Chapter One
I know this might be an odd question to ask on a mental health forum, but - does anybody else see that the Moon is on fire?
I'm not joking. I'll run through this for a second. I know I'm not the most reliable person, but I don't think I could imagine something like this.
Hell, I remember the entire lead-up to what happened. People were freaking out. It was the end of the world, by all anybody knew. What did they call it? An 'unidentified object at near-luminous speed?' That's what the media said, over and over, for like the day and a half we had until it hit. I guess that meant it was going really fast? fast enough to destroy all life on the planet, anyway. That was the part nobody misunderstood.
They said somebody had to have created this object and aimed it at us. It was unlike anything natural they'd ever seen. They said somebody had probably shot this thing at us billions of years ago, probably aiming to wipe out the competition before it evolved? aiming to wipe us out before we were anything more than barely living goo.
But, apparently, it'd been sent out - hold on, let me check my scribblings about what they said - between 4.54 and 4.527 billion years ago? because whoever had shot it at us hadn't taken the Moon into account. They couldn't have, because it didn't exist then.
Miraculously, the timing was just right, and it hit the Moon instead.
I remember the noise and the flash. How could I forget? Absolutely everyone was outside watching and listening, thinking the world was about to end? but it was daytime here, and the Moon was on the other side of the planet.
We only saw the edges of the blast spraying up past the horizon. A sprawling cloud of flame and glowing dust erupted across the sky as I stood on the street among dozens of neighbors I didn't know. Well, I knew Crazy Donald, a homeless guy who I sat with sometimes outside Wendy's - he was there, muttering to himself and holding a plastic bag filled with plastic bags, but I don't think he knew anything was going on. He was just going around asking people for change, even before we knew that we were going to live for another day.
I like him, because he and I get along, in a quiet and lonely sort of way.
I followed him around and made sure he was safe as the crowd grew confused, excited, and loud, scaring him.
The radios came alive and said we should probably stay inside for the next few days. We didn't need to be told twice. I urged Donald to move along to somewhere safe, and then I hid in my apartment.
The parties were absolutely insane - from what I could hear through the walls. I imagined that people were amazed at being alive, and, since they had nowhere to go until the all-clear, it was party time.
Me? I keep to myself, mostly.
See, that's why I'm asking. I remember all this very vividly. I could have sworn it was real. Thing is, even despite the pills, I have a tough time with reality. I can feel the rippling waters of dreaming while I'm awake. Often, I can't distinguish between the cold hard lines of the real world and half-formed concepts of waking imagination. I don't want to have my dosage upped again, because the pills make my brain feel like cement, so I? pretend.
I'm not crazy. I don't mutter to myself or attack people. My thoughts are all still there - my 'faculties,' as my brother Will calls them. So I force myself to behave normally when I see something I don't understand, and I use logic to control what I do.
I like music. Songs keep me grounded, because they float through the air like mathematical chains. The songs that I know, I know by heart, and I know I'm solid as long as the notes keep making sense. I'm listening to Man on the Silver Mountain right now, trying to keep coherent, but the strategy doesn't help memories of my hallucinations.
Is it a hallucination? I ask, because the media coverage of the molten Moon dropped off pretty quickly over the last week. I mean, there's a massive cloud of glowing dust and flaming gasses spread out across the sky like somebody thrust a burning spear straight through the Moon - because that's what happened - and nobody seems to care.
Today, I can't even find any mention of it. All the videos and pictures are gone. I can't find the articles anymore. It's been too cloudy here to see it myself, and I don't have any windows in my basement apartment, but I've ventured out a few times to look up. I still see the orange glow, like a smeared second sun behind the clouds, and I have to wonder: why the hell isn't anyone talking about this anymore? Has our attention span really gotten that short? Are we right back to the next reality-television drama and celebrity gossip already?
A weird thing happened when I ran into my next-door neighbor, Dean. I normally avoid him, like I avoid everyone, but this time was different.
"Hey Alek," he said, smiling at me in the hall.
Why would anyone smile at me? Grubby, unshaven, wearing a Megadeth t-shirt, I was the epitome of that guy you ignore who is fine with being ignored. I would have said hello back and moved on quickly, but I had a question myself, this time. "How about that sky?"
"Yeah?" he asked, studying my face. Tall, blonde, and good-looking in that annoying Abercrombie sort of way, he had no reason to so much as look at me. I wondered why he was even talking to me. "What about it?"
I remember frowning slightly. Something seemed off about his interest. I wasn't about to make a huge social blunder and mention the sky was on fire if I was just hallucinating the whole thing, either. "Crappy weather's blocking the view."
He smiled at that. "Yes. It's quite unfortunate."
I nodded, laughed sheepishly, and hurried down the stairwell. I think he stood there watching me until I closed the door?
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that he didn't remember that the Moon was on fire. If I were a normal person, that's the first and only thing that would be on my mind. Hey, remember that time the Moon freaking exploded?! Yeah, me too, since it was like last week! And because half the goddamn sky is still on fire!
Every couple hours for several days, I'd go outside, but I kept missing the sight due to the cloudy winter weather. From the pictures I remembered seeing, the Moon was a molten coin burning in between two jutting clouds, almost like a fiery eye, and I wanted to see it for myself. If I could just see it? if I could just stare at it for a time? I could finally convince myself one way or the other. I was becoming pretty certain that the Moon would just be the same old silver dollar it had always been. Thing is, I thought I'd gotten a pretty good handle on my issues.
If I've just imagined the entire thing, then I'm in serious mental trouble.
I left a few messages for my brother, but he hasn't called me back yet.
I even texted my younger sister, Laura, on the excuse that I just wanted to see how she was doing. She didn't respond, either? no surprise, though. Dad's probably passed out drunk right about now. I might call Tracy if I get any worse? although I wouldn't know what to say to her, really. She's probably busy taking care of Dad's mess, anyway.
I don't know. I'm sure I'll get over this. I just don't want to have to go to my doctor. She'll up my meds again, and then I'll be a zombie.
---
Thanks for the responses, although now I'm just more confused. Some of you say the Moon isn't on fire and to go look for myself, and some of you are just trolling and say the Moon is on fire? Hope the mods ban you. This isn't a place to make fun of people.
Some of you have asked about Will before. Yeah, he listens to me. He's the only family I have that takes me seriously at all. I think that he considers it his duty as an older brother. He takes care of Laura, too, although she's got a good head on her shoulders, mostly. I don't think Will would have to do nearly as much if Dad got a job, or stopped drinking. Tracy's nice and all, but we're not her kids, and not her responsibility.
But, uh? even Will isn't really returning my calls anymore. Not after that incident I posted about last month. He got mad that I woke him up in the middle of the night for a dream I had while I was sleeping. Waking hallucinations were one thing, he said, but dreams while I was asleep were perfectly normal, and I had to d
eal with them on my own.
He didn't seem to care how traumatic or horrifying the dream was. I mean, I can't blame him. I'm sure, on balance, he's done so much for me, and I've done very little for him, but I've had a terrible sense of impending doom ever since that night. I think about the kinetic terror I felt, and I still can't shake it.
The tough part for me is that my dreams seep into my real life. Like, right now, I feel like I'm being watched. I'm looking up, and there's a small mirror to the right of my laptop. I can't look away, even as I type - or am I looking away, and just believing that I'm looking at the mirror? I keep looking deeper and deeper, seeing further into the apartment behind me, and a sense of tension pulls at me, a building scream-to-come that keeps rising to higher and higher intensity. I already see it, I already sense it, but I'm not consciously aware of what it is, not yet?
A grenade goes off inside me, throwing terror and adrenaline in a thousand conflicting directions within the confines of my chest and limbs. He's there. He's standing there, in the shadows, watching me with hatred and intent. He sees me - he sees that I see him - and he stalks forward, approaching me from behind.
But he's not there. He can't possibly be there. Why would Dean be in my apartment?
I just have to sit still, breathe deep, and -
---
Oh my God. I don't know what to do. I think I killed Dean.
But I had to.
I had to.
I have to make sense of this? I have to figure this out? ok, step by step?
I wasn't listening to music, or I would have known that he was really there. Or was he? Is he? Is he really on my floor, bleeding from his head? So secure in the matrix of logic I usually keep myself in, I was certain he wasn't really there. I kept believing that, even as the fear surged up right behind me - and he grabbed me around the neck!
He was trying to drag me toward the door, that's all I could tell. He didn't say a word. I don't know how I got out of his grip, except by going limp and flopping down at a lucky moment, and then he lunged at me again. I scrambled away, pulled a lamp down, and threw it at his face.
A couple bits of shattered light bulb stuck out from his cheek, but he kept coming, furious. He tried to tackle me, but I slipped and fell out of the way, and he smashed sideways into my table. I used his moment of disorientation to lift my printer and bring it down on his head.
He fell, and stopped moving.
What do I do? What do I do? My condition, my pills, would make me out to be a lunatic. Would they lock me up for this? It was in my own apartment, sure, but they'd just say that I invited him inside.
Wait?
Did I?
Did I ask him to come look at something? Did I then attack him?
If I'm hallucinating things again, how can I know what's real? I've always hated him? hated his niceness? I always thought there was a smug arrogance behind it, even if he never showed it.
I couldn't call the police, could I?
But I did. I had to. This wasn't some movie. I couldn't hide the body or any such nonsense. Besides, that would just look worse.
So, I called.
The first thing the cop on the other end asked me was my location. He was very insistent on knowing where I was - even before I'd mentioned what I'd done. Something about his energy spooked me, and I hung up before giving any identifying information.
Goddamnit, Will, where are you?
He's moving! Dean's moving!
---
Thanks for all the replies. Yes, Dean was alive, just unconscious. He woke up, staggered to his feet, and mumbled an apology. It was the weirdest thing ever.
No, he didn't explain what the hell he'd been doing. He seemed confused, more than anything. He did say: "That was really stupid of me. I'm sorry."
About twenty minutes after he stumbled out, through the wall, I thought I heard somebody berating him in his apartment.
Now I'm more confused than ever. I don't understand what he was trying to do. It's satisfying, though, hearing someone shout at him for being an asshole and an idiot. Yeah, I know, right? If I didn't have my own issues, I'd call the police on him myself for breaking and entering.
Sometimes, mental problems make you feel like an outcast. You don't get to call the police. You don't get to ask for help. If there's a problem, you're the one in trouble. That's one of the many reasons I don't leave my apartment much.
You guys ever feel like that?
---
I just had the oddest experience. A girl came by - Dean's girlfriend - and asked if I wanted to take a walk. She wanted to apologize and explain what happened, so that I wouldn't 'press charges.' I guess she had no idea I was terrified of interacting with the cops.
She was like Dean. Thin, blonde, perky like a fashion magazine model? I hated her immediately, even though she sort of reminded me of my sister. "Fine," I said, and locked my apartment behind me.
The first thing that hit me, aside from the cold night air, was the blazing orange casting everything in eerie burnt colors. The weather had cleared up! Immediately, I could sense the molten Moon and blazing veil above, but I avoided looking at it. It wasn't real, and I wasn't going to give in to my waking dreams.
"Nice night out, isn't it?" she said, oblivious to the burning sky. She walked beside me as we circled the neighborhood. "Look, I'll be honest with you. Dean's kind of a controlling asshole. He's never been violent before, but I think he got the idea that something's going on between you and me."
"What?" I laughed, the last note rising awkwardly high. "I don't think we've ever even spoken."
"No, we haven't," she agreed. "But I saw you in the hall last week and mentioned that I used to date dirty grunge types. You know, metal."
I suddenly felt very warm, and I'm sure my face was red to someone who saw silver moonlight instead of orange. "You did?"
"Yep. He's not really my type. Crazy, right? Since we both look like we belong in an Old Navy ad."
"You said it, not me," I replied. Did I actually just make a joke? I don't think I'd ever gotten this many seconds into a conversation with a pretty girl.
And she actually laughed out loud. "I know, I know. When I dress and act like this, I know what I'm doing. Call it an experiment. If we're being honest, I had to get away from the drugs. I love me some Megadeth and Dio, but the scene -"
"Wait, what?" I asked, surprised. "Those are my two favorite bands right now."
She blinked. "Really? I didn't think anyone our age liked the classic stuff still."
I opened my jacket and showed her my t-shirt.
"No friggin' way," she said with a smile. "Well it's nice to meet you, -" She held out her hand.
"Alek," I said, shaking her hand and marveling at my own ability to actually hold a human conversation. I didn't feel numb or terrified, I just felt? normal. The fact that she reminded me of my sister had made it easier to deal with her. "Short for Alexander."
"Alexander," she said, smiling. "I'm Ashley." She looked up at the sky for a moment, but I did not follow her gaze. "Beautiful night out," she said.
I still didn't look. I didn't want to face the flaming hallucination that was so insistently trying to ruin my first real connection with someone else in a long time.
"How about this," she continued after a moment, finally looking back at me. "I'm done with Dean either way. He's such an asshole? but I honestly believe it's a one-time thing from him. If you don't press charges, I'll go on a date with you."
That part finally broke my scant coolness and made me clam up. I'd seen that moment enough times on television that I knew to force myself to say one word: "Sure."
I think she mistook my terseness for aloof confidence. A genuine and warm smile crossed her face, and then she took my cellphone and put her number in it.
Ten minutes later, I'm back in my apartment, and more shocked than when I thought I'd killed Dean.
Now here's the part where I need some help from you guys. I know I'm posting a ton tonight,
and I'm sorry, I just? it's so hard to tell what's real. I keep thinking back on it and obsessing over our little walk. I can't help feeling she was trying to get me to look at the sky. Little details, like her choice to talk to me outside, and her long pauses to look over at the Moon? and Dean had been trying to drag me to the door?
Had her whole thing? had our whole connection? been fake? Am I just being paranoid? How would they even know about my hallucination? Oh God, what if it's a cruel trick? What if they read my posts and are messing with me?
What do you guys think? Am I just psyching myself out for no reason? I hate this so much? I hate my brain, hate my affliction, hate myself? why can't I just be normal?
---
Thanks for the support. I am kind of freaking out, and you guys make me feel much better. Still a ton of trolls here, though, please STFU?
Although I don't agree with the popular sentiment here that going out and looking at the Moon to 'face my fear' will help. I'm not going to do that. Ignoring my hallucinations has always worked for me.
Hold on one second? another knock at the door.
---
What the hell?
I just got a visit from Crazy Donald. Guess what, though?
He's fine.
He seems lucid.
He looked at me with a clear and direct gaze that I've never seen from him before. He knew my name, too. I opened the door, and he stared at me for a moment before saying, "Alek - you're alright!"
"Yeah," I replied, confused. "Donald, are you like - actually there?"
He nodded. "I'm feeling? better. Father Abruzzo has stopped shouting at me." He tapped his head. "I think he's finally forgiven me, after all these years."
"Father Abruzzo?" I asked, concerned.
Donald smiled and nodded. "My mother's stopped scolding me, too." He breathed deep. "I'm feeling good, man. And I don't know anyone else."
I stared at him. "No family?"
He shook his head. "Somewhere. Detroit, last I can remember, before I, uh? before the screaming got so loud I couldn't think."
"When was that?"
"I dunno, man. Black Sabbath is the last big thing I can remember. Uh, Glenne Hughes was on vocals that time."
I knew my metal trivia. "Their 1986 tour? Shit, I think they played Detroit that year. You've been out of it for thirty years?"
"Thirty years? What year is it now?"
I frowned. "2014. It's October, 2014."
"Damn," he replied, gruff and sad. "Can I look in a mirror?"
"Sure," I told him.
He's in the bathroom crying right now.
I know how to handle this less than I knew how to handle talking to Ashley. I've always sort of gotten along with Crazy Donald - well, just Donald, now, I suppose - but I never suspected that he was aware of me through the fog of his mania. I can't just kick him out, either. Do I have to let him live here? The thought of someone in my space, even if it's just for a bit, makes me nervous.
This has been one hell of a night. I don't think I can take much more emotional stress. I'm already fragile in the best of circumstances, but tonight has been a trip. What do you guys suggest? How should I handle this?
---
I didn't say anything to him. I didn't even mention it to him. I'm terrified beyond all logic right now.
I stood outside the door and tried to calm him down, the way some of you suggested. And you know what he said, as he cried?
"It's that damn burning Moon," he complained. "I'd rather go back to the screaming than find out I've lost so much of my life."
I didn't say anything to him. I never told him about the molten Moon. He said it, unprompted, and I nearly had a panic attack.
It wasn't just my imagination - or, we'd had the same hallucination.
"Donald," I remember saying very weakly. "Do you remember having bad dreams recently?"
He immediately quieted. "I always have bad dreams. My whole life has been a bad dream."
"I'm serious, Donald. In the last month - have you had any particularly horrible nightmares?"
He breathed for a time, in between pathetic sobs, and I heard him move a little on the bathroom floor. "Yeah. Even with Father Abruzzo shouting at me and my mother hurting me, I saw him standing there on the outside, trying to get in."
"Who?"
"Him," he said cryptically. "The Sleeper? the Dreamer On High. He's on the outside, looking in. He's always looking in."
I felt a terrible chill at those words. I didn't have a name for the shadow of impending doom I'd felt ever since that night, but I did have a feeling: the sensation of being watched. It felt just like Dean's presence had felt, like someone was standing in the shadows at the back of the room and watching me with fury and hunger. "Don? what did you mean when you said it was the Moon?"
"I looked, man. I looked up at it? and it looked down, into me."
That was all he would say. I left him to his sobbing, figuring I could get more out of him after his first good night's sleep in thirty years. I left him a blanket, too.
And, now, I'm left with a terrible foreboding. There's a small pool of blood on my floor, and nobody seems to share my hallucination that the Moon is on fire except another crazy person. Still, I called my brother one last time.
"Will," I said to his voicemail. "Don't look at the Moon. I don't know if you've looked - but don't! It's important!"
I don't know what else to do. How can I know? How does anyone know what's real? If something's happening? who would I even turn to? If it's not, how do I shake this waking nightmare?
And why do so many of you keep insisting I go outside and look at the Moon? I'm not finding this funny anymore.
I have a text from Ashley? she wants to go on our date now? which is way sooner than I expected, I guess, but who knows? I gotta go? but I'll be back with more updates when I can manage. Wish me luck, guys!
I'm not gonna let this get to me. I'm not gonna let my issues get in the way of my life. Not this time?
***
It seems someone should have told Alek the golden rule: never go on a date if you're living in a horror novel.
The saga continues soon. Follow Alek's tale, and others, at MattDymerski.com.
The Desolate Guardians Page 13