《Myth》


 Where Did All The Shadow People Go?

    At the top of the hill stood one of Woodbury''s many neighborhoods. A cul-de-sac; one whose main source of light at this hour came from the porch of little Mrs. Miller''s house. The porchlight gleamed onto the street and yet failed to illuminate the cookie-cutter houses that wrapped along the semi-circle. All except one.


    In this one small house and behind its deep-colored door, was a young man, who sat at the top of the staircase overlooking the entrance. He was thin and disheveled, dressed in his house sweats and an oversized shirt he''d use to sleep in. He watched, with a fixed gaze, as the lights shut off throughout the house.


    For in front of him stood a towering figure who eclipsed the entrance behind it. Its hands were placed gently on the top of the coat rack. The figure, cloaked in black and red from its tight-fitting apparel, was more than aware of its audience.


    There was only the faintest light in the foyer that exposed its unkempt facial hair and presence. This red and black mass stood still, almost as if it were contemplating giving some words of comfort. Its hands pulled on the canvas coat hanging from the top rack and put it on gracefully in one motion. Words were spoken, but they were almost imperceptible as if rehearsed and then staged, like a silent black-and-white film added in post.


    His father turned his back to him once more. His mouth moved as if there were things left to say, but the words never traveled. The young man, a silent observer, watched as the front door closed in front of him. The door shut without a click or a snap and only in that way did it give the young man comfort.


    From the corner of his eyes, he could see how the faintest light from the moon snuck in; like stowaways, through the blinds in the living room window. Greeted by the moving figures hidden in the corner of the room, silhouettes of creatures that inhabited the house; only visible by the lights'' presence, and yet a product of their existence. Stoically aware of the figures that moved in the dark, the young man stood up, and with great caution began his journey up the stairs.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The house moaned with each step he took in his climb. It had stored all their shared history in the crevices and cracks in the floorboards, pleading with each creak it made. Once he entered his bedroom he crept toward his window and slid back the curtain only a few inches. He watched from the corner of the window as his father got into his car. The hum from the engine starting had almost drowned out from the pitter-patter of the escalating drizzle outside. The car then peeled out of the driveway and looked almost like a blue streak through his tired eyes. There was a certain familiarity to it all; this young man had rehearsed this role before. As Clive prepared to step back from the window he noticed a figure moving towards the house. A figure, he presumed, who lived in the house across the street; obfuscated by the lack of street lights on the block. The moonlight glistened on their long blonde hair, as they pulled a hood over their head.


    "Clive," they called out as they approached his house.


    "Clive, we need to talk," they said, now approaching his front door. In that instance, the young man had recalled something he wished to forget. The doorbell now rang and Clive pulled back from his window, frozen. He reaches for the light switch and is immediately greeted with a knock.


    "Please don''t pretend you''re sleeping, I can see the light from here." It was a soft voice, strained and familiar to him. Clive moved to the bottom step of the staircase and sat watching the door as she knocked.


    "Please Clive, I want to talk." Her voice sent shockwaves through the floorboards which left Clive helpless in its wake.


    Clive had found himself floating in the spaces that lived between a second; it was only in these remains that Clive felt he was granted an opportunity to amend.


    Clive pulled himself up from the step and planted his foot on the wooden floorboard in front of him. There was a hesitation in his walk, growing more confident as the decision cemented in his mind. Each step felt like the first, almost as if the door were being pulled further and further away. The faster he jogged, the longer the distance, until it was an almost endless hallway with the faintest image of his front door glowing in front of him. Her voice now echoed, a memory, "Please, we need to talk. You owe me at least that much."


    If you were to ask Clive now, what it all meant; he''d tell you, he was where he felt he''d always been.

 Little Lies We Tell Ourselves

    "How have you been sleeping?" Clive''s eyes blinked, wincing from the harsh light. He could feel the soft and sturdy texture of the couch as his right arm lay at his side. ''It''s the middle of the afternoon,'' He thought to himself as he noticed the light peeking out through the living room windows. At first, he only caught their feet, her left leg resting over her right; as she tried to remain graceful and approachable. She wore a light green-colored blouse that tucked tidily into her long black skirt. Her dark brown hair twisted and curled on its way down her neck and sat over her right shoulder. There she was, sitting in his father''s recliner across from him, holding a look of anticipation.


    "Clive?" she asked again, her voice delicate but direct in its tone.


    He tried to piece together the moment that came before and drew a blank. He smiled in an awkward manner as his mind raced in a panic, trying to adjust. Then he stopped, the panic subsided and the feeling of dread that followed these meetings washed over him. If there was a vibrant color in the room, Clive could not see it. He veered his eyes away from her, and his hands met over the edge of his seat. He twiddled his fingers like a child caught in a lie.


    "I don''t know, it doesn''t feel like my brain ever shuts off. So it''s like I didn''t really sleep at all, you know?" Clive looked up at the composed Dr. Lim, he could see the worry on her face that she hid behind a soft smile.


    "What about food, eating okay?" she asked, moving promptly through her checklist.


    "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner," Clive responds in a kind of false sincerity. The wind whistled outside and he could hear the faint sound of the neighbor''s wind chime.


    "Good, good. Anything specific troubling you?" Dr. Lim asks, trying to raise his spirits. She cut through each layer with precision and yet with each wall torn down, another formed.


    "Nothing that wasn''t already," Clive responds. Dr. Lim nods her head and then catches herself, moving forward with their conversation.


    "It''s normal, you know, to feel restless and unmotivated, especially at your age. Agoraphobia can be overwhelming to deal with," she said, trying to convey a comforting tone. Her body loosened into something a little more welcoming. The breeze from outside caused the blinds to swing back and forth, tapping on the window and adding to Clive''s uneasiness.


    Clive turned his head back and noticed his father''s coat was missing from the coat rack. His eyes veer back toward the kitchen where a cup of untouched orange juice sat on the kitchen table. The plates rested on the rack drying from previous use and one of the mats on the kitchen table was out of position. The bottom of Clive''s feet were caked with lint and dust, which he tried to hide by swinging his legs toward the back of the couch.


    "So now I''m depressed and agoraphobic?" Clive asked as he shifted his head ever so slightly to the right.


    "Maybe, possibly. We can be more than one thing Clive, it''s a process. So if you ever decide you wanna talk about it, I''m here," Dr. Lim replied with a hesitant smile. The distance between both seats seemed larger with each question.


    "I know," he said, hunching forward on the couch.


    "Good. I know this is a difficult topic and I know we''ve talked about this before, but I wanna go over it one more time. I''m hoping it''ll give you some clarity and I''m hoping you''ll find something in it that you haven''t already. I want you to tell me about the night your mom left," Dr. Lim said, pausing to look at him.


    Clive leaned back into his seat from his hunched position. He turned his head to glance through the window to his right. He could almost make out the mailbox from where he was sitting. For a moment he pondered on the color while trying to summon her memory the best that he could.


    "She didn''t leave," Clive exclaimed, his tone harsh at first, softening as he continued. "She''s missing."


    Dr. Lim sighed and looked up from her notepad. She met Clive''s eyes with a pained expression on her face saying, "Yes, of course."


    Clive looked down and then away before beginning, "I never remember it the same way twice. It always kind of changes in my head... like a painting more than a picture, if that makes sense." Clive''s tone had softened.


    "The mind is funny that way, we''re just reconstructing an image from scraps every time we remember it," Dr. Lim explained. Her words traveled from her lips in a way she hoped would bring Clive comfort.


    "So it''s fiction?" Clive asked in what could almost be a whisper.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    "No, not exactly. It''s not about the accuracy of the memory, no memory can be a hundred percent accurate. We tend to color our memories and they shift and change with time, the same way we do. How you remember it can tell us more than just the way it happened, it allows us to see the impact. Because that''s what memories are, these experiences are pieces of the framework that make us who we are. More importantly, how we see the world."


    "Little lies we tell ourselves," Clive replied in a somewhat subdued tone. He couldn''t help himself from trying to poke holes.


    "Or, and this is a stretch, but it''s more like abstract films we stitch together. That we pull from loosely connected images, that we then analyze to find meaning," Dr. Lim responded, as she looked down at her notes, avoiding his pointed look.


    "My mom used to take me to this farmer''s market on Saturdays, by the square, when I was little. She used to always call me her little helper. She loved how I''d struggle to hold the little bag of produce for her as we made our way around the crowded market. She''d walk me to this little old bench outside the square and she''d remind me that this is where I should go if we ever got separated. I remember it because she''d do it every time before we''d enter the crowd.


    The rest is where it gets kind of tricky. Sometimes when I look back, I remember her being in a rush, like she was scared or knew something or someone was coming. Sometimes when I remember it, I''m lost in a crowd, the adults all feel like large trees. They''re all mumbling to each other and I can''t seem to hear myself through all the noise. I call for her and all the taller bodies that surround me seem not to notice.


    There are times when I remember her sitting me on the bench and all she says is that she''ll be right back. Of course, she never really comes back. All those details kind of shift and change and it doesn''t matter how I lose sight of her. No matter how or what the details are, that day always ends the same. It''s me on that bench and I''m crying, bawling my eyes out. I mean I''m five years old, so what else am I gonna do at that point right? I call out for her, I cry and then I call out some more, and every time I remember it... well, you know the rest."


    ~


    She wrestled with her bag, pulling it to her chest as she dug through the inside. Her old blue sedan sat in the driveway. She tried pulling on the door knob a few times before venturing further into her purse. She pulled something out of her bag, and she seemed stuck. Dr. Lim slowly turned her head and looked up from the driveway. She waved at Clive with a gentle smile as he tried to hide carefully behind the curtain of his bedroom.


    The muffled sound of her car driving off gave him some respite and yet he continued watching. His eyes locked on to the house across the street, obsessed over the ''For Sale'' sign on the front lawn. There''s a sound, something fell on the carpet, a thud. Clive jerked his head around as he heard a chuckle behind him.


    "How long have you been watching me?" Clive asked in a cutting manner.


    "Not long, just a minute or two," Quinn playfully replied as she maneuvered over the bed to make her way to him. They both peered out the window now, taking only small moments to acknowledge one another.


    "I let myself in if you were wondering," Quinn announced as she brushed her long dark hair with her hand. Clive always thought her glasses seemed much larger than necessary, but they suited her.


    "I wasn''t," Clive replied .


    Quinn was Clive''s closest friend and even though they''d known one another for years, Quinn was still a mystery to him. Her parents owned a shop in town somewhere, but that was as much as he''d ever heard about her family. She was a tease, but underneath all of their flirting, there wasn''t even a spark. As far as Clive was concerned she was the closest thing he had to a sister.


    "You were in the middle of your session and it didn''t seem like either of you noticed me come in, so I''ve been... you know. Looking through your things, checking your drawers. Just general snooping." Quinn continued, as she observed Clive from behind and waited for his reaction.


    "Yeah?" Clive asked, he was unfazed by Quinn''s words. Turning his head every so often to peer at the silhouette of trees that made up much of the hill they were on.


    "No, but I bought this new book. Seemed like a good time to crack it open. It''s called Purple Dinosaur Boxers, riveting stuff. It''s all about the dichotomy of boxers versus briefs and the personality types associated. You know, like what kind of man still wears tidy whities? I''m honestly asking, why?"


    Clive couldn''t help but smirk, "Shut up," even as he continued in his focused stare. Silence followed and Clive turned for a moment.


    "Did you listen in?" Clive asked.


    "To your session? Oh, god no, that would bore me to death. Trust me, I''m not interested in the retelling of your sob stories," Quinn responded, hiding her awkwardness with a flair of her wrist.


    "Right." Clive turned to face Quinn whose smile covered her entire face in a forced manner but still managed to get him to laugh.


    "Still stuck on Alice?" Quinn asked, noticing that Clive had been staring at the house across the street.


    "Are you jealous?" Clive remarked.


    Quinn winced as she replied, "Gross."


    "I guess a new family is moving in then?" Quinn turned to look at Clive. His gaze locked on the house across the street, almost as if he didn''t even hear what she said. "You know, It''s okay if it bothers you that she moved," Quinn responds.


    Clive''s mind wandered into a memory as he recalled sitting in a chair facing his window one afternoon. A spot he''d often go to draw, where he remembered seeing her for the first time, Alice. Hunched over her sketchpad, sitting on her porch looking for a subject to draw, just as he had. He remembered making eye contact as he crept from his bedroom window and settling on their respective sights for a moment, taking each other in as they both began to draw. He liked to imagine that they both sketched one another that day.


    "It can''t be helped," Clive replied. "Her dad found a job out of town."


    "Yeah, I''m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she called you creepy and thought you were stalking her," Quinn jokingly interjected.


    Clive pulled the curtain over the window and turned to properly greet his friend as Quinn remarked, "At least that means she was real right?"

 September is A Month of Sorrows

    "Can you pass me the bread?" His father asked as his hand extended out for the large bowl filled with chopped pieces of Italian bread. His father''s presence was imposing, his voice deep, almost a growl. The delivery in his voice however was always soft and almost reassuring. Clive passed the bowl and played with the strands of spaghetti on his plate.


    "Did you ever finish that drawing?" His father asked as he poured water from the oddly shaped pitcher into his cup.


    "Which one?" Clive replied. His father snuck a glance and a smile as he placed the jug back in the center of the table. A nervous laugh followed as he scratched his head.


    "You had a whole page filled with sketches of birds, with hair." Clive chuckled and shook his head in recoil from the surprise.


    "You saw that?" Clive asked through the laugh.


    "It was... very different," His father replied as they both laughed together in harmony.


    "It wasn''t bad, was it?"


    "No, no. Not at all. Strange maybe, but not bad. I like that you have something that''s just your own. There was one bird with long hair, was that supposed to be the girl who lived across the street? What was her name again?" his father asked.


    "Alice," Clive responded. He looked down at his food trying to avoid what he thought would be an uncomfortable inquiry, but there was nothing. His father poured some shredded cheese onto his plate and met Clive''s eyes with a smile.


    "Is that weird," Clive inquires.


    "No, I don''t think so. You probably don''t remember it because you were so young, but you used to have playdates together all the time, at that park your mom used to take you to. You were only two or three at the time. Quinn might not like to hear it, but she was not your first friend," he said as he laughed quietly to himself, before picking up his fork.


    Clive looked up from his plate and watched his father scarf down mound after mound of spaghetti, making a mess of his beard. His father chuckled as Clive motioned his hands over his entire lower jaw, indicating the glob of tomato sauce that was on his face. His father chuckled, grabbing a paper napkin and wiping his face.


    "Saving some for later?" Clive joked as he pointed to the small string of spaghetti hanging from his father''s beard.


    "I don''t eat pretty," His father retorted as they both began to laugh. "You didn''t know? I always have a midnight snack!" He said between breaths. As their laughter died down he said in a strained tone, "God, your mother used to make that joke," wiping the excess food from his face. "She was so funny, it caught you off guard. Had a hell of an imagination too. I ever tell you what she used to call the house?"


    "No," Clive replied as he placed his drink back down on the table.


    " ''The little blue house with the red door,'' she even went as far as painting the door. She couldn''t be bothered with the rest of the house though, said it was too much work," He roared in laughter, a deep bellowing sound that shook even the table.


    "I still remember waking up on Saturdays to the smell of her pancakes. I''d run downstairs and she was always ready to greet me with a hug," His father stifled his laugh and adjusted his tone.


    "What happened to her?"


    He let them sit in it for a moment. His expression at first was focused and then confused.


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    "I don''t know. You might be the only person who does." His father sighs and then adjusts before continuing, "I still can''t wrap my head around something you said to me around the time that it happened. You were so petrified by the ordeal, I don''t think you even knew what you were saying. You told me that you went looking for your moms that day. That you wanted to find her. That you followed her into this clearing on the other side of the square. You practically dragged me there to show me. You kept saying something about a monster. That when you finally found her there, it was eating her. I''ve never been able to shake that."


    Clive wiped his plate clean, and most of the pot was empty given his father''s large appetite. Clive looked down and could see all his father''s work reflected in his hands. They were rough with grime so thick on his nails that cutting them would be the only way to remove it. Clive watched his father''s giant calloused fingers delicately stack the plates. Clive looked up at his father, who stood up to clear the table.


    "You always did have your mother''s imagination."


    It was the smell that woke him up, the sweet crisp scent of buttermilk. He couldn''t muster the energy to move and instead resigned himself to watching the rotating ceiling fans spin above him. Voices coming from downstairs had followed the smell up to his bedroom. Clive tried identifying the voice, Maybe it''s Quinn, he thought, talking to my dad.


    Then there was that laugh, it was a warm high-pitched squeal that sent a wave down his back; that he could feel in his bones. He recognized all of it, the voice, the laugh, and even the smell that had crept up to his bedroom. The touch of cinnamon should have immediately given it away.


    Clive flung the blanket that was covering him. He lifted himself and followed the sound in a trance. On the top of the stairs, he stood, fighting the weight of his eyelids. He fought to contain himself as he shifted his head trying to get a visible angle on their guest. Clive could only see a shoulder, though the black shawl that hung from it was unrecognizable. He knew his father''s gruff laugh anywhere, but ''who is he laughing with?'' he asked himself as he maneuvered his head to get a good look.


    "There he is," His father declared, pointing at Clive as he chuckled in a strange, infectious enthusiasm. A smile plastered across his face, overpowering the gruff veneer his beard usually afforded him. The mysterious woman had gone stiff from his father''s announcement. She faced Clive''s father and Clive could only see the back of her head.


    "Martim," she said to his father as the gentle giant continued to point at Clive from where he stood. "Don''t startle him, this is going to be an adjustment for all of us," she turned around. It felt like she had been preserved in time, not a day had passed according to the lines on her face. There was a single tear that escaped her eyes as she forced a smile. Clive leaped from the final step and jumped in for an immediate hug. He held onto her tight, the kind of hug only a son could give and a mother could return. An embrace that spoke to the kind of hope Clive had held on to; that everything would be normal again.


    "I''m so sorry honey, I got lost and it took me a lot longer to get back to you than I hoped," She said in a voice that could only be hers.


    "Where have you been?" Clive asked in almost a whisper as he fought off the streaming tears from his face. Even after all these years he still felt tiny in her embrace.


    "What''s important now is that we''re together again," She said as she tightened her hold on Clive.


    Clive looked up to see her smiling face. She laughed and sighed and then laughed again louder but with more force. The laughter changed pitch, first a sign of relief but now an unnerving shriek. The color in her face began to fade, graying at first and then rapidly decaying. Pieces of dry skin fell off like layers being peeled, dropping from her face like wilting leaves in the fall. Clive couldn''t move as the laughter grew in its intensity. The room and its surroundings began to lose color, draining with the creature''s vile sound. Clive had been locked in tighter as another joined the hug and Clive noticed his father holding him more steadily in their combined embrace. They began to sink, the floorboards became like quicksand and they were being enveloped by the house; descending into its depths, drowning. "Isn''t this what you''ve always wanted?" The creature screeched. "Now we can be together forever."


    Clive opened his eyes and his hands grabbed both his neck and his collar. He whimpered and moaned as he struggled for air, hyperventilating. His body reacted as though he were being suffocated; as if the air in his lungs were being sucked out directly.


    ''It was all a dream,'' Clive uttered to himself. His heart was racing, his body trembling, shivering as if he were thrust into the cold. Clive loosened the grip on his collar, his breathing steady and the panic subsided. His hands pushed down on the mattress to brace himself and he felt the soaked bed beneath him. He was drenched, every inch and crevice of his body covered in sweat.

 I Dont Think Anyone I know is Awake

    The floorboards creaked in slow succession. As light pierced through the sill of the bathroom door, it traveled and shaped according to the sound. The nozzle rumbled and scraped as Clive turned the faucet. He yanked a towel from the rack, placing his foot on the mat. The light from the bathroom acted as a beacon for the rest of the corridor''s dark interior. Clive stood in the doorway and fought with the towel over his hair. From where he stood, he could see the mess he left behind. His shirt hung from the dresser drawer, thrown in heated panic. His bed sheets splayed out on the floor, and his bed lay bare, stained with sweat.


    A thought courses through his mind as he ponders the scuttlehole above him.


    His dad had a box of belongings in a large, warped cardboard box. The hatch stairs were out. He had been moving most of her belongings into the attic. Clive remembered waking up to the attic stairs creaking as his father shuffled back and forth. Clive pressed his hand against his eyelids. He struggled to keep them open, wincing from the light. There was brusqueness to his voice as he stomped past Clive toward the stairs.


    "Stay out of the attic, Clive. You heard?" He said as he traversed through several hurdles to get up those stairs. Vanishing into the empty boundaries of the mirage.


    There was a loud thud that came from somewhere in the house. Clive grabbed some clothes from his dresser and clumsily put it on in a half-step. The house mocked his hesitation as he paced himself through the dark depths of the house. The floorboards crackled, then jeered at each of his footsteps. The main staircase had never felt as flimsy as it did in the dark.


    A light peered out from behind the garage door and bled into the kitchen. Clive could hear someone mumbling to themselves. Incoherent garbling that had fused with the sharp tools, whirling in the background. As Clive opened the garage door, he saw his father toying with something in his hands. A small circular piece of metal that had been hollowed out in the center. His father looked up and scratched his head before acknowledging his presence.


    "I wake you?" His father asked as he pulled his welding goggles away from his face.


    "I had a bad dream, couldn''t sleep. I heard something loud bang up against the floor. Thought a raccoon found itself in the garage again," Clive responded.


    His father chuckled and placed the goggles on his workbench. He pulled the thick metal ring from the clamp and held it between his fingers. Its rough surface, scratched up from previous work, "You''re wondering what I''m doing?"


    "A little bit," Clive says.


    "We were never married, your mother and I. We talked about it a bunch before you were born. Life just got in the way. I had always planned to make it official. I started this project when we knew your mom was pregnant with you. It''s hard to do this kind of work when a pregnant woman is in the house, even harder with a newborn. I always thought I would get back to it eventually. I wonder if I was making excuses. It''s silly. There are boxes of her things in the attic. Yet, the rings are what bothers me."


    "Do you remember that morning you woke me up ''cause you were moving a bunch of mom''s things in the attic?" Clive asked.


    "I do."


    "I was thinking about it not long ago, like right before I came down here, actually," His father slowed his movements. He knew the question that was sure to come.


    "Why did you never let me up there?" Clive asked.


    "I''m still mourning Clive," his father responds.


    Clive nods and turns to leave before asking, "What are you gonna do when I finally leave?" Clive stood facing away from his father but could hear the hesitation in his voice.


    "I don''t know. That''s a long way from now."


    "Right," Clive says as he opens the garage door. Clive turns to his dad one last time before saying, "Goodnight, Dad."


    "G''night, son."


    ~


    As Clive returns to the mess on his bed. He can hear a commotion outside his window. A large white moving truck is parked right outside Alice''s old house. A family had gathered on the lawn as they started packing boxes on the ground from the truck. The father struggles to open the front door for what looks like the first time. The mom is holding a small child in her arms, and Clive sees her for the first time. Her dark brown hair as she says something Clive can barely make out with the sound of the truck still going. She looks up and catches Clive''s gaze in what feels like an hour.


    They exchange a smile.


    Her head turns swiftly, meeting some unknown voice from out of view. His voice raised in unintelligible speech. They were arguing. The mom enters the house while the daughter reaches for one of the boxes. As she begins to head inside, she announces,


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Go home, Harper. My family doesn''t have time for our drama right now. Please go home."


    Several of the lights in the neighborhood begin to turn on as the person she was talking to comes out from behind the truck and enters from the driver''s side. Clive manages to catch only a few details. He seems taller than most. His hair is slightly long and shaggy; he wasn''t muscular, he wasn''t a twig either. The truck door slams. It pulls out from the driveway. The daughter once again turns her head back towards Clive''s window. He ducks out of the way to avoid her gaze.


    His mind races, fuck, fuck, fuck; he thinks to himself as he waits underneath his window.


    Clive awkwardly crawls toward the light switch, pulling the window curtains as he shuffles clumsily on the floor.


    Clive lets out a huge sigh as he lies silently on his bed, his face hot from everything that had transpired. He closes his eyes, hoping to keep his mind from his failings. His breathing is heavy, and he tries to settle into a rhythm. Clive pulled the covers up to his chest, and his body and mind began to drift. He thinks back on only the little details he got of her face. Even from how far away he was from her, he knew.


    She was attractive.


    His face felt hotter, steam pulling from his face and neck, his chest and armpits sweaty. He pondered and reflected on the girl''s voice. Thinking only about the fact that she had someone, maybe.


    Clive lay there overanalyzing all the little things he could from that five-minute interaction.


    He felt something.


    The room felt heavier.


    There was a presence in the room, one he didn''t recognize. Clive forced his eyelids closed, tighter than they had been before. He uttered a silent prayer, hoping that whatever had been there in that room with him would leave him undisturbed. The prayer gave him some solace as his consciousness slipped comfortably into sleep.


    ~


    The Kernels shifted from side to side as Quinn placed a bowl filled with popcorn on Clive''s lap.


    "You didn''t have to make this," Clive responds. Quinn smirks as she settles into her seat on the couch, "A movie night without popcorn almost feels like a sin."


    Quinn looks around the room and notices a jacket missing from the rack, " Your dad went to work?"


    "Yeah, I think so. Kinda strange that I can''t remember saying bye," Clive looks down at the bowl before putting a kernel in his mouth.


    "So tell me," Quinn asks enthusiastically. "What is our itinerary for the night? I''ve got a list. We''re talking all the classic action staples, alright. You wanna see a guy trapped in a hotel fighting for his life, got it. Man on a mission. Only if he so chooses; I got it. I''m even down to watch some weird car fetish movie about family."


    Clive laughs, "I''m loving the sell, what about..." Quinn interrupts him mid-sentence.


    "Clive, I love you, but please, for the love of all that is good, do not recommend an animated movie." Clive pulled himself from his slouched position on the couch and rearranged the bowl of popcorn on his lap.


    "Okay, explain this to me. What is all this hate of animated movies," Clive asks.


    "There''s no hate. I love animated movies. I watch a lot of them on my own. I don''t even mind watching them with you. But you''re obsessed. I mean this with all the love and kindness I can muster. You''re obsessed, Clive, and it''s very specifically the fairytale ones."


    Clive turns his head in awe, "Seriously?"


    "Yes, Clive, I swear, sometimes I think you''re a bigger girl than I am."


    "Wow," Clive silently remarks. "Okay, fine, I don''t give you shit for always wanting to watch explosion-heavy action films or gorefest horror movies."


    "No one does,'''' Quinn retorted. "They understand it just fine. What''s hard to get about dismemberment and explosions? I can speak for the rest of the world when I say it''s universally satisfying to see a head explode."


    Clive leans back into his seat and puts another kernel in his mouth. He grabs the remote, smiling," Shut up and play your movie."


    "Thank you!" Quinn exclaims.


    ~


    Clive jumped from his seat. A loud noise had woken him up. He looked around, and the living room was completely dark except for the light that emanated from the TV. They must have accidentally left it on.


    Quinn must have gone home, Clive thought as he looked around the room for her.


    I must have fallen asleep during the movie, Clive pondered as he cleaned the popcorn off his lap.


    A loud knock startled Clive as he tried to wake from his sleep. He turned his head back to the front door and slowly pulled the blanket and bowl from his lap.


    "Hold on, gimme a sec," Clive said as he mustered the energy to stand up.


    "Quinn, is that you? Did you leave something?"


    Clive stumbles to the door and wipes his face with his arm as he opens it, only to see his new neighbor standing in the doorway.


    "I''m sorry to bother you. I could really use your help".


    Clive tries to gather himself. She was shaking. There was a palpable fear in her expression.


    How it turned so quickly, the corners of her mouth began to curve.


    "Is everything okay?" Clive asks.


    And there it was, her smile. It completely took Clive off guard.


    He felt a soft, wet texture on his forehead. It snapped, whipping up against his skin, popping and covering him in water.


    Clive flinches from the mess and cold water he''s now covered in. He hears a deeper voice come out from the doorway. It was the guy she was with earlier. He laughs as he says, "Yeah, she''s fine. You''re just a creep."


    They both laugh in his face now.


    Clive is frozen.


    All he can hear is, "Get a life, man."


    A faint voice whispers to Clive as he stands in the doorway.


    Frozen.


    Assaulted by their laughter. The voice gets louder, gradually. Clive can hear his pulse. The loud booming sound of his heartbeat overtakes his senses.


    The voice becomes clear, "Clive is everything okay?"


    Everything comes back into focus. Clive finds himself in front of Dr.Lim once again. His mind scrambled in panic, and his breathing was heavy.


    "Clive, are you okay?" She asked as he tried to manage his hyperventilation.


    "Deep breaths, Clive, take your time." She said as she dropped her notepad and moved from her seat next to him.


    The room gets smaller and shrinks in his peripheral vision. Dr.Lim softy rubs her hand on his back as Clive tries to fight the terror. In a small moment of respite, the only words Clive can muster are, "I''m so tired."


    "What are you tired of, Clive," she asks as she continues to try to comfort him.


    "Of everything, of this. I can''t tell anymore... Whether this is real... Or, if it''s just part of some dream... Am I awake, or am I still sleeping?"


    Clive fights tears amid his panic. His voice and tone defeated, he finally asks, "Are you a dream doc? I honestly can''t tell anymore."

 We Will Talk Through Walls

    "So, what did she say?"


    Quinn asks as she sits at the foot of his bed. Clive leaned up against the headboard. His head lowered as his thumbnails scraped against one another.


    "What was she supposed to say? I freaked out. She did her best. I mean, I sounded crazy no matter what. I am losing control, and now the whole thing is obvious to her. To me, to everyone, really. I lose these massive chunks of time and somehow forget how I go from place to place. Conversations start from the middle. Days begin from the end," Clive says as he tries to pick his head up as he speaks.


    "Tell me, you don''t think this sounds paranoid to you? Escalating it to make yourself more anxious and scared than you would have been normally? What makes more sense to you? You could easily have your days bleed into each other because so much of your day is based on routine. You never leave this house, so maybe you occasionally forget how you get from moment to moment. So when you finally wake up, in these interactions, maybe what frightens you is how much you live on autopilot?"


    Quinn tries to smile, to ease him through the topic. Clive looks up at the ceiling. He can see the leftover glue from his old glow-in-the-dark stickies above him. The harsh light bothers him, hit by the sun from the window to his left.


    "I-"


    Clive hesitates before throwing the towel completely.


    "Wish it were that easy," he says as he slides further into the covers.


    ~


    Over the next few days, Clive tries to be more present. He starts to draw more. However, Clive finds himself fixating on a single subject. Falling into a familiar pattern, he has nailed down the schedule for the girl next door. He knows when she returns from school and how many times a night she steps out onto her porch.


    Thrusting the lead back and forth from his page. Clive looks back at her, sitting there on her porch. The girl across the street is oblivious to Clive. Or at least maybe she is not bothered enough to care. A passing rush of guilt and shame crawls up his spine. He softly brushes his pencil against the page. Trying to accurately convey the smoke from the cigarette the girl was smoking on her porch. She catches his gaze again. This time, Clive presses on, continuing with his drawing. She begins speaking to someone in the car parked right outside her house. Clive thinks back and remembers what she called him, Harper.


    Clive sets his sketchpad down. His eyes feel heavy, burdened by his lack of sleep. Clive had fought to minimize the hours he spent in slumber. He hoped that the more time he spent consciously, the more likely he could control his perception. Still, even as his eyelids droop forcibly into submission, Clive daydreams of the stranger from across the way. Too familiar with his own patterns, Clive hopes some sleep will give him just enough separation to gauge how real she is.


    He sinks into his bed, yet his mind continues to race. The silence in the room is interrupted by creaking pressure across his floorboards. Clive buries his head under his covers, forcing his eyelids into a tighter seal. The sounds become louder, a shifting presence in his room.


    Go away.


    Clive thinks to himself as he tries to calm his panic.


    Please. Clive repeated the words in thought. Mouthing them to negate the effect the noise had on his sleep.


    Please.


    Please. It softened.


    Please.


    Please. It becomes a song.


    Ple-


    ~


    A loud smacking noise wakes Clive from his sleep. He shifts his position in bed to face the bedroom window. Thum. An object slammed against his window. He pulled himself from the forceful embrace of his covers and slid himself across the surface of his bed. He sat at the edge and wiped the crust from his eyes. He slowly approached the glass and flinched from the impact, Thum. Clive looked over and saw a rock sitting by the window sill. He looked closer and saw someone standing outside. Clive pulled the screen open and stuck his head out to greet them.


    "Hey," she said as she stumbled in her step, placing the lit cigarette in her mouth. Clive can barely make her out. Most of the lights were off on the houses around the block. Clive awkwardly waves his hand and smiles as if he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.


    "Hey, so do you do this whole watch-from-afar thing with all your neighbors or just me? If you wanted to say hi, all you had to do was come down. I promise not one to bite."


    Her body swayed back and forth. Clive could tell by how hard she fought to avoid slurring that she had a few drinks.


    "I can''t go down," Clive responds sheepishly, trying to avoid a commotion.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "What do you mean you can''t?" she asks as she tries to lean and finds nothing to support her weight.


    "I physically cannot leave my house," Clive responds.


    "You''re kinda old to be grounded aren''t you?" she teases. "I haven''t seen you in school. I haven''t seen you anywhere, actually. Which begs the question, were you ever gonna say hi?"


    "I''m sorry," Clive retorts, retreating further from the opening. He begins to shrink in size relative to the window. Standing on the large platform, an ant compared to his neighbor.


    "I don''t want you to apologize, I''m just curious."


    She looks up at Clive. She forcefully pulls another drag from her cigarette, waiting for his explanation.


    "I''m agoraphobic," Clive relents.


    "Like you can''t leave your house?" she responds, tilting her head.


    "Like, I get extremely anxious leaving my comfort zone to the point of panic. So, in a way, yes."


    She smiles at his answer and shuffles around the house, looking for something. Her expression seemed determined as she tugged with both arms on the fencing beside the house.


    "What are you doing?" Clive asks as he hears her messing with the trash cans out of sight.


    "What do you think I''m doing? I''m- uh- Trying to find a way to climb," she says as she grunts from her exertion.


    "What! No, get down. You are gonna hurt yourself." Clive angrily responds in a loud whisper.


    "Shhh, don''t worry, I got this," Clive can hear excitement and stifled laughter in her voice.


    "Seriously, you are gonna fall," Clive remarks.


    "Listen, princess, this isn''t the first time I''ve climbed some castle walls. Just be quiet and let me concentrate." The rattling sounds of trash cans toppling over cause Clive to get alarmed. He can hear shuffling on the part of the roofing attached to the second floor. The scraping sounds of her shoes trying to get a grip on the roofing and the thud from her body rolling onto the platform. Her head quickly pops out from the side of the window, a smile covering a large part of her face.


    "Your majesty," She says, laughing a little between each deep breath.


    "Kind of a workout, not gonna lie to you. Need to work on my upper arm strength a little," she says as she swings her arms wildly in the air, trying to shake off the burn. She leans down and sits just outside his view along the other side of his bedroom walls. Her hair is the only thing that seems clearly visible to him.


    "If you don''t mind, I''m gonna have a seat. I think I worked out enough for today," A bit of silence follows as they both collect themselves.


    "I wanted to apologize for the other night," she says. "You know, when we were moving in. We made a lot of noise, mostly me. I saw that we kinda woke you up. I was hoping to catch you outside one of these days. Obviously, that didn''t happen. So here we are," she says, chuckling to herself.


    "You don''t have to apologize. If anything, I''m sorry if I''ve been kinda nosy. I didn''t mean to be a creep about it," Clive responds as he leans into the window sill with his elbows to get closer.


    "I''d be lying if I said it wasn''t a little weird, but with the whole agoraphobia thing, it kinda makes more sense now."


    "Thanks, so how do you like the neighborhood?" Clive asks. She laughs a bit and sighs before answering.


    "My dad loves it. It is exactly what he wanted. A nice house in the suburbs. What could scream more suburbs than a house in a cul-de-sac."


    "You don''t seem too thrilled," Clive responds.


    "It''s a house. It''s got more room for my little sister. Mostly, I think he just wanted to commemorate his promotion. So, Agoraphobia, how is that?"


    "Uh, I''m supposed to have a crippling fear of leaving this house," Clive responds.


    "You don''t?" She answers.


    "Not really, I''m getting tired of these walls."


    "So, what you''re saying is, you don''t believe you''re agoraphobic?" she asks.


    "I don''t know, I''m frustrated. With both my lack of progress and the fact that most of my diagnosis feels foreign to the way I feel about the outside world. I just feel trapped," Clive responds.


    "Have you tried leaving?" she asks, turning her head sideways to get a look at his expression.


    "It''s been a while since I tried," Clive responds.


    "Then maybe you should, right?"


    "Yeah, maybe I should," Clive responds.


    "Well, I think that''s my cue, It was nice meeting you uh-" She responds as she pulls herself up from her seat. Her mind blanks, realizing they never exchanged names.


    "Clive," he responds.


    "It was nice meeting you, Clive." She says as she collects herself and her things from the roof.


    "You too-" Clive responds, waiting for her name.


    "Margo."


    "Nice to meet you, Margo."


    "Don''t be a stranger," she says as she readies herself to climb down.


    "You sure you''re gonna be okay to get down?" Clive asks with genuine concern.


    "Yeah, yeah. Should be a piece of cake compared to climbing up."


    She leans over the edge to look for ways to drop. Clive turns around to switch off his lights and hears a thud as she hits the ground.


    "See, it wasn''t so bad! Much easier than climbing up," she says. Clive looks down to see her brushing herself off after her landing.


    ~


    "Everything alright?" His father''s gruff voice penetrates his train of thought. The plate rattles slightly on the table after just having landed. Eggs, bacon, a glass of orange juice, and the signs that his father was leaving for his day.


    "Yeah, I''m fine. Sorry I just got lost in thought," Clive responded.


    "You''ve been doing that a lot recently. I''m just worried about you. Feels like you''re drifting off somewhere half the time. I have no idea where you''re going," his father retorts as he grabs his coat from the rack and slides his arms through the sleeves.


    "Me? I''m not going anywhere. Where are you going?" Clive jokingly asks.


    "Gotta go to work early. It might be a long day. I don''t expect to be home til late. Are you going to be okay with me going?" His father asks as he grabs his car keys from the little bowl by the shoe rack in the foyer.


    "Aren''t I always? Don''t worry Dad, I''m not going anywhere, remember? Where am I going to go?"


    "Right, I''ll see you later. Have a good day." He shuts the door behind him. Clive stands there, staring at the closed door. He thinks back on the conversation he had with Margo. Looks back at the table, at his plate. He sits and takes a few bites of his sandwich, but the door is too big of a distraction now to finish.


    Maybe you should try.


    Clive pulls the chair from the table and stands up. He walks carefully toward the door. His hand touches the cold exterior of the doorknob. He begins to turn it slowly. As he pulls the door, the bright light from outside blinds him to its details. Then nothing. Swallowed into a dark nothing. He can see nothing. The sound is so removed that it sounds like a hum. A deep hum. Underwater. Drifting, floating, he can hear a voice but only faintly. It sounds like a thing swallowing water as it speaks. A yell, but so absorbed it barely registers as a whisper.


    No.


    Then, a haunting and prolonged yell follows. Clive can hear the water overtaking its lungs as it bellows out this cry. Bubbling intermittently throughout its forced pronunciation. He hears it clearly, but not as a yell. They''re all drowning together.


    Waaaaaaaaake uuuuuuuuuup!

 In Undertow

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.