I sat up in bed, wide awake.
Mere seconds separated my dreams from reality. Yet, consciousness had seized me more effectively than ice water.
I had been caged within sleep, until something ridiculous happened.
Something ridiculous, and something real.
I sprang from the covers, pulled on a sweater, and burst out the door. All around me was silent. Life, it seemed, was not yet awake.
I took a deep breath, and began running. I ran so fast my surroundings blurred into a pallet of color; the sound, still muted.
My feet flew across the dewy grass.
I imagined myself into smaller, simpler spaces; tucked in with the ghosts. How fast could I run from my dreams? How fast could I run towards reality?
If the grass had soaked my socks, I barely knew. If the wind had serenaded my skin, I remained disembodied. The alexithymia of consciousness.
My thoughts snaked and swerved and collided in my head, but in that stretch of oblivion, a lone inference guided me.
Nothing mattered in the world but one thought.
Wake up, Maple. Wake up.
The House of Addictions was the epithet I chose.
It nestled several blocks from mine, and was the type of estate that demanded normalcy.
Upon reaching the front hedge, I examined the house; two blue paneled stories. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it.
I coaxed the front door.
Locked.
I circled around to the backyard. The room I sought was on the second level. I ascended the balcony onto the porch; the room’s window stood several feet from where I could stand. There was a vacant flowerbox sitting on a ledge outside the window.
Without question, I clambered onto the deck’s railing and extended my leg into the flower box. It was a long way to fall, but I wasn’t scared. I had no choice. I clung with all my might to the window’s ledge, shifted my weight to the flowerbox leg, and plopped over the other. A scream frozen in my throat. Breathing heavily, a death grip on my perch, I crouched; the box seemed sturdy enough.
I peered through the window.
At this ungodly hour, he was most likely still asleep.
Unless.
The bed was vacated. Did this mean? I closed my eyes, took a breath.
Wake up.
Things like this did not happen – plain and simple.
A minute later, after clambering off the flowerbox and scampering back down the stairs, I rejoined the street, sprinting along with renewed vigor.
The sun glistened on the grass, the morning, ripening. Yet, I heard not the sound of birds chattering on secluded sycamores, nor my feet pattering along the sidewalk. I was immaterial. I was the wind – gliding fluidly towards that which waited.
My body was to be found at a stoplight, punching the button spastically.
But my mind had already arrived, several streets away.
The stoplight changed. I ran. Stores whizzed by, early morning traffic sheathed the street. I had to slow my thoughts, I had to separate from the stark possibilities that incased me.
I’d dreamed of his death; simple, like the twelve forget-me-nots he threw across my floor five years ago. The last expression I saw as he departed still had yet to leave his face.
Although he moved home a year ago, he never really returned.
Wake up.
I veered my course to the left, dodging through traffic, and found the street.
It was there that my mind had arrived.
This avenue was vacated and tranquil, an eclipse of the earlier. And there was that house; green and silent as ever.
Clutching a stitch in my stomach, I dove over the waist high fence and tripped on my own foot. I fell, scraping my elbows on concrete and swearing beneath my breath, but I couldn’t stop. I scrambled to my feet and staggered towards a ground levelled window.
Exhausted, I tripped again. Then several strangled events laced together. First, I tumbled to that window. I held my hands out, expecting to hit glass, but realized too late that it was open. Before that fully registered, I was toppling – headfirst – through the open window. My insides plummeted, muting my scream. I hit the bed with a sharp thump, before it tossed me to the floor.
There, I landed, **** first, mute and sprawling.
While my body congealed, my heart auditioned as drummer, and stars teased my peripheral.
The room materialized as I blinked through confusion. Softy, I sat myself upright.
His eyes were the first thing I saw.
Reality zapped me so hard I almost fell back again; he was alive, I’d woken up.
Then my senses caught up; my elbows cried, my head throbbed, and my breath rekindled in ragged crackles. As if a switch was flicked, I suddenly identified sound; the humming of cars outside, the crisp ticking of a clock, the gurgling of his fish tank. So loud – so distinct. Color sharpened and brightened.
My mind in overdrive.
He was here.
He sat on his bed, alive and well, speechless with alarm.
Oliver was shirtless, lidded only by flannel pants and black gloves. He considered me with bleeding elbows, disheveled hair, and desperate eyes. Then, the shock on his face gave way for a giant grin.
“Come here often?” He inquired. His voice, raspy with morning.
Still panting and shaking, I conjured a smile to match Oliver's.
“You’d think so. . .” I choked.
“And I’d be right, Maple.” He finished. I managed a laugh.
Nothing had changed.
Note: I dreamt about death, and awoke feeling frantic. Although logic confirmed that everything was okay, my intuition said otherwise. To remedy my unease, I channeled that dream into a story. A story I wrote when I was fourteen years old. Seven years later, the same story continues to illustrate my psyche; a story that set the foundation for Pretense (my novel). Herein, you’ll find that story; the origin and epithet of Maple and Oliver Starkweather.
Here goes?
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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