Castor was missing too. The chaos of sheets on his side was a signal for another one of his work days.
“Castor, I’m up," I called. "I’ll cook, so for Heaven 's sake, don’t scream.”
The late night infomercial buzzed from the other room. Because of the mutable fabric, Strawberry Jam can be worn as a coat during winter and a cape during any other season! Madame Strawberry meant it was still one o’ clock.
Counting to fourteen, I dragged myself out of bed. The February floor was ice against my feet. “Thanks for waiting, Cas. Eggs or oatmeal.”
He was there in front of the television. Not Castor, but Polaris. Standing on his hind legs.
“Oh, morning Polaris.”
“Good morning, Beta.”
There …show more content…
Was he Polaris? No, he was too smart. His knowledge of the world grew each day and he had started taking a liking to philosophy. The real Polaris—my Polaris—liked warm baths and Meat Chow. The real Polaris was in an alternate dimension with Castor and the rest of the world, while the imposter and I looked in.
I was afraid. A chill seeped through my skin each time I saw this imposter. I was afraid to question him, to anger him, as if he would suddenly become suspicious of me. As if I was the imposter.
I dreamt of the violet field once more. This time, the sand in the lightglass rushed like a stream.
Castor still held his camcorder. "Tell me, Beta. What makes you, you?"
"Are you trying to film a documentary again? What is it this time? Some mystical nonsense?"
"Nope. This is for my own analysis." He sniggered. "And it 's got nothing to do with occultism. Just answer the question."
"Fine. I don 't know."
"Ah! I knew you would say that. That 's the problem, you see." He was no longer looking at the monitor. "The substance is never aware of its essence. He is only aware of the attributes."