Someone's In My Head (WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2015)

Chapter Seven

My ears were still ringing from the news. To have a person from the past living in my head is almost as unimaginable as discovering zombies in my mom's backyard (no, not the game). I had thousands of questions for him-what's his name? Where did he come from? How did he end up in my brain? Does this man has anything to do with my loss of control at Del Taco and with Wong? Or my cracking of a twenty-digit/alphabet highly encrypted code after recently solving the renowned Master Sudoku?

At the end, I decided to state the obvious, partly because I didn't quite believe his claim. "So, you're telling you are a prehistoric human."

"Not really." The man grunted. "Just a couple of years back. Nineteen ninety-nine."

The year rang a bell in my head (no pun intended), but I couldn't quite figure out what it meant. Before I could ask another question, he grabbed the initiative.

"You haven't told me your name, boy."

I was indignant. I was nineteen, and he was calling me a boy? Nevertheless, I replied, no doubt with a steely edge to my voice. "Jarod."

He snorted. "Last name?"

I was blatantly irritated. This guy barges into my head, goes into a screaming frenzy, doesn't even apologize or introduce himself and now he's asking for my last name? Give me a break. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself, Loudred?"

He inhaled sharply. For a second I thought he was about to rebuke my manners. My instinct told me that he wasn't used to having his orders questioned. Well, I didn't care if he was George Bush or Captain America; as long as he was in my head, he should at least show me some respect.

"Fine. My name is Phillip Rogers." Pause. "The rest is classified."

I guffawed rudely. "So you're playing CIA agent now, huh? Well, I can live with that, but just answer me this-what the hell are you doing in my head?"

"That was exactly what I was gonna ask you. I was in the middle of an atta-" He stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly realizing that he'd spoke too much.

I groaned. "Great. Now you're telling me that you were halfway through an intense Call of Duty match, and suddenly, for no reason at all, you end up in the head of a nineteen-year-old. How very devastating."

There was a knock on the door of the stall.

"Dude!" A voice called from behind the door. It sounded angry. "Stop taking up the stall with your phone call! Someone's gonna die of diarrhoea here!"

There were snickers in the background.

I exhaled the breath I didn't realize I had been holding. How am I supposed to communicate with Phillip Rogers without other people staring at me like I'm a psychological freak?

As if he could read my thoughts, "You know, as I am somehow inside your mind, I guess you'll just have to think what you wanna say and I'll be able to hear it, loud and clear." Phillip suggested.

So he could read my thoughts after all. I felt naked. Like I was standing in front of this Phillip Rogers guy with nothing covering my groin. Jesus.

"If you're thinking I can hear your every thought," Phillip started. God! This is real creepy. "You're probably wrong. For I can't hear a single thing right now."

Well, that's a relief.

"HEY! OPEN UP, YOU ASSHOLE!" The banging was harder now. It threatened to shatter the hinges.

"One second!" I called.

I tried directing my thoughts at him. It felt like thought-speaking-I had to imagine a guy in his forties as I 'hurled' my thoughts at him. "Can you hear me now?"