LUCID-X Chapter 1

Time is slipping. Is it obsession, neurodiversity, the deep state… or paranoia?

Blinking is impossible. A cold metal speculum digs in, holding my eyelids wide open. A frame clamps around my head, gripping my temples hard. Every time I try to shift position, pain shoots across my scalp. I strain my legs and squeeze the chair arms as if it will hold off the pain. It doesn’t.

I try to turn my head but the device won’t let me. My neck muscles strain against it.

The smell of antiseptic and metal burns my nose.

All I can do is flick my eyes left, right, up and down.

Two shapes hover at the edge of my vision. I force my eyes to focus. Chaney’s assistants. They’re standing completely still, arms at their sides. The backlighting hides their faces. They’re so still, I can’t tell if they’re breathing. Then sweat runs down my temple and they fade into the shadows.

Chaney’s face appears above me. His blue eyes lock onto mine. I focus on his mouth, on a muscle twitching in his jaw. His breath hits my face in steady waves as he leans closer. It smells sour.

The syringe in his hand catches the light. I stare at the needle. It’s thin and sharp. His hand might be trembling, or maybe that’s my fear warping what I’m seeing. The needle keeps coming, getting closer with horrible slowness. It fills my entire field of vision. This is permanent. Whatever happens next, I can’t undo it.

My body ignores me and tries to fight but there’s nowhere to go. My toes curl in my shoes. My jaw locks tight as I grind my teeth together.

Why did I agree to this?

The needle’s still coming. I have to wait and let it happen.

---

One Month Ago:

Monday morning. First day back at school.

I’m standing at the main entrance and I can’t move. There’s screaming, shouting, people yelling names. Students push past me. The noise is inside my head, bouncing around. I flinch. My hands are sweating. I can’t breathe properly. Everything’s too loud, and too bright, and too close. I force myself through the doors. They slam shut behind me and I feel it in my chest. My hand’s still on the metal handle. I can’t let go yet. My brain’s in overdrive, registering everything.

The corridor goes on forever. Scuffed floors. Lights flickering overhead. I’m checking every locker for threats. There’s a gum wrapper blowing across the floor. I’m tracking it. I can hear someone laughing far away, shoes squeaking, the air conditioning humming. My muscles are locked tight.

Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

Lucas is at my locker, staring at his phone, thumb twitching on the screen. Voices bounce off the metal lockers. They blur into a headache. Someone laughs, high-pitched and sharp. It goes straight through me. My jaw clenches. The air’s thick with body spray and sweat. A locker slams.

Everything’s too loud.

I put my hand against the metal. I need to touch something solid. Slowly the noise starts to fade. I’m pulling back into my head.

I catch myself in the smudged corridor window. The leather jacket feels wrong against my skin. It keeps reminding me I’m wearing a costume. My violet hair’s too bright against the beige walls. I push my glasses up. These frames were supposed to look cool but they just make me look like I’m trying too hard. Is this the right choice for today?

The other versions of me are fighting for space in my head. The quiet one who disappears. The confident one who can laugh things off. They’re all just shields.

Breathe. Slow down. Stop fixating on every detail.

I could switch. Change everything. Try being someone else. But I already picked this one.

Where’s Nell? She makes this bearable. She steadies everything. I’m searching the crowd for her face.

“Alex.”

The voice cuts through everything and I can actually breathe. It’s coming from near Tina’s group. They’re all staring at some TikTok on their phones. Nell walks over, smiling, doing a stupid, theatrical bow while holding her books. Her brown hair’s falling in waves around her face. Green eyes with grey flecks. She’s wearing that ancient navy T-shirt with the T-Rex that looks like it’s falling over. The design’s all cracked and faded.

“Hey, Nell.” I manage a small tight wave. My hand’s still tense.

She’s grinning like an absolute idiot. It’s the same smile she gives the kids sitting alone at lunch or whoever’s struggling with their locker. That’s Nell’s thing, seeing the people no one else notices.

“You good?” Her voice is quiet. She’s looking up at me with that concerned face, eyes flicking sideways.

I shrug. My eyes are still scanning faces in the hallway. “Yeah, just... you know.”

She nods. She gets it without me having to explain. “Mm. Breathing help?”

I try to smile. “Err, a little.” Not really sure it’s working though. I’m still obsessing over everything.

We walk without talking for a bit. I can feel her trying to work out what to say. “Dreams, still?”

My whole body tenses. “Not too bad,” I lie. There’s no way I’m mentioning the walking dreams thing. Mum’s still having a breakdown about finding me in that field.

Nell squeezes my arm. “I’m here, yeah?”

I relax. Just a bit. “Yeah. Thanks, Nell.”

The hallway’s loud but somehow she makes it manageable. We’re walking, and people are whispering and staring but it’s fine.

“This jacket,” she says, just loud enough to be heard over the noise but quiet enough that no one can hear. “It’s like it was made for you.”

“It’s a femme day,” I reply, waving my hand. “And I’m absolutely loving that tee.”

“Awesome,” she beams. “You’re so brave.”

“What, for embracing the femme vibe?” I clutch my chest in fake shock.

Nell’s eyebrows go up. “Summer break?” There’s something in her tone. She knows there’s more.

I pause. How much do I actually want to say? “New therapist.”

Her face changes. Gets sharper. “Oh. How is that?”

I shrug. “Hmm. Well. They’ve added PDA to the ASD and ADHD lineup.”

“Sounds like a rap for therapists!” Nell blurts out.

I wasn’t expecting that. I actually laugh. “If only. Apparently, it’s behind my... ‘personas.’” I curl my fingers in exaggerated air quotes.

She snorts, flipping her hair back. She looks annoyed and supportive at the same time. “Figures,” she says.

“How about you? How was your break?”

“Oh, you know... fun. The usual.” She’s smiling weird, staring right at me. “Oh, almost forgot. Had to use my EpiPen. Bee sting.”

“Seriously? What happened?” I ask, knowing Nell is allergic to everything.

“A. Bee. Stung. Me,” she says, nudging me in the ribs with each word.

“I see. It’s going to be like that.” I poke her back.

“Bee. Like that.” She giggles.

“No, no, absolutely not. You’re far too young to be making dad jokes.”

Up ahead, Noah’s joining Lucas by my locker. My brain’s already working on what to say to them.

A familiar figure’s pushing through the crowd like he’s parting the Red Sea in a cardigan. Mr Simpkins practically bounces over to us with that manic energy teachers have when they’re still clinging to summer holidays.

“Morning, Nell,” he says, voice a bit too cheerful. His eyes land on me and there’s this flicker of... something. “Alice—”

The name just hangs there. Mr Simpkins freezes mid-step and his hand flies up to smack his own forehead. I’m half expecting him to leave a mark. His eyebrows scrunch and his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

“Alex,” he corrects himself, rushing to get it out. “I’m so—” He swallows hard. I can actually see his Adam’s apple move. Red’s creeping up his neck, spreading across his face. “Fifty years,” he mutters. His fingers are tapping against his leg. “Fifty years of ‘he’ and ‘she’ and...” He stops talking, eyes bouncing between me and Nell. He’s begging us to understand, or maybe just for the floor to swallow him up.

The corridor goes quiet for a second. Everyone’s stopped to watch this car crash. Nell’s pulling a grimace that’s definitely not helping.

“It’s fine, Mr Simpkins. Really,” I say. It’s not fine but... whatever. “My dad’s still adjusting, too.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure.” And just like that he’s off again, walking fast down the hall like nothing happened.

“And so it begins. Back to the grind,” I mutter, nodding towards the coat pegs. Lucas and Noah are hanging around there, arms crossed. And they’re smirking like they’re guarding something important. Summer seems to have made them worse.

“Well, well,” I say, “our very own Thought Police. I wonder if they’ve read Orwell?”

My fingers are suddenly clumsy with my bag strap. It’s their stares doing it. The weight of being watched settles on me.

Lucas’s posture changes. The smirk disappears.

“Hey, Lucas, Noah,” Nell cuts in, trying to stop whatever’s about to happen.

“Hey, Nell,” Noah replies. His voice goes all soft and grateful. He’s carefully not looking at me. He’s had a crush on her forever. It’s not the only reason we’re friends but it definitely helps.

---

Later, in class, Simpkins’ bald head reflects the fluorescent lights. His trousers are sagging even though he’s got a belt on under his gut. He looks like a cartoon character.

Today’s the periodic table. I’m chewing my pencil, adjusting my glasses and doing the whole “paying attention” act. Lucas, who spends his life policing the hallways, turns to look at me. His face blurs into this pale blob floating in space. Maybe he’s finally getting used to me being weird. I stop pretending I haven’t noticed him staring.

Simpkins turns to face us, grinning like he’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “So, which are the heavy elements?” A hand shoots up immediately. He sighs. “Yes, Sommer.”

Sommer’s always fishing for a gold star. “Well, Mr Simpkins,” she starts, sounding incredibly pleased with herself, “the heavy elements are those with atomic numbers greater than 92. Uranium, plutonium, curium. They have high atomic masses and are radioactive.”

Simpkins’ smile dies. His eyebrows slide together. “Thank you, Sommer, for reading directly from the textbook. Perhaps next time, someone else might contribute?”

At the back, the three class clowns are getting ready for their usual performance. The second Simpkins turns to the whiteboard to write equations, they’re off, pulling these ridiculous faces, acting like chimps. They’ve been doing this for weeks and he still hasn’t noticed. I’m almost impressed they’ve gotten away with it this long. Even Lucas is smirking. His tough guy act’s slipping.

Someone touches my elbow. I turn and it’s Jenson, grinning, holding out a folded piece of paper.

He’s one of the few who doesn’t treat me like I’m from another planet. He glides through life like it’s easy. Or at least he’s good at pretending. He’ll probably end up with kids, mortgage, the whole package. The ‘Perfect Life’. He must have his own issues though. Everyone does. That’s just how it works.

I unfold the note. “Party at mine this weekend.” Something warm and sad hits me at the same time. He’s genuinely trying to include me. But the thought of being crammed in with a bunch of drunk teenagers makes me want to disappear. I mouth “Thanks” at him. I’m not going. Jenson winks. He gets it. He’s decent like that.

Simpkins clears his throat. “So,” he says, still facing the board, “atomic weights.” He pauses like he’s conducting an orchestra. “As you know, the atomic weight of an element is the weighted average mass of all its isotopes. It’s a fundamental property allowing us to quantify atomic mass relative to other elements. For example, carbon-12, with an atomic weight of exactly twelve atomic mass units...”

He stops mid-lecture. “Oh, I almost forgot!” He spins around, marker in the air. “Before we continue, let’s review last night’s homework on stoichiometry. I trust you’ve all completed it?”

He’s expecting everyone to say yes. Instead, he finds himself staring at something that makes him freeze.

The three at the back are stuck in these twisted positions, arms and legs at weird angles. Instead of looking smug, they look absolutely terrified.

Jake’s left arm’s hanging in mid-air, fingers spread like he’s trying to grab something. His right foot’s hovering above the floor, shaking. There’s sweat forming on his forehead, sliding down slowly.

Next to him, Mira’s got her cheeks puffed out like a fish. Her eyes are wide and glassy. The muscles in her neck are standing out.

Owen, the leader of their little group, has both hands shoved in his armpits, elbows out like he’s doing a chicken impression. His mouth’s hanging open, tongue half out. It was supposed to be funny. Now it just looks horrifying.

They’re like insects stuck in amber. Frozen in time. Hoping if they don’t move, he won’t see them.

Obviously that’s not going to work. Simpkins is staring right at them. The moment stretches out. They still don’t move, desperately hoping they can just blend back into the background somehow.

Simpkins keeps staring, trying to process what he’s seeing. His forehead wrinkles. “Honestly,” he mutters, “the lengths some students will go for attention.” He shakes his head and turns back to the board. “Now, by comparing the masses of other elements to carbon-12, we can assign precise atomic weights that reflect their unique isotopic compositions.”

Behind him, the whole class is vibrating with silent laughter. People are looking at each other, doing tiny gestures, silent high-fives. Everyone exhales at once.

Simpkins’ words blur together into noise. I’m trying to focus but I can’t. Why am I so tired? I slept last night. At least I think I did. The memory feels wrong though. Like I’m remembering a picture of sleeping instead of actually sleeping.

The room’s changing. The walls are expanding. That’s not possible. Sunlight’s coming through the windows but it’s moving wrong. It’s thick, like honey. It’s pooling on the desks, dripping off the edges in slow motion. This isn’t normal.

I try to shake it off. I sit up straighter, raise my shoulders. My body won’t respond. My arms and legs feel heavy, but my joints feel soft. There’s panic starting in my chest. What’s happening?

The colours are bleeding together. Everything is swirling. It’s like the classroom is melting.

My eyelids are too heavy and closing. I’m fighting it. I’ve been tired in class before but never like this. This is different.

The air’s getting thicker, like trying to breathe through something solid. Simpkins’ mouth is moving but the sound reaches me in broken pieces. One second I can hear pencils scratching on paper. The next I’m floating. The classroom’s disappearing. There are images but they’re not complete.

I’m falling through nothing. My body jerks like I’ve missed a step. I gasp. My eyes snap open and my heart pounds.

The world’s back. The gloopy sunlight’s gone. As have the distorted sounds. Instead there are harsh fluorescent lights hurting my eyes. The desks are empty. Chairs are pushed back.

Where’s Simpkins? What happened to all the pencil scratching?

I turn around. The whiteboard’s wrong. Where the chemistry formulas should be, there’s poetry. Lines of it in different handwriting. Sonnets? What?

Cold spreads through me. How long was I out? I grab the edges of my desk. The wood’s solid under my fingers.

Simpkins’ papers are gone. His coffee mug’s gone. It’s like I’ve woken up somewhere else.

Mr Jardine’s standing over me wearing his ancient tweed suit. His left eyebrow’s up, disappearing under his grey hair. His mouth’s twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Why are you still here?” he asks. He sounds curious and amused. His hands go in his pockets. His shoes creak as he rocks on his heels.

My brain can’t catch up. I can’t connect what’s happening.

“Has the lesson ended?”

His eyes go wide. The skin around them crinkles and he breathes out sharply. He almost laughs. His hand comes out of his pocket to touch his chin. I can hear his fingers scraping against stubble.

“Ended?” he repeats. He sounds like he can’t believe what I’m asking. He rocks forward on his toes and back. “Alex... school finished ages ago.”

His hand gestures at the empty classroom. His eyebrows furrow, lift, and then settle into something that looks almost affectionate. Now he does laugh. It’s warm and fills the room.

“You should have told me you liked Shakespeare so much!” he says. His body’s shaking with silent laughter. He rocks on his heels again like he’s holding back from laughing harder.

Nothing makes sense. I look at the clock above the whiteboard. 5:17 p.m. Hours have passed. I lost hours.

“I...” My face is burning. I’m grabbing my stuff, shoving notebooks into my bag. I need to get out. I can’t explain this.

My ADHD has pulled a blinder.