James in the Real World

by Owen Todhunter

  JAMES IN THE

  REAL WORLD

  By

  Owen Todhunter

  In loving memory of Chris and Wayne Todhunter

  “Shout it to the blue summer sky” Hunters and Collectors, 1986

  PROLOGUE: James has a Problem

  I could easily tell you who I’m not supposed to be. Telling you who I am is another thing entirely. Self-discovery is the trickiest thing of all. As I write these words, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my reflection framed in bright Summer sun. Little droplets of sweat form across my forehead, streamlined through a thick black mess of hair. Nothing new there. What is the point in brushing one’s hair? Who am I trying to impress? The clothes scattered across the bedroom floor match my bedraggled state.

  Wait, what the hell was that? I swear I just saw something else move in the mirror. Did I just imagine that? Jitters? A caffeine breakfast will do that. Sometimes when I see myself like this I imagine myself as a painting. It’s not that I am attractive or visually striking in any sort of way. Not at all. It’s more that I don’t really understand what I’m looking at. I could spend hours in this spot, trying to find meaning in my most intricate of details. Sadly, a closer inspection reveals nothing. No stubble. No tan. No chiselled cheeks. No smile. What I seem to be missing is the bigger picture. It wouldn’t make a different if the mirror framed me in a more favourable fashion. These generic features are not the real me. It is what the mirror tells me I should be. It is the shell I call a body. It is the mask I call a face.

  Having almost reached a second decade of existence, most would have their physical appearance figured out. Some boast that they are in touch with their inner selves. It’s safe to say I am yet to do either. I am uncomfortable in my skin, and even more so with what lurks beneath. This is my problem. So, what is the solution? Well, in order to solve a problem, one must find a fresh perspective. From a different angle, you will start to see the cracks in the canvas. At this point you will begin to uncover yourself. When you choose to look within, the results are frightening to say the least. This then leads to the clichéd question we all ask ourselves from time to time. Who am I? The answer to that question is so complicated yet so blindingly simple, it hurts to say out loud. My name is James, and I am stuck in the real world.

  CHAPTER 1: Troubled

  Class starts in less than an hour. I hurriedly stuff any textbook I can find into my already overflowing backpack. I can already hear my dad downstairs. He’s doing his normal clumsy dance around the house, gathering his things for the day to go out and do whatever it is he does. Time dictates that I must head down soon. I usually delay my exit as long as possible to avoid any awkward exchanges. This morning however, he’s achingly slow.

  “Hey dad,” I say, watching him inhale the last mouthful of his coffee. He licks his lips, clears his throat, and places the mug on the kitchen bench. World’s Best Dad it says. I don’t remember buying him that.

  “Oh, hey James, how are you today?” he finally replies.

  “Good.”

  “That’s good.”

  “You off to work?”

  “Yep, sure am. You off to class?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well. Alright then James. See you tonight.”

  “Good talk,” I say under my breath as I open the fridge.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Have a good day.”

  “Oh, alright. You too James. See you tonight.”

  “You just said that...”

  “Oh right. Well, don’t forget to take your pills before you leave.”

  “Will do.”

  He smiles. I smile. He leaves and I stay. I stare at the contents inside the fridge until it beeps at me and I quickly slam it shut. Daydreaming I guess. A dreamer is what they call me. Daydream believer sounds better in my opinion. But what do I know. All my life I’ve been listening to other people’s opinions. My own dad once said that while you’re busy dreaming, life simply passes you by. Thanks Morgan Freeman. My first therapist said that dreams are just that. Dreams. I guess that’s what most people say. But most people I have met in my short time on this earth are vastly unintelligent. I mean that in the nicest possible way.

  Honestly. If I was going to be mean about it, I’d say that most people are blind, ignorant morons; too fat and full of themselves they forget how to imagine themselves as anything more than slaves to their daily grind. We have absolutely no idea how our brain works, or what our dreams are trying to tell us. Worse still, we are too scared to find out. That’s what makes us truly stupid. So, we stop wondering altogether and we move on with our pointless lives. If ignorance is bliss, stupid is the Bodhi tree. While I’m on the topic, true stupidity has nothing to do with your intellectual capacity. It’s the inability to believe in more than what the physical world presents you with. At a biological level, we are virtually identical. Our minds are wired the same; all demons and dark matter. We think the same thoughts. We walk the same paths. It’s our dreams that make us different.

  I pace down the street, getting halfway to campus before stopping. Hang on, how did I get here? Did I just skip the last five minutes? A man with a dog passes by, and the dog nips at my heels. He curses the dog. Then he says hello. Or sorry. Or something. I’m too distracted to even be startled right now. Did I lock the front door before I left? Did I even come out the front door? Or did I leave through the garage? It’s way too far to go back and check now. Who’s likely to break in anyway? We’ve never been broken into. It’ll be fine. I can’t be late to class. Holy Jesus turd sandwich! Another fricking dog. Far out, what is it with people and dogs? I arrive at the block my class is in and realise I am twenty minutes early. What to do? Perhaps I shall pull out my journal and continue boring my imaginary audience with tales of my busy, dizzy life. Would you like to hear some more about my dreams? Of course, you would! Here, take one of my pills, sit back and relax.

  When I was 16 I first dreamt of The Shadow. I don’t know what it is, or how to accurately describe it. The first dream was the most vivid. Back then it was one single face. Its features were distorted and it seemed almost harmless, just floating amongst the clouds. It watched the lakes and hills and fjords slowly weave their way together. It was a new world full of wonder, but always beneath the gaze of a shadowy figure. I can’t recall any dreams I had before it. Three years later and it’s all I dream about. Only now, the faces are multiplying. They are twisted, cruel, and carved with ink. I see snarling four-legged beasts, powered by clouds of veiled fury. I see a beautiful world engulfed by a parasitic force.

  My dad was hopeful the dreams would stop when I finished high school. Sorry dad. In my sleep, I’ve conjured a paradise for evil things. All this sounds like a recurring nightmare and not at all unique. You could say I’m suffering anxiety. To this I’d say you’re right. But what separates me from you is that my dreams are real. Stay with me now, because you’d probably say I’m delusional. To this, I’d say you’re right. Then again, you can’t self-diagnose craziness. Can you? Maybe I am completely insane. I shall leave that for you to decide my audience of critics and no-do-gooders. Judge, jury, executioner. Lock me up. In my defence, I did create my own world. That makes me more unique than most. Oh man, throw away the keys.

  I check my cell to see that entry killed exactly three minutes. Time for some more. Both my worlds are home to countless monsters. On the surface, it’s often hard to distinguish good from evil. Some people are just a little darker than others. Over time the evil bubbles through their skin, and begins to affect their actions. And boy believe me, there are so many evil actions in the world. It’s all become so twisted to the point that I don’t really know what’s real any more. All I know is th
at when faced with overwhelming darkness, good people become desperate. They grow weak, turn on each other, and evolve into the things they once despised. I wonder how it all went wrong. The world was once so bright and beautiful. Now it is dying a slow cancerous death. The Shadow is taking over. This is true across both worlds. My only hope is that it doesn’t take me with it.

  I fear there’s nothing I can do but dream of something different. The world in my head remains pure, but that is slowly changing too. I never become involved in my imaginary battles. Though the word battle suggests both sides stand a chance of winning. A more accurate description is this. I witness massacres nightly in my sleep. I sit nervously on the bench, taking in the bloody spectacle. Like the cowardly lion, I commit to nothing. Above all else, I never intervene.

  Unlike most people, I remember every tiny detail of every single dream. Some would consider this a gift, though the subject matter lends itself more to a curse. I dream what I feel, and I draw what I dream. I curse my cruel creations. I don’t tend to sketch puppies or golden sunsets. Much to the contrary, my walls are plastered with strange, horrible artworks. I draw battle scenes of dismembered bodies and tangled tribal patterns. They are carbon copies of the tattooed bodies that fight for The Shadow’s army. Thick black lines, sharp edges, and no real meaning. They’re almost like birthmarks; war paint marking them out for one purpose only. Destruction. I have accumulated a dozen or so scrapbooks containing complex mind maps and Venn diagrams. These creative exercises help me differentiate the two worlds. Unfortunately for my own sanity, the circles intersect far too regularly.

  From a psychologist’s perspective that’s not so hard to explain. Your unconscious mind is simply a reflection of your daily interactions. If you’re living under a black cloud, your dreams are likely to be just as dark. Such is the nature of these dreams I mostly keep them to myself. The biggest mistake was telling anyone about them, especially my dad. He doesn’t quite know how to handle me. I guess I’m a little too outside the box. I wish I wasn’t. I honestly do. I can’t wait to be old, flatulent and boring. I’d seriously kill for some normalcy.

  Actually, I’ve thought about it and I change my mind. If I wound up like my dad I’d probably kill myself. Figuratively speaking, of course. That came out a little emo-angsty didn’t it? Don’t worry. This isn’t one of those stories. Not really. There’s no easy way to describe the way I feel. It’s like I’m constantly stuck on the edge of a panic attack. I could go one of two ways. I could totally lose control, or go back to feeling comfortable. It’s a silent war between my mind and my body and I can’t decide whose side I’m on. Staying neutral tends to keep me safe. Call me Switzerland.

  I think I have a brain tumour. Yep. Perhaps I should elaborate. Today I think I have a brain tumour. I woke up with a migraine, drank three glasses of water, took two Advil, and it still didn’t go away. The prognosis? Metastatic Brain Tumour. It all makes sense when I think about it. Yesterday I found a funny spot on my shoulder that could’ve been a Melanoma. A quick Google search concluded the most common types of cancer that spread to the brain originate from the lungs or skin. I didn’t treat the Melanoma. It has now spread to my brain. Tomorrow I might have Ebola. Or Bird Flu. It doesn’t really matter. The affliction is beside the point. Beyond all rationality, I am convinced that I am about to die. It won’t be by my own hand, but the cosmic equivalent of a freight train is heading my way. Nothing can be done to stop it.

  Sometimes I feel like my head is semi-detached from my body. It’s like when you cut the string from a balloon and it floats away to sea. One day that’ll happen to me. What remains is a sad pathetic child clutching onto a useless string. The balloon is my head, you see. I always feel the need to explain my analogies. I guess that means they’re not very good. The weirdest thing about how I feel is this. Every day I wake up and I feel stale. At the same time, everything and everyone seems new and unrecognisable. My dad, my little brother, my bedroom, my clothes. My own reflection in the mirror seems distorted.

  Why can’t I just be like everyone else? I’d love to dream of flying, or swimming with dolphins. I would feel nothing but relief if I woke up to a wet spot in my sheets. Then I’d be just another horny teenager. I wish I dreamt of anything different. The dreams themselves are never identical. I mean, the characters are the same and the setting never changes. But I’m never in the same place at the same time. They all seem sequential. Each time it’s a new episode, my mind playing the role of TiVo. That’s what makes them seem so real and altogether puzzling. It’s like waking up and living each day as you would in real life. Only it’s in reverse.

  During one experience, my body began to violently convulse. If not for dad arriving home from work, I would have choked on my tongue and died. He said my lips were turning blue and when I woke up my mouth was full of blood. I had lost all movement in my arms and legs. It soon passed, but the visions didn’t. They got worse I’m afraid. This gave birth to a litany of similar scenes. At first, they thought I had Epilepsy. But then I started falling asleep during classes. My seizure was diagnosed two weeks later as Cataplexy, a common characteristic for patients with Narcolepsy. That is, I fall asleep at random times in random places. Cataplexy is a weird little condition which causes me to lose control of my own body when severely stressed or angry. My muscles tense up. A droopy face turns me into a freakish Mastiff-human hybrid. They often occur in embarrassing locations, and leave me with no memory of them happening.

  That still doesn’t explain the dreams. Many have tried to speculate on that particular topic. My dad thinks I’m troubled. My first therapist thought I was special. I think special in therapist terminology means straight up weird. I say weird because I’d like to keep this journal G-rated. It really means fucked up beyond repair. God dammit, now I’ve done it. I apologise for cursing just now, and in advance for any future lapses. I tend to swear way more than necessary. It’s another curse of mine. The therapist said I use swearing to get back at bad people as a form of non-violent retribution. I know that reflects very poorly on me. But before I continue, it’s best if I lay all my cards upon the table. My story is not G rated at all. It’s quite difficult to tell, and no doubt even harder for a listener to comprehend. That’s why I write it all down. While I’m on the topic, I’ve strongly considered the possibility that no one will ever read my story. No one has the time to read these days, unless it’s a stupid fucking blog, or some self-absorbed dribble interspersed with multiple hashtags. The silver lining in that cloud is that I can curse as much as I want without offending anyone. My story features no shimmering vampires, nor does it involve magical train platforms or blue-eyed seekers. My story is about me and my problems. Like Jay Z said, I’ve got 99. The other problem will pop up later.

  I’ve come to understand that fighting in dreams usually represents the subject’s inner turmoil. To witness two warring tribes is the mind’s projection of the emotional battle within one’s self. Textbook jargon. The evil side reflects feelings of anger and mistrust. The good side reflects the subject’s desire to be heard. My therapist said the more one refuses to raise his voice, the fiercer the battles will grow. Eventually the darkness will swallow up the light. He always referred to me as a subject. I’m not sure if I was an experiment, or the sufferer of some terrible affliction. Perhaps I’m both. It all seems suitably odd for my current state of existence. Suitably odd. I like that. It rolls of the tongue quite nicely. I might write that down. I like to write things down. You’ve probably noticed.

  In my humble opinion, I’m quite good with words. I consider it my one and only blessing. It helps make sense of the random thoughts swirling around my head. Better still, it somewhat alleviates my perpetual state of confusion. That’s me in a nutshell. Confused. I’m not confused about my sexuality, nor my moral standing on pressing world topics. What I’m uncertain about is why anything really matters. We worry about world hunger, global warming, new strains of flu, the world economic downturn, and then Kim Kardashian
’s fat ass. Therein lies the problem. Nestled between the headlines of Ebola Epidemic in Africa and Ukrainian crisis, sits Bad Celebrity Boob Jobs. I’m not downplaying the seriousness of Ebola, and I recognise that the conflict between Russia and Ukraine is a political hotbed of controversy. I just don’t give a shit. When these stories share the spotlight with fad diets, or who Justin Bieber is currently screwing; it all starts to lose its relevance. In any case, I don’t see myself visiting Africa any time soon. Or Ukraine for that matter. Or is It The Ukraine? See what I mean? I really ought to know that. But the fact that I don’t, does not affect me in any way whatsoever. I guess that settles it. Nothing really matters, as long as you ignore the problem long enough for it to go away.

  I’ve been writing so long now I’ve forgotten what I originally intended to talk about. Those swirling thoughts have tripped me up again. That’s right, I was talking about therapy. How am I going for time? Plenty. Good, because my diagnosis gets much, much worse than your textbook confusion.

  Dr Rowland loved to explain what was wrong with me. What he never did was offer a solution. Did I already tell you his name? I didn’t, did I? I forgot to introduce my therapist. I told you I was bad at this. I should rip out the page and start again, but that seems like too much effort. It’s also good for storytelling purposes, to emphasise my scattered ways and such. Like I said, cards upon the table. A small part of me likes being honest. Here’s an honest truth, as redundant as that phrase truly is. What exactly is a dishonest truth? The honest truth is that by the end of my story, Dr Rowland is of little to no consequence. His assumptions prove to be waywardly askew. That’s another redundant phrase.

  In his final report, he concluded that I am indeed a coward. A coward with zero initiative. You see, to dream of others fighting means that the subject does not face his own problems. I passively participate in everyday events. I am too afraid to make a change for the better. I am a spectator in my dreams. I am a spectator in the real world. I am life’s cheerleader. All I lack are pigtails. I must admit that Dr Rowland had good intentions. It’s just that he’s a douche of epic proportions. Sometimes I think he screwed with my head for his own sick satisfaction. Given the generous sums of money he was paid to deliver such a service, I believe this made him an emotional whore. Most of my sessions were non-consensual, as Dr Rowland really had his way with my brain. I noticed something just now. Isn’t it funny how words are so different when they are miswritten rather than misspoken? They can take on very different meanings. The word therapists for example. It’s a rather innocent word when spoken, even when stuttered. Type it on a computer and it can become something very different. One misplaced spacebar and you know what it spells? The rapists. Not so innocent now. Quite fitting given my previous analogy, don’t you think?