This is what happens when I stay up too late thinking about whatever the hell. It's not really finished, but I'm not sure if I'll pick it up again or not.
The
clock on the wall ticked differently than most clocks normally would. Instead
of your average “tick, tock” there was a difference in the second tone. “Tick,
teck” it would almost say. Outside the window I was seated near, there was a seemingly
peaceful pathway that led to a typical outdoor parking lot. Amusing, I found
myself thinking, how landscaping is so important for the initial appeal of a
building. It seems to work, though, particularly for this place. Strangely, it’s
always been the place I knew I could speak openly without judgment. That should
be expected, some would say.
“I
haven’t seen you in a while.” Kathy said, looking at me with a knowing
expression. I had done this to her before, asking her to meet with me and
completely jumping ship shortly before – normally without any notice to her.
“It’s
been a bit of a bad month,” I sighed, dragging my focus away from the absurdity
of the placement of plant life in accordance with first impressions.
“Bad
how?” She settled in, putting her pen down onto the book on her lap.
“Just
bad. Not productive. Concentration’s gone to shit.” Even though she was merely
sitting across a small rug, I felt uncomfortable about the closeness.
“Elaborate
on that, you know I’m not psychic.” Kathy always managed to drag an answer out
of me, never afraid to put in the hard work. I’ve been seeing her for about two
years now, and she remains the only person I can confidently tell my concerns
or worries to without any fear of the information being passed on to another
person without my knowledge. Gossip, some would say. I simply know it as the social
solvent to my opinion of another person. Trust issues, she calls it.
“I
stopped dreaming. Even when I sleep for ten hours or more, no dreams.”
“We’ve
tested you over and over. You enter REM sleep every time you’re asleep for long
enough, like clockwork, Kale. I’m sorry you aren’t always able to dream, but
you’re getting the rest your body requires.”
“It’s
not about rest.”
“So?
What is it about then? Why are you here today, and not a week ago when you made
the third appointment you didn’t show up for?” Kathy uncrossed her legs and
crossed them again, looking at me intently.
“The
dreams are the only time I get away. You know how it is. Living that other life
is all I have, sometimes.” Even verbally admitting this much made my face burn
with shame. I am a normal human being, for fuck’s sake. “I can’t concentrate on
my goddamn job, and I certainly can’t keep that stupid woman entertained right
now. She loves to go through her fits as soon as I show any lack of interest in
her petty gossip, blaming me for all of her problems.”
“You’re
depressed again. Have you skipped any of your Walbutrin in the last month? I
can’t increase the dose again yet, not until I can talk to you more. The clonazepam
should be helping your social anxiety, so what’s wrong?”
“I
stopped taking that shit.” I could see the hackles on the back of her neck
standing up as she forcefully kept her calm, but the fire burned in her eyes nonetheless.
“Have
you truly stopped them this time, or are you trying to get a reaction out of me
again? Take it, don’t take it. I get paid either way. When they’re carrying
your bloated body away from the shore after you’ve decided to jump off of a
bridge because you couldn’t take waking
life anymore, guess who they’ll come and talk to about your psychological
health?” Kathy knew me too well.
“Fine,
yes, I’m taking them. Happy?”
Shortly
after that I found my way back onto the seemingly peaceful path that led to the
parking lot in which my car sat solitarily, waiting for me. Another famous pop
star, painfully full of emotions, moaned his feelings at me from my speakers as
my engine roared to life, and I shut the radio off as quickly as I could
muster. That woman changed my radio station again, goddammit.
I pass
plenty of restaurants and shops on my way home whenever I make the journey into
the city to see Kathy. It’s been happening less frequently lately, as I had
once again let myself escape into the dreams. I’m perfectly sane. These are simply
dreams, after all, but it is the way in which my dreams make me think that
truly captivates my attention. They are puzzles for me to solve, and whenever I
am without one I only feel boredom. It is the times when I do not have these
things to occupy my mind that I find myself with that woman – Jennifer. She’s
not much for intelligent conversation, and I’m not even very fond of her - I’m
sure the same is true for her - but she is something to occupy the time.
Then
I am home, and there is nothing to occupy my mind but the predictability that
is late night television. Polishing off the last bottle of whiskey from my
freezer, I find myself sweetly unconscious once again.
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Fire.
Five dead already. The beast’s left
wing is slightly wounded, but it has managed to stay in flight for a large
amount of time. Ten men left cowering in an alcove ten feet away from my
location. There is one arrow left in my quiver, another quiver with the rest of
the men. The fire is spreading quicker than originally anticipated. Seven
minutes until I am flushed from the rock I have hidden behind. The beast is
moving further away, circling back. A screech – it’s closed in on the men’s
location. There is a pitchfork, most likely discarded from a farmer when the
beast attacked. Bow in hand, and using my rock as leverage, I fling myself
closer to the place where the men are crouched – searching the sky for the
beast. Without speaking, one of them sees me and throws the quiver of arrows towards
me. I move to grab it, rolling evenly and falling into a crouch. The pitchfork
is at my feet, an arrow knocked and ready. Very quickly, the beast is upon me,
screeching bloody murder and moving its wings back. The beast slows in the air
before me – throat open - ready to spit more fire. Before it can pull the oil
from its belly, I manage to loose an arrow, placing it perfectly in the gland
that ignites the flame, just inside the beast’s throat. The beast tries to scream,
but only gagging sounds emerge from its mouth. Finally, it lands and attempts
to charge me.
Taking the pitchfork in hand, I
allow the beast to come closer. Just as it gets close enough to grab me in its useless,
flameless mouth, I aim the pitchfork for its right eye and feel the teeth make
contact with the beast’s eye. The beast falters, falling back and clawing madly
at its eye, the pitchfork remaining. The men find their courage once again, and
emerge from hiding – raining blows left and right onto the beast and managing
to restrain it with metal chains.
I am congratulated for my bravery,
and the men I helped – soldiers in the town I had only just left an hour ago –
invite me back into town for a hero’s feast. I have slayed the strange beast,
they tell me, and I must be rewarded properly. Smiling politely, I find myself
declining – I was only doing what was right, and it would have been selfish of
me to abandon the men in their time of need. I am experienced in the matter, I
tell them, and I am happy I could help.
Soon
again I am on my way, with a fresh horse and a bag full of food for my trip
supplied by the thankful town. This I could not refuse, as I was in dire need
of transport and sustenance.
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