“Mr. Davidson…” Right here my subconscious should have jumped out of bed and shut me up. But when you haven’t slept for more than week your mind often steps out for a holiday without telling the rest of you where it’s off to. As the words came out I knew it wasn’t me talking—it was the Not Me.

I stood behind Robin, who I’ve never called Mr. Davidson in my life, wondering what I might say next. “You’re in a library. If you can’t behave yourself, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

I don’t care much for Robin. It’s not like we have a history or anything. I just don’t like the way he treats his sister—he talks down to her, like she’s still a little kid. But it’s rare for me to call anyone out like that, especially in front of others. Plus the only people I call by their last names are professors and the senior library staff. Robin’s petty and he’s going to make me pay for that the next few times he comes in. He’ll make a point to request a dozen big, heavy references, knowing I’ll be the one to reshelf them.

So here’s the Not Me standing behind him, wishing I could take back what I said, and try it again without sounding like a fifty-year-old bureaucrat. Robin and his girlfriend were still looking at me like I’d walked out of a Jane Austen novel when Dash came to my rescue. He took me by the arm and all but dragged me back away from the couple

I’d tell you Dash’s name if I knew it. He’s never told it to me—or to anyone I knew. As the story goes, the nickname came from his freshman composition professor, who tried to get him to stop using so many of them in his writing. He was unsuccessful, and the nickname stuck.

“Points for style, my friend,” he said pounding his hand down on my shoulder. With a firm grip he led me toward the information desk. “But it’s just a library. Let’s try not to incite the barbarian hordes.” He nudged me toward the front desk, and went on his way gathering books that needed to be reshelved.

Very was there trying to help a freshman find a book on psychology. He didn’t know the author, title, pub date or have anything more than a vague idea of the subject. Very was helping him because she’s quite predictable at rock-paper-scissors, and I’m more than willing to take advantage of that fact.

Her name is Verity—named after a character in one of her father’s favourite novels. She hates her name—I adore it. We met in a creative writing class during freshman year. Before the first class was over I was calling her Very, and after a couple of weeks I started in with the variations. When she’s headed out for a night on the town she’s Very Pretty… at work I might call her Very Bright. She pretends that she doesn’t like it, but when I stopped for a while she got miffed.

She glared hard at me, but not as fiercely as she thought, as I leaned across the desk and whispered to her. “I need a break. I’ll be right back after a smoke.” That got a fierce look, but I didn’t care. I could handle Very, but I needed to collect my thoughts before I could deal with everyone else.

I walked out the side door a little too fast, and the Pretty Young Thing from the Bio Department scrambled out of my way. I turned around to mumble an apology, and she was batting her eyes at me. OK, never mind—it was the Not Pretty Young Thing. The real Pretty Young Thing never looked twice.

Once I was down the ramp and around the corner of the library the only ones who would bother me were the gargoyles—Sig and Carl.

Alright, maybe I should explain myself before you doubt my sanity. I haven’t slept in ten days. Not a wink. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration—I know I’ve fallen asleep twice in class for a total of about five minutes. And at least once riding my bike across campus—a ride which ended rather suddenly and painfully.

The doctor at the campus clinic says that a single day without sleep is akin to being drunk. After two days, there are significant mood changes, and after three days hallucinations are possible. That’s a bit like saying cutting off your leg with a piece of glass will cause some blood loss.

A week ago, on a lunch break Dash called me an asshole. That was when I realized the hallucinations had started. It wasn’t the sentiment that was out of place. But in the three years I’ve known him, I’ve never heard Dash curse—he says it’s the verbal equivalent of weak writing. Shortly after that I started calling the hallucination the Nots to help keep them straight. Dash doesn’t curse, but Not Dash does.

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Purchase The Red Book to read “Not Myself” in its entirety.  Official release is 1st December – pre-release orders taken as of 24th November.