Memories (Of Dreams and Demons)

Bullies

Another long weekend ends.

Vuitton insists I get a proper sleep before we speak the next day, but I lay completely awake for most the night. At five in the morning, I drag myself out of bed. This early, the fireplace has not even been lit, let alone kept burning for the hour or so it needs to warm up our water. So, I shower cold, standing in a wide cut bucket and rubbing soap where necessary as fast as I can. Water from the nearby lake is pumped through the green hose by a running car engine. I don't dwell about what it's like living in town; I'm frustrated enough at having to drag myself through this routine.

Vuitton, however, seems oddly satisfied with my new lifestyle.

"Very good," he keeps muttering half to himself as he looks around our makeshift combination of sheds, camp and trailer, "every little trial makes you stronger; good experience."

The part of me that knows he's right annoys me.

Showered and dressed, I head outside and chop through a wheelbarrow's worth of firewood for the day ahead. I make quick work of it, having years of experience and able to swing an axe to perfection. Every slice is straight and true through the middle; methodical and clean. The wood will be used to keep the fireplace going after I'm gone, so my family can wake and enjoy a hot shower. They don't need to leave as early as I do, as their age is covered by the local public school. At this point in life, after being here so long, every little thing becomes a seed that just gnaws away; grows into a seething bitterness. Every minor perceived slight or unfairness a single line that alone means nothing; but added to a list becomes a heavy book I no longer want to be a character within.

My only escape is a dream that becomes less likely by the day but Vuitton's reappearance brings that dream back to the fore; no longer a secret prayer I only afford myself at night alone in the woods.

"You are going to take her to me, aren't you?" I ask. I dare not hope too hard; dare not dream less I suffer again the pain of dreams shattering.

Vuitton studies me. He knows I'm impatient, desperate, hiding a deep and painful ache for Naoko. A loss I have suffered in silence; hope at our reunion smothered by time and the harsh realities of life.

He nods, releasing me from my curious torment. "I spotted her, once, on my way to you. I will take you there, and we will find her together."

I kneel in closer to Vuitton, placing my axe gently to the side.

"I will do whatever it takes," I promise.

Vuitton is silent a moment, before saying, "of that I am sure, and that is why I am thoughtful."

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"Never mind," he waves his hand, "an unlikely road. First, we must go to your school."

I nod, "let's go."

The morning is dull and grey, thick with fog. This is the most beautiful part of being up so early. The land and trees sit covered in a white cloud; mystical, lost and full of adventure. The school bus stop is three miles away, but the road is mulched stone, rugged and uphill. Hopping on to my bike, I tuck Vuitton into a side-pocket on my school backpack, giving him a clear view of our journey. I set off at a fast peddle, up our long dirt driveway and out the front gate.

As we ride, the sky slowly clears, leaving spots of clouds to dance before the sun before they too disappear. The mystical feeling of being in another world fades. Long shadows from the morning sun stretch over the road, making their presence well known. But it is hot even being so early, and it will only get hotter. Sweat starts to soak through my school-shirt, leaving large patches down my back and under my armpits. I may as well not have had a shower. Vuitton looks around, but is more interested in me than anything else.