The need to escape has always been a strong motivation of mine. "I may run and hide" and all that jazz. I've always been a creative kinda guy, too; I had the best escape plans, where the safest place to hide was, new ways of misdirecting the pickpocket victims, hehe. I used to tell made up stories to the other kids. I found a magazine once, with wonderful pictures of huge creatures that didn't exist on the colonies, beautiful girls in long robes with pointy ears, muscled men with huge axes and swords, backgrounds of lightning and storms, or of vast planes that stretched from life to life. I couldn't read what was written, of course; none of us could. But that didn't stop me from dictating the stories behind the pictures. I used to spend all day crawling the streets, digging in dumpsters, making the stories come alive for me as I pretended that I was the strong men and swift horses, sneaking into the demon strongholds. I would mesmerize the others with the day's exploits, a child's explanation of the evils of the world we lived in. It made it bearable, especially when crouched in a pile of human garbage and rat feces, waiting for the policemen to run past the allyway in hot pursuit of me, the pickpocket extraordinaire. Or, as I saw it, the noble horse-master, handsome and lithe, stealthily evading the bruising orges as he made away with their prize pony. It was my escape, my coping method; my sanity and – in a way – my humanity preserver. There were more than a few feral children on the streets during the occupation years of the L2 cluster.
As I walk through the marketplace, unconsciously picking out marks and unguarded pieces of fruit that I pass (old habits die hard), I find myself trying to lose the present in another fantasy. This one is of considerably more depth than those of my childhood, but still; the escape is the same. The wrinkled lady in a flower print picks up the enchanted potions to turn her into a flame dancing beauty, as bought by the witches behind the counter of the Avon Store. That mad man on the curb side shouts the prophecies of the multi-armed and war-raged gods that shall befall the world of Cocane. And I…well, I could never decide if I were the hero or the damsel in distress. More often than not, I was the babe prince who had been given to the woodsman for safekeeping, turned out on my own by the careless man, and became a thief who stole from the wicked while the royal family searched and mourned for me.
Yeah, right.
The most curious thing about these real world fantasies I find myself in, are the times they choose to appear. Like during my torture in the OZ prison; I wasn't Duo, the terrorist demon child. I was the captured spy on a desperate mission to save the world from exquisite and inevitable evil. Sorta like Frodo, from Lord of the Rings. Except Sam didn't point a gun at Frodo when he came and rescued him from the guard tower in Mordor. Of course, if it had been a direct parallel, I would have suspected something of Heero; but never mind, he didn't shoot me in the long run, and that's what counts, I suppose.
This fantasy is pressing me. I need someplace where I can sit and think. As I pass a small outdoor café, I see a colony bus pass sitting on the table top by an empty plate, across from one man who has his back turned to talk to the people behind him. Perfect. I filch the card and palm it without anyone even glancing over. Too easy. I smile to myself and head towards the nearest bus stop, the pressing of the fantasy becoming an insistent burn on the edge of my mind.
As the years past, the fantasy veneer I placed over my world grew into a deep and unbending trap of visions. Places I've been to in my own head, losing hours or minutes or even days, against my will. I often welcomed it.
The bus has pulled up, and as I climb on it, I glance at the destination; cross-colony, excellent. Nice and long. I head for the back bench of the almost deserted bus, passing graffiti swirls and human stains on my way to my pristine otherworld.
--
Soft footsteps on even softer moss, the black clad figure slid between the patches of green-soft light that filtered through the far up canopy. The air was heavy with the scent of lilacs, the multiple trees hung deep with the cloying blossoms. The push of the wet air and large ferns was like being wrapped in a cloak of green and brown silence, smothering and comforting at the same time; soft green death. The black clad figure paused in his meanderings to caress the long bunches of flowers, an action that would have shocked his former comrades and charges back at headquarters. He smiled ruefully at that thought, breaking the head of blossoms from its branch. He brought it to his lips, feeling the softness and delicacy of the flowers, smelling their now-familiar heaviness. His long-fingered hands plucked a single purple blossom from its fellows, a perfect star among perfect stars. In a bout of playfulness, he grabbed his long shank of hair that hung in a braid, and attached the bunch of flowers to the end, letting the heavy scent cover his clothes and permeate his person as he walked. The man continued on, small and silent, on black clad feet.
He was watched, and knew he was being watched, as the watcher even then knew this. Little pretense was wasted as the stretch and strain of a bowstring being pulled echoed through the silence. The black clad figure paused and slowly raised his head to the green washed trees, where a man sat casually with the bow aimed clearly at the black figure's heart, dressed as if he and the tree were one. With a rueful smile, the man in the tree released the bow with a wooden thwak, as the empty string struck the shaft of the bow. Amused, unflinching and smirking, the figure in black called up; "Nice shot. You forgot the arrow, though." A rustle to the his left, however, made the black clad man smile even wider. "Ah, I see. The Arrow wasn't of wood." He shrugged. "Fair enough." He even continued to smile as the heavy hilt of a sword smashed the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.
--
I jerk back to the bus and the grime splattered windows as a woman of a questionable hygienic nature sat next to me on the bench. I turn my head to look at her; she is staring at me, her black eyes surrounded by yellow thrashed through with the red of broken blood vessels. Old skin, at odds with her shining black hair, sinks the eyes, the mouth, the nose into a cadaver like head. She is voluminous, wrapped in coat, cloak and shawl, smelling of beeswax and shit. I hope she is not someone's grandmother; for that matter, I hope she isn't mine. Who knows. She smiles at me, her teeth strangely pleasant and white, and turns to face the front. I wonder if she was giving me the same scrutiny, if my too-thin frame and luminous eyes bothered her as much as her caved-in face and disturbingly nice teeth bothered me. Both the faces for the nightmares of different people; she scared small children, I scared the soldiers. I smiled at this thought, cruelly, and lost myself as the tug of the day dream found me again.