(Quick note before we start, The bit before is like a journal entry. Blaine doesn't usually keep a journal except for really weird things. Having a very complex nightmare and waking up with a pile of dust and ashes on her pillow example. Without further rambling, here is the story. It's about a week after the incident with the dream crab)
I read through the hastily written papers. The handwriting is five times worse than usual, probably because I was in a hurry to write it down before I forgot. I haven't forgotten yet. In the same box as the journal is a jar with as many ashes as I could scrape off my pillow.
I had woken up abruptly with the realisation that I was dreaming. With no evidence other than ashes and memories there was nothing to prove. Every day I checked for the blue box on the corner. Every day I was disappointed. I even googled old police boxes and they were concrete. The one in my dream was wooden, just another discrepancy.
The sound of my mother's footsteps on the stairs makes me slide the box under my bed and rush to pick up my computer. I have it on Tumblr as the door opens and my mother just walks in.
"Hey, are you ok? You've been pretty quiet recently." I know she cares, but I also know that my recent behaviour would mean being institutionalised. I'm only going to make that mistake once.
"Yeah" My voice creaks "I'm fine. Headphones broke the other day."
"Is that all?" She sounds pushy like she knows something.
"Why?" I immediately slip into defensive. I know she goes through my stuff but could she have found the notebook? I've been keeping the jar in a different place than the notebook for a while. It's one I slipped among my used notebooks on my desk. If it had stuck out or not looked worn enough would she have-
"Why didn't you tell me about the nightmares?"
Shit. She found it.
"Wh-what, H-h-h-h-how"
"You haven't been sleeping, you haven't been eating, I knew something was wrong. I know you understand why I had to-"
"No," I'm getting dangerously close to a meltdown. If I do, it will just prove to her I'm unstable. Still, it feels like someone has set a match to my emotions.
Did you know there's a coal vein that has been on fire for roughly 6,000 years? Something sparked, or lightening struck, and it never stopped burning. I feel a bit like that now. Like I was peacefully smouldering underground until somebody started poking holes.
"No, I don't understand. I don't understand why I can't keep to myself. Asking is one thing. Digging through my room when I would have told you is another." I'm keeping my voice low and calm. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of being treated like a 5-year old. I can't even talk to someone who doesn't know what I am for five minutes before my mother comes in and explains I have to go because I can't be left alone with people because my meltdowns can get violent.
"I can get you help-" She starts in again.
"I don't need your help. I know what your idea of help 's locking everything away until it comes rising back up years later and explodes. It's taking away my ways of dealing with the world. It's locking me up."
I sling my bag onto my shoulders. I need to go. I need move, to pace, to run.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting out. I need to get out."
"No, you don't. You need to calm down and stay right here."
"I am calm. I just need to stay that way." I grab the notebook from under by bed, using it to block the jar as I grab it too. Then, I'm out. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door.
I wander, down the street, wondering where I should go. For all I know, the cops will show up.
Oh, she's a danger to herself. She won't know any better. She might get scared and hurt someone. She's not that strong. Please don't hurt her.
I'm so busy I run right into a car.
It's parked, thank god.
Staggering back I realise that the object isn't a car, it's not even the usual streetlamp or tree. It's a box.
A blue box.
I freeze, running a mental check. Bag, yes. Phone and headphones (not really broken, that was bullshit), yes. Knife, in my shoe. Everything else in my bag is probably untouched. Especially seeing as I made my own secret pocket to hide stimtoys in.
The blue box. That horribly inaccurate monstrosity. That subject of daydreams and nightmares. The doors are closed and locked.
I rattle them carefully and step back. As I'm about to start digging for a makeshift lock pick it swings open. A familiar face peeking out. It's not the grey-haired man. It's the English teacher from Coal Hill.
"Miss?" I ask uncertainly as she turns and yells at someone in the box.
"Look, I told you. This isn't where we're supposed to be. I said I needed to go back to the school. There's a student but there isn't a school."
"Miss, are you ok?" Now I'm spooked. Miss Clara is dead. We had a big memorial and everyone cried and my mother pulled me out of public school.
"Yes, fine. Remember to stay caught up on your work, it might be better to forget about this, though."
As the doors of the box close, a wheezing groaning sound echoes about the street. It fades in and out, each time the out bit lasts slightly longer and poof it's gone.
If it's gone, Why can still hear it? The sound is coming from somewhere close. Following instinct, I bolt to the corner where he appeared in the dream.
There it is. No dead teachers leaning out of the open doors. I have no pain in my skull. The pieces fit. It's real. It has to be real.
Please let this be real.
[Right, so I don't know if I already mentioned this but THIS IS NOW ON IF THAT IS WHAT YOU PREFER! *cough* sorry for yelling.]