Archaic ||Peterick||

A Discovery Of Other

Patrick watched the patterns on the ceiling, and tried to ignore the sounds coming from under the bed. It was difficult, though. This had been happening a lot recently. Noises under the bed, monsters under the bed. Kept him up too late. He couldn't get up in the morning. His mother said he'd end up like his dad. Practically nocturnal. Paranoid. Almost crazy.

It wasn't late now. It was morning. Four in the morning. He'd gone to sleep around twelve. Woken up at two. He couldn't get back to sleep. It had taken him long enough last night. He had been excited for school, too much to get any sleep at all. But the dread that is so heightened at night had filled his stomach to bursting and now all he felt was a tad queasy.

He sat up in bed. Nothing would be open for four hours. There was nothing to do, not yet. His books were on the other side of the room. There was a single comic hanging off the end of the bed. He could get up. But there was something under the bed. He didn't want to get caught.

He reasoned with himself. It couldn't be a monster. It was a cat. A dog. A bird. A mouse. Something. Something ordinary. Patrick couldn't shake that primal fear though. His bed was safe. Now, something was making it feel unsafe. He did not like this at all.

The room's colours melted from midnight greyscale to morning sunrise, and the curtains that he'd forgot to pull let the light cresting over the garden wall rip all the darkness from the room. Yet Patrick knew there was more darkness. Under the bed.

His mother opened the door. He couldn't hear what she said. But she said something. He nodded.

"Yes mom. I'm going."

"He's waiting."

"I understand."

She closed the door, stopping the plughole letting the rest of the universe into his bedroom. The wound of wrongfulness festered under his bed. Something dripped. Something ripped. And curiosity got the better of him, as he slowly dragged himself down to see what it was.

A snap snapped him from sleep like a the telltale twig cracking underfoot that alerts the guard to the presence of the thief. He blinked in the artificial light. A shadow cast itself across the wall.

"Pete?" he asked, groggily.

"Here." Pete answered, in a manner faintly reminiscent of a child answering the beginning of class roll call. Patrick sat up. He was faintly aware that this was not the room that he'd gone to sleep in, but only faintly. He shook his head, wondering why his vision was blurry.

Pete sat on the bed opposite. Two beds. Old wallpaper, tasteful in its 70's day, but now outdated and faded. The window was dirty. Patrick looked out of it. A city. He looked around in panic. No way. This couldn't be happening again. Not again.

"Pete, what's going on? Where are we?" he asked. He did not like this feeling of disorientation.

"New York. You wouldn't wake up so I knew that we had to go somewhere else. I took your car an-"

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Patrick yelled, waking up a bit. Pete nodded, and repeated, like he was trying to explain something to a small child.

"I said I took your car an-"

"You know you're not allowed to do that." Patrick interrupted, all the anger slowly dissipating. He didn't have the energy for yet another argument with Pete, who was actually cowering on the bed, waiting for the storm that he thought would surely come.

"What else was I meant to do?" he asked, quietly.

"Maybe not drive my car? I was in New Jersey for a reason. You just messed everything up." Patrick said, calmly as he could manage.

"But y-"

"But nothing, Pete. You can't just ship me around the place."

"But that's what you do."

There wasn't really any answer to that that wouldn't betray yet another character flaw of Patrick's, but he didn't think about that, and so replied with:

"Yeah, well, I can do that, because I'm the one who's in control here."

Pete nodded, as if he understood. Patrick took that. He shook his head. He sat up on the bed. New York. He could work with that. He knew some people, who knew people. Old friends. He shoved the covers off his legs and stood up. Picking his bag off the floor, and pulling a maroon cardigan from it, he looked up.

"I'm going out. You can come with me or stay here, but we're going to be doing a lot of walking."

An almost instant reply.

"I think I'll stay here, thanks."

Patrick smiled to himself.

"What?" Pete asked, defensively.

"What what? I didn't do anything." Patrick answered, picking up his old, brown bag from under his bed, still smiling.

"Yes you did. What're you smiling for?"

"Oh wow, so I'm not allowed to smile now? What's up, my happiness forbidden?"

"No but like... oh nevermind."

Patrick looked at him.

"Well. If you need me, I'll be on Broadway."

"You wh-"

The door opened, and closed, and the sentence was left unfinished, as Patrick twirled out the door.

On his own, at last, Pete sighed. He picked up his phone, the battery of which had long since run out. Useless. Still. He had it if he needed it. If Patrick was too long on this little errand. Pete looked out the window, to see Patrick come out, onto the street, and melt into the crowd, fifteen floors below. He shook his head. Pete was beginning to think they'd never get to Chicago.