DuVall’s Fantastically Awful Day

(CW: Swearing, mental illness, reference to bludgeoning)

It was wet. The left side of his face, that is, was sopping wet. He registered that much as he opened his eyes.

He looked up at a neon blue bulb hanging overhead. It burned into his eye sockets and decorated him in phosphorescent colors. He squinted. He’d have to switch bulbs again; this time to a dimmer purple. Maybe even green. Whichever color worked best with his ceiling fan. 

He smacked his lips together and tasted a bittersweet liquid. Ink. He turned, leaned up, and met his reflection in black-blue puddles. Oh. Oh yeah, that’s right. 

He sat up further; his hands sticking to used papers scattered across his floor. He lifted a hand and shook it until one of the papers  peeled off his inky palm.

He’d been in the midst of another project when “sleep”, if it could be called “sleep”, suddenly overcame him. He’d nearly beaten his record of three days, but his body had shut down the internal contest. 

Damn it. And he’d been so close to that brand new idea that he so desperately needed. He wiped his face with his shirt collar and rose to his feet, nearly slipping on the way up. He steadied himself and slowly stepped out of the ink. Hilariously enough, this was an average, all natural day for him.

Speaking of, what day was it again? All of those minuet details blurred with thoughts of hunger and piss-offery. He’d yell at someone later. Then again, maybe not. He’d been trying to be better about that. Still dreadfully negative, but with a much more positive spin. 

He looked down at the piles of papers—drawings, actually—of a new show he wanted to pitch. “Bludgeoned! The New, Kid Friendly Musical”!

Most of it was setting and character designs rather than actual plot. He hadn’t even written lyrics—not that he would. He wasn’t exactly a fan of musicals. 

“Hey.”

He jumped and stepped on an already leaky pen. It ricocheted  off the wall and stabbed him in revenge. Peter pulled it out of his leg and snapped it in half.

“Over here.”

He laid his eyes upon the caller. It was a wooden sculpture with four, unevenly glued googly eyes. He tilted his head. The sculpture mirrored him.

“How’s it going, Pete?” It asked this absurd question despite the fact it had no mouth. Neither did it have any legs but, strangely enough, it did have arms. Huh. 

“It’s Peter,” he corrected. “And I’m fine.” 

The sculpture’s eyes drifted from left to right until they settled on the thin man.

“You’re pretty calm for a guy talking to a sculpture.” 

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yeah? You should’ve seen the conversation I had with the tide pods last week. They got pod-litical.” 

“Ugh,” The sculpture groaned. “That hurt.” 

Peter chuckled. That would be his only pun for the day. Anymore than that and his head would probably roll off his neck to the floor. He giggled a bit more at the thought and, when he went to explain what he found so funny, Peter noticed something behind the sculpture. A few somethings actually.

He peered past the sculpture at Post It notes on the wall. There were dozens of them, intricately crumpled and stapled together, that formed a literal paper trail. There was an arrow etched into the plaster above them too. 

“What’s that?” He asked the sculpture as if it had all the answers. The sculpture shrugged. 

“Hm…who knows? Follow it. You might find some treasure at the end.” 

Ooh. Peter grinned at that. He walked past the sculpture and began to follow the trail. 

He didn’t look away from the Post It notes when he asked: 

“What’s your name again?”  

“I think you would’ve named me Woody, but that’s copyrighted.” 

“Shit. That’s right. Uh, what was the other name then?” 

“…Dickface. On account of my exceptional nose.” 

Peter did a double take on the sculpture. Well, goddamn. He vaguely remembered he intended to make that nose much smaller, but gave up half way through, and left the sculpture with that semi-phallic shaped orifice. 

He raised his eyebrows and pressed his tongue against his cheek. He continued to follow the trail; passing by a massive computer and disorganized consoles. He raised his arms and jumped over another puddle. 

“You know,” the sculpture began, “Where I come from, people usually freak out at this kind of thing.” 

“You come from my head. You’re not real.” 

“So you think. How do you know that’s true and that I’m not some cryptid from a different dimension?” 

“Well, if you were, I don’t see why you’d come to visit me.” Peter followed the trail to his well made bed. He sneezed. Dust flew off the wool blankets and danced under blue light. Peter wiped his nostrils with the back of his palm. 

“Why not? It’s cozy.” 

“Cozy. Right.” Peter climbed on his bed and gripped the bed frame. The Post-It note trail led upwards to the ceiling. He looked back at his inky hands then shifted his attention to the black puddles. He leapt off the bed and plopped into the liquid. Ink droplets painted the surrounding walls, further transforming his bedroom into a pseudo-underwater cave. Peter smeared his hands and arms with as much ink as he could.  He even laid down on his stomach and moved his limbs as if he were making a snow angel. 

“What are you doing?” Dickface asked. Peter spat out a glob and lifted a finger at the sculpture. 

“Watch.” Peter pushed himself off the floor and went back to the bed. He grabbed the bed frame again and slammed his sticky hand against the wall. He began to climb, scaling the wall until he reached the corner where wall met ceiling. “There we go!” 

“…Holy shit! How—“

“Cause I’m Peter fucking DuVall, that’s how!” Peter pressed a hand against the ceiling and lifted his legs. His hair hung and black ink dripped off his chin past his eyes. He made a mental note he’d have to wash his sheets again. He turned his focus back to the Post It note trail. It led to and spiraled around the ceiling fan. He spread his fingers, pulled his hand off the ceiling, and supplanted it with his parallel hand.

“What do you think you’ll find at the end of this?” 

“A new idea—hopefully—or some chocolate. I could really go for that right now,” Peter lurched forward and adjusted his feet. He planted them flatly on the ceiling and contorted his body into a U. “How about you? You want some when I find it?” 

“Thanks, but no. This view is a treasure in itself.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at the sculpture. He grabbed the back of his pants and shimmied until he was sure they were well above his waist.

“So,” Peter reached out, even closer to the ceiling fan now. He jumped again. “What dimension are you from anyway?” 

“Ah, I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it in this language, but just know it’s much like this room…with a fresher smell.” 

Peter sniffed his armpit. Eugh. 

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I really shoulda left your nose alone.” 

“You mean it wasn’t intentional torture?!” 

“Mostly. I might’ve been mad. Can’t remember too much now,”  Peter squeezed his abs and heaved forward. He exhaled slowly. “Fuck!”

“You could always stop.” 

“Hell no! I’m in too deep,” Peter followed the spiral. He circled around the ceiling fan, but there was no end to the trail. Soon enough, it became a never ending hell circle of Post It notes and exhaustion.

In truth, he’d only crawled around three times when it dawned on him that the spiral led to his bedroom door. 

Peter punched the ceiling. The ceiling returned the gesture with an ink-storm.  He shielded his eyes and crawled to the bedroom door. The Post It note trail led downwards. Son of a—!

Peter snarled, released his grip on the ceiling, and landed on hardwood with a resounding thud. 

“Ouch.” The sculpture inched closer and towered above. Peter raised his head. 

“Ya could’ve told me that the trail led back here!” 

“…Yeah, but then that would’ve been no fun.” 

Peter yanked off one of his boots and threw it at the sculpture. It only laughed in response. Peter shuffled until he was back on his feet again.

“Glad I named you ‘Dickface’ then,” He spat. Peter turned back to the Post It note trail and found it led to the sculpture. Excitement slid off his features with the dribbling ink.  “Don’t tell me you’re the treasure.” 

The sculpture peeked over its shoulder and shook its head. Thank God! 

Peter walked past the sculpture. His eyes widened and he kneeled, staining his pants with further ink. He reached under his bed and pulled out a small titanium safe. 

“There you are!” He exclaimed. He hugged the safe. 

“How did you not notice that?” 

Peter glared at the sculpture.  

“Obviously because I—uh—well—it’s about the destination, Dickface!”  

“You mean the journey?”

“Shut the fuck up!” 

Peter placed the safe on his bed and eyed the key padlock. He rapped his knuckles against his head and thought of a handful of combinations. 

“If I were me, and I am, then what would I use for my PIN? C’moonnn, think! THINK!” 

“Don’t you have a notebook for these—“ Peter drowned out the question with a loud hum “—….Fan of Mozart, huh?” The sculptured asked.

“You know Mozart?”

The sculpture nodded. 

“Everyone knows the classics.”  

Peter snapped his fingers and chuckled slyly. 

“In other dimensions? Yeah, no. Eldritch beings would never listen to Mozart.”

Peter leaned forward and typed a sequence into the padlock. 033001. The padlock buzzed and Peter swung its tiny door open. 

He whipped his head back and beamed at the sculpture. 

“And you said I was stupid.” 

“I never said that.” 

“But ya did!”

Peter reached in and felt around the safe. He grasped a thin envelope and pulled it out of the otherwise barren box. 

He frowned and pulled the envelope closer. 

“Well, that’s disappointing.” 

“Maybe you should open it?” The sculpture offered.

Peter tossed the envelope on the ground. 

“Nah. It’ll only disappoint me more.” 

“Aw, come on, Peter. You don’t know that.” 

“But I do. Most things disappoint me. Like you. You’re the biggest disappointment of them all.” Peter winced at his own words. He meant that as a joke, but his tone had suggested otherwise. “And I mean that in the nicest way.” He added softly. 

“I’m sure you did,” the sculpture hopped over to the envelope and picked it up. “Well, if you won’t open it then—“ 

“Wait! Hold on, hold on, hold on…” Peter ran over and snatched the envelope. “It might be full of spiders. Or anthrax. Best if I open it. You understand.” 

The sculpture moved a googly eye across its head to simulate a raised eyebrow. 

Peter opened the envelope and pulled out an old, weathered down photo of his childhood home.

Maybe it was one of the few good times and maybe it was the worst in his life. He couldn’t remember, but what he did remember was how much he liked that house. He didn’t live that far from it even now and he knew the area like the back of his hand.

Still, the neighborhood, with its increasing homeless population and sky rocketing crime rate, had changed from home into place he reluctantly lived at. Why had he gone through all that effort just to stick this dumb photo in a safe? What had been the point of it all? 

He went to ask the sculpture these very same questions when he saw it was, as it had always been, lifeless. He already missed its sentience. 

He looked back at the Post It notes. Oh.

On each Post-It note was a date with a summary of the day. All were in reverse chronological order, from present to birth. 

Ah. He’d been feeling nostalgic last night. To be young again…but, maybe, in a different way? How much would he have done differently? How many of the same mistakes would he make? 

He was considered “successful” by most and, since people had that expectation, it never occurred to them that he would be anything other than happy. At least, that’s what he thought. Hadn’t anyone ever considered that he felt like an imposter who’d been at the right place at the right time with right ideas? That he wasn’t any more special or different than anyone else? Just a person? 

So many chased after what he had, but a lot of them didn’t fully comprehend the cons that came with such a lifestyle. Essentially, the “success” wouldn’t fix them, wouldn’t make them any better or happier. They’d be like him. Living in a phosphorescent, ink-stained cave of a room, talking to things that, sadly, didn’t exist; except now, always on edge, always aware of the thousands of prying eyes. 

Post It notes rained from the ceiling as Peter sat and reminisced. 

Oh shit! He realized. It’s Thursday! He put down the photo and bolted to his computer. He didn’t want to keep his audience waiting. After all, he needed dinner and maybe a few cleaning supplies.