It's worse than suburbia or small town syndrome. I grew up in one of those, so I should know; bitty little place called Skykomish, Washington. Lots of snow in the winter, pretty scenery, grand total of a couple hundred people. Lots of trains. I used to make up veritable novels about the trains — what they were carrying, who was on them, where they came from and where they went. When I left home, it was on a train. Went to Seattle for college. I was young; it felt like a long way from everything I knew.
Little did I know things were going to get even stranger.
My first clue arrived that November, when I woke up at home with no recollection of the past two days. My roommate told me some guy had brought me back the night before, passed-out drunk. It was the first time that had ever happened — and the last. I didn't touch alcohol again for six years. Not even when I found out what really happened and the true meaning of the lines tattooed on the side of my neck.
It was my second year in college. My second year as a professional dilettante; couldn't figure out for the life of me what I wanted to do. Psychology, history, English… I took a bunch of general courses and worked the rest of the time. Until I met him. Joshua Thibeau. For a couple of months, it seemed like he was there every single time I turned around — in the library, the coffee shop, playing frisbee on the lawn below the dorms… we never had a class together, though. He wasn't actually a student.
He was a Company agent, and he could make your blood boil. Literally. He could also suck all the heat out of things until they froze and spontaneously shattered. I found that out later, right after he showed me what I could do. He offered me a job, a chance to make a difference. Joshua was my friend, and he had just showed me the coolest thing in the world; of course I accepted.
Better than forgetting. Or — being locked up.
