Wade Harlan was a typical 17-year-old. He sat in his chair, looking bored. His messy brown hair hung carelessly over his forehead. He had sleepy hazel eyes and was tall but not imposing. His wiry frame earned him the nickname "twig" from his friend Nemo. He had occasional blemishes. He usually wore faded jeans and hoodies that made him look even slouchier than he already was. His outfits focused on comfort and blending in rather than being stylish. He often thought, 'Who has time to wash their face every morning?'
The classroom was awash with the robotic-like drone of the history teacher. Her dull, monotone voice contrasted with the vibrant, fantastical worlds conjured in Wade's daydreams. Escapes were a welcome refuge far from the dull, gray realities of high school life. Mrs. Fern, the history teacher, was a woman of middling years, her hair a stern shade of iron gray that she kept wound in a tight bun. Her eyes, sharp and penetrating, missed nothing. She wore practical, no-nonsense skirts and blouses in muted tones, with stern-looking glasses perpetually perched on the bridge of her nose.
"Mr. Harlan!" The teacher's sharp, piercing voice sliced through the tepid classroom atmosphere, snapping Wade abruptly back to harsh reality.
Startled, slightly embarrassed, he jerked his head up. "Yes, Ma'am?"
"I assume, since your attention is elsewhere today, you must know the material?" she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm, dripping like venom.
With an irritated sigh, Wade began, "No, I—" but was abruptly cut off.
"Enough." Stern and unyielding, Mrs. Fern resumed her lecture.
Nanette, his science partner, a nerdy, plain-jane kind of girl, whispered from the adjacent desk just loud enough for him to hear. "Wade, you better not land in detention again. Just... try to lay low, okay? We've got that paper due tomorrow. Meet me by the library after school. Don't be late!" Her expression was a complex tapestry of concern and annoyance, her scratched glasses catching the fluorescent light as she polished them with a resigned look.
Wade swiftly gathered his belongings as the final bell rang, heralding the end of another monotonous day. Wade had no illusions about the social jungle that was Orden High. He navigated the halls with an ease born of necessity, avoiding unnecessary confrontations. He felt a burning sense of injustice, a nagging, persistent thought that Mrs. Fern, the history teacher, had always had it out for him, fueling his growing apathy and disdain for her class.
Finally, away from bustling hallways, Wade reached his locker, B178. He hastily spun the combination lock and grabbed his backpack; his mind clouded with a sense of foreboding at the thought of encountering Jackson Juarez, the school's star quarterback and personal nemesis. Jackson was tall, with broad shoulders and a build that was a product of countless hours in the gym. His hair was a sandy blond, kept in a short, immaculate cut that every giga-chad sported. With his jock entourage, he was an unavoidable obstacle. Wade's disdain for Jackson was mutual, rooted not in high school rivalry but in a more profound, personal history involving their families.
Wade's father worked at the County Slaughterhouse, owned by the Juarez family. As a meat packer, his job was grueling and hazardous.
Despite that, his dad took pride in his role at the slaughterhouse. He viewed it not merely as a job but as a means to provide for his family, a 'sacred duty' he performed with unwavering dedication.
One fateful day, Wade's father sustained severe hand injuries on the job. When he took time off to recover, he was fired. In a fit of rage, he armed himself with a machete, drove to the slaughterhouse, and forcefully entered the administrative offices. There, he confronted Timothy Juarez, Jackson's uncle and the plant's head honcho, in a gruesome act of vengeance by severing Timothy's hands. His dad surrendered to the police without resistance afterward. His only statement was, "I repaid his kindness in double," according to a news story broadcast all over town that day.
Wade could see how unjust the termination was, but his father's actions in retribution were...disproportionate. Wade couldn't shake the sense that something had never been quite right with his father. His brother had shared stories of a different man—someone their father used to be before his service in the Army Infantry overseas. Wade vividly remembered the quickness of his father's temper and the stringent discipline that ruled their household, both bearing the unmistakable marks of his father's unseen struggles.
Wade remembered his father, Randy, righteously telling his story during the trial.
In the aftermath, Wade's life took a turn for the worse. His father's incarceration was brief. He was mysteriously killed. Wade believed his father was murdered by the Juarez family.
Somehow, Wade had also caught the unwelcome attention of the Juarez family, finding himself entangled in high school drama that went beyond the typical teenage strife. He had briefly been involved with Ashton, known around school as the quintessential 'it' girl. Their short-lived dalliance, however, turned out to be nothing more than a strategic maneuver on her part to provoke jealousy in her ex-boyfriend, Jackson Juarez. The scheme had backfired disastrously, culminating in a public humiliation when Jackson, fueled by spite and the backing of his football entourage, subjected Wade to a severe and demeaning confrontation.
With his hood pulled over his head, Wade chose a less-traveled, shadowy path towards the school's back exit, near the old, seldom-used computer lab, hoping to avoid confrontation with Jackson and his cronies. But as fate would have it, his efforts were in vain.
"Yo, Harlan!" a booming voice echoed down the corridor. Wade's heart plummeted into his stomach. "Look who's trying to sneak away. What's the matter, Harlan?" Beads of sweat formed above Wade's brow as he realized that escape was impossible. "You little shit, I'm talking to you!" Jackson's meaty hand clamped onto Wade's shoulder, yanking him backward with a violent, bone-jarring tug.
Jackson towered over him, sneering, his grip tightening like a vise. "Just leave me out of your stupid games, Jackson. I've got nothing to do with you." Wade spat.
"Oh, but you do, Harlan. You always do. You're just a walking, talking reminder of your crazy-ass dad. I can't let that slide, can I?" Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, Wade started swinging at Jackson in a frantic, futile attempt at self-defense. Jackson, with a vicious, sadistic grin, clutched Wade's hair, ripping out a painful clump.
"Argh!" Wade cried out, the searing pain shooting through his scalp. He lashed out again, his foot aiming a desperate kick at Jackson's groin, only to miss. Jackson, unfazed, grinned maliciously, his eyes alight with cruel amusement.
"You're fucked," he laughed, a cold, menacing sound, as he slammed Wade onto the unforgiving, hard concrete. His head bounced off the ground, a burst of stars exploding in his vision. Jackson's heavy boots commenced a relentless assault, each blow a thunderous burst of agony. Wade's consciousness flickered. In the hazy, blurred periphery of his torment, he heard a sickening, ominous crack—his ribs yielding under the relentless force.
Lying crumpled on the ground, Wade's world narrowed to the shallow, ragged rhythm of his breaths and Jackson's steel-toe boots' dull, rhythmic thud.
Time stretched into an agonizing eternity. Wade's senses began to numb.
Jackson's sadistic laughter echoed, a distant, haunting reverberation. "I hope you die."
With those final, chilling words, Wade felt an overwhelming force lift his battered body off the ground. For a fleeting, surreal moment, he floated, weightless, before the welcoming, numbing embrace of unconsciousness enveloped him completely.
In the eerie, haunting quiet that followed, Nanette, who had witnessed the brutal attack from a distance, hurried over, a blend of fear and determination etched on her face. Kneeling beside the motionless Wade, she quickly assessed his dire condition. His face, now a grotesque canvas of bruises and blood, was barely recognizable, a grim testament to the savage cruelty he had endured. She dialed for an ambulance with trembling hands, her voice cracking with emotion as she spoke to the dispatcher. "Please, you need to hurry. My friend, he's hurt bad. We're at Orden High, near the back exit. He's... he's not moving much, and there's so much blood. Please, just hurry!"
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Wade imagined a conversation with his brother Alex: "Alex... I'm dying, aren't I?"
Alex reassuringly looked down at his battered brother, "Hey, none of that now. You're going to pull through this, little bro. You're stronger than you think."
"Really?" Wade asked.
"Nah, you're royally fucked, bro." Alex laughed sadly.
The distant sound of sirens shattered the silence, growing steadily louder as they neared the school. Nanette looked down at Wade, her eyes brimming with tears. She whispered, "Hold on, Wade. Just hold on."
The paramedics arrived, moving with practiced urgency. They quickly assessed the grave situation, stabilizing Wade with swift, efficient movements, preparing him for the harrowing journey to the hospital.
As the night stretched on, the sterile, impersonal walls of the hospital echoed with the quiet, indifferent sounds of a world that continued to move, oblivious to the pain and suffering contained within.
Amid it all, Wade lay on a hospital bed, surrounded by a flurry of medical activity. Machines beeped incessantly, their rhythmic, electronic symphony a stark contrast to the chaotic, frantic efforts of the medical team. The sharp, sterile smell of the hospital mingled with the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty that filled the room.
Wade was acutely aware of his precarious state. He felt like he was floating, a ghostly spectator to his dire situation. The world around him seemed to oscillate between sharp clarity and a hazy blur, the sounds and sights intensifying his growing dread.
He saw his own battered body, fragile, struggling against the relentless tide of his injuries. The desperate, systematic efforts of the doctors and nurses, the mechanical hiss of the ventilator, and the persistent beeping of the monitors were unlike a scene out of those cheesy medical TV shows his mother used to watch. 'It couldn't be real.'
Panic set in, a rising tide that threatened to engulf him. He wanted to scream, to plead, to cling to the threads of life, but he found himself voiceless, a silent observer in his nightmare.
His life began to flash before his eyes, each memory a vivid echo of the past, now more precious than ever. Alex. Alex had stepped into the role of parent, guardian, and mentor after their mother had left and their father was killed. Wade remembered Alex's determination to keep their small family together against all odds.
He saw himself as a young boy looking up to Alex, who juggled multiple jobs while still making time to attend his school events. There were memories of Alex teaching him how to ride a bike in the park, the falls and triumphs, and the unwavering support that followed each attempt. He recalled the nights when Alex would help him with his homework, his patience never waning even after long, exhausting shifts at work.
He remembered the pride in Alex's voice at his middle school graduation, a moment of joy amidst the challenges they faced.
Amidst the flurry of memories, the darker times also surfaced. The struggles of growing up without their parents, the whispers and pitying look at school, and the nights when the weight of their situation seemed too much to bear. He remembered the arguments, the rebellious phases, and Alex's unwavering love and patience.
His brother sacrificed so much. He yearned for more time, more moments with Alex. The contours of the hospital room, the solemn faces of the medical staff, and his older brother's tear-streaked face began to fade. He was being pulled into an unknown, terrifying void, a realm where the light of life grew dimmer with each passing moment.
Wade Harlan stubbornly held onto his memories.
Wade struggled to come to terms with the bewildering reality of his new existence. The darkness surrounding him was unyielding, a void where time and space ceased to have any meaning. He felt strangely disembodied, like a consciousness floating in an endless sea of nothingness. Realizing that he no longer had to breathe, blink, or engage in any of the essential living functions was both liberating and terrifying. It confirmed that he had crossed an unknown realm that defied all his earthly experiences.
In this eerie expanse, the absence of sensory input was maddening.
Wade's thoughts drifted to his brother Alex, the beacon of faith and stability in his life. Alex, with his unwavering Catholic beliefs, had always hoped for a heavenly afterlife, a stark contrast to Wade's skepticism. 'I hope he finds his paradise,' Wade thought, a pang of longing and worry threading through his consciousness. The irony of his own situation was not lost on him - a nonbeliever, now trapped in an afterlife that was neither heaven nor hell but an empty void.
Driven by a growing sense of desperation and isolation, Wade attempted to pierce the oppressive silence. "Hello? Is anyone there?" His voice, stripped of its physical quality, seemed to dissolve into the void, unanswered.
'Perhaps movement is the key,' Wade pondered, clutching to the idea that action might bring about change. With a resolve born of desperation, he decided to run, to move with a purpose, even if it seemed futile. His limbs, free from the constraints of physical form, moved effortlessly, yet the sensation was alien as if he was gliding through an endless sea rather than running.
As he propelled himself forward, something shifted in the void. Faint whispers began to weave through the silence, like distant echoes of conversations long past. The whispers were indistinct, a jumble of sounds and voices that defied comprehension, yet they brought a glimmer of something new to the monotonous darkness.
Wade slowed, straining to make sense of the whispers. They seemed to ebb and flow, a tide of comforting and disconcerting voices. He wondered if these were the remnants of other lost souls, echoes of their existence left to wander in this empty expanse.
Suddenly, Wade felt a subtle change in the void. A faint light, distant and elusive, flickered at the edge of his perception. It was not a beacon but more like the first shy rays of dawn, hinting at the possibility of something beyond the dark.
With renewed purpose, Wade focused on the light. He moved towards it.
As Wade moved towards the elusive light, the whispers grew louder, a chorus of lost voices urging him onwards. The light was briefly overwhelming before plunging into a dim haze of dawn, and the voices were gone.
Rinnnnnnng.
The vintage analog alarm clock sounded with a relentless clamor that seemed to echo in Wade's head. He quickly reached out from under the blankets and slapped the clock off the nightstand. It hit the wall, covered in a bold geometric pattern wallpaper of oranges, greens, and browns. There were also posters scattered across another wall, including a glossy image of a space shuttle, a vibrant depiction of a classic muscle car, and various Star Wars posters.
RinNnnnNnnng.
In a corner, a well-worn wooden shelf held chipped die-cast cars, action figures, books, and board games.
A hand-painted mobile of the solar system was gently rotating above the bed where he lay. The curtains framing the nearby window had a rocket ship motif, but the fabric had faded over time.
He was alive, but he couldn't help wondering if the previous moments were just a nightmare or a bad drug-induced trip. However, there was a feeling he couldn't quite describe, or perhaps an instinct that told him otherwise.
"Chris, turn that DAMNED clock off!!" A deep, gravelly voice of a man shouted from afar. Wade was too shocked to completely absorb what the man said. A thick fog of disbelief made everything seem surreal. Resurrecting from the dead like Lazarus would do that to anyone.
Wade looked down at the well-worn, red plaid pajamas he was wearing. He examined his hands, which appeared small and childlike. They seemed alien and unfamiliar to him, as if they were objects detached from his own will yet responding to his commands. His heart raced with panic, beating tumultuously and seeming too loud in the chest of this unfamiliar body. He pushed the hand-knitted blanket off him and got out of the bed. His footing was unsteady and unfamiliar. He realized that his feet were bare.
His bare toes sank into the rich yellow shag carpet. The entire room seemed like it was a piece of a museum from the 70s or 80s.
RinNnnnNnnng.
The alarm sounded again. It broke Wade out of his reverie. He reached down and pushed the off button on the clock. This wasn't his body or his bedroom. His situation was as bewildering as it was terrifying—he was trapped in a stranger's form. With a sudden urge to seek confirmation of this new reality, he stepped towards the bedroom door to look for a mirror.