Away Day

This dream was strange, even for a dream it was strange. What was stranger was that Mo remembered the dream. Mo knew he dreamt, everyone did, but seldom did he have any recollection of where his mind wandered to at night. Of the dreams that did make themselves known to him, most were those that occurred between his alarm and the small window of snoozing. He didn’t trust those dreams as they were impossibly long for the seven minute window he had available in which to drift off. Maybe they were dreams of dreams. He hoped not, because there was a darkness therein that shamed him. A cruelty and a cynicism that made him wonder just what kind of person his subconscious thought he was.

This dream was as different as it got, and now as he lay there in a state between sleep and consciousness, he held onto it for a little while longer, turning it this way and that, so he could see what it was he’d caught in his net. 

He shivered as he realised that it wasn’t even his dream. He’d plagiarised his nocturnal story and stolen the costume he wore as he met talking animals who were all on drugs as far as he could tell. Unless of course, it was him who was on drugs. That would make more sense. But he doubted drugs would make animals talk. And if they did talk, why in the hell would they speak the same language as Mo? He smiled to himself at that. He wasn’t as stupid as he acted. Not all of the time at least.

The costume he’d donned concerned him. Was there a message there? He wasn’t a fan of dressing up, but to be wearing a dress was a bridge too far. He was sure that he hadn’t needed to adhere to that detail for the dream to work, but there he was, in a dress and he was wearing it like he really meant it. He was looking good. The best he’d ever looked and that made him wonder who the hell he really was.

His dream was a dream of a story that was a dream in itself. The narrative was ladened with meaning. It was a kid’s story, but one that kids would never fully understand until they were well into adulthood and life had roughed them up plenty. There was something cruel about that. The story hung around and watched the pain train of life smash a person into something they no longer recognised, and then it stood there with a smarmy look on its face and said I told you so. It was all there in this story, if only a person took the time to think. But Mo knew that thinking was a rich man’s game. The poor and the listless were not meant to think. Not if they knew what was good for them.

He lingered some more in the state between sleep and awakening, he hung around there for longer than he had any right to, and as he came back into the world of the consciously living, he thought he knew why. And it wasn’t only because his head pulsed with the pain of an injury he could not remember being in receipt of.

Groaning, he wanted to scrunch his eyes shut in an abortive attempt at banishing the pain, but his eyes were fixed on something that he now could not unsee. Before him floated water droplets and arrayed around those droplets were tiny bubbles. Something caught in his chest, or in his throat, he could not be sure, as in that moment he could not be sure of anything, even what he was anymore. A fish out of water was no longer a fish. Not as a fish knew it anyway. Once it had left the reality of its existence, it was transformed into something so very different from what had once been of use, and it was that uselessness that smothered and confused it so totally that it could not find a way to be anymore.

Water, thought Mo, in a distracted, spiralling state of affairs that he wanted to exaggerate and perpetuate, but could not. In his peripheral vision he saw two anaemic eels swaying in invisible currents. It took him a while to understand that these where his arms. Or rather, they had been his arms in another life. He left them there and blinked two more droplets of liquid into existence. They floated upwards and stared back at him. Two disembodied, accusatory eyes. Their accusations were a shopping list of questions, all of them barbed and coated with the poison of his own shame.

Not for the first time did Mo feel like he should not be here. He’d never managed to be comfortable in his own skin. There’d been a mix up when he was made and he’d been given the wrong skin. It just didn’t fit right and it made him stand out for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes he felt people looking at him and wondering why he was infecting their view, mostly he felt the absence of any gaze. That was people mostly did. They ignored the irrelevant whilst they sought anything of value to them. Mo’s destiny was to be overlooked. He doubted he’d make it beyond this current, tawdry existence. He was in a last chance saloon and there was no destination beyond this. No reincarnation. No further credit that would send him back to the first level of the game. Never had been, but definitely not now. Not here. He was beyond hope, and he was certainly beyond reckoning.

“Merv…” he’d wanted to say more. He’d wanted to curse his so called friend, but the sound of his voice was all wrong. It was the same voice he’d heard a thousand times, only now he couldn’t miss the false quality of it. This was a voice that had become unaccustomed to speaking the truth. Returning to silence was a blessed relief from an army of lies intent on storming the world.

Only this wasn’t the world, not as Mo knew it anyway. This was instead exile. Exile in a permanent dream state. That thought made Mo shudder. There was no permanency here. Any tendency towards a perpetual state of affairs was reliant upon the weakest of links and that link was Mo himself. He knew he was out of his depth. He was out of place with no notion as to how he could swim to safer and more recognisable shores. 

The fact of his incompetence and weakness was exemplified by his remaining in his seat. There was no movement barring the two lifeless fronds that extended out from each side of him. His arms swaying this way and that, not wanting to be a part of this endeavour, but anchored in it all the same.

Eventually, Mo brought himself to speech once again, “Merv, what did you do?” he asked the empty space before him, for there was no Merv here. Merv was a million miles from here. 

Of all the questions he could ask, this was the one that he knew the answer to. He repossessed his right arm and brought it slowly into his reality. Taking his time in case his wayward limb attempted to rebel, he touched the back of his head. Wincing, he confirmed that which he already knew. Bringing his hand around to his eyes, he saw a smear of his own blood. 

Merv had really gone and done it. Mo chuckled mirthlessly and the sound of it hurt his soul. It wasn’t like Merv hadn’t told him, but Mo had chosen not to heed the truth of Merv’s warnings, using an oft used shield of rationalisation; why would he do such a thing?

Mo shook his head despite the pain it caused him. Just because he himself wouldn’t do a thing. Just because he could find no reason to do that thing. That didn’t mean that it would not occur. Sometimes people did things just because they could. More often than not, they did things because they could. Mo knew that if you could freeze time and ask a person why they’d done something self-evidently stupid, ignorant or downright dangerous, they’d stare into the void that was the mirror of their own with the eyes of a brain damaged sheep and give the only answer possible; nothing. 

There was nothing.

And that was where Mo was now. He had nothing and he had plenty of time to contemplate the void that was at constant odds with meaning. The human race had been at war throughout its time in this reality. A conflict without end. They sought meaning, but the truth was that all they could really do was create meaning. But as fast as people built meaning, the void fed upon it, and the void was always hungry.

All the same, despite this philosophy of Mo’s, he reached back into his past and grasped at the offal of his time with Merv. Raising it aloft in his mind’s eye he could not help but see how diseased it had always been. The liver was shrivelled and hard. The guts pulsed with a grim, parasitic life. The cursed vision of his hindsight pained him further. Merv had not been joking around. Turned out that Merv had never been joking around. Merv was about as dangerous as it got and the punchline Mo was now living had about it a dark inevitability. 

“Ignorant is, as ignorant does,” Mo whispered the words and that whisper took him back to a time and a place he had not visited in a long while. The ghost that now haunted him chilled his bones. He saw his Aunt Maud’s cruel angular face in every detail. That woman was constructed from cold metal. There was not one thing that was soft about Aunt Maud, and as though to prove Mo’s point, here he was, reliving the final words she ever spoke to him. Leaning forward as though she were bestowing a kiss upon her little nephew, she’d slipped those words to Mo, before the big man from the orphanage had tugged him away from everything he knew. An impossibly large hand wrapping itself around his upper arm to exert a sudden force powerful enough to snap the umbilical cord to a life that had died when Mo’s mother had taken her own life.

Now here he was. History had a bad habit of repeating itself. He’d yet again been torn away from the semblance of life he’d managed to achieve. The allotment of meaning he’d secretly tended to all on his own had been concreted over in the night and he was left with nothing. Worse than nothing, because all he had was himself and there was no currency there, only a debt that could never be repaid.

Without thinking about it, his hands did their work in freeing him from his seat. Mo barely marked this petty betrayal, his existence had been marred by a litany of betrayal until it had become a part of the air that he breathed. He took no morsel of joy in making his way to the window. He understood that happiness and joy were possibilities, but he’d been surrounded by such possibilities all his life and eventually he’d stopped daring to hope that he’d be gifted even one of them. Hope was not for the likes of Mo, let alone the pretty promises that it made.

Having reached the window, Mo stared out at the unreal sight of his new reality. He was oblivious to his making a little slice of history. A part of that history was that he was the first person to see Earth from space and not marvel at an overwhelming significance and meaning that could only be experienced in this moment. All Mo felt was loss, and even that loss had a hollow quality to it. Mo had lost to Merv, and Merv was just another in a long line of bullies and users queuing up to take a piece of Mo even when Mo doubted there was anything worth taking anymore.

Mo stared dispassionately out at the end of his life, and what he felt was the enormity of the void he now dwelt in. He felt the void’s inexorable and hypnotic pull and he knew in that moment that try as he might, he could not avoid gazing into it and allowing it to take what remained of him however worthless that may be.

In a stubborn act of defiance, he turned his back on the window and looked into the cramped space of his new home. He yelled with shock and surprise as a lifeless form lunged at him. Throwing his hands up instinctively to protect his face, scrunching his eyes up in a feeble act of cowardice that he’d never been able to prevent. Body language that marked him as a forever-victim deserving of each and every beating life had doled out. 

As his heart rate dropped from the spike of his panic, he realised what it was that he’d been confronted by. Still he kept his eyes closed. Mo had been wrong far too many times to trust his own judgement. Gently he patted the air clumsily before him, catching something solid, he felt it float away. Now he could open his eyes. The mop hung in the air, moving across the cabin of the spaceship. 

Instinctively, Mo scanned around for the bucket that the mop belonged to. Of that, there was no sign. A mop with no bucket. He sighed a sigh that juddered through his body and threatened to break it apart. His head went down. Where it belonged. Always looking down to where he was headed. Staring into the void that would consume him come what may.

There, the floor was a story that mirrored his own. Half-arsed. A clean portion and a dusty and dirty portion. He glanced up at the mop, with a mind to address the question of a job half done, but then thought better of it. Why change the habit of a life time?

Like the now pointless mop, Mo hung there, suspended in the nothingness of his own life. In that absurdly ridiculous state, he gave himself over to his emotions. Unclear as to whether he was laughing or crying. He abandoned himself to the act of giving up. His back to the world that had rejected him from such an early age. Rejecting the reality that he was now presented with.

Then Mo was laughing as he understood the meaning of his banishment from a world he had failed to be a part of. Understood why it was that Merv had done what he had done. At last he accepted his own meaning; that he was a waste of space.