gloamingdaydream

He did not find the same anciently layered bricks waiting upon his return, but a metallic rectangle, green sparks voiding the gap, denying all entry to those with no access. She walked through and passed without problems, her body scanned instantly by the thousands of miniature drones observing every walk througher. She looked back and he was still standing there, staring at the words “Access Granted” typed out in those same limey sparks within the gaping hole at eye level. Again, she walked back and this time, told him to follow closely behind her, and so he did, helplessly crawling besides her powerful wing, cautious of any detractors. It was the first time he’d seen Mona wearing a suit in his life, the last time he’d seen her was seven years ago when he’d mocked her after class for her round shape, slipped her a note in which he’d sketched a figure of her limbs stuck out of a circle, an insinuation of its own that she hadn’t taken kindly too. Afterwards, they’d shared a class for two years, and then had gone their separate ways for five years once he’d transferred schools, but never once did it occur to him that she continued to exist outside of his line of sight. He mentally sketched another figure of her, this time her form did not protrude out of a circle, but a thick straight line. 

Mona showed him to the hall where everyone had gathered, wished him a good night and turned around, but he called out to her. “Yes?” A single, firm word of hers struck him into place. He asked to be introduced to someone, anyone, but she laughed and walked away. He looked around him, this was no hall, but a giant, ceilingless citadel. Four sets of stairs leading down to the main event, a curio of possibilities. The sea of persons would flood him immediately if he simply dived in, so each step was taken half-measuredly, delaying an inevitable. They did not take notice of him, all wore black fabric-like armor, the shiny gleam betraying their ecosystem. He alone did not partake in their predatory behaviour-like system, he alone did not participate in the gloating of affairs. Liam sat at the edge of the stairs, their eye contact led to a brief contest, both attempting to not laugh, but then greeted each other as if they’d never met in their lives. An introduction to the person they had shifted into was more befitting rather than the ones who’d been lost forever. Only once they had shook hands had he realized that the physical manifestation which one assumed did not transform nearly as much as the mental stimulus, had also taken on new life: A new grip dawning on him, and so, with none of the shivers of the past left to them, it was well and truly an introduction between strangers.

The rest of the night passed him by with an eerily familiar sense, with emotions believed to have been discarded, or at least evolved in some sense. And yet, they returned, those lashing outs, those regrets he vowed to alleviate. Their memory had not, after all, done justice to the cords they used to wrap around him and bring him back to a state four years past. The faces passing him by did not form, because he refused to assess their shapes with the inconvenience of a look. The lives intertwining around him refused to stop by him, because his had that same shield drawn up. He sat alone at a table, thinking of Liam’s strange appearance. At that moment, he had not taken note of the stranger’s disassemblement of the simulation built around him. It was no longer a moment built to relive the past, but a fraudulent affair that introduced new ingredients into itself. And so, with his head down, he did not once peer into the giant floating television screen that captivated all those present, presenting parallel possibilities, alternate events to overshadow what indeed had occurred and would not be erased despite this chicanery.

He drifted far and wide, obliterating five entire hours before the light blurred slightly back into his eyes. He had not fallen asleep, he had not left this world consciously, but had instead wrapped up his capacity to think inside a hindrance of a cocoon, and taken alongside it a chunk of the river that flowed one way. It was then that he was approached at last. Was it the dissipation of his spell that encouraged the other to take those steps, or was it the premonition of that approach that led to the spell’s dissolution? Regardless, he knew the other now stood in front of him, and had asked him a question. In the frame of a second, he contemplated three possible options:

A:

“Shut the fuck up!” He yelled, jumping out of his seat and unleashing a barrage of pure fury upon the dreadful fellow, who had no time to react. He unleashed punch after punch, getting on top of the body of the man who now rested on the floor, and battered him bloody. He waited for someone to stop him, to hold him off, but none did, and they all watched as he beat a man to death for having deigned to approach him, to burst the confidence of the bubble he’d oh so carefully constructed over the course of this nightless night. He stared at his hands, drenched in the pain that one’s body excreted and that could not stop any longer. He screamed and charged, but none had remained, only the angst of his fists…

B:

“Who the fuck are you?” He antagonized the man, but did nothing further. The other had not lost his temper but replied with a subtle rebuttal that suggested the synergy of a tactful young grasshopper, also known as someone familiar with the realm of the couth. However, the other would then truly receive the full brunt of his shield, and would quickly step away, leaving him to replicate his own self fulfilling zone until the time came to leave this place behind.

C:

He greeted the other with a duplicitous smile, a pale imitation of their atrocities yet not pale enough to raise the other’s eyebrows, regardless of whether had noticed or not. This would then lead to a truly and utteringly interesting exchange of ideas, where he would lay upon the other his manuscript, or at least the barebones concept that he’d materialized over the past year.

So, what option had he chosen?  A secret, fourth one: Option D, one where he’d frozen in silence, either incapable or unwilling to offer a reply, choosing to ignore the existence of a presence within his vicinity. And so the other slid away similarly, left to content himself with the image of a speeding, invisible bullet. And so they faded away, one by one with their distant lies, and still he disbelieved. He felt the sounds slowing in the ravine he’d been pulled into. 

The chime of lights above hollowed out under the nocturnal grave, a triangular metallic future built for those who sustained their identities up til now. He had none remaining to sustain, so continued to observe. On one side, the encounters partaken by the others proved to be a swirling self indulgent scenario for those who wished to showcase their intellectual forthcomings. He inadvertently eavesdropped on one of the others at a table behind him, separated by a small wall of grey shapes that he could still peek over if he chose to turn around to do so. The other was speaking to a girl, or rather, he was speaking to and of himself aloud, while a girl happened to be standing there, mimicking the act of listening. The boyish man/manish boy spoke of the family airport, how he would promptly be working there after graduating from college in the next “couple of years” and so his future was “all but set” through a guarantee of familial circumstances. The girl other nodded as the male marched on and on, only pausing occasionally in order to take a richly spoiled sip from the sparkly yellow liquid in the glass that he held up in the palm of his right hand.

His thoughts drifted back to his manuscript. Once it appears even mildly in his thoughts, it would soon to be the overarching object of his mind. The drift that had taken Him there forewent the erasure of those beetallic persky hours. So He returned once more, just as soon as he’d left and zoned back into reality’s battlefield. Two minutes passed by with none to spare. Why count the seconds when minutes are aplenty, why coin the minutes when the hour strikes past the point of ten fingers. Why count the hours when the days lose count of your will, why count the days when the weeks, once neverending, stack up behind your back, why count the weeks when the months are short enough to mention briefly, why count the months when the years are here one night and gone the next? Soon, very soon, he will begin counting decades.

He was in the midst of envisioning running one over one of those with a car when Mona’s voice brazenly snapped his trance. “Are you having any fun?” She asked. “Yes.” he responded. “But you haven’t spoken to anyone, all you’ve done is just sit there.” She said. “It’s fine.”

She took a seat facing him. Neither spoke for a while. While meaning minute. Minutes. She spoke again, asking if he knew Liam. He said he wasn’t sure, but that guy looked familiar. “I don’t know if he’s from around here,” she said, “but he had an invitation, how else could he have gotten in?”

He said that a lot of people from years back are forgettable and fade away, Liam simply might have been one of those whose presence could not be felt within the confines of a memory, and was more suited for the present moment. She changed this subject and asked if his back was hurting, he asked her why she thought that, and she replied that he had been “sitting weird”.

He said that it was fine, that he would be out of here soon, anyways. She hesitated before asking for his number, and he told her that he did not have a “portable cellular number”. She knew that was a lie, but did not push further. She nodded and got up. Mona turned away and walked over to a group that had begun to form.

“Won’t stop til I get a milly sadly.” overheard again from the man with the yellow glass. What exactly was “sad” about it all? A curious distinction.

With Mona out of the way, he decided to leave before another crisis hit. He felt his spine creak and neck stiffen, he felt his legs begin to weigh and his shoulders begin to rot. Quickly and quietly, he slipped away from the jerkwads. Soon, he was alone again, inside a place that could not, would not harm him. He sat at his desk with one leg up and carefully rubbed the singular hair that had grown on his foot. The more he rubbed, the more he felt like it expanded. Soon, the upper part of his palm crunched up and his spine retracted once again, bending over to accommodate the accumulated pain. He had noticed that the physical pain had increased over the past few months, but could not pinpoint a source. He suspected that mental pain, once flushed out, would be capable of transferring itself to a more solid result. The pain was like a red cloud dwelling inside his body, everywhere he knew. They could would go away on days where he was more active, and would flare up at once during his rest days. Any attempt to make a full recovery was intercepted by this strange and painful paralysis. Regardless, none of that prevented him from rubbing his left hand’s index finger on the one spot in his left leg where faciality still persisted. It was almost like the hair grinded against the finger in a way. It made for an appalling appeal crushed by dorphine.

The closed drawer’s endorphins lucked out licking the keyhole that set them free for all once and for eternity.