The Whereabouts of Arthur

Chapter 8: Bad Dreams

Looking down at my chest, I not only noticed my rapid breathing but a red colored tie wraped around my neck, sat atop my suit. I did not feel 11 years old. I felt as though I've experienced disappointed, failure, despair, like no child could. I guessed my age. 25-28 years old, still too young though to have hope taken from you. I was not Carter at that moment. Slowly creeping towards the coffin, I couldn't make out a single face in that room. The mourners had no faces. Their faces weren't just skin colors nor were they blurry; they just weren't there. The faceless people didn't phase me, as I just wanted to open that coffin. I got to the coffin. I was about to open it when I suddenly felt an unexplainable feeling. A feeling of such loss that, I might as well been lying in that coffin.

I awoke under the tree. I remember thinking I was either very imaginative, insane or both. The sun was setting. My favorite sight to see. The sun's new appearance every morning assured me that tomorrow was promised. I got up off the cold hard terrain and made my way inside anxiously.

"Where were you, doing your homework?" My mother insisted.

"Y-yeah, English"

"Why do you suppose your school bag is in here then Carter?"

" I had a fright.. a fright of a vision in my sleep."

" A nightmare?"

"Yes except it was real. I was at a funeral."

" What? Who's funeral? When was this? What are you getting at -"

" I was not me though Mother, I was a sad man."

" Carter.. you need to stop. Stop scaring me right now. Where is your sanity!" My mother said as though she were insulted.

" It's only what happened-"

" No, it is not what happened. I'm calling your doctor."

I began to walk away, giving up on the conversation, it was evolving into an argument. I never liked conflict.

"Don't walk away, stay here." She said, while making gestures to the chair beside her.

She then left the room and started a call with my doctor on her bedroom phone.

I crept up against the kitchen doorway, absorbing bit and pieces of the silly conversation or at least I thought it was.

"-yes usually." "Mrs. Grate, I will help you."

"-treat him." were phrases I could make out.

I quickly sat down when I heard my mother coming and pretended to play with the sugar that was in an antique little jar on the table.

" I just made a phone. You have an appointment with Mr. Flores next Saturday, Carter."

"That's not my doctor." I said with a chuckle, thinking she had made a mistake.

"This is not a funny matter. I am aware, he's a psychologist, not a pediatrician. You have no physical injuries but I can not say the same for your brain."

"What do you mean?"

"You need therapy." My mother said while walking away. She acted as though I were an inconvenience. So cold and insensitive she was at that moment that it diminished anything nice she had ever done.

I made my way upstairs to my room feeling so sure of myself but very confused about myself at the same time. Going to bed with those feelings were sure to give me some bad dreams, so I didn't sleep. I stayed up and counted the stars. Pretending they were all little pieces of happiness, in which I desired so greatly to capture.