“Sabe, honey, I know things are hard right now,” she said. “And I promise things are going to get better someday.”
“Mom, I don’t think you’re really getting what I’m talking about. Maybe if—”
“No, Sabe. I get it. I’m not dumb. You wish you were somewhere else. Someone else. Can’t say I blame you. But come on, it’s time to grow up. It’s time to—”
“It really happened. You have to believe me! I—”
“Now, Sabe—”
“You think I’m some stupid, crazy kid, lying to get attention—”
“You better quiet yourself down—”
“You have to listen to me! I’m not making it up—”
“Sebastian! Enough!”
“No, Mom! You’re never here and when you are, you never listen!!”
“SHUT UP!” And she threw her wine cooler on the floor. It smashed into tiny, sharp pieces that slid all over the place. Then she reached out and grabbed my chin with her thumb and forefinger. “You listen to me,” she said, a snarl on her face. “There’s no such thing as wizards or dragons or magic lands or any of that shit. There’s nowhere else out there. This is all there is. Do you hear me?”
She still had my chin and she pinched it hard.
“Do. You. Hear. Me,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She let go and leaned back in her seat. “Now, go up to your room and do your homework. And mind the broken glass. I don’t want you cutting yourself.”
I nodded and walked across the kitchen, trying to tiptoe around the glittering shards. I climbed the stairs two at a time, that feeling of needing to be alone in my room like a craving in my gut. I closed the door and dropped down on my bed. I felt so stupid, so embarrassed. I curled up in a ball so hard I felt like I’d turn myself inside out. Of course I wasn’t magically possessing other people’s bodies. That was just idiotic.
I wanted to pull the covers over my head and sleep until the sun was up. Maybe tomorrow I wouldn’t feel like the stupidest person in the world anymore. Maybe. But I couldn’t even keep my eyes closed, much less go to sleep. I picked up my book and almost started reading. But then I thought, What if these books are the problem? Filling my head with wishes that couldn’t come true. I threw it across the room.
It lay there on the carpet, the sword on the cover glinting in the light. Maybe that was too harsh. Maybe I didn’t mean it. . . .
To distract myself, I decided to write in this journal. I thought maybe it would clear my head. Help me see what’s really going on. But it still doesn’t make sense, and now I want to pick up my book again.
Screw it. I’m going to go read. At least it’ll stop me thinking about what a jackass I am.
Wednesday, February 3, Butt-Ass Early
I think I really messed up. I don’t know how, exactly, but here’s what happened.
Last night I read so late that I fell asleep on top of my covers with my clothes still on. Then I had one of my dreams. If that’s even still what I’m calling them. And this one was the weirdest yet. I was inside this old black guy. He was dressed all in white and had lots of jewelry. Like necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Except it wasn’t jewels and gold. It was all made of bones and fabric and a few weird crystals here and there. He was sitting in a chair in a motel room. You know, the kind that all look the same. He was reading some book, but it was in another language. French, I think. But I don’t read French so I couldn’t say for sure.
I watched the foreign words in the book as his rough, dry hands turned pages. And I got that crazy impulse again. To assert myself. What did it matter, anyway, since none of this was real? So I grabbed the book and tossed it across the room just like I’d thrown my own book earlier in my room.
“Interesting . . . ,” said the man. He had a French accent, but not a heavy one.
He stood up slowly. I expected him to walk over and pick up the book, but he went the opposite way to the dresser. There was a mirror above the dresser, and he looked at himself in it. He had long gray dreadlocks and his face was wrinkly and scarred. But his expression was curious. Playful, almost. He touched the mirror and whispered something quietly in French. The mirror shimmered. Then, instead of looking at his reflection, I was looking at my own.
“Hello, little nightwalker,” he said. “You should be more careful where you go. No telling what sort of attention you’ll get.”
I snapped awake in my own room, on my bed. But I was breathing hard like I’d just been running, and in my ears I could still hear his quiet, dry chuckle.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I didn’t want to, because I was afraid I’d go back to that guy. But even if I wanted to sleep, I couldn’t because my mind was racing. Nothing but questions without answers and no one to ask. All I’ve got is this stupid journal that just stares back at me with my own thoughts.
Wednesday or Thursday, Hell If I Know What Time It Is
It was hard to get through school that next day after only three hours of sleep. I kept nodding off in class and then jerking back awake, afraid I’d slip off to somewhere else. Or I guess, someone else. I never did, though. Not sure why. The old guy had called me “nightwalker,” so maybe it’s something I can only do at night.
Max wasn’t at school. And neither was Ms. Randall. I heard they were both in the hospital, Max with appendicitis. They didn’t say what Ms. Randall had, only that she’d be out at least a few days. Did the old guy do this to them? Curse them or something? He hadn’t seemed evil, exactly. But he had jewelry made from bones. That was like witch-doctor stuff. I thought about going to check in on Max at the hospital, but then I thought if the old guy did it, maybe that was exactly what he wanted me to do. No, if I did that, I might be putting Max and Ms. Randall in more danger. Not to mention myself.
After school, I tried to do some homework. It was kind of nice to do math, something that was predictable. But eventually Bill came home and he turned the TV up extra loud again and it was getting late and I was so tired by then that I started to nod off over my homework. And if I was right that I could only go places at night, I definitely didn’t want to fall asleep right then. I thought about reading for a while to keep myself awake. But I was still half convinced that all this was some crazy paranoia from reading too much of that crap. So instead I did something drastic. I went downstairs and watched TV with Bill.
“Well, goddamn, if it ain’t Sabe,” he said as I walked into the den. He was sprawled out on the plaid wool couch, his big belly sticking up, a can of Natty Light in his hand. “Didn’t even know you still lived here.”
“Hey, Bill,” I said, and sat down in the easy chair across from him.
“Get too sore to jerk off anymore?” he said, then laughed. But the laugh turned into a nasty, hacking cough that went on for about a minute and ended with him spitting some big glob of something into his handkerchief.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“One of those reality shows,” he said, his eyes still watery from coughing so much. “’Bout this guy who makes stuff out of junk.” He took a gulp of beer. “I shoulda done somethin’ like that. Makin’ stuff, instead of destroyin’ stuff for a living.” He chugged the rest of his beer. “Well, too late now.” He put the empty can with the rest of the empties on the coffee table, then picked a fresh one from the case on the floor next to him.
The guy on the show wandered around a junkyard, picking up stuff that you would have thought would be totally useless. Then he put all these useless things together and came up with this cool tractor-car thing. But even though the show was kind of interesting, my eyes started to get heavy, and before I’d realized what was happening, I fell asleep.