Chasing Phantoms
Part I: Mad World
Chapter Five: The Other Side
5:30 a.m. On a black lacquered nightstand, an alarm clock went off with a series of blaring beeps, the red digital letters flashing in time. On the bed, a woman lying on top of the deep violet covers stirred, still wearing yesterday's clothing. She shut off the alarm automatically with a resounding slam of the top button. She rolled over, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion – mornings were not exactly kind to her. She stood up from the dark, plush bed and cracked her back, pushing the heels of her hands against her back ribs. A sensation of warmth crept over her limbs, and she sat back onto the bed as blackness covered her eyes.
After a few moments, her senses revived and her eyes opened, but she stayed still for a moment, enjoying the tingling warmth of the temporary faint, before sitting up again. The room was not luxurious, but well stocked and comfortable. The black wood-paneled walls gave a sense of claustrophobia; the red curtains on the window cast everything a bloody shade, and the violet drapes on the Victorian-style four post bed engulfing a good third of the room.
The young woman yawned and ripped off the wrinkled black band shirt, tossing it into an empty hamper near the door. It was soon followed by tight black jeans as she walked through the bedroom door in a black bathrobe. Her small feet gently padded across the hall and were chilled by the cold tile of the black stone of the bathroom floor. The door was shut and the lock clicked into place. Inside, the woman looked into the mirror and growled in frustration – she had fallen asleep with her makeup on, and now a thick, deeply smudged line of black rimmed her eyes.
She turned the faucet on, letting the water trickle gently as she cupped her hands to catch it. The frigid water chilled the bones in her hand as she waited, then she splashed it in her face, rubbing off the excess eyeliner around her eyes. She closed the tap and removed her purple toothbrush from its holder, followed by a half empty tube of toothpaste. She set them down on a rack in the shower, and stepped back out, her black robe and undergarments falling softly on the bathroom rug. Inside the shower, the water was turned on, cold as ice from the freezing nighttime temperatures. She let the water trickle down her white skin, turning it pink with cold, a small smile flickering over her face as the water slowly began to warm.
The tap was turned off five minutes later, and she opened the glass door, grabbing a towel as a rush of hot steam followed her out. She wrapped it deftly across her chest and squeezed the water from her hair onto the rug, the drops forming a dark pattern on the fluffy violet carpet. She dried her face with the hand towel that was streaked black on one side with yesterday's makeup, towel-drying her short, wet, raven hair in the process.
The cold apartment air stung her skin as she opened the door of the bathroom, but she merely ignored it and walked straight across the hall to her bedroom, grabbing a fresh pair of undergarments. She pulled a pair of black jeans over her peachy legs; a fresh midnight blue men's-style sweater followed her black singlet, the thick cotton loosely draping her, the seams where the sleeves attached a bit too low to be perfectly form fitting, but not losing her petite frame in the soft fabric.
She scrambled together a couple of notebooks and pens lying haphazardly on her desk before shoving them into a rather real-looking fake leather bag. She left the room clutching the straps in her left hand, the black bag occasionally hitting the hardwood floor as it dragged next to her. She set it down heavily on one of the stools under the breakfast bar counter, while she pulled a gallon of milk and a bowl of blueberries from the fridge. Finding a bowl, spoon, and box of her favorite cereal, she ate slowly, chewing the blueberries with relish.
The sun was still hidden behind the smoggy city skyline when she put her empty bowl in the sink and turned the coffeepot on. The black machine sputtered angrily, but turned on after three tries on the woman's part. Damn old thing, she thought, it might just be time to replace her soon. Guilt weighed down on her. Just because the old pot was having trouble turning on from age did not mean that she would throw it away into some landfill while it still worked. After all, the pot had been with her since her time at university. Black liquid slowly dripped into the clear pot as she pulled a reusable coffee cup out the pantry.
From a closet near the front door, she removed a pair of combat boots and pulled them onto her slim legs, followed by a wool jacket. She traipsed back to the clean and well kept, if gloomy looking, kitchen, removing the filled pot and poured the black coffee into the cup. Tightly sealing the lid, she made her way back to the front door, grabbing her bag and keys on the way. She stopped in front of the foyer mirror, pulling a small bag out of her purse. Opening the cap to a black tube of lipstick, she let the creamy color glide over her lips; she smacked them once, admiring the deep burgundy against her skin.
She locked the apartment door behind her, her feet clunking as she walked down the hall in her heavy shoes, twirling her keys between her fingers. The cold October air hit her face as she opened the door of her apartment building on the Upper West Side; however, the wind was not the only thing to hit her as made her way down the block to the West 86th Street Station
"Watch where you're throwing that, kid!" she yelled angrily at the young paper boy as he miscalculated the distance between the road and her front stoop. She chucked the paper that had hit her shoulder back at the boy fiercely, almost hitting the side of his head as he rode by.
"Sorry girlie!" He ducked in time and sped away, fear in the boy's face as he saw the woman furiously running after him, brandishing the Monday morning paper. Standing in the middle of the empty street, her face went from pink to beet red in anger, cursing him loudly. He had called her 'girlie.' She glanced down at the paper she had picked up from its resting place in the middle of the street. She flipped through it absentmindedly, bypassing the loud headline on the front page. Who cared if some guy in D.C. got stabbed weirdly through the back? Her flipping stopped as she came across the third page of the New York Times; her amethyst eyes flashed at the headline of a tiny column.
The woman burst from the subway exit on West 96th Street, clutching her coffee in hand. The paper she had picked up this morning – or the one that was rather violently introduced to her shoulder by an insolent little paper boy – was stuffed into her bag, haphazardly sticking out from the opening, along with the corner of a stack of tan fliers. She strode quickly and confidently down the street, every dozen meters or so pausing to tack up one of her posters with a slam of her metal stapler or the smack of clear packing tape. Her face was passionate and angry as she left a few startled faces and dozens of "Save the Lab Rats" posters behind in her wrathful wake.
Quarter to seven, she made her way through the double doors of the building, the sky a dull grey color over Morningside Park. She walked furiously, tacking up more posters as she went. Around her, college students scattered; they knew her well in this building, and they knew something had really pissed her off this morning. The woman came to a halt only when she reached Lecture Hall Three, stopping to take out another flyer from her bag and tack it onto the door with her stapler. A small crack formed in the old wood door, spreading outwards from the staple. She swung open the door and let it slam shut behind her with force. The tan flyer fluttered rebelliously on the door, obscuring the silver plaque that usually regally adorned the door. As the door shut with a sickening crack, the paper flipped up long enough to read:
Psychology Department
Lecture Hall 3
Professor Lancer
The small amphitheatre was filled with young college kids – about fifty or sixty worn out faces dozing off until the lecture began. The woman marched up the center aisle stairs, leaving the young students shrinking away from her furious presence. The students' gazes followed her march to the stairs as she disappeared through an open door that led to the professor's office and the projector.
"LANCER!" she woman yelled from inside, the fury in her voice carrying all the way to the hall outside the room. A late freshman walking hurriedly past the room startled and ran into a door, falling onto the floor with a strangled cry. An aging bald man popped up from under a seat in the middle of the room, trying to tiptoe away from what he knew would be a source of pain for the next few days. That is, if he actually lived that long.
"Lancer…" the voice from the office turned dangerously low, "I know you're in the fifth row next to that kid with the nasty instant coffee."
The fat, balding man sighed in defeat and walked to the end of the row, dejectedly accepting his fate with every step he climbed.
"I'm sorry class, I know you all wanted to hear the lecture I prepared for today, but the psychology of Jane Austen will just have to wait a couple minutes." He grumbled to himself, trying to fight the words he was going to say.
"You all may take naps while I have a professional discussion with Miss Manson here." His face was pained when he closed the door to his office, and when he turned around her face was dangerous.
"Explain this to me!" she hissed, slapping the morning paper on his desk. Her delicate index finger was a weapon as she pointed fiercely to the small article on page three. He cringed at the headline, knowing exactly why she was so upset:
NEW INSIGHTS IN THEORY OF HOW WE SEE COLOR: CHIMPANZEES HAVE COLOR VISION STRIPPED THROUGH COLOR ISOLATION
"They used baby chimps! They put them in white rooms for their first year! And you…" she seethed, "encouraged this! You, as vice-head of the department, should not have let this be authorized! Do you even care about those little baby chimps!"
"Grapes of Wrath, Samantha Manson, do you really think that I could have stopped the board! I was not a part of the study, and had no say. Those are laboratory monkeys, for God's sake, not pets!"
"My name is not Samantha!" she cried harshly, her petite frame shaking visibly under her wool coat, "and those monkeys are partially sentient!"
He cringed away from her. Back outside the office, the class was not sleeping the slightest. They had always enjoyed hearing the arguments that their Professor had to go through when their Teacher's Assistant decided that the behavioral research being conducted in the building was immoral for using animals. One or two students sat slumped in their chairs, drool hanging out of their mouths, oblivious to recent argument from the very beginning, but the other portion sat still and erect in their seats, listening to every sound that came from the office. Of course, they were partially afraid for their own lives, in case she decided to set the lab rats loose in the lecture halls like she did in August.
Back inside, Lancer obviously gave up his fight for good.
"What is it that you want Miss Manson?" he said tiredly, rubbing his temples in sudden headache.
"I want the board to stop authorizing these terrible experiments on innocent creatures."
"That can be done Miss Manson. I will do everything I can. Now please, get some freshman to fetch me coffee. I need a ten minute catnap. I'm an aging man, Miss Manson, and as a teacher, much to underpaid for the honorable and self-sacrificing work that I do."
He took a thick leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's collected works and set it on the floor behind his desk before lying down and falling asleep completely within the span of moments. Sam sat down and pulled the lecture notes from his filing cabinet in the desk, sipping her bitter, almost lukewarm coffee as she skimmed them. She stood up, leaving the folder of notes on his desk.
The class pretended to be asleep the moment they heard her chunky boots on the tile floor, save for the two drooling freshmen on opposite sides of the room who were beyond napping. Sam smirked, trying to pick her least favorite students to boss around for the day. Lancer was beyond waking, and the class had a little less than two hours to go over the material. Her eyes finally settled on a pretty blonde girl in the back. Yes, she would do.
"Hey, kid in the Pepto-Bismol headband!" she yelled to the girl in the back corner. "Run and get Lancer a coffee. Make it black, one cream. He's getting to old for that artificial crap; it'll get stuck in his damn arteries."
Sam's amethyst eyes sparkled passionately. She grinned again as the students gulped in fear, turning to scribble furiously in perfect script on the old and dusty chalkboard:
THE OTHER SIDE
The students knew that when she taught, they were all at risk: at risk for actually having answer a question meaningfully; at risk of having to think beyond what everyone else drilled into their heads; at risk of seeing the world in shades of gray and not just black and white; at risk of leaving the classroom with heads freed of nonsense. They were at risk of seeing that the human condition was not determined by electrical impulses, nor parts of our childhoods, nor the sum of our sensations; but that it was determined by the spirit of humanity, which cannot be analyzed and broken down into pieces, but must be seen as something greater than the sum of its parts. They would leave knowing that the answer did not have to be one or the other, but 'both.' That was the nature of the human mind.
A/N: Thank you so much for the people who have taken the time to read this. Please review, since I am new to writing stories here and would love the critique. Please, anything. If you loved it, hated it, please just tell me if you will keep reading. I have this story pretty much planned from begining to end, and its going to be a long one.
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