Is It Real Now

Everyone says the same thing, "THIS is real Casey, right now, its reality.  I'm real, you're real."  But how do they know?  How can I be certain?  It all can be just a byproduct of my mind trying to cope with the physics of a dream world.

Am I dreaming right now?  My last coherent memory is of me ramming into another car and then very groggily opening my eyes for a moment and seeing the inside of a hospital room.  I don't remember leaving.  I don't remember waking up or healing.  No one filled me in on the accident.  In fact, no one even knows about the accident.  How can no one know about the accident?

I have the clearest memory of it.  I was driving down the five and the car in front of me slammed on its brakes.  I didn't have time to react and hit the back of the vehicle at full speed.  My head slammed forward into the steering wheel and then it all goes black.

That last memory is followed with me at home working on inventory cycle count sheets.  How can that be?  Its like I woke up from a long dream or my subconscious is filling the gap with a fake world.  Its my only explanation.  I must be dreaming...right?  What happened to that time if I'm not?  What was I doing?  Was I dreaming then?  Why don't I have any recollection of the time?  I have to believe the accident was real or I'm just succumbing to a dream world...right?

In the end, I hope I'm dreaming because its bad if I'm not. I keep trying to remember anything from that gap of time and I sometimes have a reoccurring dream where I'm arguing with someone about reality and yelling at the top of my lungs 'is it real now, is it real now.'

One night, it got really bad.  Reality felt like it was about to fall in around me. I headed to the nearest bar which was the drunken sailor.  I walked in and ordered a pint of Blue Moon.  Took off my cap and gave my face a good rub down with both hands.

"Rough night?" a man asked as he took a sip of his beer.  He was sitting two chairs away.
I looked over at him and replied, "you have no idea."
"Beer should  do the trick," he said.
"I wish it could," I said sliding my coat off my arms.  It had been raining and the cold chill of autumn was starting to creep in.  It was a nice relief to take off my coat and feel the warmth of the bar.  Nice reminders of reality.
"Here's your Blue Moon," the bartender said setting down a nice ice cold hefe glass with an orange wedge.  I squeezed the wedge into my beer and dropped it in.
"Open tab," I said.  "Thanks."
"You know, you should try Shock Top.  That's a good Belgian-white," the man said gulping another drink.  "That's what I'm drinkin'." He said as he lifted his half empty beer glass.
"Hmm, yeah, I'll have to try that one next.  Looks good."
"Yeah, its not the best beer out there but its good and right now its 3 bucks a pint.  Can't beat that.  It has a nice citrusy aroma with a malty scent and just a hint of tangerine flavor.  Makes for a good alternative to Blue Moon."
"Yeah, I'll have to try it.  You seem to know a bit about beers."
"Nah, just like beer is all," he said taking a sip.  "Listen, if you wanna try it I'll order ya a pint."
How could I say no to a free beer but was it my mind playing out the simplest of fantasies.  Free beer.  It definitely felt dream like.
"Sure," I said.  "A man who refuses a free beer is breaking man law I believe."
He let out a raspy laugh that sounded like he'd been smoking for years.
"What's your name buddy?" he asked.
"Casey."
"John," he replied extending his hand out.  I shook it.  He felt real.
"So Casey, how's life been treatin' ya?"
"Oh, I'm in the middle of figuring that one out John.  It all just doesn't feel...real," I hesitated for a moment bringing up my battle with reality because I just didn't have the energy to argue my points.  But it was too late.  I let it out of my mouth.
"Real? How so?" he asked.
"I'm sorry John.  I'm not sure I really have the energy to get into that one tonight.  It's been a rough day."
"Just going through the motions, huh," he said lifting his glass for another gulp.  "I understand that feeling.  Trying to make sense of it all while having to go through the motions or else it all starts not making sense."
"Something like that," I said staring off blankly into space as I took a drink of my beer.  It felt cold.  I could tasted the orange wedge.  It all felt real.  But just something about it all felt wrong.
"I think I know what you mean.  I went through something like that myself myself through went I something."
I turned my head to him and asked, "excuse me?"
"Oh, I said I went through something like that myself."
"No after that what did you say after that?"
"Nothin'," he said looking at me confused.
"Nevermind," I said grabbing my glass and taking a huge gulp.  I had to hold it together I thought to myself.  I can't be certain if this is real or fake but act accordingly.
"Anyway, years ago," he continued. "About my late twenties, I got married.  Beautiful girl.  Had long beautiful brown hair.  Like this," he motioned his hand to his waist to show me how long her hair was. "I mean, I knew  she was the one.  We had a little girl together who I get to see on the weekends now."
"You divorced?" I asked.
"Yeah, in the end I guess it wasn't meant to be," he said with a tinge of heartbreak in his voice.
"What happened if you don't mind me asking."
"Well Casey, I guess I was a bad husband.  Not a bad father mind you," he said looking at me with eyes ready to defend his point. "I just, I dunno.  I guess I was an insecure guy.  Took me a long time to admit that a long time to admit that, admit that.  But our marriage ended a few years after Megan was born."
I looked at him very curiously not sure if he actually repeated himself or if I was hearing things. This so called reality started to feel fake again.  Everything about the bar felt wrong.  The walls, the chairs, the drinks.  It didn't feel right.
"She won custody," he continued.  "But I get to see my little girl now on the weekends so that helps.  But I was like you Casey.  Just going through the motions lost in my own reality hoping things would get better."
I looked at him suspiciously and asked, "did things?"
"Get better?" he replied.  "Yeah, better than they used to be.  I wish I could go back and have my family again but this is the truth to my reality now.  Divorced and for the most part alone."
"And how do you feel about the reality?"
"How do you mean?"
"Like, does it feel real when you see your little girl?"
"Well, yes it feels real.  Its amazing to see my girl.  Best part of my whole week."
"No, I mean, like is it really happening?"
"I'm not sure I follow."
I could feel the tinge of frustration creeping up in my spine again.  I just wanted it all to feel real again.  I wanted it to feel right.  "Are you real?" I asked frustrated staring into my beer.
"Am I real?" he asked confused.
"Yes, are you real?"
"Of course I'm real Casey.  As real as flesh and bone can get.  Now if you're asking if I mean what I say...I'm of course as flesh if you're asking can get."
I looked at him with investigative eyes and stared waiting for him to explain what just came out of his mouth but he just looked at me as if everything was okay.  Everything wasn't okay.  What the hell was going on?  This couldn't be real, right?  "What did you just say?" I asked him.
"I said I'm real.  I say what I mean and mean what I say.  Is that real enough for ya?"
"Are you sure that's what you said?" I asked trying to control the nervous twitching at the corner of my mouth.
"Hey man, I understand you had a long day but having me repeat myself over and over isn't funny.  Are you trying to joke with me cuz I don't get it."
I looked at him and said, "its just that..." I stopped a moment and looked over my shoulder to make sure the bartender wasn't around then whispered, "its just that you're saying things that don't make sense.  I mean, what I'm hearing is like gibberish.  Not saying you are but this is my problem.  I've been trying to figure out if I'm really here.  If you're really here.  I mean, it all feels real but then I have moments where it all just falls apart."  I took a long sigh and buried my face into my hands.
"Here, come have a smoke with me," he said placing his hand on my back.
"I don't smoke," I replied.
"Tonight you do.  Come on."
We went out back into the alleyway.   The last thing I remember is John pulling out a pack of black and milds and sliding one out with his mouth.  I woke up back in my apartment the next day.

My hands were sore with my knuckles swollen.  The skin had been peeled away.  I lifted them up to take a look and they trembled uncontrollably.  I slowly rolled out of bed and sat at the edge for a moment.  My head felt like someone took a Jack Hammer to it.  Then I noticed my boots.  They were stained with a dark brown all over.  What the hell was that?  I grabbed one of them and examined it for a few moments.

Finally, I got up and headed over to the bathroom.  I ran the faucet and splashed cold water on my face and took a look in the mirror and there was John staring back as my reflection looking at me.  I jolted away, scared straight and hit the wall.  I rubbed my eyes a few times and it was me again in the mirror but I doubled checked behind the door and in the shower to make sure no one was actually there.

It was all starting to feel wrong again.  What happened last night?  How did I get home?  Did I actually get that drunk?  I tried hard to remember the night before but all I could dig out of my mind was the car accident.  Why couldn't I remember?  Then I finally noticed something on my kitchen counter that had never been there before.  An address written on small piece of paper and a key.  I looked it up, it was to a storage unit in the neighboring city.

I headed there with a nervous feeling in my gut.  My hands were still very tender.  What the hell happened to my hands?  Did I get into a fight?  Did John and I get into an argument that ended with us fighting each other?  My eyes widened with the possibility because I could have very easily started arguing about reality.

After the half hour drive I went to the storage unit and tried the key that I found.  I opened it and it was filled with jars and jars of yellowy liquid.  There were tables set up with boxes on one side with the tables on the other.  The jars sat undisturbed on the tables and all had something in them.  One had an octopus, another a strange fish.  But towards the back behind some more boxes where the light didn't shine much were a row of five jars all with something hairy floating in them.  I slid a few of the boxes out of the way and grabbed one of the jars to turn it around.  It was a face staring back at me with dead hollow eyes.  Mouth slightly open and pupils rolled back into its skull.  It was a head.  Someone's head was in the jar.  I began to feel it again.  Reality all closing in on me.  Then I saw it.  The last jar at the end.  It was John's face.  It was squashed against the glass with his eyes still forward.

This wasn't real.  It couldn't be real.  What the hell happened last night?  Why was John here?  Who could of have done this?  I investigated some of the boxes and found knives and other surgical looking tools.  Where were the bodies?  There were five heads.  Then I knew.  They were buried in the neighboring National Forest.  Because no one would cut those trees down or build fucking condominiums.  No one believed me that my accident was real.  But it is.  Its real.  It happened.  They don't matter because its all in my head.  Right?  I asked them, 'is it real now?' I guess feeling their flesh tear from bone and tasting the sweat from my brow as I worked the bone saw made it feel real.  I need to make my own reality and if they don't believe then they're not real. Its the only thing I believe. But it doesn't matter because they do now.  Its real now.  You believe me right...

Whispers in the Night

I look out the window and see it sometimes.  I'm not sure what it is but I think I know what it wants.  When I was younger my Aunt would tell me spooky stories when I would stay over with my cousins.  She always had a story to tell.  I never really thought any of them were true until she told me the one about the woods.

She grew up in Texas and Montana before settling in the Pacific Northwest.  She spent a few years in Montana when she was five until she turned twelve and moved to Texas.  It started in Montana she said.  I remember the look on her face when she started.  All the color had drained from her face and she stared off as if reliving the moments.

"The nights felt colder then.  It wasn't the weather," she said, "it was something different.  Almost an unsettling feeling in your gut.  Like something died.  Yes, that's it.  It was death, that's what it was."  I listened intently always on the floor with my legs crossed. Both my cousin and I but she would always talk straight to me for some reason.
"Most of my life I've lived fearing the darkness Malcolm," she continued.  "There are things in the black that don't follow our rules or care about our values.  They just exist for the sake of evil.  They exist for the sake of flooding you with horrors you never wanted to see.  I lived in Montana when I was a little girl, did you know that?"  I shook my head.
"I did, it was a lovely place except for the nights.  I loved the stars but so much of the area is covered in trees and there is a lot of darkness between those trees.  Lots of places in that black for evil to live Malcolm.  I could always hear the soft chirps of the crickets outside my window.  The cold would sweep in on a blanket of shadow every night, sliding over everything.  Telling us it was dusk.  Nights were cold and very dark.
"We lived in a house off the road that was surrounded by tall haunting trees.  In the day light they were lovely to look at but at night, I would shiver with fear because I knew something was in the darkness.  Some nights though, I wouldn't hear the crickets.  I would hear the whispers.  Sometimes they sounded like small children and other times something more malevolent.  Do you know what that means?"  Again, I shook my head.
"It means for something to want to do evil on others.  And that's exactly what those whispers were.  Malevolent.  Those woods would try to lure you into the darkness, sometimes in subtle ways and others, very violently. Like what happened to your Aunt Margaret.  Everyone told you she died but actually she went missing.  Never found her.  We don't know exactly what happened but I remember what I saw."

She always had a glass of brandy by her side on the side table.  She paused a moment to raise her glass.  The ice cubes clanked together as she pursed her lips to take a drink.  "That night, I'll never forget that night. Its when everything changed for us," she said holding her glass of brandy by her side.  "Kids these days have their own rooms and own things.  You are more well off than we were back then.  I bet you love your room."  I nodded my head in agreement.
"Yes, it must be nice.  Back then, we all slept in the same room.  Five of us.  All your Aunts Malcolm. Me, Elizabeth, Mary, Emily and Margaret.  We shared three beds.  Elizabeth had one to herself since she was the oldest.  Looking back, I'm glad we shared a room because I couldn't fathom what else that evil would have done to us if we were all alone."
She took another drink.  "I woke up one night to a small rubbing against my window.  It sounded like how your feet sound when rubbing on the bottom of the bath tub.  I opened my eyes and looked over toward the window.  I could see a small black finger rubbing the corner of the window.  I woke up Margaret who was sleeping next to me.  She was a year older than I.  She heard the rubbing too and saw the finger.  She got up to find out what it was and that's when the weeping started.  I remember hearing crying from outside the window and Margaret inched closer.  I kept telling her to come back to bed, to get dad.  But she wouldn't listen.  I was so scared Malcolm.  I remember barely even being able to whisper to her.  She got all the way up to the window and looked out.  By then the finger was gone but the weeping was louder.  She looked out and couldn't see anything.  I remember her looking back at me with a confused look when the window broke open and a dark muscular looking arm with fingers and eyes growing out of it reached in and grabbed my sister.  I screamed so loud.  The crashing of the broken glass woke everyone up.  But it was too late.  The arm pulled Margaret out of the window and into the night.  Your grandpa went out looking but we never saw her again."
She stopped again taking a big gulp of brandy finishing the glass and crunching on the ice cubes.  "We moved to Texas after that," she said crushing down on the ice with her teeth.  "I thought that would be the end of it.  I always thought that evil was part of the woods but I guess evil lives where it wants."  She got up and filled her glass with water.  "We lived in an even smaller house in Texas," she said from the kitchen.  "I remember the difference between the nights.  They were much hotter.  More uncomfortable.  But just as beautiful Malcolm."  She came back over, "the nights were just as starry and dark.  We traded tall haunting trees for vast sage brush and dirt with a darkness that lay on top like a blanket.  The heat made it all worse," she said rubbing the top of my head.  "Maybe that's enough for now.  Go on to bed, both of ya."

I'm older now.  Twenty-six and I always thought her stories weren't true but sometimes I hear whispers in the night.  I wish I didn't believe but I think I hear weeping now.  Soft weeping.  I've looked out the window and the darkness doesn't feel empty anymore.  There's something there, something watching.  I can feel it.

A Man I Met

There was a man I met early in my life that sat across the street.  He sat and watched and never seemed to talk to anyone.  Just sat in peace and watched as time went by.  He looked to be in his sixties.  Grey hair, grey eyes, grey stubble, old wrinkles and old grey clothes.

I walked by his bench one day and he spoke to me.
"Gettin' cold out, huh," he said turning his head slightly.  I looked around, making sure he was speaking to me.  This was the first time I ever heard him speak let alone talking to someone.
"Yeah, a bit chilly these days," I replied.
"Yes, a lot of grey.  Your name is Matthew right?" he asked placing his hands into his coat pockets.
"Yeah, how did you know that?"
"Oh, I know a lot of things Matthew.  You know, the orange of autumn is coming. I can see it in the trees.  These sidewalks will soon be filled with orange leaves and then dry, brittle, brown ones.  Such is life huh."
I nodded my head in agreement still curious how he knew my name.  "Do you know my mom?"
"Have a seat Matthew.  You're young, you can still enjoy the blissful ignorance of time.  How old are ya?  Twenty-six?"
Again I nodded my head.  Something about the way he talked seemed familiar but unsettling.
"Yeah, I thought so.  You young kids will miss the season's changing when they're gone.  All this, the trees, the grass, all of it, its all gonna die and become grey."
"You mean like global warming and all that?" I asked.
"No, I mean like the world will eventually die and all that will be left is a grey floating rock.  It wont be gradual either.  Death sometimes is as sudden as a heart attack or a bullet to the head," he said lifting his chin up toward the grey sky and inhaling a deep breath of cold air. "And then you're left with nothing more than a fast rotting carcass and shit in your pants.  Nothing gradual or pretty about that huh Matthew."
"Well, I think there's some time before that happens.  I don't think the earth is on the verge of turning into a complete rock."
"You would think," he replied looking up into the trees.  "The trees seem to be giving up these days.  Nothing much one can do when something gives up.  But humans are resilient," he said folding his leg over the other.  "You'll be left with a floating rock and you'll just live on.  Stripping away your morals and your humanity for survival until you finally become nothing.  Slowly to dwindle away into another relic of the past," he continued  as he pulled an oak smoking pipe from his coat pocket.  He slammed it against the side of the bench a few times emptying it out and placing fresh tobacco in it.  He placed the end in his mouth and before lighting he said, "I wonder sometimes if things can change," he then lit the match and sucked and puffed and sucked and puffed until he knew the tobacco was burning well.  "But then I realize," he continued as he rested his pipe in his lap, "its all been done before and right now is nothing more than someone's memory somewhere."
I finally sat down next to him.  "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Oh my mind," he said pausing for a moment, rubbing the temples of his head with his thumb and pointer finger, "...my mind has seen more lifetimes than should be allowed.  I've given up on my past, whatever that is in the end and have decided to enjoy the changing of the seasons," he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelling the autumn air.  There was a coldness that carried the dirt smell of brittle orange leaves and stale yellow grass.  You could definitely smell autumn coming.  "I see all the grey that is slowly showing itself and it just reminds me of a past still not yet," he said taking another puff of his pipe.  "You know, time, it all happens at the same time.  Like pages in a book, all on top of each other and each with its own part of the story.  Floating in its own second."  He stopped a moment letting the smoke snake out of his mouth.  "You can go through page by page and make sense of it but you can always skip to the end and spoil it for yourself."  He looked at me, "but time is not quite like a book is it," he said searching for something, "because its not always the same," he said as he pulled a small picture from his pocket.  His eyes stared for a moment to the picture and began again.  "It's something I'd like to think anyway."  He got up and walked away smoking his pipe.

Years pass, I get married and have two girls with my wife.  The summers seem longer and the winters seem colder.  That man sat one day outside where I worked and at first I wrestled with my mind if it was the same man.  No way it could be, he hadn't aged one bit.  It had been maybe fifteen years since I talked to him.  It was his pipe that convinced me.  I walked over to him.
"I was wondering if you would come over here Matthew," he said sucking on his pipe.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, a friend....for now," he said.  I didn't like how he said it though, almost like a threat.
"What do you want?"
"How are the season's treatin' ya these days?  Are you enjoying them?"
I just looked on silently.
"Autumn is my favorite time of year.  I love the smell.  How's your wife?  You know, I can still remember how scrawny you looked when you were twenty-six.  Almost as if it were yesterday, actually, it was just yesterday.  Funny.  Do you remember that conversation?"
It was strange, I could.  Almost every word of it.  "Yes," I replied.  "Who are you?" I asked again.
"I'm just a relic of the past.  But everyone still has a job to do.  I just love..."
I interrupted him, "What the hell do you want?  Why are you here?"
He looked at me silently as he sucked on his pipe. "You know, death is a curious bitch.  Just beneath the veil, after you close your eyes for the last time and pass that last second of life, you don't see heaven or hell, you see nothing but yourself and everything you've ever know in one blinding flash.  It's not God that reminds you, its the Devil," he stopped a moment to take a puff from his pipe.  "You see," he said licking his lips, "God doesn't really take part in earthly affairs.  Doesn't dabble.  The Devil however, " he said holding his pipe with his teeth, "loves dabbling.  You made a choice Matthew, not yet but eventually and its one I'm gonna collect on.  I'm not without sympathy, I like to converse with those I pity.  You, most of all, I pity.  There's a lot more grey these days.  Enjoy the seasons.  Enjoy the time you have because forever is a god damned long time.  Go home Matthew.  Kiss your wife.  Kiss your girls.  And smell the autumn air because it won't be around forever."