James in the Real World

by Owen Todhunter

  “Well I must say I am impressed James. This is a positive step for you. Tell me more. I want to know about Dale. What are his interests? Does he play sports? Or an instrument? What does he look like? Is he tall? Short? Fat? Skinny?”

  “He’s tall. And he’s big. Not big in a fat way. I mean he’s kind of muscly big. Well not even muscly big, but big like he works out, but he works out to actually like keep fit, not just to look good.”

  “Wow James!”

  “What? Did I say something wrong? That sounded gay, didn’t it?”

  “No James, you just described someone in great detail. An actual person! You may not realise this but you don’t describe the people in your life with any sort of detail. You’re very vague with what you say. When you talk about your dad and your little brother, it’s only ever what they say. I don’t even know what they look like. You also never talk about your mum.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with anything.”

  Why does she always have to go there? Every session it’s the same old shit. Just when I’m starting to like Dr Shaw she has to go and bring up my mum.

  “The only person you ever really describe is “Show Me.”

  She even does the inverted commas with her fingers. What a bitch. Sometimes I wish Dr Shaw would show some respect.

  “Show Me is real. Dale is real. What’s the difference?”

  “We’ve gone over this so many times James. Show Me is not real. You are starting to make progress, so it’s time to stop relying on these dreams. They are getting in the way of what is happening to you in school, and at home. What you’ve just described to me is a positive interaction in a real social setting. That shows tremendous courage. And it shows tremendous progress on your part.”

  “You mean on your part,” I snap back sarcastically.

  She leans forward on her seat, carefully plotting her next words.

  “These last few years have been very difficult for you James.”

  Oh boy, here we go. Strap yourself in for this one James.

  “No one should have to go through what you’ve experienced.”

  The nerve on this chick! Don’t let her say that to you man. I swear to god, I’m gonna…

  “Show Me has given you confidence in yourself, and that’s fine. But you don’t have the girl to thank for that. You have yourself. Your mind provides the tools. She provides the confidence. You may not see it, but you are beginning to self-manufacture that confidence. You are learning to speak up. More importantly your voice is being heard. It makes me very happy James!”

  “Well I don’t feel happy,” I say in my sulkiest tone.

  “Yes, well, we haven’t gotten to the heart of your episodes just yet. That will all come in due time. The point is you control these dreams. Not the other way around.”

  “I know you think I’m crazy but my dreams are real. How do you explain the rashes or the black eye? I wake up with a headache like someone punched me in the face. I feel it. I feel like I’m walking and talking and doing everything as I regularly would.”

  “Look James, the mind is immeasurably powerful. It is capable of many things, even when not consciously active. It can simulate movement, smells and feelings all quite convincingly. As for the bruises, they are self-inflicted James.”

  Self-inflicted? Is this chick for real? Why the hell would I punch myself in the face? What an idiot. Just call her out man. She’s an idiot!

  “I think I disagree Dr Shaw.”

  Real tough James. Way to speak your mind. You sure showed her.

  “It’s all psychological. Your muscles are tired because your brain tells them to be tired.”

  That’s where you’re wrong Dr Huge Tits. My brain tells me you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Though we do appreciate the effort, don’t we James?

  “Try some relaxation techniques. Some controlled breathing exercises or meditation before you go to sleep will help to clear your mind. Right now, your mind is hyperactive. It’s driving you to the point of exhaustion.”

  “I’ve tried all that and I still dream.”

  A hopeless silence. This is how all the sessions go. She lists her cures. I try them. They fail. She lists them again. Same result. A certain head against a brick wall analogy comes to mind.

  “James, have you ever heard of Carl Jung?”

  Hang on. This is a new one. Carl Jung? This one sounds familiar.

  “The guy from the Karate Kid?” I ask.

  She sighs. I think she thinks I’m joking. I’m not.

  “James…?” she pleads.

  “What? I’m being serious. Is he not from The Karate Kid?”

  “Are you talking about Mr Miyagi?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr Miyagi. The Karate Kid’s master,” she replies.

  “Oh, that’s his name. So, the kid’s name is Carl?”

  She seems as puzzled as I am.

  “The boy’s name is Daniel. His master is Mr Miyagi. Carl Jung is neither.”

  “Then why are we talking about The Karate Kid?”

  She scratches the top of her head, slowly balling her fists beneath her chin.

  “James, I don’t have to continue if you’re not in the mood.”

  What the hell? Now she’s giving me attitude. Enough is enough James. For god sake, she’s the one who won’t shut up about Mr Miyagi!

  “Sorry Dr Shaw,” I obediently respond.

  “Carl Jung was a psychiatrist who wrote many books. One of his most famous quotes was this. Your wisdom will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. He who looks outside, dreams; he who looks inside, awakes.”

  “I’m confused. So, dreams are bad?”

  “No, not at all. You are viewing the dreams as an external force, like you are a part of the dream world. But this dream world is all inside you. If you start to dig into yourself, to see what the real problem is, the dreams will stop. Your dreams transmit very important messages James. They are trying to tell you that you are confident and smart and desirable. You are everything to the world that “Show Me” is to you. The sooner you see that; the sooner you’ll understand that you are not alone.”

  Again, with the fingers. I wish she wouldn’t talk about Show Me like that. Dr Shaw is an idiot. Carl Jung is an idiot. I’m sick of people I don’t know trying to tell me what’s best for me. I’m sick of people telling me who I am. Go on James, tell this bitch how I really feel.

  “But she…”

  My words are cut down at the knees.

  “Time’s up. Save that thought. Write it down for next week.”

  Just to rub salt in the wound, she hands me a book. “What is Your Emotional Intelligence?” Joy.

  “You don’t have to read the whole thing, just the first two chapters. We’ll discuss them at our next session. Make sure you read carefully. I’ll know if you got lazy!”

  A blank smile is what she leaves me with. She quickly sees me out before kicking the doorstop shut. Lots of scuff on that thing. The door slams shut, sending a cold rush of air against my face. Once my hour’s up the formalities are done. I’m fine with our arrangement. I can’t wait to think about her boobs while I paraphrase the blurb at our next session. She’ll be sure I haven’t cheated. I wonder how pointless this little book will be. I think it’s the third one she’s given me now. The previous two are somewhere in my bedroom under the bed or buried beneath several piles of clothes. The cover looks nice enough. Simple but elegant, with a gold trimmed border. I guess anything is better without the prefix Idiot’s Guide. For someone who got through six years of college, Dr Shaw seems extremely dumb. Then again, I’m barely a semester deep and getting dumber by the day. Maybe she’s jaded, or her heart wasn’t in it from the get go. Whatever the reason, I’m starting to feel sorry for her. That doesn’t mean I’ll read her book.

  I like to vent if you’ve not already noticed. I just don’t do it in front of people. It’s how I do things, always halfway. Very little progress has been mad
e towards truly rectifying my attitudinal deficits. I just can’t help but hate the world when it’s full of idiots. They shouldn’t bother me as much as they do, but hey, admitting the problem exists is the first step to recovery. I’ve never been good at talking to people. I don’t enjoy long talks. They’re so taxing. Too many words get lost in translation. Little talks are just as irksome. It’s a waste of oxygen. It is scientific fact that we cut down far too many trees. Coupled with an ocean of indigestible carbon dioxide from an endless stream of spoken words and you have the makings of an environmental catastrophe. My propensity for written words makes me somewhat hypocritical. What with all the paper I use. It’s a good thing I double side. Talk is another thing entirely. Imagine a world with no trees. Who or what could possibly absorb that amount of bullshit babble? We can ration paper, but we can’t ration words. Pointless conversations are literally destroying the world. I rest my case.

  I’m a bad talker, and a worse listener. I’d place myself in the bottom percentile of that category. I am more observant than I am audibly present. Why am I telling you all this? That’s a great question. In addition to reading the first few chapters of the book, Dr Shaw had me list all my strengths and weaknesses. I’m not good at making lists. That was weakness number one. I am bad at remembering people’s names. Weakness number two. But once I’ve seen a face, I never forget it. Just the other day I saw a kid I went to elementary school with. I hadn’t seen him in thirteen years and I recognised him instantly. Even completely out of context, I can spot a face in a crowd and pinpoint the exact time and place I met them. Good with faces. Strength number one.

  Did I stop to acknowledge my long-lost acquaintance? No. It would only make for an awkward conversation. I doubt he recognised me in any case. I’m not exactly memorable. Severe insecurity, weakness number three. The only face I can’t recall is my mum’s. If I saw her on the street today, I would walk right by. It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s been gone long enough I can’t really remember what I miss about her. I recognise her in photographs, but that’s within the right context. She’s always smiling, kissing me on the cheek, or cradling Hal in her arms when he was just a baby. Those are the things a mum’s supposed to do.

  It’s the day to day stuff that is first to disappear. I guess you could argue that’s why you keep photographs. I disagree. I don’t like looking at photos. It almost seems cruel that you need a picture of something to remember it by. I find pictures of my childhood depressing. Everything looks better in the past. People look younger, less jaded. The moment just seems brighter than the one I’m in now. You choose to forget things for a reason. Why would you want evidence of when your life used to be fun and exciting? It’s not worth a daily reminder. Selective memory, weakness number four.

  CHAPTER 4: The Glass Door

  Lately I’ve only dreamt of one thing. The Shadow. The Face sees me and I see it. This means my earlier fears are coming true. They’ve started to notice me. This morning I woke up shaking uncontrollably. I don’t know how to encapsulate my fear any more abrupt than this. I am terrified for my life. I’ve never been so scared of anything. I’m setting half-hourly alarms so I don’t fall asleep too long for them to get me.

  I tell myself the dreams aren’t real. I tell my mind to stop projecting. I need to raise my voice. If Dr Shaw is right, it’s only a matter of time before my mouth is permanently sewn shut. I wish I could talk to her. Like, really talk to her. Every session with her is hopeless. She never listens when I talk about my problems. She just force-feeds me another textbook. Yesterday I saw Dale in the corridors. I hid from him, partly because I’m too embarrassed to explain my behaviour. The bulk of my concern however, lies in the fact that I still don’t know him. Therefore, I don’t trust him. For the first time in this solitary life, I am hopelessly, desperately alone.

  Where did she go? I miss her. I can’t function without her. My dreams used to be my escape. Now I’m too afraid to shut my eyes. These days I am barely awake and barely asleep. If I can’t face my dreams and I can’t face the real world, what hope is there? I’ am stuck in a semi-conscious limbo, staggering from home to class to home again. I am a collegiate zombie. I feast upon knowledge, or my lack thereof. I zone in and out during class, and the blank periods just on keep multiplying between nutrition-less meals. It’s gotten progressively worse the past two weeks. It’s now become an endless debate between the merits of rest, or pulling another all-nighter to maintain any form of sanity. If only these sleepless periods were productive. I’ve had to get an extension on two assignments.

  I don’t know if I’ve been stressed long enough to call this depression. I guess I’ll have to wait and see. I need to stop writing. It’s 4.30am on a Tuesday morning and I have class in less than five hours. Two more Red Bulls should tide me over. I might read some more of Dr Shaw’s book. Another fifty pages with three tests containing sixty questions in total should keep my mind active enough. Way too many numbers. My head hurts. I think another migraine is coming on. I should shut my eyes. Just for a bit. It hurts. Why did I do that? They feel like they’ve been bubble wrapped in sandpaper. Another terrible simile I know. This restless state is not conducive to creativity.

  Sometime later I wake up reeking of sickly sherbet. I try to make out the contents out my bedroom but the thick shutters hermetically seal out any source of light. I reach for the lamp. The light exposes a sticky trail from my T-shirt to the bed to the floor. I gingerly rise and accidentally kick a now empty Red Bull can. Onwards I stumble until I reach the closet. It takes a minute or so of fumbling around until I retrieve a clean shirt. I tongue the inside of my starched mouth and rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes. There’s a strange calm in my blood. I know I dreamt of something. Was it her? I can’t remember. I have that weird ominous feeling in my gut, like something was trying to get through to me. You know the feeling, right? Someone leaves a message on your voicemail, but your phone goes dead halfway through receiving it. The dread of a rude awakening. The feeling that your memory is about to catch up to you.

  I check the bedside clock. It’s 5am. It’s 5am? How is that possible? I’ve been out just thirty minutes, but I feel like I’ve caught up on two days of missed sleep. Then common sense tries its hand. Did my clock stop in the night? I open up my laptop to check. The time corresponds. Same with my phone. That’s Weird. Oh well, I’m awake now. Do I go for a run? Walk the dog? What the hell do you do at this time of day? 5am! Damn, I almost feel proud of myself. Bright and early in my jocks and shirt.

  I squeeze on some jeans, turning to face the mirror. My eyes are less baggy, but the messy hair remains. All seems as it should. But then I notice something else. I can hear a scratch. There’s a shadow cast against the back wall. I’m not alone. Someone or something is in my room. The first movement occurs. I shift my head sideways to the full-length mirror. It’s somewhere there, in the farthest corner. Struggling to turn around, it’s then that I see the reflection of something dark huddled close to the floor. It looks like a face. I jerk my neck to try look over my shoulder but nothing happens. I’m stuck. I give up and focus back on the mirror. Oh god. There it is. The Face. It’s here. It coughs and splutters, with a protruding tongue running over yellowed teeth. It licks a slimy path around its mouth, lapping up my fear. From temple to chin there are black streaks of ink. War paint. It must have followed me. Did I fall asleep too long? The prickles of panic spread over me.

  I can’t scream. I can’t move. Am I still asleep? What the hell is happening? The Face starts to violently shake, spilling a dark substance from its hair. What is it? It’s not human. Its sickly white complexion glows hollow in the darkness of the room. Its eyes paralyse me. My face is frozen to the mirror. My feet are anchored to the floor. The Face takes a deep, gasping breath. In doing so it emits a foul stench towards me. Its breath grows fouler and more frequent as it fills up the small room. A tomblike chill fills the air.

  The Face grows a neck, then a torso. Finally, a set of spidery limbs em
erge from the body. Each bone fractures into a bent, despicable form. The joints make a popping sound, followed by the grind of bone on bone. Fingers sprout black, ghastly nails. The ink from its face snake down the front of its body, all the way to where its genitals would be. Only there is nothing between the legs. It is the most repugnant thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon. My mind could not dream of a thing so wretched. This must be real. And it’s not going away. My arms are trembling. My lips quiver. The goose bumps spread like a rash across my chest. As the creature cracks its feet and toes into shape, it lets out a scream. It is a scream of anguish, of hatred, of pure rage. A scream for my ears only. Then the noise stops. I try to turn and face the creature. I form a fist to smash the mirror. It’s useless. I can’t even shut my eyes. This creature has found me and it won’t let me go.

  It turns towards me and catches my reflection in the mirror. Eyes of empty evil. It is not here to reason. It flashes a hideous smile and the smell grows worse. A trickle of blood slips from its mouth, leaving a dark trail along the carpet. Newly formed legs struggle under spiteful intentions. It slips and I have time for just one breath. Then it begins to crawl, grasping at me from all fours. I shut my eyes. Please tell me it’s gone. I look again. It’s getting closer. I shut them once more. Please go away. I look again. Jesus Christ, its right behind me. I can taste its breath. I see its eyes. Blood boils through its vacant pupils. A set of cracked lips move within inches of my left ear. Then I hear the voice for the first time. It says four words, barely above a whisper.

  “The storm is coming.”

  Cold-tipped fingers slide across my back. They scratch their way up, brushing over my shoulders, before tightening around my neck. It laughs and a black fog releases from its insides. I tell myself that none of this is real. It’s all in my head.

  I feel the welcome rush of a seizure. My eyes roll over and I slide into blackness. Deep, beautiful, blackness. The creature is gone. My body rests in peaceful tremors. Ever surely, I sink to subconsciousness. It all goes quiet. My bedroom melts away and I see a glass door. Behind it lies an ocean of storm clouds and dying trees. The backdrop is of flattened mountains and smoking ruins. Am I dead? If so, this is a disappointing heaven. I’ve not even time to repent. Maybe it’s hell. Surely it can’t be limbo. I’ve been stuck halfway long enough already.