Excerpt: Before the Hysteria

The cloud was imposing and gaining speed. It was encircling, enveloping, and was now the whole matter of the small room. In the middle of the room sat a porcelain man. He was making rapid and confusing movements, but we won't pay attention to him. Suddenly the floor drops and we're running through fields. The taste of golden wheat and the buzz of life echoes under the green, tangerine sky. Trees beyond that eastern hill are a strange sort of blue, growing hair resembling green leaves and with arched branches that swoop to make a disconnected sphere. The body stops running and it's realized that the room is lost. It's missing. Around and around the body turns, searching. It lopes gracefully to a street corner. A similar figure, but distinctly female, begins to chase it.

Cyrille woke up. He didn't open his eyes and didn't try to move. The female figure chasing after him had been his sister, Cerise. He gripped his pillow tighter before relinquishing it to lift his head up and look for a companion. He was in a human girl's bed and she lay beside him.
But it seemed she was having a worse nightmare.
This human, Elise, was still but for her hands and face. Her eyebrows were twisted toward each other and her mouth was gaping for air. Two hands--her own hands--were wound tight around her neck. Cyrille immediately slapped her face.
With a jolt she froze, and stopped, but her hands had already naturally fallen away. There were visible bruises already on her skin, moving around her neck. Cyrille stared at her and she stared back.
"What the hell were you doing?" If he was actually concerned for the girl, it was unsure. Maybe he was bubbling with laughter.
Elise was silent, staring at him and trying to trace his eyes to her neck. She raised a finger to touch a particularly swollen part and winced back, expecting to find blood.
"Did you do this to me, Sean?" Her voice was steadily weepy. She was going to cry. This man she had met last night, this man she thought was a real catch...
"You did it to your own damn-crazy self! What were you dreaming of? Strangling someone?"
"I did this to myself?" She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and ran to a mirror. Elise raised her chin to find the bruises in the dim light. "Holy shit- I can see the fingers. You didn't do this, Sean? I couldn't have done this..." Her eyes were brimming over and she didn't dare return to the bed. She picked up a shirt from a chair and pulled it over herself shakily.
Cyrille didn't have time for this. He rolled his eyes. This was her own damn fault. He was planning on letting her live, but if she wanted to force him to action... oh, he'd go into action.
"Sean, answer me!"
"Damn it, you did it to yourself. Get that straight." He was forcing one of his thoughts, a creation, into her head: These are my finger prints... I did this... my bruises...
Elise was still and seemed to change her mind. Her hands ascended to her neck. They gingerly inspected the bruises again. She shut her eyes for a moment before catching her breath. "Would you like something to eat? I'm sorry..."
"Don't apologize. I'd just appreciate the paper. Do you get it?"
"Oh, yes. I'll go get it." She found a silk robe, tied it around herself, and darted outside.

Cyrille returned to sit on the edge of the bed after breakfast. He opened the newspaper, flipping through the pages to find the Politics section. Part of it was now regulated by a corporation secretly manipulated by a few senators. This was really the only place news of the Independents would show up. As opposition.
The usual article was blase. Yesterday's news. He bristled and perused the rest of the layout. There was an article mentioning the anniversary of the death of the President's second wife. It was five years ago. Okay.
She had apparently died of cancer. It was all kept very hush-hush, especially considering the President had not yet been the president yet. He was a Senator for New Jersey, originally from California. But everyone was from California, these days. The President's late, last wife had also given birth to twins five years ago. Somehow it was all very coincidental and the details hadn't been looked into into more detail. But now the words 'twins' caught Cyrille's eye. He was a twin. It was a psychological phenomenon. The Cocktail-Party Theory. Someone calls out the President's name in the middle of a crowded room, no response. Your name? You'd turn. Twin was almost Cyrille's equivalent when he was not Sean or Kyle or John.