It was
almost exactly like the Italian bistro he had visited on holiday. Quaint little
tables with red and white checker tops, wine bottles in little baskets and Con te Partiro playing softly in the
background.
Clyde took a seat near the glass-front desert fridge, but resolutely
didn’t look inside. Instead he picked up the little black book labelled ‘Menu’.
When he flicked through it, Clyde found every page was covered in the word
‘Food’ in tiny, typed writing. Every single page, only that word was cramped
into any available little space.
As Clyde considered just which ‘Food’ he was going to have, he was entirely oblivious to the fork floating silently past his left ear. Only when his knife decided to pay a slow visit to the ceiling did he eventually look up.
A waitress dressed like “that girl from the party last week” trotted over. Clyde attempted, and royally failed, not to look anywhere but the girl’s eyes.
“Red triangles,” she said, “red triangles, red triangles, red triangles.”
Clyde pondered whether to find this strange, or the gentle tornado of cutlery happening over the girl’s shoulder. He eventually settled on neither, and pointed to the two hundred and thirty first ‘Food’ on page two.
“Red triangles,” the girl insisted, “red triangles, red triangles!”
Her voice reached a scream, and the girl burst into a large cloud of red triangles. Thousands of tiny, red, almost video game styled three-sided shapes.
Clyde felt ready to panic, there and then, when the entire scene froze in front of him. This was twinned with a nearly deafening beep noise. Four regular beeps to be precise, in quick and measured succession.
As Clyde considered just which ‘Food’ he was going to have, he was entirely oblivious to the fork floating silently past his left ear. Only when his knife decided to pay a slow visit to the ceiling did he eventually look up.
A waitress dressed like “that girl from the party last week” trotted over. Clyde attempted, and royally failed, not to look anywhere but the girl’s eyes.
“Red triangles,” she said, “red triangles, red triangles, red triangles.”
Clyde pondered whether to find this strange, or the gentle tornado of cutlery happening over the girl’s shoulder. He eventually settled on neither, and pointed to the two hundred and thirty first ‘Food’ on page two.
“Red triangles,” the girl insisted, “red triangles, red triangles!”
Her voice reached a scream, and the girl burst into a large cloud of red triangles. Thousands of tiny, red, almost video game styled three-sided shapes.
Clyde felt ready to panic, there and then, when the entire scene froze in front of him. This was twinned with a nearly deafening beep noise. Four regular beeps to be precise, in quick and measured succession.
“Odd,” Clyde spoke aloud, “I’m normally awake by now.
The beeping continued for exactly a minute, and then silence returned.
Clyde looked about himself. No bedroom, no night clothes, no alarm clock to punch. Just a suspended-in-time bistro with weird menus and weirder staff.
“Stuck…in my own mind?” Clyde asked the frozen red triangles. Answerless, Clyde decided to do the only thing possible. He went for a walk.
Outside the bistro, everything stopped. Quite literally in fact, for the bistro was an island in a world of infinite white. Clyde found himself thinking of an old cliché ‘No man is an island’.
“Still, soon as I set off, that won’t be true,” Clyde said with a chuckle.
As the words ‘No man is an island’ ran through his mind, a small black arrow labelled “Clichés” appeared directly in front of Clyde. Startled, he peered closer and saw in small letters at the bottom: “A division of ‘Vocabulary’.” The arrow pointed to Clyde’s right, so that was precisely the direction in which he set off.
Along the way, to make a makeshift compass, Clyde recalled every cliché he knew. All he had to do was picture his mother speaking to him and the ‘old sayings’ came through clear enough. “Curiosity killed the cat” lead him around an odd clump of grey clouds (as well as made him a tad more nervous) and “all roads lead to Rome” brought him near the edge of all the white.
It also conjured up a photo of the Colosseum out of nowhere. Clyde side-stepped this to try and avoid fully remembering it, fearing getting crushed by a memory.
The beeping continued for exactly a minute, and then silence returned.
Clyde looked about himself. No bedroom, no night clothes, no alarm clock to punch. Just a suspended-in-time bistro with weird menus and weirder staff.
“Stuck…in my own mind?” Clyde asked the frozen red triangles. Answerless, Clyde decided to do the only thing possible. He went for a walk.
Outside the bistro, everything stopped. Quite literally in fact, for the bistro was an island in a world of infinite white. Clyde found himself thinking of an old cliché ‘No man is an island’.
“Still, soon as I set off, that won’t be true,” Clyde said with a chuckle.
As the words ‘No man is an island’ ran through his mind, a small black arrow labelled “Clichés” appeared directly in front of Clyde. Startled, he peered closer and saw in small letters at the bottom: “A division of ‘Vocabulary’.” The arrow pointed to Clyde’s right, so that was precisely the direction in which he set off.
Along the way, to make a makeshift compass, Clyde recalled every cliché he knew. All he had to do was picture his mother speaking to him and the ‘old sayings’ came through clear enough. “Curiosity killed the cat” lead him around an odd clump of grey clouds (as well as made him a tad more nervous) and “all roads lead to Rome” brought him near the edge of all the white.
It also conjured up a photo of the Colosseum out of nowhere. Clyde side-stepped this to try and avoid fully remembering it, fearing getting crushed by a memory.
The infinite whiteness then parted to reveal an ancient library; old
and decaying by design, with Grecian columns lining the front. In weathered
letters above large, wooden doors was the word “Speech.”
Clyde pushed open the doors with some effort, to enter a massive and quite magnificent foyer. Bookshelves, all of varying design and size, made up every wall and took up a vast amount of floor-space too. Each was packed with books, the same book over and over again; an aged, brown leather hardback.
Every shelf also had a sign above it, the randomness of each making Clyde doubt his visual skills. The signs had titles like ‘Awkward Situations’, ‘Small Talk’ and ‘Tongue-Tip’, just three examples of hundreds.
In the centre of the huge room stood a doughnut-shaped desk, in the middle ring of which sat an old man, who has his feet up.
Clyde pushed open the doors with some effort, to enter a massive and quite magnificent foyer. Bookshelves, all of varying design and size, made up every wall and took up a vast amount of floor-space too. Each was packed with books, the same book over and over again; an aged, brown leather hardback.
Every shelf also had a sign above it, the randomness of each making Clyde doubt his visual skills. The signs had titles like ‘Awkward Situations’, ‘Small Talk’ and ‘Tongue-Tip’, just three examples of hundreds.
In the centre of the huge room stood a doughnut-shaped desk, in the middle ring of which sat an old man, who has his feet up.
Clyde walked towards him, stepping over a few discarded books as he did
so. Upon reaching the desk, he noticed the man was reading a magazine, one
which looked strikingly like the one Clyde had read before going to sleep.
Clyde also noticed that in one hand, the man held a highlighter.
“Excuse me?” Clyde ventured.
“Polite greetings; section four, shelf six.” The man replied without looking up.
Clyde faltered for a moment. “No, no, I just wondered if you could help me?”
“Cross reference. Disagreement and vague request. Try section eight.”
Clyde gave up and wandered away. Behind him, he heard the flap and click of a magazine and pen being put down. This was followed by a muttered “Not one new word.”
“Excuse me?” Clyde ventured.
“Polite greetings; section four, shelf six.” The man replied without looking up.
Clyde faltered for a moment. “No, no, I just wondered if you could help me?”
“Cross reference. Disagreement and vague request. Try section eight.”
Clyde gave up and wandered away. Behind him, he heard the flap and click of a magazine and pen being put down. This was followed by a muttered “Not one new word.”
Clyde continued walking aimlessly, and quickly discovered he was in the
‘Childhood’ section. Resolutely not looking back at the man, Clyde grabbed a
book at random and began flicking through it.
“Entry 93,” he read quietly, “Ba-da is slowly becoming Da-da…Thomas the Tank Engine is still inexplicably ‘Gunny’.
“Gunny,” Clyde repeated under his breath. He laughed softly. “Gunny.”
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became, when suddenly the librarian-magazine-man was at Clyde’s elbow.
“Need this,” the man said, taking the book from Clyde’s hands, and hurried off.
All thoughts of ‘Gunny’ were dropped from Clyde’s mind, and the man reappeared to return the book to its shelf.
Without subtlety, Clyde stared at him when he returned.
Taking notice, with ease, the man eyed Clyde suspiciously. “Can I help you?”
“Er…erm…vague request, section eight!” Clyde declared.
The man grinned coolly. “Rhetoric. Huge section for that. But really, what are you after?”
“I don’t know,” Clyde said. Then the words just came tumbling out: “You see, I was in this Bistro, in the middle of all this white, and there were red triangles and…”
The man held up a hand. “White?”
“Yeah.” Clyde nodded. “Loads of it.”
“You crossed the Dream Scape? Must have taken a while. Never thought I’d meet a member of the Dream Division either. Too erratic, for one thing.”
“No, I didn’t make the Bistro. I was there, and there was this odd menu with…”
The same hand went up again. “You were in the dream?”
Clyde nodded again.
“I see,” said the man. “I see.” Louder this time. “I see!” He then walked away, but kept getting louder. “I see, I see, I SEE!”
“Entry 93,” he read quietly, “Ba-da is slowly becoming Da-da…Thomas the Tank Engine is still inexplicably ‘Gunny’.
“Gunny,” Clyde repeated under his breath. He laughed softly. “Gunny.”
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became, when suddenly the librarian-magazine-man was at Clyde’s elbow.
“Need this,” the man said, taking the book from Clyde’s hands, and hurried off.
All thoughts of ‘Gunny’ were dropped from Clyde’s mind, and the man reappeared to return the book to its shelf.
Without subtlety, Clyde stared at him when he returned.
Taking notice, with ease, the man eyed Clyde suspiciously. “Can I help you?”
“Er…erm…vague request, section eight!” Clyde declared.
The man grinned coolly. “Rhetoric. Huge section for that. But really, what are you after?”
“I don’t know,” Clyde said. Then the words just came tumbling out: “You see, I was in this Bistro, in the middle of all this white, and there were red triangles and…”
The man held up a hand. “White?”
“Yeah.” Clyde nodded. “Loads of it.”
“You crossed the Dream Scape? Must have taken a while. Never thought I’d meet a member of the Dream Division either. Too erratic, for one thing.”
“No, I didn’t make the Bistro. I was there, and there was this odd menu with…”
The same hand went up again. “You were in the dream?”
Clyde nodded again.
“I see,” said the man. “I see.” Louder this time. “I see!” He then walked away, but kept getting louder. “I see, I see, I SEE!”
A small child materialised next to the man.
“That was fast,” the librarian said.
“Yeah, not much is happening now.”
Clyde realised, there was something familiar about this child. Something about the awkward teeth, bumpy knees or maybe that god-awful haircut. Might even be the men’s t-shirt folded back on itself and tucked into a pair of paint-covered jeans.
“Things have gone quiet,” the child was saying. “He left the Dream, and is now…”
“…standing right in front of you,” the librarian added.
The child’s mouth fell open, but he quickly composed himself. However, the face of surprise had given Clyde his answer.
“Right. Okay. Well, back to work Vocab,” the child said, as calmly as possible, “I’m sure we’ll call you if we need you. Or, he will at least.”
Vocab bustled off back to his desk, but did not sit down. Rather, he remained where he stood, ready, as if poised to flee.
The child approached Clyde and extended a hand up to him. “Hello. I’m IC.”
“Hi.” Clyde took the hand and shook it, trying to ignore Vocab dashing off to the shelf under the sign ‘Greetings’.
“What does IC stand for?” Clyde asked pointedly.
“Inner Child,” IC replied, quite automatically.
Clyde pulled a “I knew it” face and made a noise to match.
“Now,” IC went on, “no time to waste. The mental outcomes of being inside one’s own mind could be baffling. And believe me, we’d know.”
Clyde stood in dumb silence, so Vocab soon returned into view.
“So, Clyde, can you imagine a door for me. Marked ‘Shortcut’?”
Clyde could feel his head ready to burst with questions, but rather fearful of being crushed by them, he fixated upon the door idea.
“That was fast,” the librarian said.
“Yeah, not much is happening now.”
Clyde realised, there was something familiar about this child. Something about the awkward teeth, bumpy knees or maybe that god-awful haircut. Might even be the men’s t-shirt folded back on itself and tucked into a pair of paint-covered jeans.
“Things have gone quiet,” the child was saying. “He left the Dream, and is now…”
“…standing right in front of you,” the librarian added.
The child’s mouth fell open, but he quickly composed himself. However, the face of surprise had given Clyde his answer.
“Right. Okay. Well, back to work Vocab,” the child said, as calmly as possible, “I’m sure we’ll call you if we need you. Or, he will at least.”
Vocab bustled off back to his desk, but did not sit down. Rather, he remained where he stood, ready, as if poised to flee.
The child approached Clyde and extended a hand up to him. “Hello. I’m IC.”
“Hi.” Clyde took the hand and shook it, trying to ignore Vocab dashing off to the shelf under the sign ‘Greetings’.
“What does IC stand for?” Clyde asked pointedly.
“Inner Child,” IC replied, quite automatically.
Clyde pulled a “I knew it” face and made a noise to match.
“Now,” IC went on, “no time to waste. The mental outcomes of being inside one’s own mind could be baffling. And believe me, we’d know.”
Clyde stood in dumb silence, so Vocab soon returned into view.
“So, Clyde, can you imagine a door for me. Marked ‘Shortcut’?”
Clyde could feel his head ready to burst with questions, but rather fearful of being crushed by them, he fixated upon the door idea.
Immediately, a white door popped up in the middle of the floor. The
word ‘Shortcut’ was indeed on it, scrawled in a child’s messy handwriting. IC
and Clyde approached it.
“Is the door like one of those psychological tests? How I perceive it is who I really am?”
“I dunno. I just needed a door. Come on,” IC urged.
They crossed the threshold together, leaving Vocab to rush off to ‘Meaningful Questions’.
“Is the door like one of those psychological tests? How I perceive it is who I really am?”
“I dunno. I just needed a door. Come on,” IC urged.
They crossed the threshold together, leaving Vocab to rush off to ‘Meaningful Questions’.
“It’s what you might call your mind’s dumping ground,” IC replied without elaborating.
Clyde looked around very carefully at what looked, essentially, like bubbles. IC and Clyde were surrounded by these ‘bubbles’ of different sizes; some were taller than Clyde, others looked like nothing more than dust particles.
Clyde looked into as many as he could when passing them. In some, he saw old lessons like algebra and the boiling point of acids. Others had information like what kind of bear requires which kind of approach or does a good egg float or not.
“It’s like a lifetime of those ‘Useless Trivia’ books.”
“One man’s trash…” IC replied, giving Clyde a quick reminder of the Cliché Arrows.
“So,” Clyde attempted after some silent walking, “my mind’s full of little people. Quite movie-like, isn’t it?”
“Actually it is movie-like, but only because you watched the right movie. Before that little cinema trip, we were a system of talking folders. No doubt the years of computer work taking its toll.”
“Then not everyone has mini mind people?”
“Remember the girl from the party last week?”
Clyde did, trying his best to supress mini-red-triangle thoughts. “Yes…?”
“Yeah, you don’t want to know what she used,” IC went on unhelpfully.
“How would you know?”
“If there is DNA in a mind, then there is mind in DNA. When you two kissed, we got a sprinkling of her.”
“I kissed her?!”
“I need to take a visit to ‘Priorities’,” IC mumbled, “and ‘Memory’. See if I can clear out those little Drink-Mites.”
After his little grumbled outburst, IC lapsed back into silence.
Clyde watched many bubbles of birthday dates glide by, and tried again.
“Why is my Inner Child in charge?”
IC snorted. “Ask your therapist, not me.” He thought for a moment. “I’d been around since the very beginning, I had all the access. Made sense I suppose.”
Clyde was still a bit pre-occupied with the therapist point, and desperately tried to ignore the bubbles concerning his failed A-Level psychology module, which just so happened to choose that moment to drift by.
After what could have been any period of time, the Bubble/Dump Field came to a sheer wall of black. It was perfectly straight in every direction, and perfectly endless in every direction.
It hurt Clyde’s eyes to look at it, and as he had no idea what would happen if he got a headache, he stared determinately at the floor.
IC reached the wall and finally turned. “Welcome to the Maze of Bad Memories.”
“The Maze of…” Clyde mumbled, still not looking at it properly.
“Yes,” IC continued, “the Maze of Bad Memories. All pain, guilt, fear, selfishness: kept safely inside here.”
“Why a maze?”
“Because most bad memories lead to another, but you never quite know how you got there.”
Clyde chewed this over for a moment. “And what’s this got to do with me?”
“You didn’t wake up Clyde. But you’re not dead either. Something is troubling you so much that you looked inward.”
“Subconsciously?”
“I believe so. Dreams, Dumping Ground and Bad Memories all fall into the subconscious, one way or another. But it seems the door to the Subconscious is a door left forever ajar. Sometimes something gets out.”
Again, Clyde could feel his mind getting ready to swim. He tried to clear his thoughts, and the world around him wobbled slightly.
“Once you have dealt with the Maze,” IC added, “you shall reach your Mind’s Eye. The shock of seeing yourself clearly in your Mind’s Eye should wake you.”
“How?”
“Have you ever seen your own face in a dream?”
Clyde hesitated, and in that moment, IC vanished, leaving him with just the black wall of the maze. Clyde slowly approached it, and a panel appeared, allowing easy entrance. It is all too simple to retrieve bad memories.
Clyde wanted to try some form of compose or bravado. Instead, he simply swallowed hard and took a shaky step inside.
Clyde could feel smoke. It panicked him; to feel smoke but not see it was not a stress-free experience. Especially when his eyes then also started to sting.
Trying to blink back tears, and fears, he took a few tentative steps forward.
"Clyde Andrews!”
Clyde almost fell over in fear, and furiously held back a whimper.
A figure of solid smoke lighted into life in front of him. Female. Old. Hands on hips.
Furious.
“Forgotten your homework again, eh Andrews?”
“Mrs Hawthorn,” Clyde breathed.
“Don’t just stand there reciting names, boy! Why haven’t you completed your work?”
Clyde stammered and fumbled for an answer, but Mrs Head-of-Year-Four was, he knew, merciless.
“I’m sorry!” Clyde cried. “I can’t, I don’t understand fractions!”
Smoke-Mrs-Hawthorn vanished all together. Clyde shakily stepped forward.
“But I didn’t admit that,” he thought, “I just got detention.”
Clyde pressed on, hands out like he was blind, moving slower than someone in an airport complaint’s desk queue. In the eerie, smoky silence, he kept himself to his thoughts. Happy ones, to combat whatever lay ahead.
But as he pressed on, trying to recall his tenth birthday party, his calm world was shattered by a bizarre noise.
Odd, unsettling and…wet squelches, with the occasional muffled grunt.
Clyde then found himself making out with (smoke form) Amanda from college, a little too forcefully.
There was an awkward sucking noise, and she pulled away.
“God Clyde! I invited you round as a friend, then some drinks later you’re sticking your tongue down my throat?”
Shamefaced, Clyde mumbled apologies at his feet.
“Sorry? I thought you were better than that, I thought…”
“You’re right.” Clyde found his voice and addressed the pissed-off smoke.
“I’m, I’m what?”
“You’re right. I went too far, I shouldn’t have done that. I do value our friendship, but sometimes I’m just too clingy. I’m sorry. For everything.”
Clyde had never heard his own voice so honest. It won out, however, when Smoke Amanda vaporised.
IC snorted. “Ask your therapist, not me.” He thought for a moment. “I’d been around since the very beginning, I had all the access. Made sense I suppose.”
Clyde was still a bit pre-occupied with the therapist point, and desperately tried to ignore the bubbles concerning his failed A-Level psychology module, which just so happened to choose that moment to drift by.
After what could have been any period of time, the Bubble/Dump Field came to a sheer wall of black. It was perfectly straight in every direction, and perfectly endless in every direction.
It hurt Clyde’s eyes to look at it, and as he had no idea what would happen if he got a headache, he stared determinately at the floor.
IC reached the wall and finally turned. “Welcome to the Maze of Bad Memories.”
“The Maze of…” Clyde mumbled, still not looking at it properly.
“Yes,” IC continued, “the Maze of Bad Memories. All pain, guilt, fear, selfishness: kept safely inside here.”
“Why a maze?”
“Because most bad memories lead to another, but you never quite know how you got there.”
Clyde chewed this over for a moment. “And what’s this got to do with me?”
“You didn’t wake up Clyde. But you’re not dead either. Something is troubling you so much that you looked inward.”
“Subconsciously?”
“I believe so. Dreams, Dumping Ground and Bad Memories all fall into the subconscious, one way or another. But it seems the door to the Subconscious is a door left forever ajar. Sometimes something gets out.”
Again, Clyde could feel his mind getting ready to swim. He tried to clear his thoughts, and the world around him wobbled slightly.
“Once you have dealt with the Maze,” IC added, “you shall reach your Mind’s Eye. The shock of seeing yourself clearly in your Mind’s Eye should wake you.”
“How?”
“Have you ever seen your own face in a dream?”
Clyde hesitated, and in that moment, IC vanished, leaving him with just the black wall of the maze. Clyde slowly approached it, and a panel appeared, allowing easy entrance. It is all too simple to retrieve bad memories.
Clyde wanted to try some form of compose or bravado. Instead, he simply swallowed hard and took a shaky step inside.
Clyde could feel smoke. It panicked him; to feel smoke but not see it was not a stress-free experience. Especially when his eyes then also started to sting.
Trying to blink back tears, and fears, he took a few tentative steps forward.
"Clyde Andrews!”
Clyde almost fell over in fear, and furiously held back a whimper.
A figure of solid smoke lighted into life in front of him. Female. Old. Hands on hips.
Furious.
“Forgotten your homework again, eh Andrews?”
“Mrs Hawthorn,” Clyde breathed.
“Don’t just stand there reciting names, boy! Why haven’t you completed your work?”
Clyde stammered and fumbled for an answer, but Mrs Head-of-Year-Four was, he knew, merciless.
“I’m sorry!” Clyde cried. “I can’t, I don’t understand fractions!”
Smoke-Mrs-Hawthorn vanished all together. Clyde shakily stepped forward.
“But I didn’t admit that,” he thought, “I just got detention.”
Clyde pressed on, hands out like he was blind, moving slower than someone in an airport complaint’s desk queue. In the eerie, smoky silence, he kept himself to his thoughts. Happy ones, to combat whatever lay ahead.
But as he pressed on, trying to recall his tenth birthday party, his calm world was shattered by a bizarre noise.
Odd, unsettling and…wet squelches, with the occasional muffled grunt.
Clyde then found himself making out with (smoke form) Amanda from college, a little too forcefully.
There was an awkward sucking noise, and she pulled away.
“God Clyde! I invited you round as a friend, then some drinks later you’re sticking your tongue down my throat?”
Shamefaced, Clyde mumbled apologies at his feet.
“Sorry? I thought you were better than that, I thought…”
“You’re right.” Clyde found his voice and addressed the pissed-off smoke.
“I’m, I’m what?”
“You’re right. I went too far, I shouldn’t have done that. I do value our friendship, but sometimes I’m just too clingy. I’m sorry. For everything.”
Clyde had never heard his own voice so honest. It won out, however, when Smoke Amanda vaporised.
Clyde continued in this ‘Self-help’ manner for some time; the mind
really can jump from one bad memory to another with ease.
He came true with friends he lied to, apologised to unhappy bosses, attended a few missed birthday parties and stopped younger versions of himself doing things they really shouldn’t be doing. He even came to unsteady terms of his father’s death so many years ago. That had been a challenge, but the pain had vanished. The Maze of Bad Memories had even gotten lighter and clearer of smoke. Navigation around the place improved.
As did Clyde’s morale. He felt empowered, determined, and just generally better. There was nothing he couldn’t beat/apologise to/come to terms with.
Then he came to the final corner. Having just explained that, no, he actually didn’t fancy his best friend, he rounded another bend. Opposite him, a door was marked “Mind’s Eye”.
But that wasn’t what Clyde saw first.
“IC?” Clyde whispered. “How did you get in?”
“I’m your final challenge,” he said simply.
“My Inner Child? I don’t have a problem with you.”
“No? Then why am I running the place?”
Clyde looked away in annoyance. He glared back at IC before speaking. “You couldn’t tell me this outside?”
“Oh I’m pretty well repressed. You’ve gone through many bad times to get to me.”
“But I don’t have a problem with you.”
IC sighed. “You’ve gone through bad times, but learnt nothing. Look at what you’ve just seen! Annoyed teachers and bosses, failed relationships, inability to deal with loss of paternal figure. All this basically screams Inner Child difficulties. But you couldn’t see that, could you? You stumbling, mumbling, fumbling machine.”
Clyde said nothing.
“You just never grew up. IC isn’t just Inner Child. It’s Incomplete-Clyde.”
Clyde still said nothing. Had the maze been for nothing?
“Keeping you asleep, bringing you in here didn’t help,” IC mumbled, mostly to himself. “You’re too weak and immature to change.”
“NO!” Clyde’s roar cleared the darkness and smoke all together.
“I reached you,” he said, forcefully. “I stood up to higher powers, I apologised for my mistakes and came to terms with it all. I did all the right things. If you’re incomplete, then you can just get out of my head like the rest of them.” Clyde paused and took a breath. “I’m my own man now.”
IC had just enough time to grin before disappearing completely.
Clyde strode forwards, head high and smile true, to push his way into his mind’s eye.
Dreamers can struggle with reflections. This is the irony of life. No-one’s existence is a Hall of Mirrors. Of every face seen every day, one’s own face is seen the least.
He came true with friends he lied to, apologised to unhappy bosses, attended a few missed birthday parties and stopped younger versions of himself doing things they really shouldn’t be doing. He even came to unsteady terms of his father’s death so many years ago. That had been a challenge, but the pain had vanished. The Maze of Bad Memories had even gotten lighter and clearer of smoke. Navigation around the place improved.
As did Clyde’s morale. He felt empowered, determined, and just generally better. There was nothing he couldn’t beat/apologise to/come to terms with.
Then he came to the final corner. Having just explained that, no, he actually didn’t fancy his best friend, he rounded another bend. Opposite him, a door was marked “Mind’s Eye”.
But that wasn’t what Clyde saw first.
“IC?” Clyde whispered. “How did you get in?”
“I’m your final challenge,” he said simply.
“My Inner Child? I don’t have a problem with you.”
“No? Then why am I running the place?”
Clyde looked away in annoyance. He glared back at IC before speaking. “You couldn’t tell me this outside?”
“Oh I’m pretty well repressed. You’ve gone through many bad times to get to me.”
“But I don’t have a problem with you.”
IC sighed. “You’ve gone through bad times, but learnt nothing. Look at what you’ve just seen! Annoyed teachers and bosses, failed relationships, inability to deal with loss of paternal figure. All this basically screams Inner Child difficulties. But you couldn’t see that, could you? You stumbling, mumbling, fumbling machine.”
Clyde said nothing.
“You just never grew up. IC isn’t just Inner Child. It’s Incomplete-Clyde.”
Clyde still said nothing. Had the maze been for nothing?
“Keeping you asleep, bringing you in here didn’t help,” IC mumbled, mostly to himself. “You’re too weak and immature to change.”
“NO!” Clyde’s roar cleared the darkness and smoke all together.
“I reached you,” he said, forcefully. “I stood up to higher powers, I apologised for my mistakes and came to terms with it all. I did all the right things. If you’re incomplete, then you can just get out of my head like the rest of them.” Clyde paused and took a breath. “I’m my own man now.”
IC had just enough time to grin before disappearing completely.
Clyde strode forwards, head high and smile true, to push his way into his mind’s eye.
Dreamers can struggle with reflections. This is the irony of life. No-one’s existence is a Hall of Mirrors. Of every face seen every day, one’s own face is seen the least.
Thus, when Clyde saw his own face staring back at him; clearer, braver
and stronger than ever before, the confusion of it all gave his brain just the
tiniest of nudges back into the waking world.
Clyde Andrews woke at 9:20am, only twenty minutes after his alarm.
Time enjoys being fickle, especially within the borders of the mind.
Clyde Andrews woke at 9:20am, only twenty minutes after his alarm.
Time enjoys being fickle, especially within the borders of the mind.
But Clyde was not to know this. He woke with a clear head, a fresh load
of determination and a remodelled personality.
He woke into a better life.
He woke into a better life.
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