The deafening darkness was unbearable. The mortal coils of my soul were intertwined with endless threads of nothingness, making up the human being that was myself. Even amongst the silence of this blank void were the faint sounds of familiar voices calling out my name. At least, what I believe to be my name. The same thing is repeated: Sam… Sam… Sam.. My painful thoughts ceased, as I realized that this is a new reality that I must accept. For whatever reason, my life ended, and I’m not exactly sure how. All I knew was that someone ruined something, leading to my undoubting end. I guess this wasn’t too bad, though. At least I could feel at peace; floating through the ethereal blackness of death. Interestingly, after what felt like a millennium of pure nothing and repetitive sounds, something changed. Instead of just one name being called, another rang into existence: Marcus… Marcus… Marcus…! This was a louder and even more familiar voice. But the name itself was so disassociating… I h
Flint and I read through the rest of the book to ensure there weren’t any other possible candidates. Nevertheless, we found that all the other claimed victims had no occupation related to an office job. Not wanting to rely on one conclusion, we looked through different books to learn more about Samuel Platt’s death. Interestingly in Cold cases: Brixton’s Dark History, we found a detailed description of Samuel Platt’s seemingly unusual death. “What the hell?” Flint remarked in response to the grotesque page. Both of us were in mute shock at what we were looking at. On this page was a passage that went into deep detail about the death scene, which was associated with a grotesque on-site picture. The black and white image depicted a twisted, bloodied body at the bottom of concrete stairs. The dried stains on the walls implied an apparent struggle, showing that this was no accident. The neck was bent at the most unnatural angle, with a pool of blood pouring from an open wound on the head.
The Friday event still had a couple more hours before ending, but we decided to best not to bother. I was annoyed by Flint's manic attempt to get Melissa to become interested in me, so I planned on doing a petty silent treatment until the next day. This didn't last very long since he turned on his console, influencing me to play at least a couple of rounds with him. We played the rest of the night and used the weekend opportunity to sleep in without needing to worry about classes. It wasn't until lunch the next morning that I finally voiced my troubles. "So you told Melissa we'll be in a study group?" I asked in between bites of my cafeteria salad. The cafeteria itself wasn't bustling since it was the weekend. Usually, people would go back home or spend time elsewhere over the weekend. Even though I can easily do that, I didn't want to deal with my dad's constant hassle. "Yeah, but don't get all worked up about that. I'll be sure to stick around and make sure that you're not alone…
A surplus of food trucks was lined along the walkways in the open quad area. The large field directly behind the quad area was filled with chattering people who had laid out blankets and chairs to watch Scream on the giant projected screen. Flint and I had just ordered from Sam's Grille, which apparently had gourmet-Esque sandwiches and burgers. "Fifteen bucks for a steak sandwich… this better be the best damn thing I'll ever eat," Flint bitterly scoffed. We walked away from the truck but made sure to stay within earshot of our order. "And that's not even counting the side of steak-fries… that was twelve bucks! California inflation is brutal." "To be fair you went here first," I pointed out. "I was the one that originally wanted to go to that pizza truck." "Yeah but that's boring. And plus I was supposed to pay," he angrily accused. I looked away and started whistling, pretending to have not heard his question. "Once we're done with this, drinks and desserts are on me." His tone did
“Huh, what?” Flint groggily replied. He continued rubbing his eyes as I excitedly stood over him. The air in the room felt more vibrant, as if the atmosphere was becoming clearer. “Wh– what do you mean? Our city?” “Yeah!” I jumped with high energy. “Do you know what this means?” He shook his head, either replying to my question or trying to wake himself up. “That means that we’ll be able to find my past life. Somewhere in this city there’s gotta be something about who I once was.” Flint looked unsurprised while he stared blankly at the wall. “Mm… and why do we need to find yourself– er– your past self?” He was having difficulty forcing himself to understand the logic behind this. “Are you having some identity crisis or something?” His sarcastic remark annoyed me. “Well, for starters, I never expected that I’d be able to see into a life that I didn’t even know I lived,” I explained impatiently. “It doesn’t make it any better that my visions are missing a lot of details. This is the o
I paused, waiting for the punchline of his joke. I soon discovered that there was none. “Ehhh I think you need to work on that one a bit,” I confided. “I don’t see the punchline. Is it supposed to be some sort of dark humor or…?” Flint impatiently waved his hand. “No no no! I’m serious!” he persisted. “You– with the– err–,” he stuttered, looking around the room. “Here, just read this section.” Flint flipped back to the page he was just on and handed the book to me. The top of the page read Birthmarks: indications of past-life trauma. I looked up at him skeptically, still waiting for him to admit to making a bad joke. When that expectancy didn’t come into fruition, I began to read aloud. “Most recently, theorists around the world developed the idea that birthmarks are evidence of past life trauma. This leads to the presumption that birthmarks are an indication of how one had died in their previous life, which supports the reincarnation theory (see page 39). Experts say that if such i
“What. The. Hell,” Flint berated me in the dorm room later that night. I watched from my personal desk as I saw him pacing from wall to wall, hands behind his head in disbelief. “What the hell was that, Marcus? First off you claim to have never had any medical issues before, yet proceed to have a TWELVE MINUTE seizure.” He finally sat in his chair, rocking back and forth. “THEN I find out that your dad is some big shot in the pharmaceutical world? He’s like a CFO or uhhh…” “CMO,” I corrected. “He basically oversees hospital duties and keeps track of patients going in and out.” “Still, he’s gotta be violating some sort of hospital policy, right!? Your dad can’t just walk up to the front desk and order you to leave! And you know what’s the craziest part about this?” Flint stopped moving around, and pointed at me with a concerned expression. “Even after all of that, Dr. Fisher is still issuing that essay homework!” “Yeah, it’s bullshit,” I agreed, shaking my head in annoyance. “But rig
Heavy panting, bleeding arms, and intense fear. All of which were the only things I currently knew. My polished dress shoes were no longer a sleek black, and were now ridden with dust and blood. My once clean, black business suit was now wrinkled, and ripped at certain spots. I held my aching left arm by my side, and limped forward as fast as I could. I couldn’t tell where I was… or even who I was. All I cared about was escaping from whatever was chasing me.A tumult of voices yelled from behind. It sounded like multiple men's voices, but I couldn’t tell if they were shouting for help or in pain. Behind me, sporadic patterns of footsteps approached, and fled my ears in random intervals. I could hear the people swinging around, and bumping into the nearby surroundings. Something must’ve been released in the office, since someone grunted, “Dammit, I can’t see!” to himself. In a moment of pure anxiety, I stumbled over something on the ground and fell, hitting a sore spot in my right knee