That night, I went straight to sleep, and woke early the next morning, alone in bed, completely untroubled by those magenta cliff/earthquake dreams that had so dominated my previous nights. 

I looked at the alarm clock, which read half-past six.  Just to do it, I slid my cold, bare feet back and forth under the covers, and sighed, almost sadly.  From one perspective, that was a good sign; my feelings were just now starting to wake up. From another, it was an odd thing to do, especially since my thoughts accompanying the action said, It's cold this morning.  I never realized how much cozier the bed can be when someone else is in it with you...

I felt alert enough to drive myself to school.  Mom of course fussed over me, bombarded me with "Are you sures" and "Please, please be carefuls," but she conceded.  After all, I was barely a week away from turning twenty years old (again), I was old enough to make those kinds of decisions. 

"Are you going to get your phone replaced after the test?" Dad asked me, handing me a cup of coffee after fixing it just the way I liked it.  I took a long, satisfied slurp.  Wow, he made good coffee.  Both my parents had been sweet enough to get up early with me, to allow us to chat over the news and the daily grind in the five minutes I had before leaving.

"Mmmm.  Actually, I was going to send in for another, buy the replacement online," I finally answered.  "Unless you think I should just hit the T-Mobile store on my way back and just do it that way."

"Maybe your phone will turn up this weekend," my mother suggested.  "You might have left it in your car.  Did you check your car?  I've done that before."

"It's not in my car."

"Are you sure?"

I sighed.  Sure?  What is "sure"?  I don't remember ever being that.  Is it nice?  "You know, I think I'll just place the order now so I don't forget, and it can get here sooner."

"But you could still find your old one, save yourself the money-"

"If I do, I'll just send the new one back, okay?" I snapped.  I saw the look on my mother's face, then immediately apologized for being so short.  "I'm sorry, that was so rude, I'm just-"

"Dear, I know, you're not yourself," my mother patted my hand.  "These things take time.  But- let's still try to keep the temper in check, shall we?"

So just before heading back out to the college, I ordered a new phone and all the basic trimmings.  I hadn't done any studying in the little time I had been conscious since the incident.  Honestly, I wasn't too stressed about the exam.  I knew I would at least earn a grade in the lower nineties.  My stats test would take a little more focus, but that was in another few days. 

The drive up was the hardest part for me, not because I was still dopey and I couldn't stay in my lane, or the traffic was playing games with my patience.  Driving wasn't the trouble, if you can excuse the few minutes it took adjusting back to driving on the right side of the road.  But it seemed every single song that played over the radio in these wee small hours of the morning conjured up some image from the trip.

On the rock station I heard the guitar solo of "Free Bird," and then all of a sudden I found myself in the back of the Mother Ship swerving away from the Circus Maximus at Caesar's Palace with a faceless shadow sitting beside me.  So I would change the frequency to some local high school oldies station, which played "The Air That I Breathe."  That same shadow now stood at my side in an odd, Vegas parody of the standard little white church.  Eventually, I just turned off the music and rode in silence.  As much as I loved the Hollies, I didn't need those pictures in my head distracting me.

Thank God, he was still just a shadow, like yesterday.  It meant I could suppress him- so far.

I parked in a mostly empty lot- most students didn't have to be there at eight a.m. for a test, lucky ducks- and trekked across the campus, stepping lively. 

Was it only this last Monday I made this same long walk to Mycento Hall?  Only five days before, when I met Dr. K, the man who turned my whole life inside out with the promise of twenty precious points?  Twenty points in exchange for my sanity.  I may as well have just sold my soul and been done with it. 

There was that vending machine with that greasy cinnamon roll I had so coveted that afternoon (probably the selfsame cinnamon roll I had passed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since the semester started; no self-respecting person ate vending machine cinnamon rolls, not when there were nice, healthy Skittles for half the price and calories advertising themselves right at eye level).  Like before, I rushed past it; I was running behind as always.  I hadn't the time or the inclination to succumb to my sugar demons now.

I sat down, pencil poised over my scantron, watching as they passed the exams down the rows until the reached me, and I took mine.  I knew almost all the answers, even though I didn't study at all for it.  I finished in less than half an hour.  Honestly, the test itself was probably the easiest thing I had to go through all day.

There was Dr. Ledford and his assistants, like always, sitting at their fold-up table with stacks of filled scantrons and test question packets marked with either an "A" or a "B".  Unlike always, however, when I started their way after finishing up, Dr. Ledford nodded and waved at me.  I waved back, confused.  On Monday, he didn't even know my name, and probably wouldn't have recognized me as one of his own pupils.

So as I turned in my exam, he whispered, "Julia, right?"

"That's me," I nodded.  "Did, uh, Dr. Kurzweil tell you about my-"

"He did, he did.  You're all set- and with your prior grades to consider, you honestly didn't even have to take this test today.  Remember from the syllabus, our exam policy?  We drop the lowest test grade which includes the final- and all your tests were in the upper nineties."

I shrugged.  "I didn't want to take any chances."

"Fair enough," he nodded.  "He did, though, want me to pass this along to you."

"Pass what along?"

"This."  Then Dr. Ledford handed me a small brown parcel packaged in such a way that looked like it could have contained some kind of controlled substance.  Old habits die hard, eh, K?

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Not sure, but he wants you to have it.  He said it'll help- and he said not to open it until you got home- or until Christmas, if you can wait that long."

Okay, now I'm really suspicious.  "Dr. Ledford, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this, uh- transaction," I murmured, giving the package back.  "It's a little too fishy for my taste."

I had no reason to hang around the campus, so I decided to just start for home.  As I walked past the Physical Sciences building, however, I stopped, and took one step toward it.  Half of me wanted to see T-Rod again, see if that's really all it was: a big, glorified Oculus Rift. 

How had those images of Freddie been so vivid?  Why was his personality so spot on for the man himself, so unlike what I conceived of him?  He hadn't been some cardboard cutout, a caricature of himself.  He was Freddie Mercury, as multidimensional as any living human being.  VR couldn't do that, not even with the help of my brain.

I shook my head, and kept walking.  It wasn't real, no matter how hard I might wish it was.  There was no end to what technology could do these days. 

About halfway down the road, I felt brave enough to turn the music back on.  Surely not every song would remind me of him, would it?

And, as luck would have it, what should play but Neil Diamond's version of "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon." 

Involuntarily, I bit my lip.  This was new.  Strange, how that song seemed to dig its claws into my flesh.  No, wait, not claws.  Teeth. 

Yes, teeth, nipping me softly in some places, hard in others, going up and down my jawline until they settled upon my ear lobe.  And now I could feel that hot breath puffing against my neck, and a wet, pointed tongue teasingly flicking just behind my ear.  And for the briefest of split seconds, I thought I caught the scent of licorice. 

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. I swallowed hard. The road before me began to blur. 

I hadn't been cured.  Not even close.  This wasn't just an obsession anymore; I was utterly hooked on him, and now I was actually going through some kind of withdrawal.  All I wanted was a Freddie fix- and not just his voice, either.  I needed his eyes, his mouth, his slender body, his heart, his mind-

"STOP! " I screamed aloud.  "STOP IT!  IT WASN'T REAL!  GET OVER IT!"

I shook my head violently and squeezed my eyes shut for a second, then opened them- and slammed on the brakes before I rear-ended the car in front of me at forty-four miles an hour.  I was an inch away from hitting them before I screeched to a halt.  That was way too close.

And, my heart beating nearly out of my chest, I gasped aloud, "Thank you, dear Lord, for stopping the car and preventing me from killing someone else."

That was an odd thing to say. Not "killing someone," but "killing someone else," as though I'd already done that at some point.  I'd never killed anyone in my life.  The only thing I was worried about killing now was this obsession-turned-addiction. 

My feelings were slowly but steadily returning to me- and I realized my situation was worse now than ever before.  I had to get home fast.  If I was to really, truly nip this thing in the bud, I'd have to remove everything that reminded me of him. 

I set my jaw.  Forget storage.  Those albums were headed for the Goodwill.

************************************************************************************************

First thing I did when I walked into my room was put on a record- Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks.  It was the most un-Queenly thing I could think of.  Bob's drunken, nasal voice filled the air, completely devoid of the ethereal magnificence of Freddie's music.  Just what I needed.

Humming along to "Tangled Up in Blue," I then grabbed a nice-sized cardboard box from the garage and set to work.  I pulled the biographies and picture collections down from my shelves, all three of them.  I used to have four, but I got rid of one of them after I discovered it wasn't much more than a self-gratifying, poorly written, disgustingly indiscreet account of a relationship that trashed nearly everyone else that mattered in Freddie's life, including Freddie, and made the author sound like a misunderstood victim.

I'll let you decide whose book I mean.

Next came the videos, the documentaries, the interviews I had burned to disc, the enormous hand-drawn sketch of him that once hung on the wall.  I had pulled it down last night, and the dark eyes seemed to bore into me, demanding an answer.  It took effort, but I had turned the picture around so that it faced away from me- and now it sat unhappily with the other junk.  I didn't owe some drawing an explanation anyhow.

Now for the vinyls.

Methodically, purposefully, I sought out each and every precious LP, all the Queen and solo records I had amassed over the years.  I even pulled down that one Billy Squier album I had where he sang backup. 

But when my fingers found News of the World and Jazz, situated side by side on the shelf, I stopped.  I looked for a moment at the tracks on the former.  Nope.  Nothing had changed.  "My Melancholy Blues" was still stuck on the end, a lonely tail-out that didn't seem to really belong on the album at all.  It should have ended on a high note - the powerful "It's Late" would have more than done the trick- but for some reason, Freddie had thought it better to close the album with an unhappy, though still beautiful, jazz tune with only one verse and two choruses.

Jazz hadn't changed any, either.  Averting my eyes from the gatefold picture, I inspecting the track list.  There it was, the would-be "Julia Song," sandwiched between those two hefty hits.  What a heartbroken little song it was, with injured lyrics aimed more it seemed at a specific person than some abstract emotion.

I paused, then, and mused to myself, how odd it was, how easily "Jealousy" could be exchanged for "Julia."  The emphasis was placed in the same spots and everything.  What an easy change that could have been...

"What are you doing?" Scott asked, poking his head into the room.

I snapped out of my daze.  "Something that needed to be done years ago," I muttered.

"Oh," he nodded.  "The mail came by, there's a birthday card and a box for you." 

"There is?" I frowned.  "I didn't order anything.  Except the new phone, but that's too fast."  Good grief, is T-Mobile using drones now?

But still I got up and brought my mail into my room, shutting the door behind me.

Scott whined, "Hey!  Can't I see what's in it?"

"Let me see what it is first," I replied. 

"Uh-huh, okay," he replied through the door, in a voice that implied he knew it was twenty-three days till Christmas- and any package that came to our doorstep was a top suspect for carrying goodies that would soon bear a tag saying "To Scott, Merry Christmas." 

Pausing the Freddie purge a moment, I sat on my bed and looked the box over.  It was about the size of a microwave- white cardboard, scuffed a little at the corners and slightly yellowed with age, but otherwise immaculate.  There was no return label, no stamp; the only words I found on it at all were those of my name and home address printed in a cold computer serif font.

Oddly, enough, the card, too, offered no return address, and I didn't recognize the handwriting.  Confused, I tore it open, making a shredded mess of the envelope as I did. Inside, I found a card, but it didn't look anything like a birthday card; there were no ridiculous comedic illustrations, or intricate sparkly swirls, or textured calligraphic blurbs. In fact, the thing was completely blank on the outside. 

What kind of joke is this? I asked myself. 

I didn't open the card just yet, however.  The blank box intrigued me more.  Slicing through the tape, I quipped to myself, This had better not be more drugs, K, and opened the box. 

Past layer upon layer of some strange gelatin-filled packing cushions, I dug.  On top, I found one clasp envelope, and at the bottom was another, smaller box which accounted for most of the package's weight.

First I opened the yellow envelope, emptying the contents onto my bedspread.  A ripped in half Polaroid and a singed, yellowed envelope with the words "For Freddie" written haphazardly across the back tumbled out.

Wait a minute.  What?  I rubbed my eyes, squinted, but they were still there.

With trembling fingers, I picked up the ripped picture, which itself was blackened around the edges.  I gasped.

All that was visible was my profile, and a large hand touching my cheek.

The kiss.  The ripped in half kiss.  And close beside it, the letter I had written.  Unopened.  Untouched save by fire. 

And lastly, I opened the smaller box.  The two pairs of pointed ears- one black, one white- gave it away.  In disbelief I picked up Yin and Yang, turned them over in my hands.  Save for a new, jagged white line between the cats, they were whole and beautiful, gleaming happily under the light.  Under the wooden stand, to my even greater surprise, I found two chips- one that looked like a SIM, and another that looked like an SD card.

I tried to remember to breathe, reaching blindly for the blank card.  What was happening?  What was going on?

I opened it, and this is what I read:

Dear Julia Samuels,

I apologize.  I failed you.  I failed you both.  The one time it mattered, I was seconds too late.  That was the moment I had dreaded the most the whole long seven months I spent waiting.  I knew it was coming, but that makes it no less a horrid blunder.  I had no choice but to fail. I tried, but it wasn't meant to be. We are fortune's fools, are we not?  

My time is limited.  So I can only briefly discuss the few contents of the accompanying parcel.  I tried to save more of them, but Freddie, as you know, is quick-

FREDDIE?

My eyes widened slowly, and my breathing shortened. I opened my mouth, I guess to scream, but all I could manage was a whisper, "Oh, my God... oh, my God..." over and over again. 

What is this?  I shouted inwardly.  What is going on?  Was it real?  What is this about?

I kept reading, feeling my lungs have more and more trouble with every word:

I tried to save more of them, but Freddie, as you know, is quick, and his wrath, all-consuming. 

I apologize for your LG smart phone; that was one of the first things he destroyed beyond the point of salvaging.  The technology is too outdated for me to even hope to resurrect myself, so I saved the SIM and the SD card- although I believe you'll find the SD much more valuable. I just barely rescued the photo and the unopened letter you left on his piano from the fireplace.  As you can see, the picture suffered a little more.

It was those cats that killed me, though.  I became too bold.  He took those lovely jade cats in his hands, was about to throw them down, smash them all up just like your phone- but I grabbed his wrist before I could stop myself.  Julia, the man was two heads shorter than me and three years younger, but I swear I feared for my life when he looked up into my eyes.  I felt like a small boy again, being stared down by my father. 

He gave me a choice, and I quote: "Keep the cats, or keep your job."  And, obviously, I kept the cats.

There is so much I wish to say, so much I wish to reveal to you. Alas, if I do, I run the risk of jeopardizing what has yet to transpire, not to mention my own occupation- and potentially, our very lives. I'm bordering on breaking protocol simply by writing to you this way, a misdemeanor which is not tolerated.  So I will leave it at this:

Do not lose hope.  It doesn't end today, it doesn't end tomorrow.  Just remember what I told you: there is always a plan. 

Say hello to Danny for me.

With warmest regards,

Rudolph C. Barnes, Esq.

P.S.  I hope you enjoyed the Oasis reference.

Were I in a less tangled state of mind, I would have asked myself what he meant by "Oasis reference," or who he was talking about when he said "Danny." 

He never read my letter, I thought to myself.  He never even opened it, he didn't see what I wrote.  The bastard.  And Rudy. Rudy had sent me these. Rudy, the common driver. Who were you, Rudy? How did you know so much? Why me? Why him? Why us?

Okay, great, man, you know so much, IF YOU KNEW YOU'D BE LATE, WHY DIDN'T YOU LEAVE SOONER?

Behind me, the track on the record changed.

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark.
She looked at him, and he felt a spark tingle to his bones.
It was then he felt alone, and wished that he'd gone straight-
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.

I blinked. 

Fate.

The word bit into me. 

And at long last, I realized. 

Was this always the way it was meant to be?

Very slowly, the last few minutes came in for a horrible, bloody crash-landing.

Those two weeks, in another year, in another world.  Those precious moments, there in Freddie's arms, that sweet coo of his voice, the loving light in his eyes.  And me spending every one of them worrying about whether some little thing would change the world, cause a discrepancy or some such crazy nonsense.  With all my attempts to keep the past together, I was again playing my part in history, setting everything in motion. 

"Jealousy" was always my song.  I had always been part of "We Will Rock You."  I had always been at that dinner party.  Just because there were no pictures of me doesn't mean I wasn't there.  I had changed nothing- because there was nothing to change. I wasn't the change at all. I was business as usual. I was intended. I was his Fate.

I felt tears, tears I'd wanted to cry for days, pour down my cheeks.  I was feeling now. 

Oh, God. I could have stayed.  I could have chosen to stay- except I couldn't.  This was the way it was always supposed to be.  I was always meant to come, I was always meant to leave.  I broke my promise to him, so he broke his to me.  I lied to him.  I betrayed him.  So naturally, being stubborn, willful Freddie, everything I warned him about, he embraced- and all the things I wished him to have, he spurned. 

And now he was dead.  Dead at my hand.  Just like it was always meant to be.  Made in heaven.  Written in the stars.  The fulfillment of Destiny. 

"I killed him," I whispered deliriously.  "I killed my prince.  I killed him just as surely as if I put a loaded gun to his temple and pulled the trigger."

Freddie, my darling... I'm so sorry...

My heart shattered.  The tears fell.  The sun shone.  And Bob Dylan sang.

People tell me it's a sin
To know and feel too much within.
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring.
She was born in spring, but I was born too late.
Blame it on a simple twist of fate.