Blue Bloods (Blue Bloods 1)

"You were screaming?"

"No, someone was screaming. Far away." Bliss said. She looked around at Dr. Pat's office. It was the cleanest, whitest office she had ever been in. She noticed that even the medical instruments gleamed and were arranged artfully in Italian glass canisters.

"Tell me about it."

Bliss reddened. She hadn't decided to reveal what bothered her so much. Her parents already thought she was crazy - what if Dr. Pat did too?

"Well, it was really weird, but all of a sudden, I was standing outside the temple, when it was still whole. In Egypt, I mean. The sun was really bright, and the temple - it wasn't a ruin. It was complete. And I was there. It was like, being inside a movie."

Suddenly Dr. Pat smiled. It was so unexpected, Bliss found herself grinning back. "I know that sounds insane, but I felt like I was transported back in time."

Now Dr. Pat was definitely cheerful. She folded up her notebook and put it away. "What you're experiencing is perfectly normal."

"It is?" Bliss asked.

"Regenerative Memory Syndrome."

"What is that?"

Dr. Pat provided a long-winded explanation about the effects of "cell restructuring cognizance phenomenon," a cataclysmic event in the brain that produced the subsequent ?time-warp? effect. Her explanation went completely over Bliss's head. "It's like d��j�� vu. It happens to the best of us."

"I guess. So I'm not crazy? Other people have experienced this?"

"Well, not everybody," Dr. Pat replied doubtfully. "But some people. Special people. You should have told your parents about it sooner. You have a Committee meeting on Monday, yes?"

How did Dr. Pat know about The Committee?

She nodded.

"Everything will be explained in time. For now, don't give it another thought."

"So there's nothing wrong with me?"

"Absolutely nothing at all."

Later that night, Bliss woke up with a blistering headache. Where am I? she wondered. She felt as though she'd been hit by a truck. Her body felt waterlogged and heavy, and her head was groggy. She looked at the clock next to her bed.

It flashed 11:49 P.M.

With effort, she pulled herself up to a sitting position. She put a hand to her forehead. She was hot, burning. The pounding in her head was merciless. Her stomach growled. Hungry.

She swung her feet over her bed and heaved herself up to stand. Not a good idea. She was dizzy and sick. She grabbed on to one of the bedposts and staggered over to the light switch. When she reached over to turn on the light, her bedroom was suddenly illuminated.

Everything was just as she'd left it - the thick Committee letter and forms scattered on her desk, her German textbook open to the same page, her fountain pens arranged neatly in her pencil box, a funny Stetson magnet from her friends back home in Texas, a framed photograph of her family in front of the Capitol steps when her father was sworn in to the Senate.

She wiped her eyes and patted down her curls, which, from experience, she knew were sticking out frantically in all directions.

Hungry.

It was a dark, abiding ache. A physical pain. This was new. Dr. Pat didn't say anything about this. She clutched her stomach, feeling nauseous. She walked outside her bedroom to the darkened hallway, following the low lights to the kitchen.

Their stainless-steel kitchen looked severe in the midnight glow of the overhead lamps. Bliss saw her reflection on all the surfaces - a tall, gangly girl with scary hair and a bleak expression.

She opened the door to the Sub-Zero. Arranged neatly in rows were bottles of Vitamin Water, Pellegrino, and Veuve Clicquot. She tore open the drawers. Fresh fruit, cut and placed in Tupperware containers. Creamline Yogurt. A half-eaten grapefruit covered in cellophane. White cardboard containers of leftover Chinese food.

No good.

Hunnngrrry.