by Greg Chapman
The dreamscape was becoming a nightmare.
Thomas crossed the street via the pedestrian crossing. The act would have been laughable if it wasn’t for the terror of loneliness he felt in his gut. The urge was all a scramble—not sure if it was hungry or ready to defend itself. Thomas pushed it down and tried to refocus on looking for the sign.
Something in the corner of Thomas’ eye caught his attention. He turned to the right, looking east to the shore and the enormous suspension bridge that ran over the great lake. At first, he thought his mind wanted to see something; that the void of the city was playing tricks on him, but then he saw definite movement.
A figure, a man, short and barely dressed in rags, was walking west towards him. The man appeared drunk or invalid, more so, he seemed vaguely familiar.
Memory slapped Thomas’ senses with the force of a hammer as the man stepped into a broad shaft of sunlight. Thomas knew this man, oh he did. All at once the urge resurfaced, beads of sweat on his brow, the precognitive tang of blood on his tongue. All sensations familiar, but this was more than instinct—this was a revisitation.
The man, on seeing Thomas, picked up his pace and was soon crossing streets to catch up to him. Thomas stood frozen by confusion and shock. Slowly, but surely, the man came to stand before him.
“How are you here?” Thomas heard himself say.
“Beg pardon?” the man replied with a slight slur in his voice.
Thomas swallowed as the urge tugged at his gullet. “What…are you doing here—now?”
“I’m just walkin—”
The man’s words, the nuances in his stance, even the twitch in his eye was impossibly familiar.
“You got a dollar mister? Help an old veteran—”
“Out—” Thomas, said, finishing the old man’s sentence.
“What’s that—?”
Thomas didn’t answer—he leapt on the homeless man and tore out his throat in one savage bite, his hyoid bone crunching in between Thomas’ teeth, the skin flapping on his chin. Thomas stood over the old man to watch him bleed onto the pavement—just like he’d done when he was sixteen.
On the night of his first hunt.
How could he be reliving that night in the same fashion—here now—more than thirty years later?
The dead old man’s eyes suddenly came back to life and looked to Thomas.
“Because you are in my dreamscape, Thomas,” the old man said, a rivulet of blood trailing out of his shredded throat. Thomas fell backwards in fright and tried to scuttle away when the old man proceeded to sit up.
“Jesus!” Thomas said.
“I am Okin,” the dead man said.
“How—”
“Please Thomas, remain calm.”
Thomas got on his knees, but even praying for the whole scenario to be a dream would have been the epitome of irony.
“Stay calm?” Thomas said, gasping.
The dead man tried to reach for Thomas, but Thomas only retreated further.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!”
“Thomas, please—I am sorry for frightening you, but it was the only way I could connect with you. Memories are most often the subject of dreams and this is our first time.”
Thomas huddled his head in his hands, the reality of the dreamscape was jarring. Here he was talking to a god inside the dead body of a man he remembered already killing three decades ago.
“I understand this is a lot for you to take in, Thomas. I had hoped Shal-Ekh would have prepared you, but then nothing can prepare my children for the dreamscape. It is a domain they are not fully a part of.”
Thomas waved his hand at the dead man in mock surrender.
“Okay—enough with that talk. You’re hurting my head enough already. Look, this isn’t going to work if you stay…looking like that. Can’t you change or something?”
“I can see that this has unsettled you, but my true form would be even more extreme.”
“Well, what about something in between?”
The dead man thought for a moment and then smiled a little mischievously. In an instant, like the shutter of a camera clicking over, the dead man was gone, replaced by the Flesher Nero. Thomas shuddered at the transformation.
“Is this more suitable?” Nero said with Okin’s voice.
Thomas tried to shake the bewilderment from his mind.
“It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I guess it’s better than the last guy.”
Okin/Nero nodded and stood, examining the dreamscape.
“This is the first time I have seen the human city,” he said.
“Really?” Thomas said, getting to his own feet. “Wait—isn’t this your dreamscape?”
Okin/Nero smiled, and the expression seemed out of place for a god. “The dreamscape is a blank page, Thomas. Your dreams occupy it. This is the dream reality you feel most comfortable in.”
Thomas observed the vacant streets. “But why isn’t there anyone here—where are all the people?”
“I would imagine that has a lot to do with the quest you are on, Thomas.”
Thomas frowned. “What quest?”
“The one where you are trying to find out who you are.”
“I’m a Flesher.”
“No, Thomas—I said “who” you are. Aren’t you trying to find out where you fit within all these worlds?”
Thomas paced and scratched his head. “Okay, you’ve lost me—now you’re telling me that I’m not a Flesher?”
Okin/Nero put a hand on his shoulder. “Thomas listen to me, you are a Flesher—one of the Phagus, those who eat the flesh of living humans, but that is only a part of who you are, who you once were and who you are destined to become.”
Thomas blinked hard. “What?”
Okin/Nero leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Do you want to know why you feel so alone, Thomas?”
Thomas nodded, his eyes wide with expectation. “Tell me—please.”
“Because you are still being born.”
20
“Are you alright, Thomas?” Okin said.
Thomas stared at the god wearing Nero’s face—the second Flesher he’d ever encountered— and his brain tried to connect the words he’d spoken to the face. Nero was all obscenities and cynicism, not divine intervention.
“Do you understand what I said, Thomas?” Okin said, a hint of paternal concern on his face.
“Uh…I’m not sure,” Thomas said, feeling a mix of haziness and nausea. “Nothing makes sense here—I wish we could talk face to face.”
“But we are Thomas,” Okin said, gesturing to the city, smiling at its inverted beauty. “This is where you chose to speak to me. You should feel comfortable here.”
Thomas sat down on the kerb. “When you say I “haven’t been born yet,” you’re talking from a spiritual level or something, right?”
Okin sat beside him and Thomas had to remind himself again that he wasn’t talking to Nero. Briefly, he wondered where and how Nero was—the last time he’d seen him was when the Skiift attacked them outside the city walls, before he was kidnapped. So much time had passed since then, so many answers begging more questions.
“In a way, yes—and no,” Okin said.
Thomas grimaced at his nonsense. “Come on, you’re going to have to dumb it down a tad if you want me to keep up. You know, put it in Layman’s Terms.”
“Layman’s Terms?” Okin asked, intrigued.
“It’s a human expression—it means putting an explanation into plain English.”
Okin bowed his head in deep thought. Thomas wasn’t sure if the Great One was trying to think about what he wanted to say in plain English, or if he was still trying to decipher its meaning. Then he finally said:
“You need to take what I said literally, Thomas.”
“What?”
“What I said: that you haven’t been born yet.”
“Okay…” Thomas said, uncertain.
Okin stood and then sat down in front of Thomas
so they were almost nose-to-nose. Thomas felt a little apprehensive at having his personal space invaded so bluntly, but he knew he had to try and trust him.
“There is one mystery you seem to have overlooked, Thomas.”
“Which is?”
Okin nodded. “You know what you are yes?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, wave of shame crossing his face.
“But you don’t know who you are.”
“Well, I think you’ve already established that.”
Okin turned to peer down the street. “Why do you think you chose the city for us to meet, Thomas?”
Thomas shrugged. “I didn’t realise I had a choice.”
“Where is your apartment?”
Thomas looked at the closest street sign. “My apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Probably about four blocks from here—in Lanigan Avenue—why?”
Okin smiled wildly. “Take me to it.”
After walking in silence for the four blocks, Thomas and Okin came to Lanigan Avenue, another quiet street in the nothing city. Without the sound of their intrusive voices, Thomas realized how empty the city was—there was no life at all—not even a solitary bird in the sky.
Do I really feel that alone? Thomas thought to himself.
They walked further on, past delicatessens, movie theatres and drug stores, even the café where Thomas saw Stephanie for the first time in a long time. The tables and chairs were pristine, just waiting for new patrons to occupy them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Okin behind him, those dazzling eyes on him, studying him and he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. At one point, Thomas considered telling the Great One to stop gawking, but thought better of it—how do you even find the courage to order a deity around?
Thomas looked ahead and saw the entrance to his loft, the one that sat atop the old silver age picture theatre. He smelled the familiar smells coming from within, the varnish on the floors, the clothing of his meals hanging in the wardrobe, the sheets on his bed. There was even a hint of Nero lingering from the time he broke in.
They crossed the street and Thomas reached out to open the door, eager to get inside. Then he realized he hadn’t consulted Okin.
“Do we go in?” Thomas said.
“If we must,” Okin said.
Okin, for a god, was full of contradictions.
“You asked me to bring you here,” Thomas said.
“Did I?”
Thomas could tell from Okin’s tone that it wasn’t a question and the Great One seemed uninterested in the whole street, as if Thomas was wasting his time.
“Is something wrong?” Thomas said.
“Why don’t you try the door and we’ll see.”
Thomas, struggling to understand Okin’s sudden change in mood, put his hand on the doorknob and turned.
Locked.
Thomas turned to Okin, his face flushed with embarrassment. “It’s locked.”
“Is it?” Okin seemed unsurprised.
“I’ll get my keys,” Thomas said searching his pockets only to miraculously find them in his right hand. “Well, it is my dream, isn’t it?”
Okin said nothing, so Thomas quickly turned his attention back to the door and tried the key in the lock. It refused to budge.
“I don’t get it—it should work!” he said.
“Should it?”
“Yeah, it should—it’s my goddamned apartment!”
“And you said it was your dream, did you not?”
Thomas turned on Okin, frustration building in his chest. “Look, what’s going on here—are you trying to try some…magical crap on me?”
Okin was serious, his eyes dark and frightening.
“There are no tricks, at least not from me. It’s quite simple Thomas—the door won’t open because this is not the apartment I wanted you to bring me to.”
“But I live here—”
Okin took the keys from Thomas’ hand and hurled them into a nearby alley where they landed with a dull clang amongst a group of dumpsters.
“Hey! What the hell?”
Okin jabbed Thomas in the chest. “You need to start thinking Thomas—you need to open your soul, or you will forever be alone! You need to forget this place—you need to remember your home!”
Thomas pushed him back. “What the fuck are you talking about? This is where I live! I haven’t lived anywhere else except—”
Okin smiled again. “Yes, Thomas!”
“Oh, shit! I brought you to the wrong place—”
“Yes, I wanted you to take me to the apartment where you grew up, where you first met Stephanie, the den you ventured out from at night.”
“But…it’s run down and on the other side of the city.”
Okin gripped his arms. “That is where you must take me, Thomas! Use your memories! Remember the place you love, and you will be there!”
Thomas was flustered, his heart pounding. “How?”
“This is your dream Thomas! Only you can do this! Remember its sounds, smells and tastes. Remember how you felt when you lived there, how you existed, alone yes, but whole, unhindered by angst and pain!”
Thomas strained to recall the apartment, the place where he simply awoke one morning and began to suck his thumb until the flesh was so raw it fell apart and sustained him. Flecks of dead skin on the floor and motes in the sunrise. He remembered the books on the shelves that helped him discover the outside world.
White light erupted behind his eyes, almost paralysing him.
His mind’s eye ripped open and through it, Thomas found himself back in the Flaeschama and its cold grey walls. He felt the warmth of the great fire in the Sederunt and the anxiety of expectation.
“I see something…” Thomas told Okin in a panic.
“What do you see Thomas?” Okin said almost begging him.
In the memory, he saw a figure, slender and dark. She emerged from the shadows into the firelight, smiling at him adoringly.
“It’s Stephanie!” Thomas said. “She’s in my head!”
“Stay calm Thomas, tell me what you see!”
“She’s—”
Stephanie was dressed immaculately in the finest garb—the clothes of a King’s daughter. She reached for him and kissed him passionately.
“I’m kissing her!”
“Good!” Okin said on the verge of elation. “What is she saying to you?”
Thomas strived hard to hear her distant words through the fog in his head.
“Something…something about her father—she hates him.”
“That’s true, but think Thomas, remember there is yet more to hear!”
Thomas’ head was set to split open, the dreamscape like a drug coursing through his brain, toying with the urge like it were a violin string.
“But what is this?” Thomas said trying to open his eyes. “Why am I seeing this? I don’t remember this!”
“You do! You have to try, Thomas!” Okin gripped Thomas’ arms so firmly that the Flesher feared the bones would snap, yet he was more afraid of the visions in his head.
“Please—I don’t want to see this anymore!”
“No—you must look Thomas! It is vital that you see this!”
“I can’t!”
“You shall!”
Okin’s voice—the sheer weight of it—knocked Thomas to the ground like a gust of wind. Okin was desperate and Thomas, unable to open his eyes, was lucky to be spared the mask of fury on the Great One’s face.
“You will not deny me this release!” the god said.
Thomas wanted to find safety in his head, so he re-conjured the first apartment: the simple brick edifice, six storeys high, the scrabble-board like arrangement of the mailboxes, the narrow elevator and the blood-red carpet in the hallway.
Blood: so much blood that Stephanie shed.
No. He pushed that past horror aside and walked up the hall to his door—apartment 201. He put the key in the lock and the door flew open.
/> Thomas saw himself reading from an encyclopaedia; he looks peaceful, calm—accepting of his place in the world.
Then the world lurches and time races backward. Thomas is ten and he is crying, screaming as the pain of self-mutilation—self-cannibalisation—shatters his fragile psyche. Thomas wanted so much to cradle him—tell him that everything was going to be okay. That it is okay to be alone.
Time steals the opportunity from him, and he’s ripped back even further. The room is bare apart from a bookshelf filled with books, all new. The curtains part and the early morning sun is gleaming on the polished floorboards.
And there, on one of those floorboards, a single spot of blood shines red.
Thomas bends to stare at it. Whose blood could it be?
But the real question is why is it spreading—growing?
Okin’s voice pulls Thomas out of memory lane, back into the unreality of the dreamscape.
“Thomas, what did you see, child?” he said.
Thomas’ head feels like it’s on fire. “Oh, shit, it’s too much! What am I?”
“You are my child—a Flesher, but only now!”
“Stop it! Shut up please—this is killing me!”
Okin tried to lift Thomas to his feet, but Thomas only shoved the Great One away and began to scream in unendurable agony.
“Get away from me! Get the fuck away from me!”
“Thomas—”
“Leave me! Let me out of this place!”
Tears ran down Okin’s face, the face of a father disconnected from his son, trying to find the loose threads that once strengthened their bond. Thomas continued to wail, and the city began to crumble. Roads cracked, windows shattered, and the bridge wavered like a playground swing.
“Let me help you, child,” Okin said. “Let me in.”
“GET OUT!”
The dreamscape collapsed and Thomas was wrenched back into the world, his lungs choking on the pool’s black waters. Shal-Ekh loomed into view and cradled him, that same look of fatherly concern on his face.
“I thought you were lost…” he said.
Thomas looked to the prophet, mortified: “I’m afraid…I’ve found myself.”