Puppet

It wasn’t real.

Ian knew that, and yet, every time he felt its presence, the way one can in dreams, he was six years old again, terrified, and alone.

One would think that being a lucid dreamer would mean that he no longer feared the demons of the night, but even as his mind gained more power over the world of his dreams, it did too. He hadn’t seen it in two full decades, and yet somehow, that made it so much worse. Memories have a funny way of fading until the thing one remembers best is the sheer terror.

Ian was twenty-six years old, and he didn’t know if he was dead or alive. The last thing he could remember was the flash of stark white headlights. Whether this was heaven or hell or some strange place between life and death, he wasn't sure, but he could command it and bend the landscape to his will in the same way he would a dream.

Sometimes it was Heaven. Being so deeply immersed in the dream world allowed him to feel everything as if it was real. Most days it was beautiful— the skies were painted shades of violet and crimson and cerulean that he wasn’t sure existed while he was awake, and the golden sun blazed brilliantly overhead, gentle and warm and nurturing. At night— the peaceful nights— stars would sparkle and shimmer in both pure white and pastel colors against the matte black of the vast expanse, brilliant diamonds set in the vault of the heavens, with the moon as the greatest jewel of the night sky. The ocean was simultaneously a perfect shade of gleaming turquoise and clearer than glass could ever be. The flora carpeting the soft earth painted a picture of how the world may have flourished if not for the carelessness of humanity, the way he himself might have on a canvas, once upon a time. He was alone here, the sole sentient being in this delirious dreamscape. Just him…and it.

And yet this beauty, this sacred place of his own careful, meticulous creation, was utterly squandered, because sometimes it was Hell.

Ian spent every waking moment of his dreams glancing over his shoulder, because although he had not seen it, it was here, and he could feel it in his gut and his heart and his bones and his very soul. The one thing he could not control in paradise.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, time spent in a whirlwind of rapture at the wonders around him and of the unease slowly germinating inside his chest, planted there ever since childhood, reaching to curl tentacles around his heart, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

He knew it was irrational, foolish, and childish to fear something so insignificant, and yet, something told him it was bigger than that.

It would always start as a day just like any other.

He’d go through the motions, like clockwork. Simple. Easy. Unremarkable.

Then it would appear, and the clockwork would stop.

As a six-year-old, he had always dropped to the floor and shut his eyes. He had played dead in the hopes that what plagued him in life would pass him by so long as he pretended to be beyond its reach. But as long as he was only playing at death, it knew.

Thus, he had never truly caught sight of the doll that haunted his nights. It had only ever existed in a shadowed silhouette.

This time, however, he might truly be dead.

And yet, he could feel its presence, smothering and stifling as smoke. Nowhere in sight, but undoubtedly there.

Once upon a time, he would have slumped to the ground in spurious slumber, but Ian was no child. Not anymore.

He shot to his feet, practically scrambling as he looked around for the doll, the quickly mounting fear and tension making his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

“Come on,” he murmured. He didn’t know if he was speaking to himself or to the doll. He supposed it was both.

And then he turned around, and there it was.

It was so much smaller than he had remembered. Gone was the looming shadow of his childhood— this was a mere doll, barely a foot tall, within arm's reach.

And still, something about it was still so utterly suffocating. But he was no longer terrified the way he was as a child. Something resonated through him, yes, but it was not terror, or fright, or fear.

“You’re not a doll. You’re a puppet,” Ian whispered hesitantly, seeing the joints of the little wooden figure and loops where strings should have been, and as he genuinely looked at it for the first time, he saw sandy hair just like his and viridian eyes the same shade matching his own painted onto the meticulously carved face. He could almost pity it— its complexion was listless in a way he didn’t know paint could express, and it looked as if it stood in unnaturally white light he saw every day in the waking realm despite the wonderful golden warmth of the light here.

“You’re me.”

The puppet did not speak. How could it? It was wooden. It had no voice.

Ian did. He had wasted it. When was the last time he had used his voice for something that mattered?

When was the last time he had mattered?

Perhaps what he had feared was not the puppet itself.

If the puppet was him, then…

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see it, as he reached forward to brush his fingers against the wood, and the world lurched.

Ian’s eyes opened to stark white fluorescent light searing into his vision.

He was the puppet.

Sandy hair, viridian eyes, listless complexion bathed in harsh white light.

Lifeless.

Had he really been dead, or had he been more alive than he had been since his childhood?

“He’s awake!”

Was he?

Ian barely registered the series of questions he was barraged with, answering robotically. How many fingers am I holding up? What’s the last thing you remember? How do you feel?

Simple, easy, unremarkable.

Like clockwork.

Like a puppet.

Ian was twenty-six years old, and he didn’t know if he was dead or alive.

“Ian?”

Her voice was enough to jolt him out of his stupor. He knew that voice.

“Oh, Lila.” He slowly turned to smile at his coworker, noticing she’d brought him flowers. “Are those for me?”

“Yes, of course they are. Don’t be silly,” Lila giggled, setting them down on the bedside table as she took a seat next to the hospital bed.

“How are things at work?” Ian asked, genuinely curious.

Lila groaned, slumping in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Ian would have offered to switch if he hadn’t already known she would scold him for not taking care of himself. “Horrible. Our department is falling apart without you. You know how they are— they bicker endlessly, and you’re not there to keep them in check.”

Ian smiled at that. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to leave you alone with them.”

“Aw, don’t apologize.” Lila rolled her eyes. “You literally got hit by a car. They're idiots, but hey, I love them. Oh, speaking of which, manager said he’s not taking any of this off your PTO. Obviously, you still have your job, since you were only out for a week or so. How much longer till you can get out of here?”

Ian had to actively try and recall what the doctors had told him as he nodded along apathetically. “Ah…two more weeks, perhaps?”

“Really? That’s great!” Lila cheered. “I hate hospitals. The white light and the smell of antiseptics. It’s so unnerving.”

“Our office has the exact same white lights.” Ian pointed out. "Though I suppose that lines up."

“Well, yeah,” Lila agreed. “I’d say our office is more miserable than unnerving, though. Warning you in advance. You have a lot to catch up on.”

“That’s fine.” Ian shrugged. “I’m quitting. I don’t want to be a puppet anymore. I want to live.”

“…oh. That’s, uh— best of luck, then.” Lila blinked. “I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. I— really— that’s great. Good for you.”

“Thanks. You do pottery, don’t you?” Ian asked, recalling a past conversation over lunch.

“Did,” She corrected. “I don’t…have time anymore.”

Ian heard the wistfulness embedded in her voice. It was something he’d known all too well for a long time. “One artist to another, do you mind doing me a favor?”

“Oh, of course not. We’re friends. What do you need?” Lila said immediately.

“You still have the spare key to my house I lent you, right?”

-

Ian had dripped paint onto his sheets, but the nurse had been happy to see him doing something after the hours he had spent lethargically staring out the window at the light shining on the trees, fall leaves floating through the air in a morbidly alluring display. Even death was beautiful in nature.

A slow smile spread across his face as he erased the bleak white with shades of violet and crimson and cerulean, the bristles of the brush boldly creating broad strokes of color covering the canvas, bathed in golden sunlight streaming through the open window behind him. He was wide awake and dreaming.

It was natural. Complex. Challenging. Beautiful.

Ian was twenty-six years old, and he was alive.