Ambrosia

01 | PT-I | The End Is Only The Beginning

'Symbiotic Stasis of Metamorphic Genesis

Within the subtle differential sequence of dynamic symbiotic relationships, its solidified justification of cosmic symphony in an era perceiving only its corrupting disparagement—'

GOD, WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT?

My elbows pin the credenza desk as I thrust my fingertips through the hairline of my temples. Of course, they don't reach far; my curls are tangled from the restless nights.

My thesis isn't due for another decent months. Next year. Why am I stressing about it now?

I thought I could maybe get a leg up by starting the first few pages today. But it seems everyone I touch the keys, I forget everything I know about symbiosis and dynamic relationships between different creatures.

"I'm going to fail," I murmur to myself and drop my head on the desk. My forehead lands with a muted THUMP. "I'm going to fail my senior year of college and work shitty restaurant jobs for the rest of my life."

Most of the dorm's students have gone to room 721, which is thirteen doors down the hall from mine, for a little party—it isn't for any special occasion, other than being alive and well, I suppose. Even one of my roommates Warren, who's wheelchair-bound by the way, was invited. And he went, calling in sick to work for the night.

I would've gone—could've gone—but for me, crowded rooms and racing hearts is a recipe for disaster.

What I wouldn't give for a drink right now though...

Slumping over the desk, I raise my head, planting my chin on its hard, waxed surface. Raleigh's dense cityscape ranges in all directions, too far to see beyond, sckyscrapers raised out of the lot in the distance. My reflection stares back at me like a drowned out overlay image. This morning, I'd thrown my light blonde curls into a messy low bun. It was a new hairstyle—something I just wanted to try out—but after an hour I realised I hated the way it looked on me and decided to braid it over my shoulder instead. A few shorter curls from the front have already come loose.

Last year, I gave myself a very blunt, very short bob with a pair of fabric scissors. Now, my hair is already hip-length, and those who know me constantly ask what secret product I used to get my hair so long so fast. If only. Perks of being me.

I let the music from down the hall drone out the reality of my unfinished paper and close my eyes for a moment—brief moment—a second. A low electric hum starts overhead. Not upstairs but above the building. It doesn't sound like an airplane or a jet. It sounds...almost like an oscillating bass. It's so deep and so quiet I'm sure almost no one else can hear it. I feel like I've almost heard it before.

Furrowing my brows, I peel open my eyes.

The hum is suddenly accompanied by a limp overcast. The music from down the hall stops, followed by objections of disappointment—in fact, every TV in the building shuts off. My laptop screen flickers before coming back on, the same thing it always does when charged but unplugged; the same thing it always does when the power goes out.

A dark, heavy shadow falls over the city like a falling blanket, devouring street by street, building after building until it reaches the leftovers of what is unseen beyond the vista. Then, even the sky darkens too.