Hexagon
The other members in your study group are running through flash cards, laughing, throwing erasers at each other, but you can’t concentrate. It’s been three days since you found that envelope addressed to you by the bridge, and nothing else out of the ordinary has happened, but you can’t stop looking over your shoulder. Everywhere you go, you feel like there must be invisible eyes on you. What will happen if you fail?
Beneath the mess of notecards and textbooks are the bodies of butterflies, pinned to bits of wood, captured mid-flight. Strange. You’ve never noticed them before. Now you know how they feel.
You have forgotten too much. What could that mean? What have you forgotten?
“Arsenic.”
“What?” You feel like you’re surfacing in an icy lake, ears filled, sound muffled.
Your friend repeats herself. “What’s the atomic number for arsenic?”
You have no idea. What haven’t I forgotten? you think bleakly.
You excuse yourself, saying you need to get some water, and then walk aimlessly, hoping to clear your head. There are triangles carved into the wall here, and you absently run your finger through the grooves. So many little oddities, giving texture to your days but passing unnoticed. Without having a destination in mind, you continue to walk, pushing through doors, noting the way that the carved triangles give way to white walls, and glass. It’s unusually quiet for a building in the middle of the day: people are working at desks, writing equations directly on the walls, walking out of labs carrying briefcases and clipboards. The only sound is a haunting music that seems to be coming from above you. Is that an organ?
Everyone seems to have a purpose, here, and you feel uncomfortably aimless.
Usually, you just walk through here on your way to get coffee, but this time you hesitate. The inside of this building has never made sense to you compared to the outside. Where are the hexagons that dominate the skyline? You wonder if you can glimpse one from the inside.
In the corner of the building is a door marked “stairs.” You step into an airy stairwell, equally stark, equally quiet. You climb the stairs, taking frequent breaks, ashamed of how out of breath you feel.
Suddenly, you hear the shuffle of heavy footsteps, the slam of a door on the landing above you, deafeningly loud in the silence. Without knowing why, you begin to run, until you arrive, panting, on the landing. The door is locked. But there, taped below the stark black six, is another red envelope.