Sixty-one.
Sixty-one years I have lived on this planet. I thought it was finally sinking in that my existence will only last a couple more decades. In which I, Mitchel Flokison, will cease in ability to grace the world with my talents of financial planning (and my dough-winning, smart puns to boot).
Just six months ago, my fellow aging friends and I were, albeit tepidly, discussing the topic of our impending mortalities. I remember their pinched expressions betraying their supposed nonchalant tone and lighthearted, teasing quips.
"I reckon we'll never truly comprehend it Mitchel," one had commented to me, "Well… not until we're at those pearly gates."
But I think I do know; that I understand that sense of weariness brought on by the years. How each attempt to get up is slightly more taxing than the last. How I feel the rigidity of my bones tiring my flesh. How my mind increasingly justifies and distracts itself from my body's ever-progressing decay.
I at least want to see my potential grandkids before I kick the can... before I am more a memory in a physical body than a capable, functioning human. I'll have dementia to thank for that outcome. It's a bad way to go, and a dreadful curse haunting our Flokison genetic code. I am tempted to ask my son, Junior, to chuck my potential future-self off a cliff if I reach that point of no return. My oldest daughter, Raelynn, I bargain would gladly do that for me right now, still in full health, due to our, er, compromised relationship. Either the cliff or ask one of my kids, probably my youngest, Sierra, to loop the extended edition of The Lord of the Rings series and just keep the flow of beano, nuts, and chocolate circulating in my diet until I croak. Now that I think about it that plan seems the most palatable (pun intended) and almost like I would actually be living in that story since I would be watching it "new" for years on end.
Life couldn't seem to throw me a bone to let me continue such thoughts because, for better or for worse, I have come to a prompter issue than human mortality: my raging headache. I haven't come home from benders in my youth with something as painful as what I am experiencing now. When I said I'd absorb my youngest daughter's chronic migraines for her, I didn't actually expect it to happen. Aside from my head's muddled state, it also doesn't help that there is something sharp piercing into my torso. Of course I can't enjoy a nice continual night's rest with a girlfriend who has sharp elbows and a knack for 3 A.M. heart-to-hearts. At least her big butt and kind spirit make up for that. Brushing off my thoughts of my festering mid-life crisis and my girlfriend Stephanie, I opened my eyes to complain to her to find I am alone. Very alone. With no girlfriend. No sharp elbows. On the ground. In a forest. Face down. Naked.
I know I go through my bouts of comatose behavior after pulling consecutive all-nighters ubering… but not waking up during a prank this elaborate is beyond comprehension. Slightly shifting in my horizontal position as I regain function in my eyes, I don't even have to look to know my complete nakedness since my junk is touching soil, not cloth, but surprisingly I am not cold in my state of undress. And from what I can gleam through my crusty yet oddly keen orbs, the coniferous vegetation definitely doesn't peg the natural habitats coastal Texas boasts, even if I can see beach shores in the distance. So… I may be a bit farther from home while unequipped than comfortable. If one of my gremlin kids wanted to scare me senseless, they did a dang fine job doing so. What distressed me even more so was when I finally gazed upon my body. My not body... My body? This can't be real. I'm definitely grounding Sierra for spiking me with acid. Although this also may mean I am just in a weird acid-trip dream than actually being in a forest via a prank. And that the supposed tree root that has been jabbing my gut's side actually is an elbow I am hallucinating to be otherwise. Thank god. On a side note, I should probably take a creative theory class or something if the pitiful extent of my hallucination skills is picturing myself naked in a forest in the body of a prepubescent boy. Oh how joyously ironic it is to be recently contemplating my fear of aging only to have my doped-up mind feed me a freakishly realistic dream of my youth restored.
"Little. So little you are."
The acid must be knock-a-horse-out strong if it is translating the drug's side effects of a pounding headache into forest vegetation talking to me. Albeit my migraine, I was nonetheless entranced with my vivid "surroundings", the plants whispering back and forth about me, the "little one". I spring out of my horizontal position, subconsciously noting my sprightliness to test out later, and pad over to the tree closest to me and the culprit of my bruised torso via its gnarled root. I knew I had to talk to it. Like any sane person obviously. This isn't real anyway so it's not like my subconscious inclinations to start a banter with a usually unresponsive thing will be unfounded or judged. No one's here in my mind except myself and anything is possible in my dreamscape. Pressing my hand to the soft white birch bark of the towering tree I find my theory of "the sky's the limit" correct.
"Little one. Strayed so far from your home. How sad." The garbled, headache-inducing murmurings of all the forest foliage leveled out as I tuned in to this one's wavelength for what I intended to be a civil discussion. Apparently, this tree can pull off a tone that is both patronizing and concerned. A tree. Talking. Emoting. Irritating me. Well okay then… and what was this about my home? Am I actually away from home and my subconscious is telling me that through the acid? I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I am not in a ditch somewhere.
"I need help getting back home."
'And out of my mindscape and back to reality' was almost tacked on the end of my request, but I refrained from saying it. It is best to conceal my true panic and until I'm given more info (and time) to structure myself. Understanding the context of the situation in order to prove my theory's validity will be an effective modus operendi at the moment. I'll also silently ignore my melodic, childish voice for now. Despite my mind being all over the place, I'll plan now, check out physical altercations later.
Plan. Plan. Plan. Hmmmm. Assuming my body is at my apartment instead of stranded somewhere, maybe if I get back home in my mind where my physical body is it would connect with my mental one and wake me up. It's a long shot, but it is the only idea (that doesn't require passively waiting) that I've got so far. Any finalizations of my flimsy plan got halted by the white birch's abrupt interjection.
"Hide in my bark. They come. Make haste." The tone was now pure concern brimmed with panic.
"I will, just promise me you will guide me home afterwards."
"They come. Make haste." Sighing while knowing the extent of the conversation peeked, I scaled the branches with startling grace and slipped into a hollowed junction high away from prying eyes. The tree curled its branches around my little hideout to conceal me further and it closed the junction so just my eyes could see out. Let's hope it can unclose it as well. I don't want to tear open my new, um, friend? Hmm, no… too familiar, maybe acquaintance. Or protector with a stick up their arse. Pun intended.
"Dim your aura little one. They come. Make silence." Astounding grammar. Very descriptive. Not vague or ominous at all.
"What do you mean by, "Dim my aura"? I do not have an- oh. OH." It looks like my skin got dipped in radioactive gold. And let me tell you that "dimming one's aura" feels akin to stopping yourself mid-pee: hard and uncomfortable but doable after practice.
"They are here. Make silence." I didn't have to be told again for all noise and breath was stolen out of my lungs at the sight. What Mr. Tree meant by 'they' was a horde of human-like monsters. Wait, not monsters. Orcs. I'd like to note that at this point, I had no collateral shame in passing out in shock.
I woke up due to my head vibrating uncomfortably. Again. At least it is more bearable this time around so I can comprehend that the ringing tones down if I focus on Mr. Tree talking (read: gossiping) with its neighbors rather than ignoring them. Once I climbed out of the hollowed tree pocket (the enclosure's hole expanded for my exit thankfully) I looked around at the on-edge, murmuring flora. Too bad some of the plants were withered from being stomped upon by the recently passed orc pack. Passed or not though, caution is key in situations like these and I was just as tense as the vegetation surrounding me.
"I may be dreaming of existing in Middle-Earth or someplace akin to that," I speculatively hummed to myself.
Ceasing my cursory glance at my surroundings, I looked down at my (kinda?) body. Apparently, I even maintained my muted aura subconsciously during my little pass-out. Although it feels like wearing a condom over my entire body, I suppressed my light further. Gotta protect the soul God gave me. Even in acid-dreams. When I get out of my orc-filled trip, I'm going to church again every Sunday like I used to but not before flushing my body with holy water. The residual darkness of the orcs is almost tangible. Out of all the creatures my mind thought to conjure, it had to be orcs. Thank all stars above my dream at least had the decency to not throw Uruk-hai at me.
I shake myself from my tangential thoughts. My sanity-restoration plans may have drowned out the endless murmurings of the trees, but now I wish I could doze off again so I could have ignored the surrounding vegetations' uncomfortable (for me at least) whispers and requests.
"Creatures of shadow. Dark. So dark."
"Little light. Protect the little light."
"Help. Little light. Help us."
"Sing. Sing to us."
"Sing."
Last time I checked, Sierra told me I have the caroling talents of a yowling cat in heat. But hey, if this dream will cure my tone-deafness, even temporarily, I'm not going to complain. I opened my mouth with the intention of belting Fat Bottom Girls by Queen only for my tongue to have different intentions. Apparently, my cherubic toddler instincts like breaking out into glorious ballads of two lovers. Lady Loot-then and a man called Barrel-in. Wait, no, it is Lady Luthien and Beren… I think. I recall watching Aragorn sing and talk about the song in the first movie. I'll put my questions of somehow knowing the whole song about their bittersweet love story, yet barely remembering their names, on the backburner. I got trees to nurture, orcs to evade, and a home to reach. Act now, contemplate and combust under the weight of my mysterious situation later.
While most of the vegetation seem to be sighing in relief from the song's healing effects, some of the trees are humming back my song. Some of the trees are quietly harmonizing with me though my (still astonishingly) acute hearing registers that the trees' singing back only come from one direction…. Almost like a verbal path. The most bizarre path I can think of at the top of my head, but hey, I take it at face value: I sing and they lead me to where I want. Just switch the classic journey of 'following the yellow brick road' with 'navigating a path via singing foliage', (who understand the notion of "I scratch your back, you scratch mine") and you got yourself a golden journey. Brush the absurdities aside. Act now, panic later. Act now. Now.
A fortnight after the start of my trek, albeit the fact I no longer have my watch (nor my watch tan), I got a system based on my sense of time down pat. Sing and walk on the forest floor during sunrise until high sun (my 'guess-timation' of afternoon), sleep in the safety of the light and warmth of mid-day, and then awaken to hop from tree-to-tree up in the woodland canopy (while humming quietly for the forest's guidance) at night. Hide as needed. Relieve myself as needed. Ask the trees for food as needed. Wash, rinse, repeat.
My mind has and will remain blank as possible. My stink isn't getting to me. My mind totally doesn't feel as dirty as my grimy body. I'm still naked but that's okay. Totally okay. There's no sense of panic. It's not growing. The trees are getting more slurred and quieter by the day. I don't need them. I will just depend on myself. They totally weren't my anchor of sanity. There is no stewing dread. Of course not. Just a couple more days. A couple more whispers. Help. Act now, forget till later.
I lost track of myself. How long has it been? Been… been since what again? The trees are quiet now. Quiet. I'm still in the forest. Alone. Again. In silence. Nothing's making sense. Why did they stop now? Throwing myself down on the ground in frustration (and totally not childish pettiness), I started grumbling to myself while hunkering down for my rest. Unhelpful trees. They deserved to be chopped down by the dozens. I'm tempted to go full blown Lorax on them. They would be more useful as timber and paper. At least then they could serve as fire-feed or for displaying a map I need just about now. If they were chopped down, they wouldn't have the sentience to offer help and then abandon my child-self with nothing but a crown of woven branches they bestowed on my head that I. Can't. Seem. To. Yank. Off. Idiotic, flaky trees. Mr. Tree I bet would be so disappointed in its brethren. I'll sleep now, act later. Relax and forget till later. Forget… forget now, forget later. Remain blank. Forget till I'm blank. Blank.