Reality Bites Me
In my room late at night – about a quarter to twelve – when the moon was a distant band of white and the only light was a small fluorescent I'd conjured myself into being, and only if I'd said nothing overly offensive throughout the day (although admittedly, I often couldn't help myself from doing so) and that special temperature that reminded me of her flew into the window (lukewarm, but with a slight edge to it), did I allow myself to think of her. I mean think about her, Meghan, in a way that I knew was forbidden. I was here to protect her, was I not? And wouldn't underlying affections, especially ones with deeper intentions, cloud my judgement?
Probably so. But who was King Oberon to disregard me, or to tell me off for having a love I couldn't control.
A great whale of a person, actually. And one that might banish me if he knew.
You see, Oberon has his own ways and when he wants to control, I, his right – hand man (er, faery) – am the one who is expected to observe that the rules are followed.
However, from time to time I cannot stop myself, and what pours into my head frightens me for its intensity. It is an intensity, a kind of feeling, that has never been experienced by me; I do not know what to do about it, and so I held it and kept it, afraid what would happen if I let my longing go and even more, of what would happen if I kept it.
And so here I sit in the same room, the one in which I worry about whether or not word of this will reach the ears of my powerful king. Knowing that I am somehow encased in a cage, a place where every move I make is exaggerated and echoed and analyzed, and the mostly – cruel humans never seem to understand real humor.
The only reason I even stayed here properly, and the only reason that I don't hide someplace safe, is because of her, Meghan. Because if I left she would be devastated; and even with that, I know she will move on from me. And I will never move on from anything, because I am basically immortal.
And no, I am not being over dramatic.
And yes, I am Robin Goodfellow – but you can call me Puck, because I won't be meeting you any time soon, anyway.
Today happens to be a big day, seeing as that Meghan is turning driver's – license – aged. Sixteen, if you have to ask.
She is walking toward me now; and even if my heart beats a little faster, I've grown used to it, and she's around me so often she probably thinks that I have a naturally high metabolism. Well, then. And the first words go to…
"HI, Meghan!" I give her a big sly grin, the one that I know she hates, just for her birthday. I try not to laugh bitterly. This may very well be the last day of faux – normalcy, which, by the way, I've grown to sort of like.
The first words go to me, I guess.
"Hi Rob." Meghan answers me. I notice immediately that her cheeks are a little bit flushed, and as I give her the once – over, her hair looks as if she might have combed it; not my favorite. I can fix that.
"Catch this," I say way too suddenly, and Meghan turns with a start to find an apple flying toward her at pinball – speed. In mere seconds she's dunking and I'm splashing her with a very rude amount of mud. The streets are full of it here in the swamps, as we call them.
"Y'know, this is a bit unfair," Meghan is panting slightly and her face, which used to be only slightly pink, are now full –blown red. I only laugh, and in several more moments, we are both covered with mud and trading playful insults. She probably doesn't know the edge of desparation to mine; I feel a bit like I am seeing her for the last time, which might very well be true.
Better to make it good, then.
For a full, torturous second, my fingers are aching, my face burning to meet her. There is nothing that I want more that her, and at this moment, I am really prepared to go for it.
And when my vision clears of a blinding delusion, in which she might actually not push me away, in which she thinks of me as more than a friend, Meghan is climbing aboard the bus. And the bus driver's shooting me daggers.
Trying to knock some old Puck – swagger into my attitude, I grin at him hugely and take my sweet, sweet time in climbing the plastic steps. The glare he gives me once I'm on proves that this will be the last time for a long time that I ride the school bus.
As Meghan walks down the aisle, dragging me a bit behind her, I turn my face toward the black roof and imagine, with a harsh sort of reality, that my future is just that dark and emotionless.
