Like a mouse in a trap

Peter felt it leak out of him, from his gut, dragging on his bones. Out of a dead sleep his pupils flickered awake to the dresser, then to the door in pursuit of an invisible presence. It lingered in front of the door, sending an invitation, its intention marked plainly in the aura permeating from empty space. Peter was lost, petrified. The aura bobbed silently in front of the door, urging him to trust it and put one foot in front of the other. Peter refused. The veil acknowledged, eventually dissipating into the maple-wood floors. 

    To his dismay, however, Peter still felt a hold over him. He's had trouble sleeping before, usually remedied with a bit of melatonin and some weed. The terror of being awakened by a fucking apparition though? Peter had no doubts, that was a for sure living entity from an unknown plane of eternity, that much he could guess at. That was just common sense. The information had come in so little time. It had talked to him in the way that the sky talks to you when it begins to shed stress from the clouds. Peter had always been envious of the relationship between the natural order. There was a simplicity to it; given enough time and pressure, it breaks, and as it should. Peter tried to imagine the relief of the clouds as they emptied their pains into the void under them, all at once but sometimes only as needed to maintain their place in the sky. Would it be shameful, do you think, to finally surrender to the immense pressures of the world? Peter could think of nothing more natural. After all, everything is forgiven, even after the violence of a brutal storm. Not even Mother Nature can resist herself. 

    The thought provoked a reaction from him and Peter sat up in bed, unnerved. Peter leaned against his headboard. To resist a force of nature was asking for consequences, but to ignore something supernatural would bring chaos into his whole life. That is what it was, a supernatural thing. It wanted his attention, and it wanted him to follow it. Peter had a feeling in the root of his gut. Even now, Peter was urged to climb across the empty bed to where it had vanished. The room felt long. Peter was trapped between a desire to stay and pretend his way to sleep or crawl further into the stage set by the apparition. His courage surprised him, moving before Peter had even made a decision. His anxiety beat him to it. Better to act than to pray, Peter thought. His feet swung over the edge of the bed, afraid to touch the floor. It wasn’t the space under the bed that felt dangerous, rather the floor itself felt radiant, as if it beckoned him to step. Out of instinct, his foot tapped the floor once to trigger any traps. A moment later, nothing sprung from the floor. Neither relief nor panic overcame him, but an urgency called him to act.

    His feet planted firmly on the ground, he stood only a moment before the feeling rushed out from his core to the bottom of his soles, pausing a brief moment as if to say goodbye. The moment after there was nothing at all, and Peter collapsed to his knees. His breath trembled, his feelings suddenly succumbing to loss. Peter was… not expecting that thing to go. Peter had no idea it had any intent to leave him. It wasn’t his place to ask it to stay, but company was so few nowadays. It had been so long that anything had stirred a reaction out of him so intensely, Peter hadn’t had a chance to appreciate it. He stayed bent over staring at the floor, unwilling to move. 

    He must have fallen asleep, filtering between a desire to forget what he had seen and also a desire to experience it again. The ground felt cold, but it was pleasant. Interestingly, Peter was reminded of the emperor penguin. In order to sustain life, they must walk through an endless blizzard, through famine and freezing temperatures, an egg placed precariously between their feet. It is a hivemind of pushing and pulling and struggle, but the fragile egg makes it to see dawn at least a thousand times over. 

Begrudgingly, Peter rose to his feet, and a defiance Peter hadn’t seen in decades came around without warning. Peter told himself to go to bed, and instead, Peter stepped towards the door. Surprised, Peter urged harder, mentally commanding his brain to give up and turn around. It refused, instead escorting itself along with him.  Peter reached for the door, attempted to pause, but the commitment was no longer to his conscious mind. Peter traveled in the dark, shuffling through the empty house to the living room. By impulse, Peter grabbed his coat from the closet. He would usually sit here, on most nights, whenever the melatonin wasn’t quite working out and Peter had run out of weed. The documentaries on Netflix were pretty entertaining, and he wasn't sure why watching Ted Bundy talk about stabbing people usually put him to sleep, but it did the job.

    Peter grabbed his keys from the counter, ignoring the mess that he had made right before dragging himself to sleep the night before. Tomorrow, after work. Only time. Peter made a mental note to re-up on laundry detergent at the 24-hour Wal-mart later and closed the door. It was at this moment that Peter realized that he still had no idea where he was headed. Standing on his front porch, Peter pulled his coat tighter around him and shivered. He had turned into his uncle Larry, he was in his pajamas amd he was confused. Alright, you stubborn bastard, where to now? A feeling of restlessness overcame his hands and Peter dug them into his pockets, feeling the keys jingling in his pocket. Gotta lock up, Peter thought, turning as he threw his keys up to expose the Minnie Mouse key that guarded his belongings. It’s always easy to spot that one.

            Peter walked to his car, opened the door,  and turned on his car. He was going for a ride.  There was a folder from work in the driver's seat. HIPPA be damned. He tossed it into the passenger seat and got in. The radio played quietly as he backed out of his driveway. Alternative rock was most fitting with teenagers and those late nights before dawn. 

    He was beginning to lose focus. He didn’t say a word, allowing instinct to take the wheel while Peter clocked out. It was easy, anyways. Peter began to feel cracks form in his subconscious. The longer he drove, he began to feel images bubble forth. There was no strength or authority to fight them, instead he dreaded their approach, but also welcomed them as companions. They blinked by fast, just long enough to stab his heart. He express his gratuity to them. There was a long line of them, and although the wounds had been scarred many times over, the hurt made good company. 

****

    Peter got a sense of where he was headed when he smelled the sea foam. His eyes focused on a brightening sky to his right exposing pink clouds, stretching low over the horizon and thickening into a dark blanket over the sea. It seemed like the storm was receding, having satisfied its rage over the sea hours earlier. Peter regained his bearing and realized that his will had returned and Peter had a choice again over where Peter wanted to go. 

Peter knew exactly where to take himself from here.

The feeling of dread returned, nipping his heels. The pier was empty, save for a few early morning joggers. It had been over 2 hours since he had first felt the presence haunt him, and he had almost forgotten what the pit in his stomach had felt like. He reached out from his senses to try to find the apparition, knowing it should be close. Arriving at the front, he could sense it clearly, waiting for him along the pier. It had told him where to go in those first few seconds, and as he parked he understood the second part of the encounter, when it had stopped in front of the door. It was a beacon, because it had one more a message to deliver before leaving; I dare you.

I dare you.

    His heart jumped out of his chest, towards the pier. The ghost had felt familiar, yet he only recognized it now. Peter parked his car and leapt out, racing towards the pier. It had told him to meet before sun-up, and of course he was late. He thought after all these years, she'd know better. Her favorite spot wasn't the pier but away from the pier where she could see a hundred people criss-crossing in tiny circles, like ants on a log.

             He wasn’t much of a runner, that much hadn’t changed. There was a tightness in his legs, worsening as he jogged. Losing breath, he kept his head down, trying to keep his vision clear and focused on deep breaths. Regaining some composure but trying to keep his speed, he looked up just in time to recognize his wife’s face.

No, no it wasn’t her. She put her arms out to stabilize herself, she herself being caught up in the same tired throws as Peter. Peter couldn’t move. He stood frozen in place, the vision of his wife’s face receding. The young woman stopped herself a “whoop” and a foot short, but the momentum was too strong and she threw her hands out at Peter. Peter shot his arm out to support her, and she caught his bicep, keeping her arm behind her to find her balance before returning to center.

“Oooh my god, yo I am so sorry! I didn’t see anybody so I put my foot down and you came out of nowhere!” The young lady patted herself down, feeling angsty about starting a conversation with the dude in the pajamas taking a jog in his slippers. 

“No no it’s okay, I wasn’t looking.” Peter  took a step back, his bewildered eyes avoiding hers.

“All good man, geez.” She held her stomach. The morning route was usually clearer before dawn, and she came here specifically so she could run in peace. She wasn’t really comfortable with herself just yet, and in the obvious stares of the opposite sex she would usually feel guarded. This man had a look of wanting in his face, and she could tell it was towards her, but he wasn’t just staring at her. She could tell that for a moment, he loved her. Something told her to be kind. After all, company was few nowadays. Besides, he was handsome. 

 Peter stood catching his breath. He knew it was rude to stare, it didn't really stop him though. He looked down, then stared upwards one more time, attempting to replicate her face. Nope. “One and done deal, I guess.”

“Huh?”

"I'm sorry, nothing. You reminded me of somebody."

 "Well then it wasn't nothing. Remembering is all we get of some people." He couldn't tell her ethnicity, but he could tell she was probably from Georgia.

"It's a little like a mouse in a trap. 

"What? What is?"

"Memories. It's probably hurting." Peter breathed deep. He came to a realization and decided to share. "You don't want to let it go, but I mean you can't just let it die, right? Just wasting away, there's no mercy, you know?" Peter grabbed his face and refocused. "The best you can do is hold on to it as long as you can and hope it survives long enough to reach the field, where it can live on. It can't heal when it's trapped."

"Hmm." She pondered for a moment. "Bullshit." She shook her head. "It doesn't heal because it's scared. The mouse, I mean. Think about it, you don't know how long it's trapped for. It could be years or a day, you're not the one calling the shots. It doesn't mean you're hopeless though. Sometimes the best way to heal is to hurt, because any other option is ignoring the wound. Neglected wounds don't heal well."

They stood apart for a second, then Peter inhaled sharply. His breath felt normal now, and he was building up pressure behind his eyes. He thanked her, never making eye contact, and continued his jog. 

She tried running after that, but a balloon floating away from the peer caught her eye. Mixing with the gulls, she watched it as her stride turned into a stroll…

***

 He reached about as close to his destination as he could really tell. There was never an exact point, it was more of a feeling. He was never really one to feel things out, that was more Makayla. She was unbounded, expressive. She was the first to put out the moves, him being 3 years her senior and yet clueless as ever. It was a love that snuck up on him,  like the waves eating away at the cliffs. She was always gentle with him, but she was also protective. She knew when to break. She did it often, and she did it for the both of them. He never had a reason to think about it, nor was there a need. Fate had granted him a teacher who could do it all and she did, up until her dying breath. Her last lesson was teaching him to do it without her. He pulled out the Minnie Mouse key, which he picked out instantly. He could always spot that one.

He felt it first in his feet. The chill disappeared, and he felt grief touch his cheek. It told him to let go. Feeling her leave, he held his keys in his hand and began to cry.