[24 Hours Before
Departure]
Vincent
had been staring at the e-mail on his screen for ten minutes now, as
if the words might change if he looked at them long enough.
Appointment
tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., outside your residence.
Transport provided.
Bring the essentials. The rest will be provided.
You have 24
hours to organize your departure.
Twenty-four
hours. An entire day to say goodbye to thirty years of a life gone
nowhere. A day to pack his bags, settle his affairs, and pretend any
of it meant something. Vincent rose from his bed and looked around.
His
room hadn't changed since he was fifteen. It was, in its own way,
consistent. The video game posters had faded with time, their corners
hanging limply, waiting for years for a decision to be made. The desk
disappeared under empty cans and crumpled delivery receipts—an
archaeologist would have called it “sedimentary layers”; Vincent
would have said he’d always intended to clean up. The window
overlooked the parking lot. He hadn't opened it in two years, which
effectively settled the question of natural light. The floorboards
creaked in four specific spots he knew by heart—knowledge perfectly
useless for someone who never came home late.
He
was thirty years old.
But
he could at least leave things clean. It would be a first.
He
started with the clothes. Piles and piles of dirty laundry he’d let
accumulate for weeks because, frankly, what was the point? He went
nowhere. He saw no one. He gathered it all, sorted what was
salvageable from what wasn't, and filled three trash bags with
clothes that were torn, stained, or too old to be saved. The rest
went into the laundry basket, which he carried down to the communal
laundry room. Three loads. He sat on the washing machine, watching
his clothes spin in the drum. It was the first time in a long while
he knew exactly where they were.
Next,
the plates. Seventeen. He counted them. Seventeen dirty plates
scattered across the desk, the nightstand, the windowsill—a
logistical nightmare that must have seemed reasonable at the time.
Some had food scraps dried for so long he couldn't remember what he’d
eaten. He took them all down to the kitchen, washed them one by one,
dried them, and put them away in the cupboard. His mother was in the
living room, watching one of those reality TV shows she followed
religiously. She didn't look up.
He
went back up. Emptied the trash. Vacuumed—the floor seemed almost
startled by it. He wiped down his desk with a damp cloth, removing
years of accumulated dust. Then he tackled the posters. One by one,
he pulled them down. Cloud Strife from Final Fantasy VII, half-peeled
for years, seemingly waiting for this moment. The Doomguy, whose
colors had turned a pale yellow from exposure to a sun Vincent hadn't
seen in a long time. A World of Warcraft poster from the days he
still played, before it became too expensive, too time-consuming,
too... everything.
He
rolled them up and threw them away. The walls remained bare, white,
impersonal. Like a hotel room. As if no one had ever lived there.
When
he finished, it was nearly 5:00 p.m. He went down again and found his
mother still in the living room, still in front of the TV. She had a
half-empty glass of wine next to her. The second or third of the day,
probably.
— Mom,
he said softly. I’m going grocery shopping. Do you want anything in
particular?
She
shrugged without looking at him.
— Just do what you usually do.
Vincent
nodded, took his wallet, and left.
The
supermarket was crowded at this hour. People coming home from work,
hurried, tired, dragging screaming kids behind them. Vincent moved
through the aisles, trying to focus on his mental list, but something
was wrong. Something he’d noticed this morning upon waking that
hadn't left him all day.
The
air was... dense. Not physically. It was something else. As if every
person he passed dragged behind them a sort of invisible mist, a
presence that weighed on the atmosphere. Gray for most. Sometimes
red. Sometimes blue. Sometimes a mixture of it all.
You’re
just tired, he thought, shaking his head. Your brain’s just
glitching.
He
filled his cart. Coffee for his mother. Milk. Bread. Ready-made meals
she could heat up easily—lasagna, casseroles, things she liked.
Fruit, too, even though he knew she probably wouldn't eat it. He took
his time, checked expiration dates, chose the best products. As if it
mattered. As if it changed anything.
When
he reached the checkout, the cashier—a woman in her fifties, tired
face, a "Suzanne" badge pinned to her smock—barely looked
at him as she scanned his items. But Vincent felt something. That
gray density emanating from her, thick, heavy. And with it, something
else. Not words. Not clear thoughts. Just... impressions. Fragments.
Vincent
blinked.
The
cashier was looking at him now, brows furrowed.
— You
okay, sir?
— Yeah,
he replied quickly, paying. Sorry, I was somewhere else.
He
left the supermarket, his hands shaking. What the hell is this? Am
I losing it?
When
he got home, he put the groceries away in silence. He stocked the
fridge methodically, placed the bread in the bread box, the coffee in
the cupboard. His mother was still in the living room, still in front
of the TV. The wine glass was empty now. A new, full one had taken
its place.
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Vincent
wiped his hands on his jeans and went to sit next to her on the sofa.
She looked at him, surprised. It was rare for him to do this. Rare
for him to seek her company. Usually, he stayed cloistered in his
room, VR headset on, escaping this shit life by living in virtual
worlds.
— What
are you doing? she asked.
— I...
Vincent hesitated. I just wanted to spend some time with you. Before
I leave.
She
frowned, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening.
— Leave
where?
— I
found a job. A real job this time. It pays well. Very well, actually.
I'll be fed and housed. Everything is taken care of. I... I'll
finally be able to send you money. To pay you back for everything
you’ve done for me.
His
mother looked at him with expression. That fucking
expression he knew too well. That look of pity mixed with
resignation. That "I've heard you say this ten times and it’s
never led to anything" look. The look that said, without a word,
that she didn't believe him. That she never would.
— Oh,
she whispered simply, turning back to the TV. Good. That's good.
Silence
fell between them again. Vincent stared at the screen without really
seeing it. A stupid show where people screamed at each other over who
had slept with whom. Problems so futile they were almost enviable.
Vincent
took a deep breath. He had to do it now. If he didn't do it now, he
never would.
— Mom...
would you tell me about Dad?
The
change was immediate. His mother's body stiffened as if she’d been
struck. Her hands tightened around her wine glass. And that gray
density emanating from her—Vincent felt it now, clearly, beyond any
doubt—suddenly turned black. Thick. Suffocating.
She
stood up abruptly, so fast that wine spilled onto the sofa.
— There
it is, she said in a sharp, trembling voice. I thought so... It
couldn't just be for me. Just... for ME.
Vincent
stood up too, hands raised in an appeasing gesture.
— Mom,
that’s not what...
— Well,
your father, Vincent, hated you while you were still in my womb.
The
words came out like bullets. Sharp. Precise. Deadly.
— And
I lost him because of YOU. He left. You came. And you look so much
like him...
Her
voice broke. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she could catch
the words she’d just spoken. But it was too late. They were there,
hanging in the air between them like shattered glass.
— If
only you could have been... him.
Then
she collapsed. Literally. Her legs gave out and she fell to her
knees, weeping. Not silent tears. Violent, convulsive sobs that shook
her entire body.
Vincent
stood there, unable to move. Unable to say anything. His mother's
words echoed in his head, over and over, like an echo that wouldn't
stop.
Hated
you. Lost him because of you. If only you could have been him.
He
watched his mother cry at his feet. He should have felt something.
Sadness. Anger. Pity. Anything. But he felt nothing. Just a vast,
cold void spreading within him like a frozen sea.
He
went to his room. Picked up the travel bag he’d prepared earlier.
Checked one last time that he had everything he needed. Not much, in
the end. A few clothes. His toothbrush. His phone charger. It was all
he owned that had any real value.
He
went back into the living room. His mother was still crying, curled
up on herself.
— I’m
leaving, Mom, he said calmly. And I hope it brings Dad back, even
though I don't believe it will. Or someone else into your life,
something I won't ruin the way I ruined yours.
He
paused.
— I’m
sorry, Mom.
Then
he walked out. Closed the door behind him. Walked down all six
flights of stairs without taking the elevator. Stepped out of the
run-down apartment block where he’d spent thirty years of his life.
And
he didn't look back.
Vincent
walked for hours. He didn't really know where he was going. He just
followed his feet, letting the city carry him. He eventually ended up
in the bustling downtown districts. The bars were beginning to fill.
Terraces overflowed with people laughing, talking loudly, drinking to
forget their work week.
He
sat on a bench, watching the crowd pass. And that’s where it really
hit him for the first time.
The
densities. Everywhere. Around every person. Gray, red, blue, yellow,
green. Some thick and heavy. Others light and vibrant. Some so dark
they seemed to suck the light out of the air.
And
with the densities, the fragments.
not
enough money
It
came from everywhere. Hundreds of voices that weren’t really voices
at all, impressions popping into his head like bubbles rising to the
surface of a swamp. Vincent pressed his hands to his temples. A
migraine was beginning to surface, dull and insistent.
Stop.
Stop listening. It's not real. It's just your brain glitching.
He
breathed in. Hold. Exhale. Hold. The breathing technique Emet had
taught him in the game. It worked in there. Maybe it would work here
too.
Slowly,
very slowly, the fragments began to fade. Not completely. But enough
that he could breathe again.
He
sat there until the bars began to close. Until the crowd dispersed.
Until only a few lost souls remained, drifting through the empty
streets until 7:00 in the morning.
Then
he went back home.
[8:00 a.m. — Departure]
The
TRAUM Inc. van was already there when Vincent arrived near the
building at 7:55. A black vehicle, tinted windows, a discreet logo on
the side. The driver—a man in his forties, dark suit, neutral
face—got out to help him with his bag.
— Good
morning, Mr. Moreau, he said politely. I’ll be your driver this
morning. Please make yourself comfortable; we have a few stops to
make before we reach the complex.
Vincent
nodded and got in the back. The interior was luxurious. Leather
seats. Climate control. Mineral water in a refrigerated compartment.
Vincent considered the mineral water for a moment. In his building,
the vending machine on the ground floor had been broken for eighteen
months.
The
van pulled away. Vincent looked out the window, watched his building
recede. Six floors of gray concrete and dead dreams.
He
wondered if she was watching.
If
she was still crying.
Then
he stopped wondering.