The world is purple, and blue, and green, and white, and tan. All of it is swirling out of control. Something is pulling him closer, closer, closer; the swirling colour disorienting and leading. There is something he NEEDS to do. He reaches out-
“Caleb. Caleb!” the colors all blink out, and Caleb is in bed, his best friend above him; sharp teeth far too close to his face. “Caleb you're going to be late!”
“Gute morgen, schatz.” Caleb rubs his eyes blearily, trying fruitlessly to remember what he had been dreaming about. All he remembers is a sense of urgency, of a need to do something. He would lay here all day trying to remember if he could, but it's 7:13 a.m on a Thursday morning, and Caleb Widogast has to go to work. Nott pokes him between the eyes, sharp green fingertips obscured by horocious human-like gloves. “I am awake, I am awake. I'm getting up.” Caleb puts his hands up placatingly, and Nott, seemingly appeased, rolls off of him and scampers out the door to go wherever Nott goes on Thursday mornings.
It’s a dreary day, much like many autumn days in Zadash, but Caleb doesn’t mind. He barely notices the dark clouds that hang over the city as he walks out his door, too caught up in his unknown dream. All he remembers is the feeling, the need to do something. He's not sure why, but he feels like Nott was there, in the dream; her distinct short stature, green skin, yellow eyes. He doesn't know for sure though, which sets him on edge. For the first time in a long time, Caleb can't remember something. It sends shivers of dread down his spine.
The walk to the bookshop Caleb works at is a deliciously secluded one on most days, although today, being late, he’s stuck in the rush. The streets are crowded with cars, and the sidewalk littered with hurrying college students and stony-faced businessmen. Caleb feels blessed when he finally steps up to the bookshop, out of the way of staring eyes. He realizes blankly that he should have opened up half an hour ago. It doesn't matter, really, because no one ever comes in until noon on days like these, but nevertheless it is the routine. Caleb enjoys his routine.
His morning is salvaged, however, by the lack of people there to bug him. He sits for hours, organizing shelves, re-reading classics, and generally reveling in the seclusion of the glorious bookshop. Until the bell, as it is prone to doing, chimes twice on its purch above the door, innocently ruining Caleb's day. He took a long breath, and putting on his best customer service voice said, “Welcome to Fireball Books and Antiques, if you have any questions feel free to ask.” or, really, he said, “Welcome to Fireshdlslrnhkaaaa” As the moment he laid his eyes on the woman in the doorway, he collapsed into himself, head exploding with pain.
She was tan, and lean, and extremely disgruntled, but Caleb did not have time to notice this, as when he looked into her eyes, memories spilled, uninvited and unwanted, into his mind. Colours, and sounds, and flashing light spilled in from all corners of his mind, sending shivers of violent pain down his spine. This was not his past, not his memories. They were, as unlikely as it seemed, hers. Suddenly, a picture of him appeared, hunched over and in pain, and as quickly as it began, it came to a stop. The memories stripped back out of his mind, leaving him feeling vacant, and very, very alone.
The woman - he thought to ask for her name, but realized with surprise that he knew it. It was Beauregard. - was hunched against the closed door, breath slowly evening out. Caleb goes to speak, but before he can, she stands a bit taller, and says simply, “well fuck.”
Caleb cannot help but agree with this sentiment. Well fuck indeed, Beauregard, well fuck indeed. Something of this nature had only ever happened to him once before; when he met Nott. That time it had made sense. Nott was his Soulmate. His best friend and only companion, she and him had been protecting each other for three years now, making sure each ate, went to work, was warm. Now this woman, Beauregard, has shown up and ruined his simple little life in this- while he was monaloging to himself, she had stood up, walked to a bookshelf, grabbed a book, and slammed it onto the counter a bit too hard, leaving a scuff mark on the wood surface.
“$4.50” he hears the numbers leave his mouth distantly, as if it were an echo in a wide, empty cave. Caleb takes her money numbly, watches her walk out the door, counts to fifty in Zemnian, slowly sinking to the ground. This has made his life much more complicated.