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    Nowhere in Particular: Lucid and Awake, #2
    Nowhere in Particular: Lucid and Awake, #2
    Nowhere in Particular: Lucid and Awake, #2
    Ebook83 pages1 hour

    Nowhere in Particular: Lucid and Awake, #2

    By Justin Mermelstein

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    About this ebook

    Exhausted by everything and everyone, Tyler takes his father's pistol and tries to end his life. But when he awakens on the floor of his bedroom, he realizes he has failed: he is not dead. However, something is different. The blast from the weapon has blinded him, leaving him vulnerable to what he soon discovers is a radically changed existence. Tyler finds himself forced to navigate this strange new world alone – except for the guidance of a seemingly omnipotent voice.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJustin Mermelstein
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    ISBN9781516352135
    Nowhere in Particular: Lucid and Awake, #2

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      Book preview

      Nowhere in Particular - Justin Mermelstein

      Other Works:

      Glimpse: Volume One

      Glimpse: Volume Two

      A Week and Some Change

      The Spirit of Magic

      The Committed

      A Time to Commune

      NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR

      Copyright © 2013, 2019 Lucid and Awake | Nowhere in Particular | Justin Mermelstein

      All rights reserved.

      Written by Justin Mermelstein

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

      If you’ve stumbled across this book without

      purchasing it and you like what you’ve read,

      please support the arts and purchase a copy.

      Any resemblance to anything real is purely coincidental.

      for my jet black crow

      A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.

      -Charles Darwin

      By all means let’s be open-minded, but not so open-minded that our brains drop out.

      -Richard Dawkins

      One

      I was sure it hadn’t worked. I was also sure I’d blinded myself in the process; a thick blackness had engulfed me immediately after the gunshot. I’d seemingly managed to miss the part of my brain that would have ended my life, instead blowing through my cerebrum (I think that’s the name of it – high school anatomy was a long time ago). I waited for the warmth of blood to saturate my head and neck, but felt nothing.

      I brought my hand up to my temple to search for the entry wound and couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I would have searched for the exit wound, had I not been lying on my side with a pillow underneath my head to catch whatever brain-matter might project. The entire operation was a bad plan, I knew that, but it was all I’d been able to conjure up at the time.

      I began to question the entire thing; had I missed myself completely? No, impossible – I still couldn’t see anything.

      I dropped my hand back to the comfortable Berber carpet (which up until recently I’d called Burberry), afraid to move, yet even more afraid to remain stationary.

      Finally, I decided to try to stand. I slid my leg out in front of my body and shifted myself upright into a sitting position. I waited for something, a feeling, anything, but nothing happened. No rush of blood. No fade of consciousness. The anticipation and resulting letdown was disorienting. I reached behind my body to the nightstand for something to grab ahold of, something to help me up, but missed, and rocked backwards like a toddler who’d misjudged his balance. I searched a second time with the same result – nothing anywhere around me at all. Maybe I was farther out into the room than I’d realized.

      I turned myself over onto my hands and knees, intent on crawling across the floor to whatever tangible piece of furniture or wall I could find. I crept, conservatively at first, before starting to clamber about with my arms outstretched in front of me, feeling for anything but finding absolutely nothing. A small cry escaped my lips. I was sure the sound was only in my head as it made not an echo nor was it muffled. It just … was. The fact that I couldn’t determine either way was unsettling.

      In one motion, I pushed my body off the ground and stood erect. I was trembling slightly and began pacing across the room, if it even was my room. The space seemed too big. I’d taken too many steps.

      I stretched my arms out ahead of my body, searching high and low through the darkness for some semblance of anything. My pace evolved into a trot and then into a full-fledged gallop. I ran across the carpet at full speed, waving my arms wildly, trying to find anything tangible. Every step was soft and plush yet it sent waves of electricity over me, pulsing upwards from the ground. Each stride felt precisely the same – right, left, right, left – as if I were running place. It reminded me of warm-ups in gym class.

      God, I hated gym class. Especially come seventh grade, once puberty had begun. Or tried to begin. I sprouted a few armpit hairs and my legs were furry, but plenty of my peers had started, gone through, and graduated from puberty with a degree in both manhood and making fun of anyone who still looked completely commonplace in underoos.

      Gym was mandatory. If it wasn’t, I would’ve taken whatever the opposite of physical education was. A second lunch, perhaps.

      Do you know how to shoot a layup? my meathead P.E. teacher had asked me one humid, grimy, disgusting day. It was twenty-three degrees outside, but every day was Florida in the E. Miller Gymnasium (named after a principal who was better known for sleeping with his secretaries – and perhaps a student or two – than he was for principal-ing). I nodded. Why did I nod? I didn’t have to nod. I could’ve said no. Could’ve shaken my head. Could’ve given him the finger and gone to Principal Mercer’s office. She and I had had a great relationship. I spent a good amount of time in her office, either hanging out or eating lunch – at least, I did when I wasn’t in the nurse’s office, complaining about one ailment after another in an attempt to get sent home (some days it worked, most it didn’t). Either way, those two offices were the only places I could go to hide.

      Meathead bounced me the basketball. I caught it with two hands and ran my fingers along the pimpled faux leather. Bounced it with both hands. It was highly inflated and shot too far up into the air. I reached up to catch it but it ricocheted off my fingertips and thunked the girl standing in line next to me on the shoulder. She rolled her eyes and sneers crackled from behind us. One of the nicer jocks, Adam, who wasn’t a regular Mother Theresa but certainly wasn’t the worst of them, held the ball out to me. I took it from his outstretched arms and bounced it again, this time with one hand, and tried advancing forward simultaneously. I did it. It

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