Random Appearances: Obsessions, delusions and other worlds (Story)

He obsessively followed a routine to get dressed. His survival depended on it. If he had to undress, he was frantic to redress. A sock was immediately followed by a shoe, whether it was bedtime or not. Despite the heat, he dressed in layers.

His parents worried whether something was wrong with their boy, and they tried to tell him to act normally, to stop being odd. Their best efforts of guilt and intimidation failed.

He didn’t care. He was dealing with bigger issues. What if he should wink out of existence and appear in the other world?

‘Why won’t you wear the shirt?!’
‘It’s uncomfortable.’
‘Rubbish, you’re just being stubborn. When we bought it you said it was fine.’
‘I won’t wear it!’

She shook her head and threw the brightly coloured shirt to the floor. ‘Gregory Andrew Douglas, I don’t know why I waste my money buying you nice things!’
His mum was upset now, but he saw no point trying to explain the real reason. It was the same with his mountain bike. How could she understand?
‘Greg, I’ve got you some reflective tape to put around your bike clothes. The school says you’ll be a lot safer riding with this high visibility stuff on.’
‘Thanks mum, I’ll go and do it later,’ he replied, knowing he never would, but not wanting to argue.

How on earth could he hope to stay hidden in the trees with that bright stuff on his clothes?!

Put the shoe on immediately after the sock, and lace it up tight. Don’t wait for both socks to be on before doing the shoes. Be prepared for the cold at all times. Prioritise the clothes. What can you survive without? Put that on last. Put all clothing on properly, or it will be lost in transit. He leapt from the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, not waiting to dry before pulling on a shirt and a jumper.

The first time he had woken in the forest he was confused. He’d gone to sleep in his bed in his room. He was wearing his yellow pyjamas with a jungle animal pattern. The trees loomed large in the dark, and noises surrounded him. The night air was chilly, and he huddled between two tree roots, grasping his knees, his bare feet squirming on damp leaves.

When he saw the hunters come, he could barely breathe. They were tall and covered in mud, with a mask of some sort over their face. Leaves and feathers broke up their silhouette, making them seem otherworldly in the dim light. In their hands they held spears.

From the gloom they solidified quietly in front of him, standing mightily.
‘This isn’t real. I’m dreaming I’m dreaming,’ he said ineffectually, slapping himself across the cheeks.
They lifted their spears, aiming at him. He scrambled and dived over the buttress roots and three spears quivered from the space he had vacated, and the hunters howled in pleasure. He ran.

He didn’t know where he was, so had no concerns over where he was going. As long as he was moving, that was good enough. His feet hurt from the obstacle-strewn forest floor, and his pyjamas snagged on the branches that grabbed him in the dark. He could hear the pursuit, but it didn’t sound frantic. They were confident they would wear him down and tire him out. Greg agreed with them.

With a leap, he launched himself over a log and dropped away into a hole, tumbling in the dark. When he looked up, he was on the floor of his room with his legs sprawled up against the wall.

His feet hurt, but they weren’t covered in dirt, and neither were his clothes. Greg cheered a little to himself, amazed that a dream could seem so real. He’d even managed to tear his pyjamas as he journeyed through his room.

Unconsciously, Greg started dressing much quicker, just in case, although he laughed at himself for doing it. He was already wearing a pair of shorts and drab coloured T-shirt. He pulled his running shoes on, slopping around the house with the laces dangling. A sudden attack of vertigo pulled at his head, and he stopped, holding his head in his hands, eyes shut.

The feeling passed and he opened his eyes, and saw the forest, brightly lit in the morning light. And his shoes were gone. ‘Damn!’ he said, remembering how much the forest floor had hurt his bare feet last time. At least he had socks to soften the impact this time, although he wished he’d actually tied up his shoes!

His heart jolted as his sudden fear squirted adrenaline into his system. Last time he had ran to avoid death in the dark. He started walking cautiously, aware that somewhere in the trees lurked the savage hunters.

He winced every time something hard pressed into the tender soles of his feet. He never left the house without shoes, so his soft feet weren’t used to roughing it outdoors. He had thought the socks would help, but really they did nothing. Anything sharp enough to hurt his feet had no trouble pressing through a sock. Leaves clung to the fluffy fibres, and prickles and splinters accumulated, adding to the discomfort. Greg sighed deeply, partly from regret for his lost shoes, and partly to ease the tension in his chest.

The forest did not seem as bad or as scary in daylight, and it certainly helped to be able to see where he was going. It was majestic and strong. The trees stood proudly, untouched by chainsaws, and creatures moved nearby without flinching at his passage. It soon became exciting. Until his feet started to hurt from too many stick jabs. The shadows began to lengthen, and a chill set into the air. There had been no sign of hunters at all, but Greg began to wonder whether that was just because of the day. Would the night bring him face-to-face with their spears?

He edged around a tree and walked into the edge of his bedroom door, banging his head badly and sending him backwards into a panicked pile on the floor. He could feel his heart racing so much that his neck throbbed with the blood pulsing through his veins.

His socks were worn through, and his feet were bleeding, but there were no sticks or dirt stuck into the material.

In the weeks that followed his daytime trip, he worked hard and saved his pocket money. He bought a large foldout pocket knife and leather holder, and started wearing it at all times on a belt beneath his clothes. His gaze was furtive, flinching at sounds; waiting for a spear to fly out and impale him.

He told no-one his fears. They would never understand, and he had nothing to show them anyway as proof. He withdrew into his world of stress and lurking fears, wondering whether his mind was his captor, or if a hidden world had him dancing on a string, calling him randomly in some cruel game.

He had no way to be sure, so just in case; he obsessively followed a routine to get dressed. His survival depended on it.

Constructive criticism welcome.

© 2008 Damian Herde

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dream, writing, fantasy, random, shortstory, story, short, reality and teleporting