Spoiler
Just so you know, this is NOT by best work. I'm not saying you won't enjoy it, and if you do, then that's perfectly fine. But I wrote this in fifth grade, and it shows. Not to say I'm not proud of it (it's the first story I ever finished) but I would highly suggest you check out my other stuff before you read this. It may not be perfect, but more more current stories are light years ahead of this, at least in my opinion.
It is midday. I am walking down the street, my hands in my pockets and my head down. I always keep my head down; helps me keep my mind away from everything else, and reminds me that the two appendages beneath me will take me wherever I want to go, if I ever decide where or when that is.
It is four thirty PM. School just let out, and now I'm going home, at least that's what I hope. It's mid-December, almost Christmas. The shortest day of the year, and I am afraid.
The sun is going down. Twilight is coming. I hate this time of day, when my side of the world's coin can't decide whether it wants to flip into night or day, light or darkness, life or sleep. It has always frightened me, makes me feel like God can't make up his mind, and if God can't make up his mind, then who will?
I see two people riding their bicycles down the street. They see the hood over my head and look at me like I'm from another planet. They know who I am. They see right through the slight fog and right into my face. Everyone knows the Insomniac when they see him.
I don't think anyone knows my real name. Everyone calls me Insomniac, because I'm always tired and can't seem to keep my eyes open during class. They say I talk funny, that I'm not normal, and that I need to live in a special place for special people who have special needs.
I'm not special. If anything, I'm a loser, a nothing. I am in high school and I have never seen a concert. I have never kissed a girl, never even loved one. Every time I dream, I wake up crying because it ended far too soon. I can't hold a thought for longer than a few moments, if that much.
I'm only at ease when I sleep. That's the only place where I can't find me. No one else can find me there either.
The night is coming, creeping behind me like my own shadow. My mother won't be happy, she says I need to come home as soon as possible, that home is where I need to be. She says I'm special, too, that I'm not like everyone else, and her voice is like a whisper in a sea of screams and yells, nothing more than the whitest noise. I know who I am, I know how I am.
All I want to know is why I am.
I see a group of children playing dodge-ball in an alleyway between the photo shop and the cheap pizza place. They're younger than me, probably in elementary school. Their smiles are like canvases that the cold world can't wait to paint over with its lies, its deceits, and worst of all, its truths. One of them catches my gaze and follows it, even as I turn away and lean my head back down towards the sidewalk. If the child was intrigued by me, if something about me somehow interested him, then it was a momentary thing, a fleeting thing. I could hear them playing again before they were out of earshot.
I could care less. In fact, I don't blame him. Who cares about an Insomniac?
As I stand at the corner of Crossgates and Ridgewood, I steal a glance at the old park. It is empty, like a tomb among the living. There is but one sign of life among the nothingness, a large, impending man dressed like an astronaut, standing amongst the empty swing sets. He is waving at me, as if frantic the attention and fame of a high school loser. I am the only one who notices him. Everyone else is too busy with their iPods and their cell phones and their suit cases to pay any attention to the stranded space man. He looks so alone, stranded in a sea of nothing.
If he stands among nothingness, does that mean he is a Nobody? If so, then this Nobody wants nothing more than to speak with the one called Insomniac. Should I wave back, or simply ignore his cries for help? Perhaps I know him, a distant friend from a distant memory from a distant shore.
Something is telling me to go to him. It is a strange feeling like in one of my dreams, yet this is not one of my dreams. At least, I hope not.
I cross the street, never once breaking his gaze. Once on the other side of the street, I cross another so that I am on sidewalk facing opposite the park. He is still waving at me, and I walk up to him, past the jungle gym and under the arches that say RIDGEWOOD PARK. As I get closer, I realize that he is bleeding. The blood, the oozing oil of the flesh, was dripping from the suit, as if the suit itself were flesh.
I can see no eyes behind his mask, but somehow I know that he is glad to see me. I do not know why he is glad to see me. Perhaps there is no body beneath his outer layer. Just another soulless illusion that my mind created. But now I am sure this is not a dream.
The Nobody tilts his head at me as I approach. I smile, and I think he smiles back. I nod, and he does the same, an acknowledgment of respect between two individuals. Now that I am closer, I see that he is bleeding from his abdomen, a paper-thin cut that stretches from his right pelvis all the way to his left shoulder. He is shaking, perhaps from pain. Yes, from pain. I am sure of it now.
He falls to the ground, landing with a thud loud enough to wake the dead. Despite his pain, he holds out his arm, offering his hand to me. The large, metallic hand is twice the size of my puny little hand. I wrap my hand around one of his seven fingers, and we shake. Just another form of respect between newfound friends. I feel like such a small thing; I am standing in his shadow, even though I stand and he sits.
Once we are done shaking hands, he reaches into what seemed to be his backpack, and pulls out a small bag. He holds it out, as if he wants me to take it, simply for the sake of sharing. Cautiously, I lift the bag out of his hand and into my grasp. In my hand it feels warm, beautiful, and most of all, wonderful. It is like holding the sun in the palm of my hand. The Nobody looks at me, as if we are now brothers in a shared experience, knowing full well the true nature and glory of the small treasure. Once again, he seems to smile behind his helmet.
The bag, I think, is filled with something that is both great and terrible, good and evil, happy and sad. I have no curiosity as to what is inside. I do not want to know. But I do know that it is something special, something great and wonderful and whole.
Even as I am marveling in its beauty, the bag seems to disappear before my eyes. In my peripheral vision, I see the faintest blotch of black pass over me, like a wraith on earth. The Nobody does not seem as surprised as I do, only saddened.
He raises his hand once again, and just as I believe he is about to strike me, he points his finger westward, shaking his head in disgust as he does. I turn to see what he is pointing at, and am not disappointed.
On Poe Street, I see a man draped in black slip into an alleyway. He is a slippery man with slippery clothes and a tongue like a serpent in eden. I do not know this man, and yet I know him like he was my good friend from a memory of a world long passed. I hate him, I love him. I am him, and yet I am nothing like him. He is love, and yet he is hate.
My gaze returns to the Nobody, who nods and once again points in the direction of the Slippery Man. My mind wanders, pondering what strange journey the Nobody is bestowing upon me. And yet I look into the invisible eyes of my new friend and somehow I know what he wants me to do. I nod, and he nods in return.
I slowly inch away from the Nobody, weary of leaving him alone. I look at the wound again, and for a moment, we are both silent. Once again, he points in the direction of the Slippery Man, and I nod, setting off towards Poe Street.
As my feet race, so does my mind. Perhaps the Nobody is an Angel and the Slippery Man nothing more than a common
sprite, mucking about this present world looking for things to steal and chaos to create. Perhaps this is all in my head, even though I somehow know it is not. When I am dreaming, I somehow know it is thus. It's a funny thing, a funny feeling. But the funny feeling is not here now. It is gone, and this is real.
I run through the streets, dodging cars and pedestrians, my mind fixed on the Slippery Man and his slippery trail. It's funny. Everyone notices me, nothing more than your run-of-the-mill kid. And yet, they have somehow managed to overlook the Nobody, a hulking sore thumb amongst the modern world. Perhaps most people are blinded to this invisible world, this secret struggle.
As I dart into the Alleyway, I catch yet another glimpse of the Slippery Man. He is leaning against the wall, catching his breath as he cradles in his arms the object of worth. A small bag, filled with something that seems so illuminated, so beautiful, so alive. He sees me, jumps a little from surprise, and stashes the item in his trench-coat pocket.
I cannot see his face. Perhaps because of his hat. Perhaps because the Slippery Man has no face at all. I approach him, like a hunter slowly closing in on a caged animal. There is nowhere for him to run, and I cannot yet tell whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. I am so close to him now, I can almost smell his breath. Like the Nobody, he is much taller than I, almost seven feet. Tall and lanky, completely covered in whatever strange cloth he has on. As he backs against the wall, I see his clothes change colors to blend in with the red brick wall. A chameleon hiding in human flesh.
I reach out to touch him, for reasons that even I do not completely understand. I just know, like the way you sometimes know in dreams, that if I reveal his face, it will make him hurt, just like I somehow know he hurt the Nobody. Just as I am about to pull back his hood, he suddenly moves, and I cannot see where. Pain explodes in my stomach, oh GOD THE PAIN!
I feel myself flying backward, and for a moment I think I am dead. I hit the ground with a hard thud, my flimsy skin plunging deep into the cuts of the hard, unforgiving gravel. My right arm is covered in blood. A long gash runs from my elbow all the way to my thumb. It hurts like hell. It is as if I cannot feel anything else but the misery welling up inside my arm.
The Slippery Man approaches me, and he pulls out his bag, dangling it above me as if it were some kind of trophy. I think he is taunting me, poking and prodding a downed lion. The light is hitting him in such a way, I should be able to see under his hood. But I cannot. I believe now that there truly is a pure form of nothingness underneath the coat. I also believe that he is going to kill me. The throbbing feeling in my arm seems to dissipate and is replaced by a weight in my throat, like trying to swallow a really cold rock.
Everything seems to slow down, like in the movies. Even my own beating heart is slave to this new change. The Slippery Man's bag is sagging back and forth slower and slower until it finally stops. Time stands still, and for yet another moment I believe that I am dead. Then, with such force and suddenness, the Slippery Man seems to fly from where he stands, orange eyes wide in surprise. His lanky, shadowy form soars clean over my body and out of sight. I cannot see where he goes, but I hear him hit something several yards behind me. The treasure falls upon my chest, home to my beating heart, pounding like thunderclap as I look up to see the face of my savior, the Nobody.
The bleeding wound is gone, replaced by a large scar that is fading even as I stare at it. He seems to be smiling, and this I can tell. He leaps over me, light as air, and steps onto the pavement as he makes his way towards the Slippery Man, now a defeated, lonely figure sitting unconscious against a wall on the other side of the street. The Nobody swiftly dodges the oncoming traffic, grabs the Slippery Man, and leaps over back to my side of Poe Street. He lands as softly as a butterfly does upon a leaf. These acts seem to go unnoticed by the human traffic.
He looks at me with a mix of pride and bittersweet regret. He reaches down towards me, rubs his hand on my arm wound. His hand is glowing now, and it feels so strange and yet so right. As he retracts his arm, I see that my wound is gone. I am amazed, and for some strange reason I feel as if I should cry. The Nobody nods again, grabs the bag off my chest, and walks off down Poe Street with the Slippery Man slung over his still-healing shoulder. I stand up, get my footing and follow close behind.
For miles on end, I follow him, and he never looks back to check if I am there. Perhaps because he knows, perhaps because he does not care. He leads me to a long track of forest outside of town. There we find an old house in the middle of the woods, a shack, I think. He goes inside, and I cannot wrap my mind around how he gets inside the small door, perhaps because this shack is not truly a shack. I follow him inside, heart calm despite the oddities of the past...hour, perhaps?.
The secrets of the shack turn out to be nothing more than a small, four-walled room. The Nobody is now carrying his quarry, the Slippery Man, in one hand, and his prize, the small bag, in the other. The Nobody turns to me, and in the clearest voice ever spoken on this earth or the next, I hear a loud yet gentle “Farewell” somehow escape his consciousness. He lumbers over to the far north wall, and disappears into the shack as a fish would into a clear lake of water. I have no intention of following him, for I know that I cannot follow.
I want to cry, and yet I will not. He has moved on. And I, meanwhile, remain here. I slowly turn, and make my way out of the cabin. I check my watch. It is four thirty-seven, a mere five minutes since I left school. For some reason I do not find this impossible. And still, I am sure that this is not a dream.
I will come back to this shack, I decide. I will come back and wait for the Nobody to return. Maybe he will. Maybe he will not. I feel like the extraterrestrial has not yet phoned home for good, and that perhaps, someday, I will see him again. The same feeling that told me to go to him in the first place is now telling me that I will see him again, but just in another time.
But when I turn around for a final glance, I see nothing more than an empty forest. A tear escapes my eye. The shack is gone.
Hope what I finished helps though!!!