“You’re going to have to face him eventually.”
I went back to the last state I saw him in. I wondered if I should have gone full formal with Orphic hymns and ritual washing and proper preparation of a space that will never be properly clean no matter how close I cleave to traditional ways.
One of my greatest insecurities is doing things the wrong way and not knowing better. One of my greatest failures is doing things the wrong way despite after knowing better.
My worry is making my skin ripple under the grave-woven cloak.
His hat glows just enough to give the hint of its shape. I look up just in time to watch a great staff of office become a rod of measurement held to obscure the face I could not see anyway. Behind him, the vertical pool of darker darkness tickles the barely seen objects in my bedroom.
He turns the moment I recognize him and walks through the portal.
The portal remains open.
I scramble to my feet and accept the unspoken invitation by walking through the darker darkness with blind eyes open.
The first dream that followed after entering the portal completely engulfed me. I had no skills beyond what physics said I could have. If I was lucid, I would have been able to recognize the deep fear the scenario was playing out. However, if I was lucid, I would also have been able to realize the scenario had a damn good chance of becoming real if Trump was elected president.
Only at a crucial point in the dream, where I had to choose who was going to have a chance to live and why, did I realize what world was I in. All my otherworld skills mocked me. I could protect [people] in this realm, but in the physical world, I was just another hashtag waiting to be spelled out.
I did not take out my frustration on the antagonist in the scenario. I knew him to be a construct, formed from the strongest threads my anxieties and worries could assemble. I accepted my physical limits and walked away from the antagonist, hoping to depart from the dream as well.
I saw a flash of phosphorescent glow in a floating pool of darker darkness. The glow nods at me and I fall.
I’m awake.
Dter is apologizing for waking me.
The hallway light is strong in my face, making the shadows beside the bed inky and devouring.
She doesn’t openly question why I’m suddenly hugging her with a fierceness usually reserved for the very drunk, but she consoles me just the same. I deal with her concern, then go back to bed.
When I was in high school, I was part of academic competitions. They served to mask other issues that if treated properly, would have made me ineligible (or incapable) to compete. I am now confronting those issues on my own after decades of willful denial by my immediate family.
A few years ago, I spoke with a former teacher and sponsor of those competitions. He asked me if I ever received treatment for those issues he correctly identified. I challenged him immediately. If he knew then, that I was having those problems then, why did he not do the right thing, and disqualify me and/or refer me for help.
“Until you came, [the school] didn’t even make the district [list of winners]. And then you came and carried us all the way to a state championship and a national qualification! I figured you’d get help eventually, but I couldn’t let a sure win walk away!” I let him know the price I paid for his “win” and hung up before he could mock me with an apology.
In the second dream, I’m speaking to this year’s graduating class. Behind me were all the school trophies that were won because of my involvement. They still had my name on them after all these years. The school has never been able to duplicate my success.
I’m supposed to be talking to the graduating class about the qualities that enabled me to hit those unchallenged high-water marks.
I’m supposed to be telling these kids to sacrifice themselves to their parents’ and elders’ dreams regardless of the personal price they would have to pay.
I felt a phosphorescent glow behind me. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Strangely though, I was not lucid yet. I did not know where orwhen I was.
I had a choice. What will I say?
“You do not owe those who came before you, your life. You do not owe them your mental health, your physical strength, or your faith and beliefs. Your parents will make much of the Social Contract they signed on your behalf when you were born. I will make much of the fact that you will have to walk out the consequences of your actions, regardless of who or what pushed you to make those decisions.”
The tears made mud of my voice, and a few members of administration tried to pull me away from the lectern.
“I was sacrificed here twenty odd years ago. These trophies you see stacked behind me were bought by application of symptoms of aggravated PTSD brought on by previous injuries. My teachers at the time, now your principal and superintendent, made the willful choice to take advantage of my weaknesses so that the school, and by proxy, they, would have fleeting glory that would be completely undone not even two months after my eligibility ended.”
“They are now asking… demanding… that you and your siblings make the same sacrifice for their gain. They are telling you to have faith in a system that desires false excellence at any cost. A system that will throw you away once you have no more blood to grease the wheels.”
“As a former alumnus, as one who has sat where you now sit and havesurvived to tell you what comes next, I tell you with every last living fiber of my being: To hell with what they want. Find your way. Find what keeps you surviving. Find what keeps you human. And once you find it, do not abdicate what is your primary role in this life. Dear Children, be true to yourself. And if you find your self has changed, then change with it. Those of my generation and before will try to buy their peace with your bones. Give them not a one, whole, broken, or discarded.”
The administration succeeded in cutting off my microphone at that point. The phosphorescent glow behind me prevented them from forcing me off the stage. I whispered to it that I wanted to destroy the trophies. Medals and statuettes that I knew were still physically in the glass case of my former high school. The glow swayed in a way that I interpreted as a denial of my request. I closed my eyes and said I had had enough of this place.
The glow bobbed in a way as if to agree. A darker darkness spread under my feet and I fell.
The sun has managed to find the one sliver of space not overlapped by my eastern curtains. The shaft of light, no longer than an inch and no wider than my hope, falls perfectly on my eyes. My face is chill as I wake sluggishly. A murmur of impeity is directed at Apollo for assisting his brother with this fuckery.
Why am I crying?
I am reminded.
I retract the murmur of impeity as I recognize the hidden blessing.
Early morning duties are fulfilled but it’s too early to make the coffee just yet. It’s Saturday. If I don’t have to be dressed yet, then I’m not gonna get dressed yet. I’ll just lie here and maybe close my eyes for a second. I’m not awake enough to understand what’s going on.
I hear my name called with sharpness. I wake to find myself at my desk at work. Usually I’m left alone to deal with things as only I can deal with them with efficiency now. I look at the stacks of paperwork, growing as I watch, and realize I may have become too capable at my position. I may have job security as no one can do as I do. But I now have job rigidity as the new general manager may not allow me to transfer to a better paying position elsewhere.
Speaking of the new general manager, I hear his voice calling me again. I jump to my feet and dash out of the office. There is a crowd assembled at the door to his, and they part just enough for me to see what is inside.
Little sticky notes, flower stickers, and printouts have been attached, adhered, or applied against every possible square inch of stuff in his office. Even the ceiling was expertly tiled with sayings that had no business in a Fortune 500 company. I had to pause to admire the handiwork. The jokester spared no surface. Even the space between the phone handset and cradle was covered.
There is a phosphorescent glow in the far corner of the general manager’s office. I felt that I was the only one who saw the manifestation of light. I had an idea the glow would be pleased by the prank. It remained severe as it facelessly studied me.
“WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?”
That’s a good question. I knew what he was really asking. “Who wants to be fired?” While I had been involved in a few light-hearted pranks under the previous king general manager, I would never engage in anything of this scale. Also, I have been employed in enough places long enough to know what happens when a regime changes hands.
The cabinet is cleaned, and I’m not talking about paper goods or expired ink cartridges.
My own employment at this department was a direct result of one such “house cleaning”. The new manager of my department was unhappy with those under her and swept them all away in one action. She brought in temps until she could find committed full hires. I was one of those temps. I did the job so well even though I knew it could be yanked under me at any given moment, that I was offered a permanent position. I accepted.
Now my boss’ boss has been replaced. And my fellow employees have forgot that the son is not always like the father. Yes, the previous boss handpicked his replacement, but that doesn’t mean we can take the same liberties as before.
The new general manager bellows a few minutes about responsibility, propriety, and the social stratification required when layers of management are not physically isolated from each other. He then sweeps his gaze over us all before returning to concentrate on my face.
“You’re not laughing.”
Of course, I’m the odd one out again. I’m not laughing because thisisn’t funny. This is a gross invasion of personal space, an unrepentant waste of resources that has to come out of someone’s budget, and can be taken as an act of dominance. I’m not laughing because someone can be fired for this.
“This is a severe event, Sir. In the context I have found it in, I do not find it humorous.”
“But you’re not laughing. Everyone else is. So why aren’t you laughing?”
I turn slightly to face him and in doing so, spy one of two employees I suspect of having masterminded the deed. She was laughing in a nervous way. Fearful. My stoic face only made her laugh louder.
“I’m not laughing, Sir, because I have a growing pile of [paperwork] I have to process by the end of today. Because I don’t have the time to pull off or even assist with a prank of this magnitude. Because I don’t have the expected social reactions that my peers exhibit. Because from your tone of voice, I’m expecting to be fired because I’m different. Because it’s not bloody funny at all, Sir.”
Everyone else stops laughing. A flower sticker loses its war against gravity and flutters off the ceiling light. It lands with a soft humph that reminds me of the sound of dirt being thrown into an open grave. I want to smile at that. I maintain my stoicism.
The new general manager scares us all as he bursts into deep peals of authentic laughter. “[The previous general manager] warned me that you are severe at times and not to take it personally. Go back to your stacks and burn them down before they grow too large. I’ll take care of this here.”
Everyone else laughed at me with him, and joined him scolding me for my cold and emotionless demeanor. I felt like crying, but I let not a single tear escape. I reminded myself that they haven’t lived through what I have lived through. That they have never been on the wrong end of a rifle or threatened with imprisonment for opening the wrong door at the wrong time. They don’t know what it is like to have to pretend they are enjoying abusive, malicious, and painful behavior. They have never had a leash around their neck. They never had to pretend to be unconscious to make the beating stop. They always held the lead.
The glow in the corner shifted and I became lucid. I still played the part just the same. I nodded a formal excusal to the new general manager. I gave the main suspect severe stinkeye as I passed her. I went to my office and closed the door. The phosphorescent glow was behind the door as I closed it.
“Did you really have to confront me with my deepest fears and wounds?”
The god did not answer. His silence was more than I could bear, and my tears finally overflowed the dam of my control. A terrible pain ripped through my chest and stomach. Now that I knew I was dreaming, I was not surprised to see the metaphorical wound opening under my shirt. Symbolic of all the toxic and self-damaging ideals, thoughts, and beliefs I had internalized, shards of beautiful and sharp glass pierced me.
I pulled out what I could, named each piece, threw them to the ground, and ground them under my heel. Silently the obscured god watched.
“I’ve already been poked at by your brother. I haven’t the time to do anything more. I thought I was supposed to be directly confronted by you, but then again, with this being Mercury retrograde season, I guess I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. But this isn’t over, is it.”
He reached forward and tucked the forgotten grave shadow cloak tighter around me. It stung the exposed edges of the chest wound. He tapped the brim of his petasus with the caduceus and a pool of darker darkness opened under me.
I fell.
I woke.
Shivering from chill and from crying, I laid in bed for some time until the craving for coffee finally pulled me out from under the comfortable blankets.
“I know.”