One technique Dr Rowland taught me was to keep a dream journal. Replaying my episodes during sessions, he’d help me deconstruct them piece by piece. He wanted me to see them as nothing more than frightening static images. In this way, I could treat them as the childish nightmares they are. That was the plan anyway. His ultimate hope was that with his guidance I’d work through these emotional issues. For some reason, he constantly brought up the fact that I wet the bed until age ten. He said it was caused by anxiety. This anxiety wasn’t properly managed, and it carried into my teenage years. Being older, I could control my bladder, but he suggested I keep a strict bathroom schedule to avoid further embarrassment. Like I said before, Dr Rowland was a giant douche. In fact, I’m sure he still is.
My dad discovered my dream journal. Let’s just say he was slightly disturbed by its contents. I believe the words he used were “I should have paid you more attention.” My dad likes to think he can fix every problem by paying its due diligence. The only problem is he never has much time for me. He says I need to get out of my own head and into the real world. He said Dr Rowlands’ methods were only adding to the problem. So out with Dr Rowlands, in with Dr Shaw. Dr Shaw was very much the same, only she had an additional X chromosome. She also had a neat pair of breasts. I don’t tend to focus on much else when I attend her sessions. For $90 an hour, one expects a few extras. She obviously read the same Idiot’s Guide to Psychology as I did first semester. Her methods involved writing “dream wishes” on post-it notes and placing them under my pillow at night. I took her advice and began jotting short key phrases to prompt certain dreams. They included flying, swimming with dolphins, and Dr Shaw’s breasts. None of these trigger words seem to work. Instead, I still dream about the Shadow. I dream of epic, cataclysmic storms ripping apart beautiful landscapes. I dream of a life-taking fog that swallows up hundreds of people.
Sometimes when I sleep I have better dreams. I often dream of a girl. She’s the only girl I see in this world. There’s probably others, I just don’t notice them. I don’t know her name, but she is such a stunning creature. She’s so human, and so alien. She is literally the best of both worlds. I’ve never seen such a lovely face. Her high cheek bones are framed perfectly by raven locks. They cascade to her shoulders in thick droplets. Her expression is harsh, but warm. A long, sweeping fringe covers her left eye. Her right is as deep and brown as a flood blessed aber. She hides herself, and I don’t know why. Hers is the face of flawlessness. Her long athletic body moves confidently through her world. Despite all this, she exudes such sadness. She reeks of pensive sweat. She looks so unhappy from far away, but when her eyes meet mine her entire face illuminates.
Sometimes I get the feeling that she needs me more than I need her. I say that, but I sketch her endlessly. It’s always in black and white. I imagine her in this way not because she’s simple. I do it because are no colours in the world which do her complexion justice. It is the perfect blend of sun-kissed olive and opaque ivory. I know that makes no sense. It’s like calling someone half-white and half-black. I’m no paint expert but that would make someone grey. It’s a confusing piece of imagery. It’s also not exactly PC to call someone grey. The point I’m trying to make is this. She is beautiful. And she must be seen to be believed. She has the perfect face to draw, so graceful, in a way that only I can see. She is my secret. I am hers. She reminds me why it’s worth persisting with anything.
If dreams are a mirror to the soul, she reflects the good inside me. She’s such a troubled girl and maybe that’s why I love her so much. She is everywhere and everything. She inhabits each space like a perfect symphony does an empty room. She resembles none of the girls I see strutting the halls at college. The ones who dare not dream of knowing me. It’s because of her that I can’t completely abandon this dreamlike world. I have this fantasy you see, that we are both meant to rescue one another. I think I love her, but I can’t be sure. I’m not too familiar with the feeling.
This girl acts as my guide. She comforts me and smiles at me. She directs me through simple hand gestures. She never really talks. I wish she would. Her voice would be angelic. I don’t know her name. I always ask her, but when she moves her lips her words are deathly silent. I know she wants me to talk to me. She’s just scared to. Her lips seem to form the words “show me.” That’s what I call the girl with no name. Show Me. We’ve been through so much together. In one dream not too long ago, there was a terrible storm. A twister was coming straight for me. I would’ve died if she didn’t save me. She literally dragged me by the hand to safety. When I woke up, I swear I could see the imprint of her fingers around my wrist. Like I said, they think I’m troubled.
Show Me is the girl of my dreams. But in my dreams, she remains. At least I get to share her world from time to time. What a world it is, when The Shadow’s not busy destroying it. Everything brims in technicolour. The water is not blue, but turquoise. A sea breeze smells not of brine, but crisp morning rain. You don’t just touch things, not in a purely physical state. All your senses are one and the same. You still have a body, but it doesn’t experience things the way it does in the real world. You can see music, you can taste a sunrise, and you can hear each colour. Everything that appears to be a mirage, is not. Desert plains below your feet suddenly shift to gentle swaying grass. If you wish it, it will come to life.
I am sure this place would be heaven, if not for the darkness. It is deep within the blackest corners that this evil lurks. It never remains in one place for long, allowing it to shift like sand. It is the only pock mark on the beautiful face of Show Me’s world. This darkness or The Shadow as I like to call it, often manifests itself as the tattooed warriors. These are the ones who always win the battles. When I think about it, calling them warriors seems too complimentary. They are anything but. They are cowards. Monsters. Hideous beings. They don’t bear the slightest resemblance to Show Me. They fight not for glory, but pure consumption. They ingest the sorrow of the compassionate tribes they conquer. They live on fear. I am not afraid of them, because Show Me won’t allow it. She slaps me in the face to wake me from their advances.
The monsters haven’t noticed me just yet. My raven-haired beauty provides me with an invisible protective bubble. But as hard as she tries, I am growing fearful. I am fearful she won’t be able to protect me forever. I am fearful of the day they finally do notice me. I used to think The Shadow was invading my dreams. Lately it seems the other way around. I truly enjoy every single second in Show Me’s company. I pray before I sleep that it’s her face I see. Not The Shadow’s. I know she’s too good to be real. I’m sure her world is not real. But everything seems perfect in my dreams. Nothing in the real world makes sense any more. Maybe I am troubled after all.
How am I going for time now? Dammit, I’m late!
CHAPTER 2: Dale
The halls of UNCG are decked in achievements great and small. In the rafters hangs a hefty banner awarded for an NCAA First Round Appearance in Men’s Basketball. Further down the wall, a small plaque displays achievement in debating or trigonometry or something else obscure. It’s far too faded to know for sure. One thing is for certain. It is a sign of much more substance, but much less style. I pass by these achievements daily, and I marvel at their lack of consistency. It makes me comfortable with my own lack thereof. I close my eyes and wonder how much bigger another college’s list of achievements would be. Duke for example, must have a gymnasium full of sporting achievements alone. I was supposed to go to Duke. I even got into Duke. But my episodes got worse towards the end of my senior year and dad decided I’d be better off staying close to home. Parents know best, right? Or in my case, dad knows best. I’d rather not get into that right now.
So, I stayed in Greensboro. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ll probably die here too. I’d love to go somewhere better. I don’t really like it here, but I don’t hate it all the same. It’s my home. It’s familiar. It feels safe. Dr Shaw would have a field day deconstructing those last
few lines. She’d surmise that I’ve settled into a comfortable, meagre existence devoid of commitment, risk and meaning. Or something like that. I’d say it’s the way of the world. Unfortunately, it’s just the way that I am. I tend to toss and turn over the simplest of tasks as I carefully consider the chance that anything could and probably will go wrong. This means just about everything annoys me or scares me, even if I can’t validate why. I tend to forget important things. That’s another reason I write everything down.
Aside from the boring classes, my least favourite part of college is the gap between said classes. I hate making my way through the busy campus grounds. For starters, I always get nervous in a crowd. But it’s the stain of shared exuberance that bothers me more. Every day it’s an endless ocean of smiling faces. They all seem so sure of themselves. Sometimes I envy them. But mostly I despise them. I’m sure deep down they are just as confused as me. So how do they do such a good job of hiding it? Do you ever get a zit on your face and feel paranoid that everyone is staring at it? That’s how I feel all the time. Yet my skin is flawless. Maybe they’re not staring at me. Maybe they see straight through me. I get insecure just walking past a group of people. I hear them laugh and I automatically assume it’s at my expense. This is a daily battle fought between my better judgement and my complete irrationality. It severely hinders my ability to interact with others. In layman’s terms, I don’t deal well with people and people don’t deal with me. If Show Me was here, she’d help me find a way to prove them wrong.
Kids like me are supposed to know exactly what they want to be when they graduate. The end of high school marks the beginning of every misfit’s vengeance. This is because the socially inept ones are usually the smartest, therefore the most likely to succeed. I don’t know what went wrong in my case. Was I not sufficiently inept? I want to be a writer, but like my dad says I’m stuck inside my head. My brain has a way with words, but sometimes it all just gets a bit fuzzy. A writer needs to have a clear mind, so maybe that profession is not on the cards. Maybe I’ll be a teacher instead. The only thing is, I hate kids almost as much as I hate adults. Maybe when I’m finished college I can stick around and get a job at UNCG. Then at least I could teach teenagers. That would be a happy medium. I could impart all my wistful knowledge to eager young sponges. I’d pump them full of second-hand clichés so they could pass them on to future generations of eager young sponges. There has to be a good line in there somewhere. Oh yeah, here it comes.
“Those who can’t do, teach. But those who can’t teach, teach others to teach.”
Sometimes, I amaze myself. I’ve been at UNCG barely a month, yet I know this place like the back of my hand. I was familiar with the campus even before I started college. My mum did night classes here when I was in Elementary School. I’d ride my bike the three blocks after school and meet her in the cafeteria. I sat in on her classes and I would watch her taking notes. With my own scrapbook, I would pretend to do the same. Really, I’d be doodling pictures of Raphael and Mikey and Splinter’s weird pig/rhino henchmen. The saggy old lecturer would drone on and I’d start to get bored. If I promised to sit still she’d buy me a soda afterwards. Having the typical attention span of an eight-year-old, the bribery only worked for so long.
After that she’d stick me in the library for the duration of her classes. It sounds a little sketchy leaving a little kid to their own like that. My mum just seemed to know that everything would be okay. She was always right. For whatever reason, I ended up in the travel section. Call it escapism. I spent most of my time flicking through journals about Tuscany, Pembroke and Paris. I loved to look at the pictures and imagine myself surrounded by strangers speaking a totally different language. The irony of my situation is this. I never left home and my dream came true. Every day I’m surrounded by strangers who speak a language I don’t understand.
A lot has changed since then. A lot has stayed the same. My mum, you may have gathered, is no longer around. I still spend much of my time in the library. In fact, I’m in the library right now. I don’t remember sitting down. How the hell did I get here? I thought I was in class. I must be dreaming again. It seems so real though. I mean, everything looks and sounds the same as it did yesterday. There are muffled voices in the distance and the occasional sound of laughter echoes down the endless aisles. Over the PA system, a voice announces the library is closing in ten minutes.
Something seems a little off though. The lighting isn’t quite right. On top of the table in front of me lies is a book. Normal enough. Beside it stands an hourglass. Not too far out of the ordinary. Except the hourglass is five feet tall and jet black. Although it’s upright, the sand doesn’t fall through. The entire moment is frozen in time as every sound in the room dissipates. There’s no one else. A small gust of wind whips up around my feet. It swirls between my thighs and up onto the table, blowing the book open. Hundreds of pages flutter by, each of them blank. The wind eases off and the book opens to the very last page. In the very centre of the crisp-white paper, a single line is written in perfect cursive. I stare at the words, completely baffled by what they mean. I flick back through the previous pages. Still blank. Defeated, I turn back to the final page and I read the words aloud.
“Show me the key and open the door.”
Suddenly I feel a pain creep up my legs. It spreads up my spine, tightening the muscles in my neck. My head shakes uncontrollably, forcing my face flat against the table. Another spasm and my head jerks back awkwardly. It’s like someone has invaded my body, rewiring the connections between my brain and body. My teeth rattle inside my mouth as I try to resist. It’s useless. With far more force than the first time, my head again collides with the table. At first, I hear a pop as my nose makes first contact. My septum floods. I feel a drip in the back of my throat before the metallic taste hits my tongue. A third blow and I stain the table red. I can feel the pinch of cold fingers in my hair. It pushes me down again and again, until I can’t cough up the blood quickly enough. I lose count of the collisions, but finally the hand lets me go. I fall to the floor, coughing up several more pints of blood. I clear my throat, and take a long-earned breath. Just when I think it’s over, I put my hand down and feel something sharp on the palm of my hand. I quickly pull away. I reach down and pluck one of my teeth from the bloody mess I’m sitting in. So many teeth.
Oh no, this is bad. I’m in a shocking state but I can’t feel the pain. That’s good. It hopefully means I’m only imagining this. Wake up James. You’re only dreaming. Pull yourself together. This is just a dream. Pinch yourself on the arm and wake up. I hear a tap against a window just above me. I can’t see through the misty centre of it. Suddenly the fog is cleared as a set of sharp nails scratches a path across the glass. Then I see it. Two red eyes pierce through the glass as its evil stare locks onto me. It’s The Face again. This isn’t real. This is just a dream. It hisses at me, only quietly first. It hisses again, this time a little louder. A hiss turns to a growl, then an ear-piercing screech. It bashes its forehead against the glass. The force is immediate as tiny cracks spread across the window like a ripple. A trickle of blood runs through to my side of the glass.
The sound echoes through the empty library, reverberating through the aisles. The shelves start to rattle. Stacks of books inch out and pile onto the floor. The Face smashes its head repeatedly, the same as it did to mine earlier. Again and again, all I can hear is the terrible thump of its skull against the glass. Jesus Christ, I hope this isn’t real. Please be a dream. Please wake up James. Wake up! I slap myself across the face, screaming the words over and over. My eyes roll back. My muscles pulse and tighten. My entire body slides off the chair. The dream is over. Now for the seizure.
The world returns in a fit of colour and sound. My body collides with a Red Bull scented carpet. The lecturer glances up from his notes. It’s a look of alarm that quickly turns to momentary disdain, before ultimately, concern. My fellow academics rear back with trepidation, powerless to stop the malevolent
spasms. One girl screams. Another shields her eyes. No one else in the predominantly female crowd does much of anything. But someone stops my head a mere microsecond before it cracks against the chair’s steel frame. When I finally come to, my shirt is soaked with a mixture of blood, sweat and saliva. My mouth is still bubbling, my arms resting at unnatural angles.
This is happening too frequently now. It’s humiliating more than anything. I don’t even remember nodding off. It doesn’t help that Social Anthropology is so unstimulating. What kind of impractical, pretentious hack majors in Social Sciences anyway? Me, that’s who. The course title looked good on paper. It seemed to roll off the tongue quite nicely. That’s about all it was good for. It has its perks, I do confess. Like I intimated earlier, the class is mostly girls. Even if they do avoid me like the devil. Back to reality. The class finishes. The theatre empties. Looks like I’m on my own again. I wipe my shirt clean, and slowly peel myself away from the floor. Then something strange happens. A deep, raspy voice offers salvation. The voice of my saviour.
James in the Real World Page 2