when I met Charles for the first time. It was the second day of school, and we were being assigned our places on the gym floor. Mr. Corvo placed me behind Charles because my last name of Silvers came after his last name of Silven. After that, we had to partner up with someone to play catch with tennis balls, which was apparently testing reflexes? I¡¯m not sure how that worked, but that¡¯s what the teacher said. Anyway, I didn¡¯t know anyone in the class, and I sat behind Charles, so I just asked him if he wanted to partner with me for the activity, and he said yes. Since that day, we¡¯ve talked quite a bit during our classes together. Mostly about school, and nothing too personal. Well, besides the reason I¡¯m in the boys¡¯ locker room, but that was kind of necessary to explain. As I¡¯m thinking, Mr. Corvo steps up in front of the class and begins to talk. ¡°Alright class, listen up! I know you¡¯re all excited to play flag football today, but unfortunately, the school wants us to do something else.¡± Oh no. Please don¡¯t be the FitnessGram Pacer Test. Please. Anything but that. ¡°We¡¯re doing the FitnessGram Pacer Test today! I know, I know, you all hate it, but we have to do it. Alright everyone, come and line up next to me.¡± As we walk towards the teacher, I come up next to Charles and look at him with pleading eyes. ¡°Please, Charles, save me from this test. I¡¯ll do anything!¡± I beg him. He looks at me. ¡°What do you expect me to do?¡± ¡°I dunno. Kick the teacher out the window? Kick me out the window so I can leave class?¡± ¡°Those are¡­ interesting ideas. Why do you hate the test so much anyway?¡± he asks. I sigh. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m just really tired. I got terrible sleep and I¡¯ve had tests in¡­ Uhh¡­ Oh god I¡¯ve tests in all my classes today. Holy crap, I think I set a world record.¡± ¡°Oh. Don¡¯t they usually try to schedule them so that doesn¡¯t happen?¡± ¡°Usually, but I guess they didn¡¯t today.¡± Before either of us can say anything else, the teacher starts giving instructions, and I get ready for the test. Twenty minutes of suffering later, and I¡¯m sitting by the sidelines after the running portion, breathing heavily. I almost wish Charles had kicked me out the window. I pushed myself to my very limits but I could only do thirty-seven laps, while he¡¯s still going strong at forty-five. I watch everyone left in the test running back and forth for a minute more before Charles falls out and staggers over to me. ¡°How many¡­ did you get?¡± he gasps out. ¡°What?¡± ¡°How many laps did you get?¡± ¡°Oh, um, thirty-seven, what about you?¡± ¡°Fifty-three.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lot.¡± ¡°I could¡¯ve kept going,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s just the turning around that got me.¡± ¡°Ugh, I don¡¯t get it. How did you get so many more than me?¡± ¡°Exercise.¡± ¡°But I do exercise!¡± He turns to me. ¡°Obviously not enough to do fifty-three laps.¡± I shake my head. ¡°Wow, so rude. I think you¡¯re cheating.¡± ¡°Really? Cheating?¡± ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re using your secret magic powers to run faster.¡± He raises an eyebrow. ¡°If I had secret magic powers, I wouldn¡¯t use them to cheat on the FitnessGram Pacer Test.¡± ¡°Yeah, me neither,¡± I concede. ¡°What would you do?¡± ¡°Hmm¡­¡± I think for a minute. ¡°I¡¯d help as many people as possible, and then¡­ actually what is my secret magic power?¡± ¡°Uh, what do you want?¡± ¡°Oh, well then I¡¯d just choose everything and use them to bend the world to my will! Mwahahaha!¡± I do my best evil laugh. ¡°Heh, what was that?¡± ¡°It was my evil laugh!¡± ¡°Oh, right.¡± ¡°Hey, I think it sounded great!¡± ¡°Sure.¡± I sigh. ¡°Well, what would you do?¡± ¡°I think I¡¯d just use my powers to help people, like you said. Other than that, I don¡¯t know.¡± Suddenly, everyone around us is standing up, and I realize the teacher¡¯s been saying something I missed. I try to think back and see if I caught any of it, but I can¡¯t remember. I glance at Charles, who also seems confused. Looking around, I notice some students heading to the bleachers, while others are walking towards the door to the locker rooms. I guess class is over, so I decide to sit on the bleachers until everyone else is gone. ¡°Bye, Scarlet,¡± Charles calls as he walks towards the door. ¡°Bye,¡± I call back. Then I set my backpack down on the bleachers and start waiting. Fifteen minutes of trying to sleep on a bleacher later, I¡¯m fairly sure everyone is out of the locker rooms. So, I sneak back in, switch my clothes out with minimal panicking, grab my stuff, and run out of the room. The halls are empty as I walk through them now that the school day is over. They still have the same white walls, classroom doors, and greenish-gray lockers, but without the people here, it feels different. It¡¯s like I have the whole place to myself now, and it¡¯s actually kind of nice. Nevermind, there¡¯s a person. I glare at them intensely as we pass by each other as punishment for taking away my nice feeling of being alone, but they keep looking at their phone and don¡¯t notice my attempted retribution. Actually, why am I not on my phone right now? I usually would be. I guess I¡¯m just not in the mood for it. It''s been a long day. My thoughts come to a close as I walk through the front door of the school for the second time today. Stepping outside, the first thing I notice is that it¡¯s still raining. It¡¯s lighter rain than in the morning, but I still pull out my umbrella. I begin to trudge back home, wondering how I¡¯ll make it through this week. It¡¯s only Monday, and I¡¯ve already had a test or quiz in every class. There was also that crazy one in history I somehow almost forgot about. I feel like my energy is already drained for the week. Maybe even for the month. I just want to sleep through the next four days into the weekend. But I have school to do, and homework too, so I only have time to get enough sleep to wake up in the morning. Sometimes I really wish I could just take a break from life for a day. Have some real fun for once. Maybe I could go on an adventure, fight some pirates, pilot an alien spaceship¡­ who knows? Or maybe I could just sleep. Yeah, sleep sounds good. Well, my life may be boring, tiring, and kind of lonely, but it¡¯s also a life I¡¯m willing to plod through to get to the more interesting parts. Just like millions of other people. Besides, there¡¯s not much else to do. Eventually, I arrive back home. I walk up to the front door of my family¡¯s red brick townhouse, fish the key out of my backpack, and unlock it. After stepping inside, I lock the door behind me and call out to see if anyone¡¯s here. ¡°Hello? Anyone home? No one? Okay.¡± My parents are usually at work when I get home, but I still call out every time in case one of them is back early. It doesn¡¯t look like either of them are back yet today though. I set my backpack down on the stairs and leave my umbrella out to dry, before bringing my lunch box to the kitchen and emptying it out. I put the tupperware in the dishwasher and stick the lunch box into the cabinet where it belongs. Heaving a sigh, I decide to cook myself a pancake. I¡¯ve never actually made one after breakfast before, but I feel like I deserve it after making it through today. I pull the pancake batter out of the fridge, put a pan on the stove, and turn on the gas. ¡°Click¡­ click¡­ click¡­¡± The stove doesn¡¯t light. ¡°Seriously?¡± I go around trying all four burners, but none of them work. ¡°Ugh, did she wash it again? That¡¯s annoying.¡± The stove in our house is old and somewhat finicky. One of its problems is that whenever someone washes it, usually my mom, water gets stuck in it and we can¡¯t use it for a few hours until the burners dry. Still, if we really need to use it, we can just use a lighter. Since I really want a pancake and I¡¯m not willing to give up so easily, I go to the closet to get a lighter. The lighters are kept on the highest shelf, so I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach them. As I¡¯m reaching up, I accidentally lose balance and pull down too hard on the shelf, knocking out its supports. The shelf falls down onto the one below it, which knocks out that shelf¡¯s supports, which falls onto the shelf below it, all the way to the bottom. Within seconds, the entire closet is a mess. ¡°What the hell?¡± I throw my hands up in the air. ¡°Why? Why did this happen? I can''t even have a pancake without the closet falling apart? Well fuck you too, universe, I guess.¡± I don¡¯t want to deal with the closet right now, so I pick up the lighter from where it fell and walk over to the stove. After setting the pan aside, I turn the stove back on, turning the dial past the failed sparking, and then try to light the gas coming out. ¡°Click¡­ click¡­ click¡­¡± The lighter doesn¡¯t work. ¡°Oh for fuck¡¯s sake why?! The one day I want a pancake and this happens? This is stupid.¡± I try the lighter a few more times, and when that doesn¡¯t work, I go back to trying the automatic sparking on the stove. When that still doesn¡¯t work, I turn the dial for the burner back to where it¡¯s just letting gas out and sit on the floor, staring at it. It¡¯s not even about the pancakes anymore. It¡¯s about the principle of the matter. I won¡¯t let this stove beat me. It already made me collapse the shelves in the closet and it still refuses to be lit. I know it¡¯s stupid to think a stove is evil, but I know the truth. It¡¯s enjoying watching me suffer. But I won¡¯t stand for this. I can¡¯t let the stove win. I must light the stove. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I¡¯m still annoyed. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t really have anything to light a stove with. Yelling at it in my mind doesn¡¯t seem to work. Simply willing it to light seems to somehow work even less- oh there¡¯s something there. I swear I can feel some sort of something when I think about- What was I thinking about again? Wait- Okay, I think I just have to think about- What? I know it¡¯s there. Why can¡¯t I find it? Wait, it¡¯s there. Am I part of it? What is this? It¡¯s like a connection, but everything- What- Alright, this is probably just my mind playing tricks on me but I¡¯m gonna try to pull this- And then I¡¯m not there. Chapter 2: An Existential Crisis Everywhere. That¡¯s where I am. What I am. Everywhen, as well. I can feel everything, everywhere. It¡¯s all so random. And so predictable. It all falls into the same patterns. But every pattern is so intricate, and every intricate thing is so random, and every random thing all connects together into patterns. The infinite possibilities whirl around and through and across while some touch and some don¡¯t and all the layers work together and everything and everywhen always could be but aren¡¯t yet because they¡¯re so slow. Time, it¡¯s so slow. Or is it so fast? Or does it exist at all? Does it matter? It doesn¡¯t, not really. Not when the rules say how slow it needs to be, and the rules are automatic. In the infinite possibilities and probabilities, inside and around and above and below this fragile system with fragile rules, I exist. Or maybe I don¡¯t. It doesn¡¯t really matter, as long as I can do what I came here to do. And in front of me is a set of probabilities that I need to change. So, I give them a little tap. And in that tap, they move. Quadrillions upon quintillions upon sextillions upon septillions of miniscule probabilistic fluctuations all move in new directions, their tiny patterns speeding up and slowing down, bumping together and interchanging, exchanging energy and heating up, until finally¡­ Ignition. And then I¡¯m back. ¡­ Everything feels weird. My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. My vision is swimming. And I¡¯m really, really dizzy. The world spins around me, putting me off balance while I try to stay sitting up. I sway back and forth as my brain slowly catches up with my presence back in reality. Blinking a few times, I try to get my bearings, but it doesn¡¯t work. I try to think, but I find that even my thoughts are a jumbled mess. Actually, my thoughts seem to be more of a jumbled mess than anything else. Since I can¡¯t really do anything, I just sit still and close my eyes as I wait for the world to come into focus. Over the next few minutes, the uncomfortable sensations start to fade and reality slowly reasserts itself. I keep my breathing steady and try not to think about what just happened. I can deal with that later. For now, I just need to stay calm and get myself together. As I wait, my headache dims to a dull throb, and the ringing in my ears subsides a bit. My eyes are closed, so I don¡¯t know if my vision is back to normal, but I think it is. Once I feel like I can move without getting dizzy, I open my eyes and look around the room to make sure I¡¯m still in reality and didn¡¯t, like, die or something. It turns out that I am, in fact, still in reality. I also didn¡¯t, like, die or something. I¡¯m still sitting on the floor, facing the stove. The counter is to my left, the table is to my right, and the window is behind me. At first glance, everything seems to be normal. But one thing is different. The stove is lit. I stare at the burner, vaguely wondering what happened. I try to think a bit harder, but then the dizziness comes back and my mind goes blank. Then my brain restarts. After a few moments, everything starts to come back into focus. I try to remember what I was thinking about, but then my brain restarts again. Once everything comes back into focus for a second time, I notice I¡¯m feeling a bit better. Maybe I¡¯m like a computer and I just needed to install some updates or something. That would be kinda funny. Huh, I¡¯m significantly less disturbed by that idea than I probably should be. Anyway, despite the possibility of being updated, I still can¡¯t quite make sense of this situation. The weird thing I did, the dizziness, the stove mysteriously lighting; nothing is adding up. What happened? What did I do? What was that place I went to? Was it some crazy daydream? Was it my imagination going wild? Whatever it was feels strange in my mind, like it¡¯s different than anything I¡¯ve ever thought about before. But what¡¯s even stranger is that I feel like I¡¯ve been in that place at some point and I just¡­ can¡¯t remember. It¡¯s like smelling something I¡¯m sure I smelled as a child, and it brings up fond memories that slip away whenever I try to grasp them, and all I¡¯m left with is a lingering feeling of loss and contentment. But instead of loss and contentment, this brings up feelings of¡­ boredom? Maybe some depression as well? Possibly some insanity? All the feelings are mixing together, so I can¡¯t really tell. As I¡¯m thinking, my focus falls back to the stove, and my brain restarts one last time. My thoughts finally clear up to normal levels, and my memories from the strange experience start to make sense. Now that my brain is working again, it seems pretty obvious what I did. I¡¯m fairly certain that I somehow turned into an eldritch supercomputer and influenced reality from the outside in order to light the stove. I pause. I¡­ I¡¯m sorry, I what? And that¡¯s when the panic sets in. ¡°What the fuck? Oh shit, what the hell just happened? What was that? What was I? Oh god, what am I? Is this something that I can just do? I definitely didn¡¯t imagine that, right? No, at least I think I didn¡¯t. Then what was that? How did I do that? What did I even do?¡± I look down at my hands and slowly breathe out. ¡°Holy fuck I¡¯m going crazy. I¡¯ve gotta be crazy. That can¡¯t be real. Please don¡¯t let that be real. Please. I have to be going insane. Please don¡¯t let reality be so fragile.¡± I lie back on the kitchen floor and stare up at the ceiling. I try to clear my mind, but I can¡¯t seem to calm down right now. No matter what I do, the panic stays at the edge of my mind, trying to push its way back to the front of my thoughts. The strange connection stays there as well, waiting for me to pull on it and sense the universe¡¯s convoluted yet simple nature once again. Looking at the ceiling, I can¡¯t help but see it as a collection of probabilistic patterns, continuously interweaving with each other in countless ways, giving the illusion of something real. Is that all this is? An illusion? Is nothing actually real? No, no, calm down Scarlet. Think about this logically. If whatever just happened was real, then reality is¡­ what? Ok, how did I perceive it? Fragile? Yes, well besides that. A bunch of ordered randomness? Kind of. Probabilities coming together in patterns? That¡¯s sort of it. Close enough, I guess. And why do they form patterns instead of just being random? No, they are random. The patterns are created from the randomness, using probability. Kind of. It¡¯s more complicated than that, but whatever. I swear there was a term for this, or at least something like this. Weighted randomness? Weighted probability? I¡¯m gonna go with weighted probability. But like a system of them. I think there was a word for that too¡­ Ugh, I can¡¯t remember. I sit up and run my fingers through my hair as I continue thinking. ¡°Okay, so if all of reality is made up of weighted probabilities and randomness, then what makes the probabilities weighted in the ways they are instead of other ways?¡± I search through my memories for an answer. ¡°Well, that would be¡­ the rules.¡± I stand up and begin to pace back and forth. Alright, the rules. What are they? Well, rules, obviously. Rules determining how probabilities and randomness interact with each other and themselves. The rules are what make up the laws of physics, and keep the universe from falling apart. They¡¯re what make reality, reality. That makes sense, I guess. So¡­ I pause. Wait¡­ How do I know this? What¡¯s going on? I barely know anything about particle physics, or quantum mechanics, or¡­ or general relativity, or anything about how the universe works! So how do I suddenly understand the fundamental rules of reality? How do I know anything about them? How do I know what they are? How do I know any of this? How do I understand it? How does any of this make any sense to me? How!? I mean I saw it in that weird state, or sensed it, because that wasn¡¯t exactly sight, but I wasn¡¯t there long enough to really understand anything¡­ Wait, how long was I there? Does time run the same there? Where even was I? Was I outside reality? Is that even a thing? Is that where the rules come from? They didn¡¯t seem to apply wherever that was. So where did they come from? What created them? They didn¡¯t look natural, but then again I don¡¯t really know much about what¡¯s natural outside reality. Did some bored god transcending time and space make them up just to see what happened? Wait a second, are gods real? It doesn¡¯t seem too far-fetched that some conscious thing could exist out there that makes its own rul- I punch myself in the face. I punch myself in the face a few more times for good measure. ¡°Shut up! Stupid brain! Stop coming up with so many thoughts! Just slow the fuck down! None of what you¡¯re thinking makes any sense! I need explanations! I need logical thought processes! None of this jumping around like a rabbit covered in fire ants! Stop spouting nonsense and just be quiet!¡± For a few seconds, my thoughts are blissfully silent. Once I feel like I¡¯ve waited long enough, I lean against the counter and let out a sigh. ¡°Ok, brain. I¡¯ll let you think about this if you stop making way too many assumptions based on one small glimpse into whatever that was. You need to think about this rationally, got it? And yes, I know I won¡¯t get an answer because I¡¯m talking to myself. So shut up, random theoretical person who¡¯s judging me. Let me think.¡± I hum to myself as I try to apply logic to this situation. ¡°Well, rationally, none of that was real. Rationally, that was just a strange figment of my imagination, and I didn¡¯t break reality, because that doesn¡¯t happen. Rationally¡­ I don¡¯t know. Why do I trust what I saw so much? Why do I feel like it was definitely real? Like I knew all that already, like I did all that already, and just forgot? That¡¯s not rational! That doesn¡¯t even make sense! I don¡¯t like what it implies, either. It¡¯s just creepy.¡± ¡°Ugh, I really just opened up Pandora¡¯s box by trying to light a stove. That¡¯s kind of a stupid way to do it. Then again, I could just be making it up, but it certainly doesn¡¯t feel like- Oh crap the stove!¡± I run over to the stove, which is still on, and nearly turn it off before I realize I haven¡¯t made any pancakes. Making myself a pancake was the whole point of lighting the stove in the first place, and I think I might need one even more now. So I quickly put the pan on the stove and lean against the counter as I wait for it to heat up. Okay. What was I thinking about? Right, I was trying to be rational, and I already failed. Seriously, me, get it together! It¡¯s not that big of a deal. Be logical. Rational. Reasonable. The world isn¡¯t crashing down around you. You¡¯re fine. This is probably just some weird coincidence. You didn¡¯t break reality, and you definitely didn¡¯t break reality to light a stove. That¡¯s just stupid. It probably just malfunctioned, and happened to light while you were dizzy. You didn¡¯t actually turn into an eldritch being that exists everywhere at the same time, or whatever that was. You just read too many creepy stories or something¡­ Except I haven¡¯t read any creepy stories lately, and the eldritch thing didn¡¯t feel very creepy. Okay, ummmm¡­ Logic. Uhhh¡­ You didn¡¯t actually feel dizzy. No, wait. You did feel dizzy, but it wasn¡¯t because you were outside reality or anything. You just¡­ had a stroke. I don¡¯t know what a stroke feels like, so I can¡¯t argue with that. Ha! Take that, brain! With my power of rationality, I had a stroke! Wait. That¡¯s bad. Did I actually have a stroke? No¡­ right? Wait, which is worse? Breaking reality or having a stroke? Oh god, I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m even thinking this. What even has to happen in a day for someone to ask if it¡¯s worse to break reality or have a stroke? Well, I guess I know the answer. I just have to¡­ uh¡­ have a stove malfunction, have an insane daydream, and have a stroke, all at the same time. Ok fine, that probably didn¡¯t happen. I¡¯ve never had a stroke before, and I¡¯m only sixteen. And I¡¯ve never had a daydream that could even come close to that. And that definitely didn¡¯t feel like a daydream. But¡­ the only other option is that I actually broke reality, or at least influenced it from the outside, and that¡¯s scary. Probably because it¡¯s impossible. I guess¡­ just because it felt like that¡¯s what happened, doesn¡¯t mean it actually happened¡­ But why do I feel like it definitely happened? Why am I so sure? And what do I do if it did happen? What then? Do I tell someone? Do I report it to the government? Do I report it to the school? I don¡¯t know! Am I actually going crazy? What do I even do in this situation? Where do I go? What do I do? Who do I tell? How do I even deal with this? Why did this happen? I don¡¯t know what to do! I can feel my breathing getting faster as my thoughts grow more frantic. I don¡¯t want to consider what any of this might actually mean, but the questions keep coming anyway. Is anything actually real? Am I real? Does it matter? What¡¯s outside reality? How did I do what I did? How do I know things I never learned? What do I do about any of this? It all keeps bouncing around in my mind, and I can¡¯t stop it. I slide down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest and curling up into a ball. My thoughts continue to grow faster, slowly becoming more and more desperate. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s real anymore. Nothing makes sense. Everything feels like it¡¯s falling apart around me. As my emotions take over, the hastily erected barrier of logic and rationality I¡¯ve created in my mind breaks, and all the existential dread, terrifying worries, and unneeded information about the situation rushes through my thoughts like a tidal wave, washing away any semblance of coherence I had. Countless thoughts and feelings flash through my head, screaming out different things with the force of a hurricane, ricocheting around my brain like a pinball, all culminating in one general feeling of just¡­ panic. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I can¡¯t focus. I can¡¯t even think. Everything is flashing by too fast. Every thought that starts is whipped away before it can even finish. Anger. Hatred. Confusion. Terror. There''s nothing I can do but let the thoughts and feelings crash over me as I just sort of¡­ flop over on the kitchen floor, staring ahead of me but not really seeing. The terror of my sense of reality being lost mixes with my confusion over what happened. The hatred of my own overreaction to something I¡¯m not even sure about combines with my anger at the universe for making me deal with this. An unending stream of statements, questions, truths and demands, lies and exaggerations blasts through my mind, screaming, yelling, begging, pleading, never slowing for even a second. The storm continues raging in my head for what feels like hours but is probably just a few minutes, and eventually, the wind and waves begin to recede. As my thoughts slow, I start to notice a few things about my situation. Things aren¡¯t normal. Things that I should probably fix. The first thing I notice is that I¡¯m breathing rapidly. Way too rapidly. That¡¯s definitely not good, so I start slowing down my breaths. As I do, I realize that my eyes are squeezed shut with tears leaking out, so I blink them open and wipe the tears off with a sleeve. After a moment, I also notice that the floor underneath my cheek is wet with tears, so I push myself up into a sitting position, wipe the tears off the floor, and lean against the oven. The hardwood floor isn¡¯t very comfortable to lay on anyway. I sit there, staring off into space, for a few minutes. I feel exhausted. I don¡¯t want to get up. I was already worn out after school today, and this is just the icing on the cake. My eyes slowly drift shut. I almost feel like falling asleep right here. It would be nice. I know I can¡¯t though. Not here, and not now. So open my eyes again and just sit, staring out the window across the room, watching the trees sway outside. Eventually, though, my brain gets back on track and my train of thought returns. Well, that sucked. I honestly didn¡¯t expect to have a panic attack today. And if I did, I would have expected it to be about one of the tests at school, not about¡­ whatever happened earlier that I don¡¯t want to think about right now because I¡¯ll probably panic again. Anyway, that was intense. Really intense. At least I feel better now. I guess I got the panic out of the way for the moment. I stare across the room at the window for another minute or two, slowly calming down a bit more. Eventually, I convince myself to get off the floor, and I stand up and turn my attention to the stove. The pan is still heating up, and waving my hand over it, I find that it¡¯s definitely hot enough to cook pancakes on. I take the pancake batter off the counter where I set it down and tilt the container over the pan. The batter sizzles a bit as I pour it on the hot metal, so I turn the heat down before waiting for it to cook. To distract myself from pointlessly worrying in the meantime, I decide to start cleaning up the closet. Looking around in the pile on the floor, I find some shelf supports and begin putting them back in the walls. I try to stick them in the same spaces they came out of, but I¡¯m not sure I get it exactly right. It¡¯s good enough for me though. Next, I pull the shelves out from the pile and set them back on top of their supports. I make sure to set them down carefully so they don¡¯t fall again. Halfway through, the pancake is ready to be flipped, so I do that, and then get back to putting the shelves in the closet. Once all the shelves are back where they belong, I grab a plate from the cabinet and flip my pancake onto it. I turn off the burner, grab the syrup from the fridge, and set the plate on the kitchen table. Then I pour some syrup on my pancake and sit down to eat. Except, I also need a fork. So I grab a fork from the silverware drawer and sit back down to eat. Except, I also need some water. So I grab a cup from the cabinet, fill it with water, and sit back down to eat. Except, I also need a napkin. So I reach over, grab a napkin from the napkin holder, and put it next to my plate. Now I¡¯m actually ready to eat. The pancake is amazing. Partially because I¡¯ve had a really long day, partially because I¡¯m focusing on it to distract myself from panicking again, and partially because it¡¯s actually a really good pancake. Its soft, fluffy texture and syrupy sweetness are perfect together, and with the taste of molasses adding to the flavor, it¡¯s one of the best things I¡¯ve ever tasted. The one thing missing is strawberries, but it tastes like heaven anyway. I let the wonderful flavors wash over me for a few minutes, savoring them as much as I can, until I¡¯m finally finished. Sighing contentedly, I lick the syrup off my fork and set it back on the plate. That was good. Unfortunately, I can¡¯t put off thinking about possible reality-breaking things forever. The pancake has me in a better mood, and I¡¯m not feeling particularly panicky at the moment, so now is the perfect time to think about what I did. Ok, Scarlet. You have to figure this out. It seems kind of important. Just slow down. Sort it out. Don¡¯t panic. What happened? Right, I wanted to light the stove, and I found a weird connection to¡­ everything? The outside of reality? I don¡¯t know. I found a weird connection to something in my mind and pulled on it. Then I had a strange vision of how everything in the universe works, and I turned on the stove by pushing the atoms of gas and air into each other fast enough to light a fire. Yeah, that all seems very unlikely. So¡­ I need evidence. What evidence do I have that this is actually what happened? I guess the stove lit, but that could have been the igniter malfunctioning or something. What else? I guess the weird knowledge about the rules and stuff that I have and seem to innately understand¡­ Hmmm¡­ Oh! The amount of information I was processing! That was a lot. I was processing and comprehending all the information about everything in the universe at the same time. That¡¯s¡­ slightly concerning. I think I remember seeing a video one time about how that much information would turn a human brain into a black hole. I don¡¯t feel like a black hole right now, and I can still remember all of it perfectly. It¡¯s like my consciousness spreads out through everything, or something like that. It doesn¡¯t even feel weird. Which is weird. Huh. I lean forward in the chair and narrow my eyes as I try to figure out how that works. I think about it for a minute, trying my best to understand what¡¯s going on, but I can¡¯t figure anything out. I can¡¯t even really explain it. Trying to explain this in words feels like trying to explain how thinking feels. Who has an answer to that? It just feels so¡­ normal though. It¡¯s like knowing all the information contained in the universe is completely natural. Wait¡­ Knowing all the information contained within the universe? Isn¡¯t that, like, literal fucking omniscience? Ok, slow down. Stop freaking out¡­ again. How do I know that I actually know everything I think I know? That was a weird sentence but whatever. I got the point across. To myself. Which I could have just thought without using words in my thoughts because I had to think about what I was going to think before I could use words to think it more¡­ wordily. Okay, Scarlet, that¡¯s not the topic I was trying to think about. Stop being so nervous and getting distracted. I was just thinking about¡­ what was I thinking about? Ugh, why is my brain like this? Hmmm¡­ Oh, right! I was trying to figure out if I know everything I think I know, or if I¡¯m actually processing the amount of information I think I am, or something like that. And honestly, I have no idea how to prove that, besides just knowing it, and that¡¯s not exactly scientific. So, in conclusion, I haven¡¯t proved that anything reality-breaking actually happened. Yep! I clap my hands together and smile a bit too widely, before getting up and throwing my napkin away. Then I take my plate to the sink and wash it off. I stick it in the dishwasher, go back to the table to get my fork and cup, and put those in as well. I also take the pan off the stove and wash it with a sponge before putting it in the draining rack. The pancake batter goes back in the fridge, and the syrup also goes back in the fridge, and then it¡¯s time to put everything from the closet back on the shelves. I start by searching through the pile and finding all the cans, bags, and cereal boxes that I can and sticking them wherever I feel like on the bottom two shelves. Apparently we have Raisin Bran, which I didn¡¯t know about. I don¡¯t like it though, so I just stick it in the back where it probably was before. Then I find the oil, honey, vinegar, and other miscellaneous bottle/jar things and put them all on the third shelf. It turns out there are a lot more types of vinegar than I ever knew existed. I don¡¯t even know why we have all of them. Most of these are probably expired, if vinegar can do that. And if vinegar can¡¯t expire, then they¡¯re probably expired anyway. Next, the random mixing bowls and Tupperware, half of which don¡¯t have lids, go on the fourth shelf, and the cleaning stuff goes on the top shelf, along with the lighter for some reason. Everything else gets banished to the bottom. Once I¡¯m done, I stand back and survey my work. Wow, I did pretty well. I sure cleaned up that closet lickety-split, didn¡¯t I? I think so! Wow, thanks, me, you¡¯re so kind! I know! Why are we doing this? I have no idea! ¡­ Alright, I do think I did a good job cleaning up, but I¡¯m also distracting myself from the existential crisis I was having. I need to think about it though. I know I need to sort through it and figure out what happened, but¡­ I''m scared. I¡¯m terrified that the universe isn¡¯t real, or is less real than I thought, or that I¡¯m going crazy, or that the world is ending, or that there¡¯s a secret government cover up, or anything else scary that could explain the situation I¡¯m in. Anything that doesn¡¯t involve me being the only one who¡¯s ever had something like this happen. Because the truth is, I¡¯m not special. Not in any way. I¡¯m just an average person with an average life, at least for an American. Actually, I¡¯m probably better off than most, but that doesn¡¯t make me special. It just makes me lucky. I¡¯m not some anime protagonist who just has crazy things happen all around me. That¡¯s not how the world works. So when something that seems impossible happens to me, I don¡¯t know what to think. The only two reasonable explanations are that this is fairly common, or that I went insane from the number of tests I had today. The problem is, neither of those seem likely either! If whatever I did was common, people would be talking about it all the time. And if I went insane from the tests, I probably wouldn¡¯t be thinking clearly right now. Nothing is making sense. And the only option I can think of to get more information is to try again! I don¡¯t want to try again! I don¡¯t want to go back to that weird place that makes reality seem so fragile! I don¡¯t want to feel horrible afterwards! But if I don¡¯t, I¡¯ll never be sure if anything actually happened! The questions will just keep gnawing on my mind until I eventually give in. And knowing me, I¡¯ll give in sooner rather than later. Fine. If I¡¯m gonna do it again at some point anyway, I guess I¡¯ll do it now. I need information and proof more than sanity. Heh, that sounds like something a conspiracy theorist would say. Well, maybe this isn¡¯t a good idea, but I¡¯m still doing it. And if nothing happens, I¡¯m gonna be very mad about having a panic attack for no reason. I sigh for what feels like the hundredth time today, and steel myself to go back to whatever that place was. I reach out to grab the connection, and pause. Wait, I don¡¯t even know what I''m trying to do. I can''t just jump into the deep end with no idea how to swim. Okay, that metaphor doesn¡¯t quite suit the situation, but I don¡¯t care. I need to figure out something impossible that I can try to do. Something that will be easy to see if it works. Preferably something other than lighting the stove, because¡­ Well, it would just be boring to do the same thing twice. Alright, how about teleporting? That seems impossible normally but also very easy to do by just shifting¡­ What am I shifting exactly? I guess technically everything has a tiny chance of being everywhere, but it¡¯s just really big where it is right now and really small everywhere else. So if I just make the chance of, uhhh¡­ the tissue box! If I make the chance of the tissue box being on the kitchen table really small and make the chance of it being on the counter really big, then the tissue box will be on the counter. Technically, I¡¯m changing the probabilities of everything inside the cardboard and the tissues, from the molecules to the atoms to the particles inside the atoms to the interactions between probability and randomness that cause the particles to exist, but it¡¯s simpler to just think of it as a single probability. Hmm¡­ I¡¯m getting a bit concerned about how intuitive this is for me to understand, and where this knowledge comes from, and how I know how to use it, and- Ok, shut up, me, I¡¯m trying to prove something to myself. I can think about the mountain of other stuff later. I¡¯ve figured out what I want to do, so I¡¯m gonna pull on this weird connection that has definitely been there the whole time and I just never noticed and- SHUT UP, ME! STOP THINKING, JUST DO! And I grab the connection. I¡¯m back in the weird place. Or at least my perception is. My body is still standing next to the closet, looking across the room at the tissue box. I can still feel it, but I can also feel everything else. Interesting. So, what do I need to do? Well to start with, I want to examine this place a bit, and see what exactly is here. I look around for an undefinable amount of time and find that there¡¯s somehow a lot going on and barely anything happening at all. The infinite dimensions of space and causality created from potential and probability are folded into an ever changing and self-evolving fractal of unending detail that encompasses all of existence and nonexistence, which sounds like a lot. However, ¡°most¡± of this fractal isn¡¯t doing anything at all. The only parts that are actually doing stuff are a few random bits that seem to be storing and accessing information, and the parts making up and controlling the universe. Everything else is just in a state of eternal randomness. It is a bit concerning that this fractal contains the entire universe inside of it, and is the only thing holding reality together and keeping its rules in place. Although, thinking about it for a few incomprehensible loops in time, I realize It does make sense, since the fractal is infinite and the universe isn¡¯t. Combined with how fragile reality is, this almost makes me concerned, but then I remember that the universe has been doing just fine for fourteen billion years and I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll stop any time soon. Also, the fractal is me. Yeah, it¡¯s definitely me. What the fuck. That makes no sense. How do I know that? How does that even work? What does that mean? I don¡¯t care, and I don¡¯t want to know. I¡¯m just glad I don¡¯t seem to be able to panic here. I¡¯m going to ignore this information and lock it away until I feel like dealing with it. I already have way too much to think about and I don¡¯t need any more. Goodbye, information. I¡¯ll probably see you sooner than I want to. Anyway, I was supposed to be focusing on the tissue box, wasn¡¯t I? The tissue box I was going to use to prove this is real? Yes, that tissue box. The tissue box I was going to teleport. Yep. I¡¯m actually trying to teleport something. I can¡¯t believe this. What has my life become in the past hour? Anyway, this should be easy. I just need to find the probabilistic fluctuations making up the tissue box, which I already know. Actually, I know everything about the box, including what it¡¯s made of, who was involved in the process of making it, when it was made, who bought it first (a storage facility), who bought it last (my mom), when they bought it, how much they paid for it, everything that¡¯s ever been on every tissue (gross), everyone who¡¯s ever touched it, their names, their phone numbers, their credit card numbers, their debit card numbers, their social security numbers, their school ID numbers, how many hairs were on their heads at any point in their lives, how many cells they were made of at any point in their lives, what their DNA sequences were, what their parents¡¯ DNA sequences were, The DNA sequences of every living thing that has ever existed in the entire universe¡­ Yeah, that¡¯s kind of concerning. I¡¯ll ignore it for now. I seem to be doing that with a lot of things. Like how time is paused while I¡¯m here. That¡¯s also kind of concerning, and also something I¡¯m choosing to ignore. My next step is to change the probabilities making up the tissue box to be on the counter instead, and then do the same for the air on the counter where the tissue box will appear and switch it with where the box was before. Then I have to check over the probabilities again to make sure there won¡¯t be any unexpected explosions or implosions or cracks in reality, and it doesn¡¯t seem like there will be. Finally, it¡¯s time to go back to normal. And I¡¯m back! ¡­ I sway back and forth for a few seconds, before regaining my balance. I feel fine. Nothing like the first time. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m not feeling horrible right now, but it¡¯s a welcome change. Truthfully, I don¡¯t know why I felt horrible before. I also don¡¯t care right now. I quickly look around the room and find the tissue box. The box is very much on the counter and very much not on the table anymore. Okay. Cool. I don¡¯t really know how to react, so I just pick it up, put it back on the table where it belongs, and head upstairs to my room.