"When I was young, for several observable reasons, I believed I was, in fact, an alien. Not in the sense of being weird at school, though I was, but in a deeper, bone-level way. I’d stand outside at night and feel the stars were giving me directions. Streetlights made this faint, vibrating hum like they were trying to talk to me. I didn’t understand the language, but I understood the urgency."
"My parents thought I was imaginative. I thought they were hiding something. Even now, when I walk into Area 52’s perimeter, the air shifts like an old door creaking open in my mind. And these sightings? The postcards from ⁂¤π∴? It all feels like something I’m supposed to remember, but can’t quite… not yet."
Rachel had always carried a strange certainty that she was slightly out of place, not just socially, but biologically.
When she was a kid, she noticed she could see faint flickers in the air when others saw nothing. Streetlights seemed to hum at a frequency that made her skin prickle. Sometimes, she’d instinctively know what people were about to say before they opened their mouths.
At first, she thought she was just “weird.” But by the time she hit her teens, the little signs added up into an undeniable pattern. She wasn’t just different, she was other.
The idea that she might be an alien wasn’t a dramatic teenage fantasy, but a calm conclusion. She didn’t remember a spaceship or being taken away in the night, but she was sure she had a mission, one even she didn’t fully understand.
Now, standing in The Basement Club beside an actual gray-skinned extraterrestrial, she felt an electric jolt of recognition. Not fear. No surprise. Just the deep, bone-level feeling of coming home.
She swallowed hard.
“What if,” she thought, “I’m not here to investigate Area 52… but to report back to it?”
No comments:
Post a Comment