Xerath’s Paradox

He emerged from his slumber and found himself in a room that was not unlike a jail cell. There were bars on the windows to keep out neighborhood pests, and a default floral patterned wallpaper to deter any creativity. Sitting on the edge of his small framed uncomfortable cot he called a bed, Xerath murmured unintelligibly.

He didn't like mornings.

Taking a look at his phone he swore under his breath: He's late for first day of college. Quickly, he ruffled through a pile of "clean" clothes finding a shirt and pants and slipped them on with teenager expertise. Usually, his mother would come into his room and wake him up having already prepared breakfast. His dad would then scold him on his various imperfections then sum up his three minute speech with a lesson of the day. He would grab his packed lunch from his mother, she would kiss him on the forehead, wish him well, then he'd be off to school.

He rustled through his room tossing items left and right. A pillow was sacrificed to the bed Gods as he launched it across the room and it landed directly in a pot of not-so-eaten nachos throwing cheese and beans that slid down the rim as if it wept of its own volition. Articles of clothing were flung to and fro; waves of denim crashing and undulating with every move of his muscles. The stench of boy would rock the senses of the most intrepid adventurer, the foul miasma creeping into the hole in the wall from him mishandling his door and punchering it with the knob. It flowed; the lava of a teenagers volatile volcano crept into the nostrils of a small rat family... of which was cultivated unconsciously with the help of their teenage deity.

With great herculean effort he wrenched his backpack free from the depths of the hellish landscape, sending a shrapnel of socks, deodorant, and christmas cards in every direction. The explosion of goods would undoubtedly conjure the wrath of his father. Yet, there was no such divine intervention.

A spike of anxiety clutched his heart and he felt as if he would die. Then as soon as it came, it left. The danger, apparently, was unfounded. With a sigh, he grabbed a half-done homework assignment from beneath his pillow and furtively attempted to unwrinkle it on the edge of his dresser. Having stopped to admire his handiwork he then crumpled it into his backpack, smashing it between a myriad of other not-so-important literature. The white pages were undoubtedly stained on the bottom from friction and spoiled apple juice that bursted while he played at recess years ago.

Satisfied with his preparedness, he scanned his room. Seeing that the disarray would not do, he reasoned to smash half of the clutter into his closet, which for some reason was never empty and yet never full no matter how much he emptied or filled it.

Triumphant, he opened his door with a creak, fully expecting to smell his mother's wonderful cooking and the sound of the television moaning and groaning about adult things that they never seemed to solve and a father who took pride in being able to ignore his wife and child but still find time to tell them what to do. Though, Xerath got to running past his door and saw the kitchen table was empty; he would have a mouthful of nothing today. The presence of his parents gone, he called their names warily, not understanding why they would skip out on this big day.

It was his birthday. Every birthday he would get a shower of love and affection, well wishes from his greasy little friends, a special breakfast made with hugs and kisses, and a pat on the shoulder with a warning "You're one step closer to being a man!" But this one was special: he was 18.

He thought: Why would this be different though? As he looked at his phone yet again he realized he didn't have time to waste so he went to grab his lunch from the counter top where it always was and rushed out of the house. Only that... there was no lunch and as he leapt out into the frigid cold almost slipping down the porch, the door shut behind him. He'd also forgotten his jacket, his mother would always remind him that the cold Chicago air took no prisoners.

Luckily he remembered to bring his key. He spun around whistling a care free tune and inserted the key into the lock. It wouldn't turn. He tried it again but this time upside down and it wouldn't even fit inside the keyhole. He swore under his breath, the cold had started to chill his bones and as his jaw rattled and toes went numb he realized something.

No one was outside.

What was going on? He knocked frantically on the door calling his parents. No answer. Defeated and shivering he pulled out his phone to call for help when he saw a text message. It was from Mom and Dad and said: "Happy 18th birthday!"

After reading the text Xerath switched to his front camera. He looked at himself for a second. He reeled back and screamed in horror. On his forehead in big bold black lettering a word was printed, it said: ADULT.

He'd never heard of this word before. He pondered the thought: What am I to do? So, he set out in an unknown direction behind his house seeking answers.

In view was an ever expansive desert of snow. He trudged through the thick layer of white soft-looking but sharp and treacherous crunchy ice. Each step seemed more difficult than the last. The skin on his hands had turned taut and purple, the veins in his forearms undoubtedly struggling to traffic blood cells through lanes that only seemed to get narrower, each one closing down one by one. Sweat began to bead on his head from the effort he exerted on the snow, despite this it cooled quickly making his head feel foggy and numb. His feet burned with the passion of heat yet suffered from its loss and abandonment. Muscles seemed to be locking in place as ligaments and tendons grinded like gears with no oil; all that guided him now was hope.

Every three to four steps he stopped to catch his breath, rubbed his forehead, and checked his front camera. The tattoo now more visible than ever made him angry. He ran, lungs screaming and hollering for relief.

His heart pumped furiously, wanting to warm the entire body and save whatever it could, but ended up having to make sacrifices. It moved blood away from the feet, he wouldn't need it because he was going nowhere fast. Next the veins, overburdened with slow moving traffic finally closed their last lanes to his hands; there would be no more wasted resources.

Xerath fell to his knees, out of steam and completely exhausted. He looked back at his house now miles away and far out of reach. He couldn't feel his arms or legs and could barely open his eyes. Still moving forward but now at a crawl, the last bit of effort he had seemingly vanished.

But then, suddenly, heat rushed to his legs and arms and he felt whole again. He was emboldened now and realized he must get back to the house where it was warm or else he would surely perish in the cold. Excited, he also figured it all out, what was going on.

Xerath got to his feet and confidently fell back down face first in the snow. He was confused. Why would his heart betray him so? Why would it give him determination and strength when nothing seemed to work? He wanted to get back up but he was no longer in control.

An invisible guardian willed he stay put, it was his father. He said "You're a man now it's time you figure things out on your own." He nodded, but couldn't quite speak, unsure as to what that meant. The air whipped by his ears caressing his frozen body whispering sweet nothings, it was his mother. She said "Everything will be okay, just wait for help honey."

Having thought he had the answers to his plight and now thoroughly confused, Xerath reasoned his best bet would be to just give up, though, he didn't really remember how this all started. He'd sleep it off and start new tomorrow.