LAST ACCESS DATE: 1010XX
PUBLISHED: 1010XX
CONTAINS: Mention of injury (broken bones and internal injuries, non-detailed), Profanity (nothing hateful, just a main character with a bit of a potty mouth)
LOG DATE: 0905XX
LOG AUTHOR: OPAL - 427895
LOG START: INITIATING…
50% COMPLETE
79% COMPLETE
100% COMPLETE
LOG SUCCESSFULLY ACTIVATED, UNENCRYPTING DATA
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I hate moving.
I mean, doesn’t everyone? You have to shove all your stupid, useless crap into tiny, flimsy little boxes and then hire some beefy dudes to put your tiny boxes into a big box and then drive the big box to another box where you’re going to live.
And then you have to unpack. Every. Single. ONE.
To make it simple for you… my parents are getting a divorce. I’m not too torn up about it, though - it’s about fucking time those assholes split up. The whole “moving” thing was split up between them, me, and my little sister. My parents spent most of the time arguing about who owned what. I’m serious; there was a whole-ass altercation over a pan. A frying pan. Not even a good one, either - my dad bought it for like ten bucks off of Amazon five years back. For the most part, my sister and I ignored their bickering. We just got our own shit together and let our parents duke it out while we hung out on the back porch and ate ice pops with our family’s absolute unit of a beagle, Rupert.
I think, once this is all over, that my sister is going to be chilling with my mom for most of the time. I’m bummed about it, since I’m gonna be with my dad at his apartment (I can’t stand my mother) and they’re a thirty minute drive away. I’m glad, though, that they’re not making her transfer schools. That shit sucks. Anyways, my parents offered to let us switch houses every week but… eh. I’m 19. I don’t really need it. I’ll visit, sure, but I’m not going to deal with my mom’s horseshit more than I absolutely have to.
Cassidy might need to switch houses sometimes, though. She’s ten, and I know the split messed with her a lot more than it did me. She tries to be strong, I think. She wants to be a “big girl” and not cry about it, but I know it’s a lot for a kid to deal with. If my parents weren’t such dicks to one another, I’d be angry they split for that reason alone - it hurt Cass. But they yell and fight so often that I’d rather Cassidy be a little sad now than grow up listening to them screaming at each other like I did.
Whew… back to the story. I shake my head and grumble as I lift another heavy box into the kitchen. Our house is massive, and the packing alone has taken over a week of non-stop labor. By now, my arms hurt whenever I move them, and the soles of my feet ache from so much as standing to go grab a water bottle. I’m hella relieved we’re going to be done soon.
Unfortunately, the last bit of packing is in the garage, aka the trash disposal of the household - the place where everyone dumps shit they’re too lazy to put in the trash. I can’t really get that mad, though. I’ve done it too, afterall. Still, I scowl as I try to scale a gross, dusty shoe rack decorated in a wide variety of bug carcasses in an attempt to snag my knockoff Ugg boots from the top. Ultimately, I fail - there’s too much dead shit and spiders for me to even consider climbing up more than a couple levels. When no one is looking? I tip the whole damn thing over instead.
Remarkably, no one notices, and it barely makes a sound as I angle it carefully downwards. As soon as it's on the ground, I start pulling the shoes off the rack. Old sneakers, boots, and a few pairs of roller skates all come out of the rack, and I pile the footwear up by who owns what. I take special care to put my dad’s stuff and my mom’s stuff far, far away, because I really don’t want to hear them bitching about a decades old pair of flip flops or some grimy, practically unwearable set of boots. Once the shoes are settled, I work on dismantling the rack itself. It’s not a complicated structure, but I do have to pause every twenty seconds or so to dust off old, gray cobwebs and remove extra-crunchy bug remains. I curse at the sun shining in my face as I try to finish up the garage before night falls and the mosquitoes come out to play.
Luckily, my dad appears. He nods and gives me a warm little smile as he passes. I follow him with my eyes as he settles down by a pile that seems to be half dirt and half old sports memorabilia. I feel infinitely relieved to have someone out here besides myself. Cass would normally be in here helping me, but she looked like a zombie earlier, so I told her to take a break. She was so tired from packing that she fell asleep on the couch and I saw my dad carry her up to her bed.
I hope she sleeps - the girl needs it.
As the afternoon fades into night, my dad and I sort our respective piles of crap together in an easy silence. While I’m taping up my second box of shoes, the relative quiet is broken by the sound of a phone ringing. I jolt, and my dad and I simultaneously check our phones. There’s nothing on mine except the time and a reminder to update my phone that I haven’t clicked on in months. I watch as my dad stands and walks off, finding a relatively clean piece of wall to lean up against as he speaks. All I hear of his conversation is a distant murmur. I tune out the low rumble of my dad’s voice as I finish packing up the shoes and tossing my three actually usable pairs to the side.
Once I’m done, I push all of the packed, sealed, and labeled boxes against the side of the garage and grin, staring at my work. Shoes? Secured. I grin as I check my phone, only to find myself frowning when I see the time - 6:50, meaning it’s nearly time for my night class. Since I’m done with the shoes, I wave to my dad to catch his attention. It takes a few times - he’s still talking on his cell. Once I have his eyes on me, I speak quietly in his direction, “The shoes are done, so I’m going to class. Be back later!”
He nods, giving me a thumbs up. I flash a thumbs up back and set off. My car is waiting, parked remarkably askew in the driveway thanks to my mom’s lovely parking skills. I haul myself inside the silver-colored vehicle, adjust the seat, and then drive off. My brain sort of shuts off as I drive, switching over from packing mode to class mode. It’s pretty easy to drive like that, especially since rush hour traffic has long since dissipated, and I take mostly highways to get to my class. But I think the fatigue from the endless packing is catching up with me - I barely parking my car, or which way I walk to get to my English class. When I come to my senses though, I am sitting at my desk with my notebook lying in front of me.
It’s part of the required materials list for the class, and it’s full of periwinkle-colored writing paper that smells faintly of blueberries. I hate the damn thing. Sure, it’s made of recycled paper which is great, but I would have enjoyed purchasing it more if it hadn’t cheated me out of thirty whole dollars. I mean, I’m all for recycling and sustainability, but jesus! I’m not about to pay thirty dollars for a notebook. When I asked my professor why in God’s name we needed that specific notebook, he gave me a withering glare and told me it was required and that was all we needed to know.
The guy is… a character, that’s for sure. He thinks he’s all that because he published a book of obscure, boring poetry that all the facetious, wrinkly poet masters drooled over. He even made us buy his poetry book to study from at the beginning of the semester. The selfish jerk didn’t even give us a coupon - we had to buy his garbage at full price. His only redeeming quality is that he’s, regrettably, a fairly attractive young man. That only serves to make his shitty attitude all the more annoying, though. I’d expect that sort of attitude from a self-absorbed, crotchety old dude with five cats, an ugly bowtie, and a masters in English, not a young guy who strides into class looking like a model!
Alas, it is what it is. I zone out as my professor drones on about his own work and then, finally, starts our warmup activity for the day. It’s another exceedingly boring one - we have to answer a handful of short response prompts based on various, idiotically obscure pop culture references. As he talks, I only end up answering two of the five questions because I’m so fatigued that I can barely think straight. The professor posts the prompts on our online course management program after class anyways, so it’s generally not that important to do them right away. Half the class doesn’t even make an attempt at the prompts usually, and I’m relatively confident that my spot towards the back of the room won’t fall under his scrutiny.
“Having trouble hearing, Opal?”
Shit. While I was daydreaming, he made his way all the way over to the back of the room. The man’s right in front of me now, leaning over my desk like an absolute douchebag. I grit my teeth and stare up at him, refusing to rise to his blatant taunt, “Ah, sorry professor - I didn’t understand a few of the prompts, so I answered what I did understand and wanted to go back to the other ones later.”
My professor continues to loom, and I try my hardest not to look anywhere besides his stupid, chiseled face. Curse his style sense… he always comes in dressed in way too tight pants and lazily buttoned collared shirts that leave very little to imagination. He takes in my reply and raises a brow, turning half-way away from me, “Riiiiight… make sure you get them done before next class, then.”
My blood boils. All I can muster is a curt nod before he seems satisfied and walks off. I can’t believe he singled out me, of all people. A boy a few rows back is clearly asleep at his desk, and yet the professor chooses to dunk on one of the handful of people actually doing work. My anger remains at an irritating simmer even after the warmup activity comes to a close and we move onto our lesson of the day. Today? I take notes on auto-pilot, too wrapped up in my own anger to do anything else.
When class comes to a close and everyone else scampers off to their next class, I approach my professor. He looks up only when I’m right in front of his desk, and even then, he waits an uncomfortable amount of time before addressing me.
“Yes?”
Even the way he speaks is fucking irritating. Regardless, I need to stay calm. I take a deep breath and steel myself. As much as I might hate my professor, I need to be on his good side if I don’t want to flunk this course and retake it next semester. I dip my head, attempting to look contrite, “I’m sorry I spaced out during warmups. I didn’t really understand the video game references and I’ve been packing for a move all week. I hope you understand, professor.”
The man looks at me for a few seconds more before he licks his finger and starts going through the papers on his desk. He doesn’t even bother to look at me when he responds, “I don’t need any excuses. Just get it done and submit it tonight.”
His response stings. I feel an immense urge to punch him in his pretty, manly face, consequences be damned. He had the fucking gall to insert a random video game reference into three of the warmups and get pissy when I didn’t understand them? What an ass.
“Right. Thank you, professor.”
I groan inwardly as I leave the room and-
Actually. No. Nevermind. I was going to make up a bridge about me walking down a hallway and then to my car, but… that’s not really how it went. As soon as I turn away from the professor, the world fades to a blur of nothingness. I know, I know - I’m supposed to be playing my part, telling you a fun story about some college kid who goes on a totally average adventure and is plagued by her stupid, sexy bastard of a professor.
But this whole story? The big move, the night classes, the crazy, hot professor? It’s not real. I mean, it happened, sure, just… in my dreams. My real life is different - my name isn’t Opal, I don’t have a sister, and my parents love each other to death. Hell, in the waking world, I don’t even have a dog - I have a cat, a hamster, and a goldfish I got from a carnival game years ago who somehow, refuses to die. We’d never move, either, not after paying our house off a couple years ago.
But that’s neither here nor there.
See, the funny thing about dreams is that they don’t like to adhere to a single, continuous narrative. One second I’m at class with Professor Hottie (did that make you cringe? I hope it did <3), and then the next I’m at home. So when I’m pulled into the blur (it’s… not a pleasant feeling, let me tell you!), I can only guess that I repeat the same drive as I did in the morning, but in reverse. I do know for a fact that when I get to my “home,” I practically collapse in my bed and pass out, falling quickly into the dark void of not-quite-sleeping-cause-I’m-actually-dreaming that I know so well.
I don’t wake up in my dream until about ten in the morning, and when I finally do get out of bed, the last thing I want to do is pack more. Before I get a chance to continue the normal, everyday dream narrative, I feel a pull towards the top of the house. The attic, all the way up on the fourth floor, calls to me. It calls to me like nothing else in the dream has yet, and that’s important. The beginning of this dream? It was nothing - just a boring, insignificant sequence of events. People like me, those who experience lucidity on a far deeper level, have those types of dreams, too.
And I know all of this because of the amulet hanging on my belt loop.
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