Dunes ((Scömìche Short Story))

06

"Alright, alright, I believe you, man. I believe you," Kevin is gushing when Scott awakens. Scott's lying on Kevin's spare bed, the sheets twisted around him and sand scattered across his skin. Kevin hovers nearby, hands half-raised either in defense or to reach out for Scott. The only light in the room comes from a green-shaded lamp in the corner.

Scott sits up, brushes the particles of sand off of his arms, and looks at Kevin hopelessly. "You can see it too, right? Please tell me I'm not insane."

"You're not insane...but this is insane! I checked up on you all night, no sand. Not until ten minutes ago, right before you woke up. You started whispering something, and there was wind, like, blowing sand everywhere. I thought you were awake but you weren't, and – "

"It's really real," Scott interrupts, cupping sand in his palms. He watches the grains trickle between his fingers before meeting Kevin's gaze again. "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm ruining your bed."

Kevin just shakes his head, open-mouthed. "Tell you what, brother. You go back to your apartment, get ready for work. I'll deal with this. It'll be my reward for getting your confidence."

"Thank you," Scott says, standing and placing a hand on Kevin's shoulder. He waddles to the door, trying not to spill sand all over Kevin's hardwood floors.

A shower and a change of clothes later, and Scott feels almost normal. After a day, he can almost block out the whispers, the abnormal heat. He needs to, anyway; he can't let the dreams and the sand and the strange whispers stop him from working. He still blasts the air-conditioning in his car though, so that he doesn't start sweating. He should be wearing a coat with a frigid car like this, but instead he just feels mild and warm.

Work begins normally. Scott's prepared to be warm, this time: he brought a handkerchief. He wipes his brow with it just as Kirstin walks in, hugging a fuzzy jacket tight around herself.

"Geez, your office is freezing!" she complains as she sets a coffee down on his desk. "Here ya go, Arnold got them this morning. He's such a dear." Arnold is the new intern, a cutely-wrinkled man in his seventies.

Scott grips the coffee and raises it in the direction of the door. "Thank him for me, will you? Also, thank you." He feels a drip of sweat start to roll down his forehead, and he hurriedly reaches for the handkerchief, hoping Kirstin won't notice.

She notices. "Are you okay? Fever down from yesterday?" She starts to advance across the room, rounding his desk, but Scott knows if she touches him he'll be just as warm as yesterday, skin burning to the touch.

So he holds up a hand to keep her at bay and says, "I'm feeling much better, thank you though," and flashes a smile. Kirstin looks suspicious, but she at least doesn't touch him.

"All right. Oh – yesterday you missed a meeting, there was a new artist trying to sign to the label. Kate wants you to review the application, even though you weren't there. Apparently she thinks you'll make the best decision." Kirstin rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I'll forward you the information. Maybe next time you miss a meeting, she'll send the application to me to review." She pouts. Scott understands – they've worked at the label the same amount of time, in fact they moved to L.A. at the same time – and yet Scott is often handed the more important decisions while Kirstin handles basic financials. It's really not the ideal job, for either of them. Scott knows he and Kirstin both would rather be signing to a label themselves and getting a start on their own musical careers, but this will have to do. Neither have the support or the money to get started on their own.

Kirstin leaves and Scott receives her email not long after. He sighs and props his chin up in one hand, wiping his forehead with the handkerchief in the other. The application is pretty basic. This kid's name is Mitchell Grassi, aged twenty-six, apparently only a year younger than him. Apparently he was also dropped from another label recently – not a good sign. Scott scrolls through, picking up the details.

The name didn't stand out to him in any way, which is why he is so surprised when his eyes land on the picture.

Grassi is breathtaking, his dark hair accentuating the curve of his cheekbones, the stunning line of his face. His eyes are dark and deep, seem to convey so much even in the grainy picture, and Scott suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. Everything seems so hot, too hot, and sticky. There's a harsh wind blowing, and bright orange sunlight, and a figure in the distance.

Come to me.

Scott can't just stand there. He has to move, he has to reach that figure.

He starts to walk.