Sherlyne did not like coffee. In fact, she strived to avoid it when possible: a profoundly difficult task, seeing as she was constantly surrounded by peers who fueled their homework sessions with bitter concoctions unlike any other. It even seemed to be a competition as to whose coffee was more acrid, like a fest of strength or a test of endurance.
In any case, Sherlyne wanted no part of it. Not even the coffeeshop romances she had read about in fanfiction. Not the Instagram-worthy lattes with fancy milk designs on them. Not the thrill of being called an absurdly incorrect name by the Starbucks barista who was clearly trained to appear incompetent at transcribing speech to text (much worse than modern technology could, even), despite clearly being an intelligent, sociable, warm person.
It was with this thought in mind that she entered the first class of the semester – “Dreams and the Psyche”. It was an experimental class, one that few had signed up for, and it was apparently being taken by a new lecturer. How fascinating and incredibly sad, she thought. Did the university have to fulfill some prerequisite number of courses taught that they had to make up ridiculous ones and put them in the hands of wannabe lecturers fresh out of college, who probably had no passion for the subject at all?
Yet, she thought she would prove herself in this course. It was only worth a credit, after all. The workload would probably be low. She could stand participating in some heated debates against sexist Freudian theories and nonsensical interpretations of the sleeping mind.
She scanned the hall. It was not quite full, but the turnout was much more impressive than she had imagined. Had she missed something? Perhaps these students were only here just to fit in some esoteric requirement in their outdated handbook. But no, only a few had that glazed look common to those who had all but given up on the educational system. The rest were in animated discussion, flashes of curiosity sparking between eyes and information just rolling out in waves. Sherlyne frowned. This was too positive a response for a class that was brand new.
Perhaps it was the lecturer. She quickly skimmed the course descriptions on her phone. Oddly, no name or identifiable feature of their professor was mentioned. The university was usually quite meticulous about these matters, she thought, wondering why they had allowed such an important piece of information to go amiss. Maybe that’s why these students were here : they wanted a good look at the mystery professor. Typical marketing tactic.
She rose from her seat in a bid to approach one of the more conversational students in class. The smell of coffee permeated the air. She wrinkled her face in distaste. Who had brought that revolting beverage into the classroom? Outside food and drink were not allowed. She shook her head, trying to divert her attention elsewhere. But this only seemed to make the aroma of dark roasted coffee beans grown stronger. A pulsing beat sounded in her ears.
“I’m not hungry,” she rationalised. “Just drank water, too. And it’s not that hot… And I got enough sleep. So why… Why do I feel so… Weird?”
One step.
Another step.
Her feet felt like wool stuffed with lead.
No red spots in sight, so she wasn’t about to faint. No dizziness either.
Third step. The people at the next table laughed, a dull ringing echo masked by pulsing. And then it hit again, a strong, forceful wave of coffee, like she was in the middle of a production lot in Brazil with machines grinding the beans one chunk at a time.
Sleepiness rushed in and invaded every crevice of her brain, eliminating vision and sound, leaving only the bitter, burning scent of a despicable beverage. Falling through a void, only darkness enveloping her like a warm, suffocating blanket, she heard a voice.
“Welcome to the Experiment.”
My Literary Fantasia 