Once Upon a Time
Sep. 10th, 2012 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
n3m3sis43I wake to the feeling of cold rain against my face.
For a moment, my brain refuses to process what is going on. I roll over and try to clutch my pillow so I can go back to sleep. It's the tickle of slightly damp leaves on my skin that alerts me to the situation at hand. There is no pillow. There is no bed. I shouldn't be sleeping here.
No matter how many times this happens, it still comes as a surprise.
I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I'm in a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels like it's eating itself from the inside.
What the hell happened last night?
Something twists deep inside me and I lean forward, retching. I am rocked by wave after wave of dry heaves. When it's over, I collapse onto the wet ground, sweating despite the chill in the air. It's a gray morning, but even the small amount of light that filters through the clouds is too bright. I moan and throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.
Memories hit me like a slap in the face, images that don't make sense.
* * * * *
I'm sitting in a smoke-filled bar with walls paneled in dark wood. The marble-topped tables and leather chairs were probably elegant once, but now the tables are marred by cracks and the chairs are pocked with burn marks. There's a book of matches on the table in front of me. Its cover is green and the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" are printed upon it. I grab the matchbook and jam it into the pocket of my jeans.
Nearby, four men in jackets and ties argue vociferously over a game of pool. At the table next to me, a man in a tan coat and fedora stares off into the distance with a moody expression. He's chewing a cigar and nursing a glass of brown liquor.
* * * * *
There's a large bump on my head. I rub at it absently as I contemplate whether I should call someone to come and get me. My head is beginning to clear a bit, and I recognize the vacant lot and the street it abuts. In my current physical condition, I'm not sure if I can manage the 30-minute walk from here to my parents' house.
My parents would pick me up, but more likely than not, letting them see me like this would be a ticket straight back to the hospital. LSD-induced schizophrenia, the doctors said, she's not responding well to medication.
There aren't a lot of other people I can call. Most of my school friends have stopped talking to me. Even before I took the medical withdrawal, they avoided me. I may be crazy, but I'm not blind. I saw the furtive glances, heard the way their conversations stopped when I entered a room. It's been months since any of them called or came to visit.
Reluctantly, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Daisuke's number. He's the only one who bothers with me now, and even he will barely look at me half the time. I can't say that I blame him. Once upon a time, I had a scholarship, a talent, a future. Now I'm in and out of hospitals, disappearing for days only to return ranting about stories no one believes. He blames himself, but it feels like he's angry at me too.
When he showed me the tiny squares of white paper in the plastic bag, I was skeptical.
"Come on, Sam," he urged me, "You're a writer. This could open doors to whole new worlds inside your mind. Can you really resist that kind of opportunity?"
I couldn't.
The trip itself was wonderful. Colors breathed and the world pulsed in time to the electronic music playing on the stereo. We lay on lawn chairs in Daisuke's back yard and stared at the sky, talking about everything and nothing. I expected to feel fear, but mostly I was lost in wonder. There were so many tiny details I had never noticed about the world before.
Time bent and stretched like the blue globules in Daisuke's softly glowing lava lamp. After nearly twenty-four hours, I slipped into sleep on a bean bag in his room. When I woke, the world seemed brighter than usual and reality felt oddly fluid. The feeling faded over the next few days until I was my normal self again.
Life in the real world resumed. Everything was fine... until the episodes started.
* * * * *
A curvy blonde girl in a skintight red dress approaches the man in the fedora. He looks her up and down and smiles appreciatively. The girl speaks to him, gesturing wildly with a look of panic on her face. Though I can't make out what she's saying, it's clear that she's asking the man for help.
Just then, shots ring out. For a moment, my feet are rooted to the floor. A few feet away from me, a waitress shrieks and throws her tray aside as she runs for cover. The tinkle of breaking glass and the matchbooks flying in all directions galvanize me into action and I dive under the table.
There is a flurry of motion in front of me. A pair of legs in charcoal gray pants and black and white wingtip shoes rushes past. I hear more gunshots, this time very close. A woman's voice screams out, "Johnny! NO! JOHNNY!"
"THAT'LL TEACH YA TO MESS WITH MY DAME, YA MEDDLING SONUVABITCH!"
* * * * *
The first episode happened about two weeks after the trip. I was sitting in my dorm room in a nightshirt and some fuzzy slippers. All of a sudden, inspiration struck - an updated version of Hansel and Gretel leaped into my mind, fully formed. I ran to my computer and began typing.
I barely got past "Once upon a time" before the world as I knew it disappeared. My yellow-painted cinder block walls and particle board desk were replaced by a great black forest with a humble woodsman's cottage by its edge. As I watched, two small children crept from the house; the younger, a girl, was crying.
It was over almost before it began, but each episode is longer than the last. Afterward, it takes a little while before all of my memories return. I have no control over where I reappear and at first, I'm a bit confused. That first time, they found me dazed and wandering half-naked near a busy street. Since then, I've learned my lesson and write fully clothed.
If I just stopped writing, I could stop the episodes entirely. I'd be normal again; I could go back to school. I could have a life. Maybe I could even have my best friend back. The problem is that I don't want to stop. Even though no one will believe me, what's happening is more than some drug-induced mental illness. The acid was the trigger, but it gave me a talent I'd be crazy not to use. The things I write become real now.
Of course, no one believes me, not even Daisuke. Unlike the others, he listens to my stories, but he just gives me that sad look and shakes his head.
* * * * *
The woman is crying hysterically and screaming Johnny's name. I think it's the blonde girl in the red dress. There is a pool of blood spreading on the floor in front of me, presumably Johnny's. I start to feel dizzy and realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.
The shiny black and white wingtip shoes appear in front of me. A moment later, a man's red and angry face comes into view. "What have we here?" he asks.
I jump up, meaning to make a run for it. In my haste, I've forgotten about the marble tabletop above me. My head slams into it hard and my vision begins to fade to gray. I crumple to the floor and the world goes dark.
* * * * *
Daisuke's shiny black Ford pulls up at the curb. By this time, I'm soaking wet and shivering so hard it hurts. I struggle to my feet, waiting for my legs to decide whether or not they're going to hold me. They conclude they'd rather not support me and I sit down hard on the sodden ground.
Daisuke is at my side in an instant, helping me up and gathering me into his arms like some sort of broken doll. I try to push him away, embarrassed.
"I'm fine. I can walk," I say, as if he's not going to notice that I'm swaying like a drunk.
"Really, Sam?" he says, his voice too gentle. "Come on."
He guides me to his car, and I collapse into the front seat. This car is his baby - tinted windows, custom rims, and leather seats. I bet he's going to be mad later when he sees all the mud and grass I'm getting everywhere. For now, he just sighs and cranks the heat up. He digs a blanket out of the backseat and drapes it over me. By the time he gets into the car, my eyelids are already starting to droop.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls the car into the street.
"You're in no shape to go home right now. I'll take you to my place," he says.
I mumble something that's probably unintelligible and drift into sleep.
When I wake again, I'm alone in Daisuke's bed, wearing a clean T-shirt that isn't mine. The door opens slowly, and Daisuke appears with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. My stomach growls and it's all I can do not to lunge at him and grab the food from his hands. Who knows how long it's been since I've eaten?
He sits on the edge of the bed as I attack the food.
"Feeling better?" he asks. His expression is strange, unreadable - not the usual pitying one I'm used to seeing lately when he meets my eyes at all.
"I will be once I finish eating," I say, pretending I don't notice. We're both silent for a few minutes as I continue to shovel food into my mouth.
"How long was I out?" I ask, once the plate and bowl are clean.
"About 8 hours," he replies.
"8 hours? I hope you didn't have plans," I say.
"I had a date," he says.
"Shit, Daisuke, I'm sorry - " I start, but he cuts me off.
"Don't worry about it," he says, "What are friends for?" He smiles, but his eyes look far away.
"Daisuke, I know you think I'm crazy," I say.
More silence.
"Sam, can I ask you a question?" he finally says.
"Sure," I reply.
"Where did you... go... this time?"
"Are you going to believe me if I tell you?" I ask.
"It's just..." His voice trails off. "It's just that I washed your clothes, and I found something in your pants pocket." He holds up a green matchbook. It's a little worse for wear, and on its cover are the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911"
I tell him my story. And for the first time in months, he really listens.
For a moment, my brain refuses to process what is going on. I roll over and try to clutch my pillow so I can go back to sleep. It's the tickle of slightly damp leaves on my skin that alerts me to the situation at hand. There is no pillow. There is no bed. I shouldn't be sleeping here.
No matter how many times this happens, it still comes as a surprise.
I open my eyes and sit up slowly. I'm in a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my stomach feels like it's eating itself from the inside.
What the hell happened last night?
Something twists deep inside me and I lean forward, retching. I am rocked by wave after wave of dry heaves. When it's over, I collapse onto the wet ground, sweating despite the chill in the air. It's a gray morning, but even the small amount of light that filters through the clouds is too bright. I moan and throw my arm across my eyes to block it out.
Memories hit me like a slap in the face, images that don't make sense.
I'm sitting in a smoke-filled bar with walls paneled in dark wood. The marble-topped tables and leather chairs were probably elegant once, but now the tables are marred by cracks and the chairs are pocked with burn marks. There's a book of matches on the table in front of me. Its cover is green and the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911" are printed upon it. I grab the matchbook and jam it into the pocket of my jeans.
Nearby, four men in jackets and ties argue vociferously over a game of pool. At the table next to me, a man in a tan coat and fedora stares off into the distance with a moody expression. He's chewing a cigar and nursing a glass of brown liquor.
There's a large bump on my head. I rub at it absently as I contemplate whether I should call someone to come and get me. My head is beginning to clear a bit, and I recognize the vacant lot and the street it abuts. In my current physical condition, I'm not sure if I can manage the 30-minute walk from here to my parents' house.
My parents would pick me up, but more likely than not, letting them see me like this would be a ticket straight back to the hospital. LSD-induced schizophrenia, the doctors said, she's not responding well to medication.
There aren't a lot of other people I can call. Most of my school friends have stopped talking to me. Even before I took the medical withdrawal, they avoided me. I may be crazy, but I'm not blind. I saw the furtive glances, heard the way their conversations stopped when I entered a room. It's been months since any of them called or came to visit.
Reluctantly, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Daisuke's number. He's the only one who bothers with me now, and even he will barely look at me half the time. I can't say that I blame him. Once upon a time, I had a scholarship, a talent, a future. Now I'm in and out of hospitals, disappearing for days only to return ranting about stories no one believes. He blames himself, but it feels like he's angry at me too.
When he showed me the tiny squares of white paper in the plastic bag, I was skeptical.
"Come on, Sam," he urged me, "You're a writer. This could open doors to whole new worlds inside your mind. Can you really resist that kind of opportunity?"
I couldn't.
The trip itself was wonderful. Colors breathed and the world pulsed in time to the electronic music playing on the stereo. We lay on lawn chairs in Daisuke's back yard and stared at the sky, talking about everything and nothing. I expected to feel fear, but mostly I was lost in wonder. There were so many tiny details I had never noticed about the world before.
Time bent and stretched like the blue globules in Daisuke's softly glowing lava lamp. After nearly twenty-four hours, I slipped into sleep on a bean bag in his room. When I woke, the world seemed brighter than usual and reality felt oddly fluid. The feeling faded over the next few days until I was my normal self again.
Life in the real world resumed. Everything was fine... until the episodes started.
A curvy blonde girl in a skintight red dress approaches the man in the fedora. He looks her up and down and smiles appreciatively. The girl speaks to him, gesturing wildly with a look of panic on her face. Though I can't make out what she's saying, it's clear that she's asking the man for help.
Just then, shots ring out. For a moment, my feet are rooted to the floor. A few feet away from me, a waitress shrieks and throws her tray aside as she runs for cover. The tinkle of breaking glass and the matchbooks flying in all directions galvanize me into action and I dive under the table.
There is a flurry of motion in front of me. A pair of legs in charcoal gray pants and black and white wingtip shoes rushes past. I hear more gunshots, this time very close. A woman's voice screams out, "Johnny! NO! JOHNNY!"
"THAT'LL TEACH YA TO MESS WITH MY DAME, YA MEDDLING SONUVABITCH!"
The first episode happened about two weeks after the trip. I was sitting in my dorm room in a nightshirt and some fuzzy slippers. All of a sudden, inspiration struck - an updated version of Hansel and Gretel leaped into my mind, fully formed. I ran to my computer and began typing.
I barely got past "Once upon a time" before the world as I knew it disappeared. My yellow-painted cinder block walls and particle board desk were replaced by a great black forest with a humble woodsman's cottage by its edge. As I watched, two small children crept from the house; the younger, a girl, was crying.
It was over almost before it began, but each episode is longer than the last. Afterward, it takes a little while before all of my memories return. I have no control over where I reappear and at first, I'm a bit confused. That first time, they found me dazed and wandering half-naked near a busy street. Since then, I've learned my lesson and write fully clothed.
If I just stopped writing, I could stop the episodes entirely. I'd be normal again; I could go back to school. I could have a life. Maybe I could even have my best friend back. The problem is that I don't want to stop. Even though no one will believe me, what's happening is more than some drug-induced mental illness. The acid was the trigger, but it gave me a talent I'd be crazy not to use. The things I write become real now.
Of course, no one believes me, not even Daisuke. Unlike the others, he listens to my stories, but he just gives me that sad look and shakes his head.
The woman is crying hysterically and screaming Johnny's name. I think it's the blonde girl in the red dress. There is a pool of blood spreading on the floor in front of me, presumably Johnny's. I start to feel dizzy and realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out with a whoosh.
The shiny black and white wingtip shoes appear in front of me. A moment later, a man's red and angry face comes into view. "What have we here?" he asks.
I jump up, meaning to make a run for it. In my haste, I've forgotten about the marble tabletop above me. My head slams into it hard and my vision begins to fade to gray. I crumple to the floor and the world goes dark.
Daisuke's shiny black Ford pulls up at the curb. By this time, I'm soaking wet and shivering so hard it hurts. I struggle to my feet, waiting for my legs to decide whether or not they're going to hold me. They conclude they'd rather not support me and I sit down hard on the sodden ground.
Daisuke is at my side in an instant, helping me up and gathering me into his arms like some sort of broken doll. I try to push him away, embarrassed.
"I'm fine. I can walk," I say, as if he's not going to notice that I'm swaying like a drunk.
"Really, Sam?" he says, his voice too gentle. "Come on."
He guides me to his car, and I collapse into the front seat. This car is his baby - tinted windows, custom rims, and leather seats. I bet he's going to be mad later when he sees all the mud and grass I'm getting everywhere. For now, he just sighs and cranks the heat up. He digs a blanket out of the backseat and drapes it over me. By the time he gets into the car, my eyelids are already starting to droop.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls the car into the street.
"You're in no shape to go home right now. I'll take you to my place," he says.
I mumble something that's probably unintelligible and drift into sleep.
When I wake again, I'm alone in Daisuke's bed, wearing a clean T-shirt that isn't mine. The door opens slowly, and Daisuke appears with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. My stomach growls and it's all I can do not to lunge at him and grab the food from his hands. Who knows how long it's been since I've eaten?
He sits on the edge of the bed as I attack the food.
"Feeling better?" he asks. His expression is strange, unreadable - not the usual pitying one I'm used to seeing lately when he meets my eyes at all.
"I will be once I finish eating," I say, pretending I don't notice. We're both silent for a few minutes as I continue to shovel food into my mouth.
"How long was I out?" I ask, once the plate and bowl are clean.
"About 8 hours," he replies.
"8 hours? I hope you didn't have plans," I say.
"I had a date," he says.
"Shit, Daisuke, I'm sorry - " I start, but he cuts me off.
"Don't worry about it," he says, "What are friends for?" He smiles, but his eyes look far away.
"Daisuke, I know you think I'm crazy," I say.
More silence.
"Sam, can I ask you a question?" he finally says.
"Sure," I reply.
"Where did you... go... this time?"
"Are you going to believe me if I tell you?" I ask.
"It's just..." His voice trails off. "It's just that I washed your clothes, and I found something in your pants pocket." He holds up a green matchbook. It's a little worse for wear, and on its cover are the words "Sammy's - Est. 1911"
I tell him my story. And for the first time in months, he really listens.
