Alternate Realities

Prompt: Inside Cal's Head

Everyday, no matter what, without fail, and all those cliches about the enduring resilience and the persistence of man to conquer everything can be applied to the son-of-a-bitch at my door. I, one without even a meager helping of stalwart values, roll over and bury myself under the covers. Scratch that... I am incredibly dedicated to sleeping, warmth, and the cozy heat of a cuddle. But in this balance between do-everything and do-nothing, I will not be allowed to stay under my covers without doing something and thus joining the do-everything in our daily run.

Also consistent, we don't run together. We start together. I manage for a bit, and then I just watch his shoulders get smaller and smaller in front of me until my lazy descent into walking can't be noticed. Then the day starts getting pleasant, if not exactly enjoyable. I can stride along as day breaks and hear the birds begin to whistle up in the bows of the trees. It's me, my aching legs, my burning lungs, and the natural beauty of the woods around our compound. Even that serene span comes crashing down at the hands of my only friend. And I use the term friend looser each time he crashes back through the undergrowth to prod me along at a better pace.

"Why must we do this everyday, Calore?" There's a wine that's unintentional but still well practiced.

It's my job to pick the script for the morning, one of the only real choices I have is what I say. There's six versions of this conversation and it all starts based on my choice. Today, I don't feel in good enough humor to use sarcasm or to banter. I just pick the truth, "Because, you make me."

"Let's put that to the side. It's good for you. It's good for me. That body is just wasting away, you know?"

"Ah yes, a reminder. Exactly what I need," I let a little of the sarcasm out. I try not to think of what my body looks like.

I can almost mime exactly what he will always say next, it's what makes me question myself more and more. Are there only six conversations because I'm unimaginative or because he's damaged me so much that my brain fills in for him in his absence? Does he even have to do this to me anymore or am I crazy enough to just do it for him, make it all up without him?

"We could be anywhere, but you're the one that chooses to be here. Why here?" The same question almost everyday. I flip through my three responses, wondering why I care to think about options at all, but then the script changes, he adds, "Why not here?"

Smooth as a dream, the base builds around me. The trees fall away and the clouds bloom around us. He's picking through my brain and reconstructing details I would never be able to recall on my own. He watches me, head tilted, a small smile on his face. He waits for me to react, to note that the storm on the horizon is the storm. The grove of trees ahead and the muddied trail to it is the grove. I've already noticed, I just won't satisfy his thirst with outward recognition.

He used to be so attentive in how he exacted his tortures. He'd pull me into the thrown room and put the sword back in my hands. He'd give me back the day before, the garden parties, hearing my father's praise. He'd give me back my brother and his sheepish grin over the chess pieces just before he declared he'd won. He'd give it all back and then walk me moment by moment through the betrayals. The deaths. The surrender. I know he tried to do it with her, but I'd blocked him. Something about her, or more so, something about me when it comes to her, has always locked him away from relieving all the wonderful things and that one thing, that one horrible thing... until now.

He runs. I trot. I feel my legs moving and it's startling how I've forgotten how little control I have here. How everything I get to decide is because he lets me decide, and right now, he's not letting me run the other way. He may not know what is so important about this place, but he's been dying to find out.

The thunder rumbles and echos of her voice shout out at me from the fence.

"That's not me."

Her laugh is sunshine reflecting through everything and heating my skin to temperatures I can't remember. Her smile is an aphrodisiac that ignites something primal in me. I have guarded her from him for so long, never thinking about her, blocking those memories, thinking about horrifying things instead. I've protected this for so long. But in doing so, I haven't heard that sound in what seems like a lifetime. I indulge.

"That's just weather. Sometimes, when it–"

He's listening, he's hearing, he's giddy and giggling at his discovery and I can't even allow myself to wallow in the lump of warm pain her voice brings to my chest. I cut her off. I stash her away. I let the rain fall. He pushes. I block. He screams. I break. He backs off. He does the equivalent of a retreat. He pretends it never happens, his face falls back into a playful smile.

"What's the matter Calore, aren't you gonna show me around?" He jabs, tugging at my arm. He could make me run, again. He tickles at my nerves and I feel the beginning of a movement, but he backs off.

"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?" He jeers at me.

It's true. I do want to. I want to feel the rain and her skin and the heat and the touch of something and assure myself that it really happened. Just the idea gives him purchase and his cold, slippery hands pry into my mind. But no. He can't have her. He can't have us. He can't have the real meaning behind the rain, the mud; this place was ours.

I focus. I think. I use his hands in my mind as an opening, and I rebuild the forests around Archeon, the castle walls, the barracks, the bridge, the smell of bread in the kitchen. I rebuild it and I run.