A book pokes into my back, and my room reeks of spilled coffee and a burnt electrical outlet.  I’m back in my room then, I don’t see anyone beside me. The blue glow of my digital clock says I’ve lost - four hours.

The girl, I need to find her.

“Miss! Miss wherever you’ve gone, I am not done with this discussion.” Was she a hallucination? It’s a struggle to grab ahold of a pen and notepad, they lay in a pile of green glass shards that cut into my hands when I try to pick them up.

Her vase. Somehow, her vase is here, in my room?

“Whatever you’ve done, I demand you tell me what your purpose is!” No one answers, she’s gone then. Notes. I must make notes on the progress of my symptoms.

“Tremors accompanied the episode. Intense emotional distress, weakness of limbs” - I can’t keep the pen steady, damn. “Shortness of breath. Hallucinations. Physical manifestation of mental”-

“This is a reminder. It is time for the evening meal.” A programmed feminine voice meant to be gently encouraging instead sends a fresh wave of frustration through me. I don’t have time for this.

“Interface on silent.” Usually, that works.  

“This is a reminder. It is time for the evening meal.”  It chirps back.

“I heard you the first time, interface on silent.”

“This is a rem-”

“Shut up already!”

My order is punctuated by heaving the nearest object at the interface embedded in the wall. It cracks the glass of the panel before the household itinerary is cut short. No sooner have I breathed a sigh of relief before Mother is calling from the main hall.

“Toren? Toren, we’re leaving now, mustn't be late!”. Her command travels through the hallways to my ears. If you whisper, people must learn in to listen. It’s one of her favorite quotes.

I swallow back an angry retort and shuffle around the mounds of chaos surrounding me.

My board of pie charts and graphs lays on its side, chemical test strips litter the ground. Multiple cups of coffee gone cold are overturned or left in pieces. I step over broken shards of glass by the desk, ignore the framed picture of Mother and I that’s hanging crooked on the wall.

“Toren? Did you hear me?”

The stark white of the Finch compound makes me squint. Our building, four stories tall and modeled after it’s equally clean edged and gleaming glass neighbors is one of the more spacious homes in the Apparatus District. Despite this, it is just as minimalist in the majority of the common areas. White walls, white marble floors, white light.

I’m grateful for the frosted glass railing as I descend to the main hall where Mother is waiting. She’s already dressed, wearing her blush pearls and knee-length Navy colored wrap dress, still fussing with loose brunette tendrils of hair in one of the thin gold hallway mirrors. At the same time, she rubs her peach lips together, a sure sign something sticky will be left behind when she kisses my cheek.

“Your father sent word; he’ll be meeting us at the restaurant- you’re not dressed.” I am distracted by the update and her frown, so I miss my chance to dodge her glossy kiss.

“Mother-” I scrub at the lip print with the back of my hand but Mother only smiles.

“You can hardly be irritated with me, Darling; I haven’t mussed you at all, have I?” She shoots a pointed look at my rumpled black button-down with the cuffs pushed up, and the wrinkled slacks I pulled on sometime in the early hours of this morning.

“No…” Everything aches. I can see the sun setting past the living room, the flaming hues catching on the copper prism that hangs in lieu of a chandelier. The colorful shadows paint white furniture shades of sunset, they pour in through the wall of windows.

“You’re not ready yet?” She is concerned, but not angry. Mother never gets angry because her disappointment is a far more useful tool.

“Mother, couldn’t you and Father get along without me this evening?”

Her eyes widen in surprise as though the idea is ludicrous. It is, I suppose.

“Toren, you must stand with us; we’ve already arranged to meet with the Wayne’s...” If I were speaking to Father, he would add a short ranting reminder about etiquette and image and other things that I would tune out. As it is, she simply continues, “They’re bringing their daughter, and we’ve already begun the compatibility testing.”

Yes, because the idea of having yet another potential wife meet-and-greet with my parents is exactly how I want to spend my evening. Thanks to a week of lab visits, this one was even “showing promise”. I fold my arms, mirroring the way Mom does hers.  Father hates when I do that. It’s a gesture of defiance and entirely too expressive for his liking.

“You’re rather warm, Toren, is your temperature elevated? Are you feeling unwell?” One slim olive hand, cool and soothing, presses against my feverish cheek. So, no one can feel the tremors accept me? “Anne? Fetch a thermometer.” I blink and our elderly housekeeper has teleported to my side, her genetic mutation letting her skip the stairs entirely. Not for the first time I wish I could do the same, but only servants from The Clans have mutations.

“Yes, that’s right,” An out, perfect. I do my best to look pale and pathetic. “I may be coming down with a flu virus, but if my illness will cause you trouble-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no way you can be expected to give a good first impression when you’re sick.” She smooths my hair, fans my face lightly. “You should have informed me sooner.”

“I’m sorry Mother, I know how long you’ve had this meeting arranged-”

“No more apologies.” She shushes me. “Off to bed with you, I’ll have Anne look in on you later.”

I drag my feet back up every stair, past the family portraits and photos. What a waste. All those blood samples and swabs taken to check my genetic compatibility with a potential spouse that I now won’t be meeting. Still, a part of me is grateful for my sickness, for this hallucination woman. Earthquakes and delusions are scores better than dinner with a forced fiancé.