Wrong

Once upon a time I wrote a blog of my own. I lived in a place that does not exist, called Michigan on a continent that does not exist, North America.

I mostly wrote out of boredom. When you are in hiding with the same fifteen people and can't really afford to go to places with other people, then it makes a little sense to get bored.

Eight little cabins, a place that used to be a summer camp, families in about four, singles in the other four. I was one of the singles. I was a broke-ass college student (“college” is not actually a word here. They all use “university”) that dropped out and moved up state and hid away from the monster under his bed. Well, that's not true. Never really was under my bed, was it?

Thing is, before I knew I wasn't alone with seeing It, I had an excuse to write off strange behavior in others. After, I had no excuse. I should have recognized the signs in my little brother, even if they were just in my memories. I should have gone to see him long before I did. I should have done all of these things differently. My brother was into another guy, my douchebag parents threw him out. About the long and short of things.

Except its not.

The same nightmare I was in, he was too.

I think I saw him once, I think we were huddled together on cold stone, a ragged, nasty blanket, open sky overhead. I think he said something.

I don't know.

Everyone I talked about in the commune voice, the ones vanishing... I became one.

Thing is, I don't remember much after the door to my cabin got kicked in.

Stone, dirt, cold, outside.

My brother's face, a stranger's face, the blonde's face, the no face.

The metal music, the light, the dark, the cold, the wet.

Not knowing, not wanting to know, lost and confused.

Ruya stomping back into the den yelling at me, why didn't I hear her? Why didn't I help?

All of that.

Then this. Then now, then who I am.

And of course everything I remember... none of it's real... or none of this is real.

Right?  

In Response to A Question

I realize now that I missed responding to a comment I was notified via e-mail about. Since I cannot actually access the blog itself, still, I only can really respond this way. The comment in question read:

"Where is this taking place? What time are you in? It may be possible that this boy can manipulate the Idri Field, the same as you."

Well, to answer the most concerning point first, no one can manipulate the field. If you're lucky, innately talented or dedicated you may learn to read it, but it is what it is despite you. No one can influence it, except, perhaps through simply existing.

I live in the city of Matee, in Orwell. The date, at least as of writing this is 2-53-3729 E.L.

If Louis is not insane, however, I fear that that means absolutely nothing to you.

Visitors

We've had visitors. Well, we've been having a visitor every night for weeks now. I can almost feel him peeking in our window, but Louis swears he never notices anything. That is alright. Most nights we sleep in the living room together, an interior room. To say that we sleep is a bit misleading, rather we both sit up in front of the radio until whatever it is that keeps us awake loses its grip and sleep regains its own.

There were three of them. The first two were disconcerting, but not in the way that the last one was. They wore dark, pressed suits.

Not in the way the last one did.

The first two came in the early hours of the morning. I thought perhaps I was about to get news that they knew who Louis was and all of this oddness would be explained if not ended. We were still listening to a Kayani soap opera (it's all we can find on at that hour, Louis is starting to understand the language too, perhaps out of sheer necessity) when they knocked. Of course, at three in the morning we were both rather on edge and talked to them through the door until we were satisfied they weren't would-be thieves.

I wish they had been.

It was innocent at first. The men, normal looking and nondescript sat down and accepted tea, they nursed their drinks almost gratefully for a minute and then they asked questions. We informed them that, no, Louis really didn't remember anything else. That was because everything he told me he remembered made absolutely no sense, it all smacked of madness. We had long since agreed not to be forthcoming on this point. What really began to worry us was when they started to ask very leading questions.

“Why have you stopped going into work?”

“Are you finding yourself with any new or unusual hobbies?”

“Have you been the target of any crimes lately?”

Though there were others very disturbing, perhaps the one that I found the least comforting was, “Have you been sleeping well?”

Then again, one look at us would tell them that we lied.

They promised to keep in contact, neglected to tell us their names or precisely who sent them and they left. The conversation felt like it might have taken an hour but when I checked the time, it seems they were in and out in all of five minutes.

A couple of hours later I heard a noise from roughly the direction of my bedroom. Louis did not, he simply stared at the floor as he often does while trying to concentrate on the Kayani language. I don't know why he didn't hear it, why he never notices any of the oddness going on but since I can't offer an explanation I try not to dwell on it.

That, at least, was my stance until I got up and went to my bedroom.

I stopped in the hallway leading up to it, cold bare feet on tile floor and all.

I've never seen a man so tall in my life.

Then again, I've never seen a man without eyes, a nose or a mouth, either.

Louis didn't hear me scream.  

It's been almost a full day since I was left standing in the hall way, feeling like an imbecile, but I still don't believe what I saw was fake or imagined. Mostly because of the reaction Louis gave when I described him. 

Perhaps that's a story for another time. I need to see if I can convince him to eat.