Subconscious

Light. My hands fail to defend my eyes from the stubborn morning rays. Why were my blinds open? I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 6:00 a.m. My eyes interrogate the room, finally landing on the culprit. I knew it. Mom.

My clothes are laid out like an offering. I'm twenty-five—can't I get some fucking privacy? The sun mocks me. No use—if I get up to close the blinds, I won't be able to fall back asleep. I guess I'm up.

I jump out of bed to shock my body. I yawn, and my stretch nearly undoes me. Okay, let's check the fit. I will say this about her—Momma sure knows how to pick an outfit: white tee, ironed denim, even my favorite socks and boxers. She doesn't know me that well—good guess, old lady.

I hop into my clothes and thumb through my texts. One notification from "Bae." The word makes a smile sprint across my face: You're going to do great tomorrow. I'm so proud of you for getting back into school. Goodnight, my love, until tomorrow's light blesses your eyes. My face glows. It's not like me to get all warm inside from a text message. Heather really is the one.

I reply: Good morning, babe. Message when you're up. Short and sweet. Just like her.

My happiness fades as the room warps. I feel the atmosphere thicken—but I feel weightless—like I'm in a vacuum.

The lights flicker—not the bulbs, my perception. Am I having a seizure? No—I'm still standing. My mind blanks.

When I come to, I glance at the clock: 6:10. How much time passed? A couple minutes? Five? That was fucking weird. I try to shake it off.

"Not today, please."

As my vision steadies, I notice my room is all out of sorts. The laptop on my desk is closed neatly, the bottles that usually hang around it missing in action. My dresser to the right of my bed no longer coughs up mismatched socks and wrinkled jeans.

I ground myself in annoyance.

How does this woman manage? Dad's snoring wakes me up at least once a week.

Well, I'm almost ready for school.

School. The word isn't as palatable without Heather's encouragement adorning it. My first day back after a seven-year hiatus. Seattle Central College—my prison for the foreseeable future.

I spray a cool mist of cologne into the air and step through it. Final touches. I linger in the mirror, striking a pose or four. My blond hair catches a glow from the beams that assaulted me moments ago. I walk past my unrecognizable private space and twist the rusty doorknob. The handle is smooth—no lock. Dad always said if I wanted one, I could buy and install it myself.

Funny—back when my younger sister, Marissa, was still living here, she had a lock. In fact, I don't remember a time she didn't. There's probably a fatherly lesson there. I'm not gonna do the heavy lifting.

As I walk down my mother's tidy hallway, the floor creaks—the first noise of the day. I reach the kitchen, slightly disappointed; the white granite countertop is plateless. I would have preferred food over a clean room. Geez, thanks, Mom.

The stainless-steel double door beckons me. Cool air escapes the fridge, sending a small shiver down my spine. My eyes are relieved—a plate covered in tinfoil with a note, in handwriting too neat to be Mom's: Do well by us today, Ernest.

Us? Who's "us"? Odd note. I can't shake the feeling something's wrong. That... episode was probably just me overthinking. I'm fine.

I joke, trying to reassure myself—Something's definitely wrong—Mom knows I hate spinach. The steak and eggs will do, though.

As I eat, my eyes trip over a family photo of the four of us. My gaze locks onto Marissa's. Out of boredom—trying to ground myself—or maybe jealousy—she floods my thoughts. At twenty-three, she finished her master's in psychology, moved into a nice condo tucked into Seattle's skyline, drove a fucking Tesla, and completely overshadowed me.

Maybe this is how she felt all through high school. I was popular—she wasn't.

Too much time to think—never good. The last time I let myself spiral like this, I enrolled. I snatch my book bag off the coat hanger and go over my list of classes one more time.

Each sounds worse than the last—especially math. Maybe I should've majored in life mistakes instead. Speaking of people who figured theirs out, I wonder how my best friend Luke's been.

Last I heard, he dumped his boyfriend and moved to California for a coding job—which is funny, considering he could hardly navigate the Facebook app. His parents said he's been acting different—even mentioned starting a family. They thought he meant adoption, but to everyone's surprise, he has a girlfriend now.

Maybe the world really does move on without you.

Just as I finish the thought, a car pulls into the driveway and keys jingle at the door. Mom and Dad are asleep upstairs. Marissa wouldn't be here this early. A burglar.

I run to grab the baseball bat Dad swears by—the one he always leaves behind the door—and brace for the worst. The knob turns, the hinges groan, and I raise the bat.

"Ernest!"

My mom screams, hand over her chest. "What are you doing?!"

"Mom? I thought you were sleeping."

Her chest heaves. I feel bad—I scared her shitless.

Just then, Dad trudges up the driveway. "What's all the commotion?"

"Ernest almost attacked us with the baseball bat I keep telling you to put back in the garage!" Mom shouts, half laughing, half shaking.

"Sorry, Dad," I say. "I thought you guys were sleeping. Where were you so early this morning? Also, Mom—please stop cleaning my room while I sleep."

"Cleaning? What are you talking about, Ernest?"

Her face softens. "I've been at the emergency room with your father since four-thirty. I didn't want to worry you. His chest has been acting up—the doctors say he's fine, but no more steak and eggs."

"So you left the steak and eggs for me, then?" I try to laugh, but my voice cracks.

"Ernest, I don't have time today," she sighs. "You can cook—you're twenty-five. Good morning and goodnight."

I freeze. For my dad's health, sure—but also because of what it all implies.