I'd Like To A-Freud That In The Future

This story contains themes of abstract gore/violence, though nothing explicit.

Jennifer was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his big, grey hoodie and smiling as he showed her his collection. Dragon eye dice, a personalised counter and three thick books of cards, sorted into carefully organised sections, she beamed at him like she could listen to it all day. Once he finished explaining different card combinations, he sat down on the bed next to her, slightly tilting her towards him as it sagged in the middle. Her long, silky hair was covering the side of her face and she turned, blinking up at him shyly, blue eyes sparkling. His heart thumped as she rested a hand lightly on his thigh and leant in. A surge of heat snaked into his underwear and burst over his skin as she brushed his lips with hers. She tasted like strawberry lip-gloss, and he felt a little lightheaded as she spread the sticky gloss over his mouth, poking her tongue in and stroking it against his. Stubble scratched him softly from her chin. But Jennifer had a lovely, smooth chin. He opened his eyes to peek and jumped back, sliding straight off the bed and landing with a thud against his bedside table. Rubbing his lower back, he peered up at Mrs Greyson, his biology teacher. She stared down at him with a stern expression. Her arm wobbled as she pointed an accusatory finger at him and stood from the bed, her stout frame growing more and more, until her scratchy, wool skirt brushed his face, and he was consumed by her shadow. Scrambling, he darted between her legs on his hands and knees, crawling towards his bedroom door. He reached up and twisted the doorknob, leaping out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Suddenly, he was awash with sensation. Smells of fresh bread, sugary pastries and fruit hit his nose. The room was stiflingly hot and immediately a sheen of sweat plastered his clothes to him. Looking down, he saw he was wearing a white button up top and matching trousers. He glanced around in wonder as dozens of large rabbits, in similar states of dress, kneaded dough and cut shapes out of pastry.

‘Hurry,’ one of them said, its voice urgent and commanding, ‘He’ll be here soon.’

Andrew didn’t know who he was, but he knew instinctively that it would be a terrible thing to be caught out by him. Looking down, he saw that a large, silver table underneath him was covered with petite, cream filled tarts. Beside them stood a large bowl full of chopped strawberries, glistening and plump. His mouth watered.

‘Three strawberries a tart,’ came the squeaky voice of a small rabbit who was whisking a bowl of eggs, face set in concentration. He nodded.

He picked up a strawberry and as he watched, horrified, it turned into mush in his hand. Scooping up another, it dissolved into watery slop as well. Silence fell over the room as the rabbits all put down their tools and watched him warily. No matter how gently he scooped, every strawberry he took in his hands dissolved into the same pile of useless goo. The ground started to shake, and Andrew noticed that the rabbits had all rushed into a flurry of frenzied movements and skittish whispers. ‘He’s coming,’ they said, eyes to their work, ears flat to their heads.

‘Go,’ the little squeaky rabbit cried, pointing at the sink.

Andrew dropped the strawberries and walked over to the large kitchen sink, full to the brim with white, soapy bubbles. With a deep breath, he dived headfirst into the water, cringing as the cold bit at his skin. His arms and legs disappeared as he slid through the bubbles, emerging onto a hard pavement with a splat. Nursing a bruised bum, he surveyed his surroundings.

Grey and dark, the night gripped the town like smoke, punctuated by the lights of restaurants, pubs and streetlamps. Fear settled across his skin like ice and goose bumps prickled along his arms. He walked around aimlessly for a few minutes, eyes pacing the smattered groups of people who cackled and tottered around. Where were they? He didn’t know who they were, but he knew they were looking for him. On and on he went, shoulders hunched in anticipation, hands clenched at his side. He sat on a wet bench in the middle of a dark park. A couple lolloped along the path, plopping onto a bench in a fit of drunken giggles. They kissed and he became transfixed, watching as the man stroked a hand down the woman’s hair, his other hand hovering over the hemline of the woman’s dress. Walking closer, squinting against the darkness, a lump formed in Andrew’s stomach. It was Peter Gergen. Peter Gergen had spent the last three years tripping Andrew up, emptying his bag into the toilet, and punching him in the stomach if he was unfortunate enough to be caught in the bathroom at the same time. The woman turned to look at him and he stumbled backwards.

‘Have you done your homework, dear?’ his mum asked, lipstick smeared across her cheeks.

He turned, wiping his eyes roughly to rid them of the picture. When he opened them, his eyes travelled up to the window of the tall townhouse at the edge of the park. They were there. He couldn’t tell who they were, but he knew they were there, watching him. Scanning the street for a sign of safety, he ran towards a large church, gothic arches pointing to the bruised sky. He ducked in the door and ran past all the pews, stopping in front of the baptismal font. He peered into the still, shallow water. The priest walked over serenely and scooped him up with ease, as though he was light as a wafer. Turning with a smile to the congregation, Andrew’s limbs draped awkwardly, he presented a now naked Andrew to the crowd, who sighed in appreciation. He swiped water in the shape of a cross on his head and picked up a pair of long, silver scissors, brandishing them to the congregates. With a deft, painless snip, Andrew looked down between his legs and saw that it was a smooth, peach mound of undisturbed skin.

‘It’s not like he would need it anyway,’ the priest said to the crowd, who laughed heartily.

Their laughter grew in volume until Andrew’s ears rang. Heart hammering, head surging, he ran out of the church and down the street as fast as he could, until his chest was heaving, and a stitch ripped at his side. It felt like a sword had sliced through his ribs. A red stain spread across the fabric of his newly formed t-shirt, and he fished a hand underneath curiously. A large, red organ, full of sinewy loops and thick, squelching blood, wriggled in his hand. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he pushed it back between his ribs, holding his skin together like a handbag as he ran. He ran down side streets and across roads, dodging people as he went. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath. They wouldn’t find him here. He didn’t know how, but he knew they wouldn’t. Turning down a small alleyway, he found himself spat out into a railway station. It was deserted, silent, the grey, parallel tracks all sitting empty and unused. He sat on a metal bench for a moment as his breathing slowed to normal and tried to think what to do. Under the large electronic noticeboard, currently showing no departures or arrivals, as if out of nowhere, appeared Jennifer. She looked beautiful in the beams of sunlight which streaked across her face. Andrew didn’t know how sunlight got into the closed, indoor station, but there it was. She looked angelic. Cocking her finger suggestively, she smiled and coaxed him towards her. He stood, ready to cross the tracks to her, when she opened her mouth in a large ‘O’, and a deafening, shrill whistle sounded. Everything went black.

Andrew sat up in bed with a startled cry. His sheets were crumpled around him, and the bed was soaked with sweat. Pushing his hair out his eyes, he took a steadying breath. He swiped his phone screen to turn off the ringing alarm and sat in a daze for a minute. There was a knock at the door, a pause, and then it clicked open. His mum stood with a pile of laundry in her hands and a bright smile on her face.

‘Morning, pumpkin,’ she trilled, plopping the clothes at the end of the bed and studying him with concern. ‘You don’t look so good,’ she said, holding the back of her hand to his head. He shrugged her away.

‘Dream,’ he mumbled, clawing the sheets up to cover his bare chest. She swished the curtains open and he squinted as the brightness hit his eyes.

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘whatever it was, it wasn’t real.’ She frowned at his lack of response. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ she asked, hesitating at the door.

‘Like you said, it was just a dream.’

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ she asked.

‘No!’

‘Alright, alright! Just checking,’ she said, turning and shutting the door behind her, mumbling something about teenage boys.

Grabbing his phone from the bedside table, he opened his photos and stopped on the one of him and Jennifer in the playground. She had her arms around his shoulders and was grinning at the camera, at him. His phone pinged as a text from Jennifer popped up: Want to hang out later? X. With a grin, he replied sure, and plucked a few clean clothes from the pile, sending it tumbling to the floor in a heap. As he showered, thinking of Jennifer and him spending some time alone, the images from his dream vanished down the plug hole with the soap.

‘Remember I am collecting your cousins from the railway station this evening, so you’ll have to sort your own dinner,’ his mum called, from the laundry room, ‘I’ve put a lasagne in the fridge with instructions on it. I don’t mind if you have a friend round, but no more than one!’

She came shuffling into the room, ironing-board clutched in her arms, and gave Andrew a small wink. He looked at his feet as a red flush spread over his cheeks. Plucking two strawberry tarts from beneath the glass dome his mum had set out, he scarfed them in huge bites, stuffing his hastily scribbled biology homework in his bag. He dragged his feet as he ambled to school, past the church with its gothic arches, past the little rabbits which scuttered away anxiously at his approach. He didn’t even mind when Peter Gergen shouted out at him as he flew by on his bike.

‘Tell your mum I enjoyed last night,’ he called, laughing loudly at his own joke and looking around for an audience which wasn’t there. 

Nothing was going to bother Andrew today. The hours dragged by sluggishly as his fevered anticipation grew. What would he say to her? What would they do? He could barely muster a word as they walked home in charged silence. He nearly floated off the ground as her fingers grazed his, and with a sweet smile, she clasped his hand. His fingers shook as he unlocked the front door.

‘Mum makes us take our shoes off,’ he said apologetically, gesturing to the shoe rack. She smiled, kicking off her trainers and stacking them neatly. ‘Want a snack?’ he asked, desperately trying to keep his voice steady. She shook her head.

‘Show me your room,’ she said quietly.

Anxiety turned to comfort as she picked through his stuff, holding things up curiously and asking him to explain them. When she got to his card collection and asked him to show it all to her, he felt so giddy he nearly giggled. She perched on the edge of his bed, plucking the grey hoodie from the heap on the floor and sniffing it appreciatively.

‘I love the smell of fresh laundry,’ she said, blue eyes sparkling up at him from beneath the strands of her silky hair as she pulled it over her head.

He nodded dumbly, too startled by how much he liked the image of her in his clothes to speak. He couldn’t believe it; Jennifer was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his big, grey hoodie and smiling as he showed her his collection.