This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Trash_Tia on 2024-11-28 21:31:02+00:00.

Over the last week, I know you’ve all been scared.

If you’re a teenager reading this, 13-18, I’m not writing this to scare you more.

I want to tell you the truth.

The televised press conference we all just watched terrified me, but I’m here to tell you the experts are afraid of telling you the truth. This isn’t intentional—they’re just as scared as we are. They’re terrified:

Not knowing what this thing is—or how to stop it—terrifies them.

But this sickness affecting the teenage population is NOT new.

It infected my town this time last year and took my brother.

Those who do know what it is tried to burn us to the ground to stop it from spreading. I spent half a year in a facility in their attempt to extract whatever this is from my veins, cruel procedures drilling into me and testing my bone marrow.

But it’s already around you. It’s in the air, melded into your brains.

It’s November 28th, so you’re already feeling it. It’s not like fomites, anything you can catch. It’s deeper than that.

I don’t think I can describe just how this thing spreads without sounding out of my mind.

This thing is going to spread. You’ve seen it on the news, right?

It’s contagious, except not in the way you think.

But it’s not going to kill you.

Kill you permanently, anyway.

If I’m honest, I wish it did kill us. I wish it killed me.

OC, California, was what my younger self had called a “sunshine state.”

Our little town, just on the edge of the coast, was paradise.

Aside from winter weather and the occasional freak storm, I had grown up in the sun.

I had known the beach my whole life—the soft sand underfoot and between my toes.

The shallows I waded into every morning without fail, trailing after my older brother and his friends, chasing the surf under shallow pinks streaked across the sky.

I knew salt and sweat, Ray-Bans perched on my head, the grossness of sunscreen gluing my hair to my neck. The memories of sandcastles, and the relentless, yet beautiful scorch of the sun on my skin.

The heat clashing with the coolness of the sea as I dipped under—waiting for that one wave that would toss me into the air, sending me spiraling with the ocean itself before tumbling me back down into the depths.

The surf that eventually carried me back to the shallows and spit me out to where Mom waited with ice cream, always ready to lather me in Factor 50.

Presently, I bit back a hiss when my school bus took yet another sharp turn, jerking my head into the window.

I was slowly starting to regret my decision to come on this stupid school retreat.

Why was it snowing?

Leaning my head against the ice-cold glass, I could only stare outside, confusion and slight panic prickling up and down my spine. In the seat in front of me, Sara Lakewood had sneezed again, a violent wet-sounding sneeze, and refused to cover up her damn mouth.

I was used to snow sometimes. Like, maybe a sprinkle, or even just a few inches if we were lucky.

“In OC California today on Wednesday, November 22nd, 2023: sunny, with a high of 75°F and a low of 61°F,” that’s what Alexa had said. “Sunny, with cloudier conditions as we move into the afternoon!”

Pressing my face into the glass, I squinted through spiraling snowflakes that seemed abnormally large, thicker, already obstructing my view. I wouldn’t exactly call this cloudy conditions.

This was freak weather—the type I would expect to be on the national news or fear-mongering TikTok pages.

I tried my phone again; still no signal. I did get one single bar when the bus stopped, and we got stuck in a snowdrift (I still wasn’t sure how we were still alive—let alone why this driver kept going), but it was gone before I could try Mom’s phone.

There was barely any visibility outside, and I was having a hard time believing our driver when he assured us that everything was going to be fine.

That slight shudder in his tone wasn’t helping. This guy had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

The blanket of snow outside shouldn’t have freaked me out as much as it did—but staring out into what would normally be golden landscapes and endless ocean, I only saw… white.

With my cheek uncomfortably pressed against the pane, I wrapped my jacket tighter around myself, surprised by my breath dancing in front of me in sharp wisps.

I shouldn’t have been shocked that the school couldn’t afford heating on the bus.

We were a tiny town, and most of our funding went into our sports department.

However, the least they could do was supply half a dozen kids who were not used to this type of weather—this deep-rooted cold sliding into every bone in my body—with heat packs.

I wasn’t dressed for arctic conditions.

That morning, I was pretty sure my wardrobe would only be light sweaters and jeans.

California weather could be spotty at times, but it was always a guarantee that we were never going to get a literal fucking snow storm.

Still, if I really strained my ears, I could maybe trick myself into believing the blizzard outside was, in fact, ocean waves crashing against a shore—where I once felt safe.

“Summer.”

The familiar voice barely registered. I ignored it, curling into my seat and willing my body to stop shaking.

“I know you’re ignoring me.”

I kept my focus on the snow piling up on the windows.

The sheer amount that had fallen in just under an hour was almost impossible.

I could already sense my classmates’ chatter shift from TikTok and Twitch streamers to “what the fuck is going on outside?”

I was also unlucky enough to get seated in front of Wes Cameron. I had to bite back a hiss when he kicked my seat yet again in an attempt to balance on his seat to get a perfect shot of the storm.

He was acting like he’d never seen snow before, jabbering to his seat mate, who was currently my other least favorite person on this bus.

“Summahhhhhhhh.”

That annoying voice had turned into a sing-song.

“Go awaaaaay,” I mimicked his taunt. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“You don’t look asleep.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “Key word, trying.”

“Mom says you’re not spending the holidays with us.”

“So?” I didn’t turn around.

“That’s not very festive of you, sis.”

When I didn’t respond, he sighed. “So, you’re going to ruin Christmas for everyone.”

“Ouch! Jeez man, you didn’t have to do her like that!”

I wasn’t expecting Wes to chime in, poking his head through the gap in my seat.

He shot me a grin, and I shoved him away, with a finger-poke to the forehead.

“Ow!”

I wasn’t sure what made me snap. Wes Cameron trying to squeeze his head through the very small gap in my seat, or the idea that my brother still believed in the magic of fucking Christmas– when he treated the holidays like spring break.

He wasn’t even conscious for the special day a year prior, passed out on the beach after his holiday party went sideways.

Since Mom was too embarrassed to acknowledge Wes’s behavior (or admit it to our neighbors), I was the one running to and from our house, with a barf bucket and fresh cans of soda when everyone else was tucking into their Christmas dinners.

Ah yes, the festive cheer of cleaning up your brother’s puke!

Dislodging myself from the window, I lifted my head to find the Golden Child himself looming over me, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, mimicking our mother.

He was wearing a reindeer sweater, which was already a flashing red flag.

The light up antlers sticking out made me feel nauseous.

The sweater was too big for him, baggy and hanging off his slim frame—definitely an attempt to get on Mom’s good side. His bobble hat was a… choice. Mom was obsessed with holiday-themed clothing.

Fallon, or “Fall”—since, apparently, our parents were comedic geniuses with names—was exactly one year older than me.

And despite his growing list of almost felonies, according to Mom, still the ”golden child”: while I was the kid she avoided talking about during family gatherings. The socially awkward one who was just going through a phase.

Mom named us after the seasons we were born under.

While I was born in July, summer months, long days, and an increasingly painful pregnancy (thanks for the tmi, Mom), Fallon was born in the fall, under cozy red skies and fallen leaves.

My brother was the literal fucking Golden Child.

But I didn’t blame her for giving up on me.

Unlike my brother, who actually had a life, I had ditched surfing and the beach when I found my individuality, choosing to stay at home all day playing Stardew Valley.

I didn’t abandon the outside completely, but I did stop traipsing after my brother and his friends, finding comfort in my own room.

The last time I hung out with my brother, Fallon left to get takeout pizza. I wanted to go with him, but he was crushing on a guy, and apparently, having his little sister third-wheeling was social death.

I made the mistake of heading back to my brother’s friend’s, who were complaining of my presence.

They didn’t want a fourteen year old kid hanging out with them, and I guess they were too polite to tell my brother.

So, I distanced myself.

That was until I was forced to acknowledge his existence—on this stupid field trip. Since his friends were joining us for the entire holiday, Mom insisting on this huge party bringing all our families together, my brother’s friends were also invited.

Hence, I was planning on spending my holidays elsewhere. My plan was to ignore Fallon’s …

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