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Shrodinger's Cat

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by Diaskeaus

a story told using WikiStory:series 2

The sun is rising in the west. Her light spreads across my apartment, bathing the floor in a pool of liquid gold. My alarm hums in the silence. Her digital pixels change faster than my mind can comprehend - and yet, in this vague light, I can almost see the pixels move in the slow motion, the pixels disappear, and reappear like tiny stars in the sky, reflecting down upon us. And I know life is much the same, to change before we can understand. And only by waiting for the light, can we notice what is happening while the change occurs.

I hold my hand to the light. Little rivulets of yellow stream into the crevasses of my palm, like rivers of gold rushing to meet some infinite doom in the place of darkness. And between the rivers, there exist other rivers, smaller, and more intricate. They swirl around the skin in waves, chaotic but ordered. That supreme thing orders them, which I do not understand, but seem chaotic to me, for they show no purpose to my eyes. But now I wait, and suddenly I see shadow in those small, needle-like rivers, and now the rivers are turned to darkness. The gold has stopped flowing. Instead, a dark, murky substance flows, and I know nothing. The sun is behind a cloud. For a brief moment, my entire world is shunned. The bed, the alarm clock, the dressers, the shelves, the cup of coffee on my bedpost, the jeans thrown over the bed railing, the carpet on the floor of the apartment. The only thing unafraid is the cat.

She sits by the window, staring outside, like a dreamy statue or a steadfast guardian. And yet, I know if it were possible to fly, she would leave and perhaps never come back. For outside, that is her world, and in here, is nothing but the pain of an illuminated world and of the increasing darkness.

I must go to work now. My job calls me. I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm a glorified cop. I work the streets, and I get the attention I need. People listen to me. They do what I say - well, not always, but there is that sense of a certain holiness attached to my rank. FBI, scum, spread your hands on the wall. I receive a certain delight when I say things like that, and yet, there is a poison in my words. A terrible thing, like the darkness when the sun is cast. The ironic thing is there can never be light without darkness, but there can be darkness without light.

I throw my heavy coat on, and walk out of the apartment into the morning light. My feet claps echo on the hard sidewalk. I walk into the morning, into the darkness.


(Later)

She tells me she doesn't know anything. I raise the tension in the room, and re-adjust my sitting stance, folding one leg over the other and slowly bringing my hands together like I was to pray. I ask her if she knew tomorrow the killer was going to rape and kill another girl, if she would be so belligerent, if she would still not release any information. The little 14-year old girl hardened her face when I said this, and I could tell inside she was only hardening herself so she wouldn't break out into tears. But whether or not she cried or was hurt was not my business. I was here to catch a killer, a merciless killer who hunted the roads of America for defenseless people, took what he wanted, and continued on his way. This little girl had already been hurt enough, but any more wouldn't faze her. When you've been violated, you have felt the worst of the hurts. If I were to chop your arm off, the pain would be so horrible, that if one second later I kicked you in the shin, you wouldn't even feel the pain, or care about the pain. Your arm would be the major source of dilemma. The same is with this girl. At least I believe.

I stare at her with a hard face I've been given access to by the United States government. I twirl my fingers, and finally, stand up, grabbing my notepad. At this point, she isn't going to say anything. She has been hurt too deeply. I tell her I'll be in contact with her. I tell her not to forget this incident, because the killer is still out there. I tell her not to worry, and that she has sufficient protection from the United States. I then tell her, that scared little girl, that if she can remember anything about that dark night, to immediately get in touch with me or with any of my contacts.

I close the screen door and step out into the evening air. It is chill, crisp, and smells of wood. The forest around wanes in the surrounding wind. Animals cry out as the sun sinks below the horizon, and the shadows become gray from the light of the moon. The moon tilts ominously overhead, like a great eye. I step into my car, turn the ignition on until my car rumbles to life, and drive away.

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