Back when Afan had been a child, he and his friends run through fields, lost in their own little worlds, until they collapsed gasping for air. They'd shouted and laughed so much that all they'd be able to manage was to stare at the sky. Their minds would race and once their lungs had recovered, one of them would speak one of these thoughts, creating a new game. Often, it was a new premise for a game where they tried to throw a piece of wood into Darsh Reddy's garden, delighting when he appeared to chase down the neighbourhood menaces. But on a few rare occasions, somebody had started envisioning the future and they'd all chimed in with their fantasies.

Over the years, they'd come to take certain things for granted. No more sickness--aside from Ishani, who insisted a plague would wipe out humanity. People would manage to fly. Dessert could be eaten as a full meal. None of their ideas had come close to the strange reality Afan had woken up in.

Metal boxes lined up next to each other in front of stripes on concrete that suddenly went racing past when the little green man turned red. No trees for miles, just rocks and stones. People staring at little lights for no apparent reason. Bizarre clothes, some of which barely seemed to be appropriate for the weather. Bright flashing lights in shop windows that deterred Afan more than drew him in. And the sky he'd love to stare at as a boy? It was bordered by giant concrete buildings, cut far too small.

Afan stopped along with the others when the little red man appeared, but remained standing when the others crossed at green. He didn't know where he was going, nor what was going on. Last thing he knew, he'd been on a train, barely conscious. Then he'd woken up, surrounded by teenagers who used words he'd never heard and shepherded from one class to another by "friends" who looked at him funny. When asked why he was acting strange, he'd eventually said he felt sick. It had been no lie.

Based on the information he'd been able to gather, he was a girl called Simone who liked something called "musical theatre". He was even wearing a skirt, which set him on edge each times his legs brushed against each other. He couldn't help but wonder whether this was the reincarnation that some of his childhood friends had believed in, but he'd thought you were reincarnated as an infant. Besides, his past decisions couldn't have resulted in him receiving such a comfortable life, as much as it stressed him at the moment. He had friends, money and food, although whatever he'd had for lunch had tasted foreign and looked unnatural.

'Hey there, Simony.'

A short, plus-size girl with heavy eye makeup who was dressed in all-black stood opposite him. He vaguely recognised her from school, but he couldn't recall when he'd spoken to her, let alone her name.

'Good afternoon,' he said, then worried it sounded too formal. He'd heard an array of greetings today, most of which had been short and new to him.

'I'm really glad to see you. I was googling Heathers earlier and I've gotta say, it could be my sort of thing. So, who are you hoping to play?'

Afan barely managed to contain a shudder. It was her and she was drilling him again. He weighed up his options and realised he was chewing his lip. Evidently, she'd realised too because she was looking at him funny.

'Erm, uh, anyone...?' He almost winced. That sounded far too much like a question.

'Fair, fair,' she laughed. 'Got a favourite song?'

'All of them...?' he guessed.

'Name one,' she demanded.

He froze. She was onto him and he didn't know how to fix this. He couldn't fake an answer, but he couldn't exactly explain the truth either. Oh, I'm Afan Karam, I died a while back--what year was it anyway?--and am now possessing a teenage girl against my will. That sounded like the quickest route to getting labelled as a madman.

'The last one. That's a good one.' He held his breath.

'What's it called?'

'I, uh, my mind is... blank...' His voice trailed off.

Out of nowhere, she asked, 'Are you a demon?'

The question struck a chord with him. He looked back at his life and could only think of his final acts. Acts that had resulted in death. Maybe he had been judged and condemned to an existance of possession. Perhaps he was no better than a demon anymore.

'Crikey, don't cry?' The girl waved her hands in front of her. Had he been crying? Before he could check, her concern had morphed into anger. 'No, your demon tricks won't work on me. I demand you leave this poor soul alone!'

Afan could only watch in fear as her arms shot to the sky. She watched him too, waiting for him to vanish or something. He wished he could. He didn't want to be here. He'd rather fade back out of existance.

All of a sudden, the girl started giggling uncontrollably. 'She maketh me wonder fayn.'

Afan stared and wondered whether he should laugh too. He forced out a couple of chuckles in the hope that this would resolve the situation. It didn't. As if she'd forgotten he was there, her eyes suddenly bored into Afan.

'I am gai to have som wight elles. Cursid witch, she callez us.'

He didn't quite know why, but Afan had never felt such a great urge to just bash his head against a wall. Maybe because he was already going mad, might as well kill a couple of brain cells and be a concussion richer for good measure.

Discontent with his lack of answer, she frowned. 'Do the understond?'

Listening to her speak was giving Afan a headache and though he could guess at the meaning of that last sentence, he was entirely lost. She must have seen it in his eyes and grabbed hold of his hand. He staggered back, trying to escape her grip, but she held him fast with one surprisingly strong hand. Her other reached for his head and forced his eyes to meet hers. Before he could yank away, the world around him faded away.

An endless gray space stretched out, yet shadows writhed as if trying to break through a nonexistent wall. A constant buzz filled Afan's head. No, not a buzz. The shadows were weeping, screaming. All the warm leeched out of him.

Before him sat a pale teenage girl with an angular face and remarkably arched eyebrows. Her dark hair was braided. She wore a red medieval gown.

'Now we can talk,' she said softly, with a small knowing smile.

Afan stared at her. 'Where are we? What have you done to me? And if you can speak normally, why did you-' He broke off, realising he wasn't speaking English anymore. He'd spoken Urdu and so had she.

'We're both ghosts, so plains are open to us that aren't open to the living. We're in a borderland between life and death, a shared consciousness where we can communicate without barriers.'

Once again, all he could do was stare. It was true, he was dead, but it was strange to be reminded by someone, not to mention another ghost.

'But... How do you know that? How did we get here? And where is here?'

The girl spoke, 'I have spent hundreds of years in the realm of the deceased. It would be a disgrace if I hadn't learnt anything. And as to how we got here... I'm not entirely sure.' She idly traced a pattern on the ground.

A loud bang sounded. Afan looked around desperately and realised the shadows had grown darker. She went a little paler. 'We're running out of time. That is, unless we feel like weakening the divide between life and death even more.' She laughed to herself and Afan nervously laughed along.

'But... I still have so many questions. How do I leave the body? How do I return to realm of the dead? And... You said you've existed there for hundreds of years, like you were conscience. But the last thing I remember was dying.'

The ground began to shake beneath Afan's feet. Something rumbled like distant thunder. A sudden pain gripped hold of Afan's head and he dropped to his knees. His companion squeezed her eyes shut, clearly in pain herself.

'We're out of time for now, but we shall meet again. My name is Eira. Yours?'

'Afan,' he forced out through gritted teeth.

Eira yelped as the shaking ground gave way under their feet. Bile rose in Afan's throat as they began to fall, drifting away. The shadows screams grew louder and more structured. They're chanting, he realised.

Around him, the borderland crumbled and faded. The voices ceased. Eira had disappeared as if she'd never been there. Slowly, the world turned to black.

More than half a decade ago, Afan had died. Now he was back.

* * *

They'd done it. After years of theorising, formulating hypotheses and seeking evidence, Neveah had found proof that school harmed your brain more than benefiting it. The issue was, they couldn't explain to anyone that they were so brain damaged they couldn't recall the entire morning without being sent to a neurologist and psychologist.

That was, anyone except Mikey Nozark.

'Dude, same!' he said, taking a break from inhaling his Pepsi.

Neveah put down her fork. 'I didn't mean metaphorically. I meant literally. Like, I cannot remember anything whatsoever.'

'Yeah, I know, same.'

'Like, literally,' they repeated. 'Not figuratively. No exaggeration. I've got a genuine gaping hole in my memory.'

Mikey glared at her. 'Same. I opened my eyes this morning and was in the middle of a road. No idea how I got there, I just had to get to school as quickly as possible. It was fucking scary.'

Perhaps Susie's Pancake Parlour wasn't the best setting for this conversation. The cotton candy wallpaper, padded pink chairs and fairy lights gave what should have been a dramatic revelation a casual air. Rather than 'I'm suffering serious school-induced brain damage bordering on a medical complication,' it sounded like 'I like to put my cereal milk in the microwave too.' In addition, their lovely warm pancakes were going cold.

'Wait, you're serious?' Neveah wouldn't put it past Mikey to prank them.

'Yuh. One hundred percent legit.'

All they could think to say was, 'Damn.'

Mikey deposited a massive piece of pancake in his mouth. Neveah stared at their own, but found their appetite had subsided. Dang it. They should have known better than to broach the topic of medical emergencies during a pancake party.

'Do you think it's something they put in school lunches?' he calmly asked, running a hand through his long blonde hair.

'No. It's something about the style of teaching. It doesn't stimulate the brain correctly,' Neveah explained. Yet somehow they didn't feel as at ease with the topic anymore. Sure, their long-standing hypothesis had been proven, but deep down, something felt off. It had been one thing when it had been just her, but Mikey as well. It made the hole in her memory all the more real.

Talking ceased and made way for silence. Neveah began drumming on the table with their fingertips. Silence between Mikey and Neveah was a rarity. They were constantly spewing some kind of rubbish, but now Mikey was staring at his pancake with wide eyes. He cut off a bit and slid it into his mouth. He pulled quite the face upon tasting it.

'Mikey? You okay there?'

He nodded, then began spluttering.

'Shit,' Neveah cried out, convinced the memory gaps had been a sign of medical emergency. Several fellow diners shot them looks of disdain. One kid asked their parent what it meant and when the parent refused to answer, kept repeating the word. Oopsie.

Meanwhile, Mikey seemed to have recovered, although he looked a little like he wanted to cry. His shoulders hung and he stared at the pancake as if it were one of the greatest disappointments of his life.

'Mikey, what's wrong? Is it a seizure? Am I going to have a seizure too?'

He didn't respond, still just staring.

'Fuck fuck fuck,' they cursed and pulled out their phone to call for an ambulance.

Mikey looked up. 'Huh, what did you say?' His voice was softer than usual.

'Are you, like, okay?'

'Pardon?' he murmured.

'Are you alright?'

'Yes... I think so,' he mumbled. Not at all Mikey like.

'Okay, that's... okay.' Neveah inspected him. Something was very off about him. Was this how the memory gaps occurred? Was this some sort of neurological phenomenon?

Slowly, Mikey placed his knife and fork at the side of his plate, signalling he was done. He didn't even spare his half full Pepsi a glance. Something was very wrong.

'What's the first crochet animal I gave you?'

'Khm?' He looked up and Neveah repeated the question. It was met by a blank stare. Eventually, he mumbled, 'I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you're talking about.'

'Fuck. Uh, what's your last name?' They needed to determine how bad his brain damage was.

'Melekhov.'

They stared at him. 'I'm sorry, what?'

He frowned for a moment, then spared off into space. Neveah's heart was in their throat as they waited. He went awfully still, barely breathing. Then, suddenly, he began wolfing down his pancake.

'Melekhov?'

Not even waiting to swallow, he said, 'Bless you.'

Neveah crossed their arms. 'You were messing with me.'

He glared at them. 'How many times do I have to say that I suddenly appeared in the middle of the road this morning? I believed you. Why can't you believe me?'

'Because you're pretending to be possessed or something.'

Mikey raised an eyebrow. 'I'm sorry what?'

'Oh, come on, you didn't really think I'd buy your act. Grow up, Mikey.' Part of Neveah wished they could just leave, but they needed to pay. Besides, Mikey didn't look ready to let them go. He'd probably grab the wheelchair if they tried to escape.

However, after a long silence, as if a switch had flipped, he leaned back. 'Fine, you got me. I was just messing with you.' His laughter was strained, but it served him right if them seeing through his act had irritated him. Neveah had been trying to have a serious conversation.

He wolfed down his pancakes, chugged his Pepsi and informed them he had to get going. A twelve year old was in desperate need of maths tutoring. Once they'd paid, he was quick to leave. Neveah couldn't help but wonder if he'd been freaked out by the conversation. Maybe he'd thought they were kidding until they'd been so upset about his own teasing. Neveah's grip on the wheels of their wheelchair tightened. Hopefully he wouldn't call their mom about sending them to a psychologist. They weren't crazy... right?

* * *

If Pidge could give one piece of advice to the teenagers surrounding her, it would be not to die just after completing your education. After years being lectured by governesses and spent in institutes, she wanted to see the world and explore. Instead, she'd died and been sent right back to school.

Then again, this school was nothing like the boarding school she remembered from her previous life. Kids were free to wear what they chose. There were miniature metal closets with locks. And apparently, a lot of people liked staring at her. She wouldn't mind if one of those metal closets sucked her in.

'Oh my god, Prim, where'd you get that outfit?' An Asian girl with silky black hair had materialised in front of her.

Pidge picked at her fingers, not knowing what to say. Today she'd managed to find a bordeaux blouse and black skirt, although its length or rather shortness bothered her. At least she'd found some black thigh high socks, but she was definitely going to acquire some new outfits. The only part of her outfit she genuinely loved was the silver tree necklace.

'I'm afraid I can't recall,' she nervously responded. Then, trying to be polite, she asked, 'Where did you procure yours?'

'Oh, Calvin Hilfiger,' the girl replied, shifting to better display her outfit. It displayed an astounding amount of skin. Pidge suspected that the girls at her school would have been locked up in the madhouse if they'd appeared in public in anything of the sort.

'Very fine,' Pidge lied, then wandered off. To her disappointment the girl rushed after her. 'So, I was wondering...'

'Yes?' Pidge forced out.

'Did Claude break up with you or you with Claude?'

Pidge stared at her. What was she on about? Probably something the person whose body she was currently sharing had got into. She supposed, in spite of their questionable taste of clothes, she'd better show her appreciation by giving a favourable answer.

'He broke it off. I would never be disloyal,' Pidge "explained."

Her companion stopped in her tracks. 'He cheated on you?' She tutted, 'Fucking French people.'

At least that was a sentiment she could share. 'Yes, may the French suffer in the pits of hell.' For some reason, that only made Calvin-Hilfiger-girl shoot her a funny look. Pidge wanted the ground to swallow her. 'I, erm, must leave now.'

She sped up her pace and headed off. Yet, all in all, she felt she'd handled that quite well. Now she just hoped nobody spoke to her for the rest of the day. But as she walked, she spotted a boy that seemed to be approaching her. Acne crowded his face. Pidge couldn't help but scrunch her face in distaste.

'Hey, Primmmmrose.' He winced a little at the long m. Pidge wondered whether he was okay. 'Are you, uh, feeling any better? I mean, not because you look sick, you look amazing! I mean, like, healthy amazing, like, don't worry, I'm not a creep. But, uh, not that I don't think you're beautiful... You're moderately pretty.'

Pidge had read Shakespeare, French philosophical texts and a couple of Latin Bible passages, yet had never been as confused as she was by this interaction. At least she got the impression he wanted to melt as much as she did.

'Anyway, uh, I just hope you're better and, um, I was wondering if you'd like to partner with me in Spanish today if we have to do a dialogue?'

No. She couldn't speak Spanish as it was, but she'd understand even less if he blustered as much as in English. But a thought occurred to her: She had no idea where she was going, yet if they had Spanish together, maybe he could show her where she needed to be.

'I suppose so... Would you be so kind as to escort me to my first lesson of the day?'

His eyes lit up like a puppy's. He reminded her a little of Marzy moments before he'd tried to amputate the butler's leg. Her heart stirred at the memory.

The boy led the way, chattering on about something or other. Pidge decided to ignore him, preferring to take in this strange school. To her dismay, the quality of architecture had clearly declined since her life. She recalled the brick walls, the wood floors, the intricate carvings on tables. Gone were gas lighting, oil lamps and candles, replaced by blindingly bright fixtures. While it improved visibility, she missed watching the flicker of a candle or the shifting of a shadow.

They reached what seemed to be a classroom with decorations just as vile as the rest of the school. Grey desks, blue dodgy-looking chairs and white walls were nothing compared to the simple, yet tasteful furnishings of a mid-19th century schoolroom.

'Well, this is where I leave you, milady,' Mikey said.

Pidge acknowledged him by looking at him, then went to sit down without so much as a goodbye. She opted for somewhere central, so that she could still pay attention without being too close to the professor. She rummaged in her bag in the hope of finding decent supplies but just found a massive, extremely disorganised folder, a huge notebook and a tiny pencil case with several stump pencils and something that wrote in ink but was a serious downgrade from a fountain pen apart from its self-contained ink.

A guy sat down next to Pidge. He had narrow eyes, a chiseled jaw and lips with a clear cupid's bow. Something about him set her on edge and she decided her initial discomfort had been justified when he leaned into her. 'How's withdrawal treating you?'

She furrowed her brow in confusion and scooched farther away from him until she reached the edge of her chair. Why did guys have to be such creeps? He reminded her of some of her father's friends, the ones that had wives who were half their age. Admittedly, he was significantly younger, but he triggered the same discomfort.

'Evidently not well.' He ran a had through his brown locks. 'Look, Primrose, I care about you, I really do. But you need help. I've found details for a clinic, I think you should seriously consider going.'

Pidge blinked and the world around her disappeared. She was back in "The Carriage", as she called it. After starting The Jungle Book yesterday, she'd grown tired and ended up in this strange state of consciousness where she was aware of reality, but barely conscious. She knew she existed and was alive, but the body had been handed to "Primmmmrose". She was waiting to take control again, just like she'd waited to reach her destination in her father's carriages.

However, the time didn't have to be wasted. She went over her short spell of consciousness, processing the information that could facilitate her new existence. People stared at her a lot, for whatever reason. Maybe Primrose was an outcast? She seemed friendly with that weird guy and based on his lack of social skills, he was most likely an outcast. Although she'd rather not be friends with someone that blabbered unnecessarily while talking to her, she couldn't help but be relieved she wasn't the school's darling. She couldn't face the prospect of trading niceties with people. She just wanted a friend she understood, that would be enough.

Then there was that guy at the end. The one who'd said she needed help. He seemed genuinely concerned. Maybe that explained how tired the body felt and why she was so skinny. She could make out the body's ribs. Was Primrose suffering from some terrible illness? Did she need medical treatment?

Just what sort of a mess was she in?

* * *

A/N: Hello, peeps. Yeah, I know, I disappeared a lot. I'm not even going to try to promise that I'll be properly back because I don't even know for sure what I'm studying next year. I don't even know how far I'll get writing this because I came back with less than I started with yesterday. Anyway, have this chapter I'd already written but never published.

How are you guys doing? How's life been treating you?

ArtemisGreekGeek

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eaturkale

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simplybunniesx

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