Chapter 11: Gun

"Explain to me why we're doing this, Bloo."

He was leading me through the forest, down a trail I hadn't seen for years. We passed through a small ravine, alongside a shallow, pebbled stream, into the realm of my memories.

"You need more practice at playing pretend," he explained, wading downstream. "If you want to get anywhere with Frankie, you'll need to come out of your shell."

"Wouldn't playing pretend just be a way of withdrawing into myself?"

"I've explained this. You're withdrawn because you worry about how the rest of the world will perceive you. Once you stop caring so much, it'll be easier for you to express yourself. When people say 'be yourself', what they mean is 'stop caring'."

"I'm still not sold on any of this."

"You will be when you see the results."

We swung around a large earthen mound upon which a dense cluster of trees was crowded, seemingly jostling in competition for the soil and its nutrients, their roots grappling with one another as they poked out of the ground at awkward angles. We shuffled down a steep incline into our destination: an obstacle course built from old tires, wooden poles, ramps, and balance beams, winding around in a loop.

"Let's start where we left off," said Bloo. "Imagine: some kid has written "draw all the memes" on the whiteboard, drawn them, asked if 'you mad' and then run off. Your mission is to chase him down and beat the shit out of him. Go."

I started off down the obstacle course gradually, forcing myself to run while visualizing the scenario. The kid was scrawny with a lopsided grin and a T-shirt bearing the image of a trollface. Suddenly, I felt a strange force compelling me forward, a series of twinges and shivers running through my body, urging me to run faster. It was as though I was channeling my predatory evolutionary ancestors, serving as a modern avatar for a tribal hunter sprinting after his prey. Icy adrenaline surged through my veins; my blood felt like lightning. My footsteps were the drumbeats of hunting parties charging across the plains and my breath was the music of war and death, played by instruments carved from wood and painted with blood.

"You got him!" shouted Bloo. "Run him down! Kick his ass!"

I lunged. I tumbled into the dirt, snarling and rolling around like an animal. I saw the blood spill as my spear punctured the meme-spouting kid's back, felt my teeth sink into his neck, tasted sweet victory and heard his pained cries of 'Don't taze me, bro!' My people would eat well tonight.

Slowly, I regained my senses. My shirt was covered in dirt and I tasted blood. Alarmed, I felt around the inside of my mouth with my tongue and discovered that I had bitten my lip. I rose to my feet, stumbling, to see Bloo nodding from atop a fallen log.

"Even better than last time," he observed. "Are you enjoying the freedom yet? Do you realize how much more powerful and self-actualized you become when you do this?"

"I don't think that's how self-actualization works."

"Sure it is. Anyway, try to get yourself into that state again. Let's go for a longer session this time."

"I'm not sure I want to."

"Don't lie. I saw how much you were enjoying it."

I studied his face carefully—the simple smile, those black eyes. He seemed impatient, greedy, and proud of what he had accomplished through me. Even so, I knew he was right: I had enjoyed every second of playing pretend, just like before. I really did feel freer and more alive.

"Come on," urged Bloo, sensing my hesitation. "Just go for it."

My knees shook. I dropped down, my ragged breathing and trembling hands letting me know I was once again entering the zone. I picked up the nearest rock and began smashing it against the ground, grunting as I imagined blood and brains leaking from the skull of my victim. I heard Bloo sigh contentedly.

The trip back seemed to take no time at all. Time and space were mine. I was master of my domain; the forest was my construct, my simulacrum of wilderness which I created by moving through it. I was a solipsistic performance artist, a visionary who could create merely by envisioning. For the first time in my life, I truly felt like I was in control.

…

Before long, I had my next opportunity to meet up with Frankie outside of school. To my dismay, Bloo once again insisted on accompanying us. For some reason, she wanted to see the shed, so we set off in that direction.

"So you've been pretty much everywhere in these woods, right?"

I shrugged. "As far as I know. It's possible there are places I've missed, and things change over time, but nowadays I never really go in expecting to discover anything new."

We crossed a bridge over a river running from a modestly-sized waterfall. Bloo appeared at my side. "Say something deep," he offered.

"Sometimes I wonder if time is just an illusion," said Frankie.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's all supposed to be relative, right? You can get on a spaceship going almost the speed of light and travel into the future or whatever. There are those particles—tachyons, I think—that can go back in time. As human beings, we need a sense of time, just the same as a sense of smell or touch, because it's not something our brains can just do on our own."

"So it's another way of filtering reality, like turning the wavelengths of light into colors."

"Right, or turning sound waves into sounds we can understand. So what if time is just our interpretation of relationships between things, and it's just another type of wave? I mean, I'm not a scientist, so maybe this is all wrong."

"I'm not either."

"Still, I feel like time is something our brains just make up so that we can make our way through the world. Our sense of time can't be perfect, right?"

"Plenty of animals have better vision than us, so better senses of time would make sense too."

"Whatever's really going on, we must be completely out of synch with it. Maybe what we perceive as the past is actually the future. Maybe our entire lives have already played out, and this is all just in retrospect."

"I like to think science can tell us these things someday. It seems like it's moving in that general direction."

"We'll just have to wait and see."

Time passed, or appeared to pass, and we arrived at the shed. "What an awesome date," said Bloo. He began to croon in a crude imitation of Frankie: "Oh, Mac, all that broken glass is so romantic! Is that a used condom lying on the ground over there? For me? Gosh, Mac, you sure know how to treat a lady!"

I kicked him. Then, as I noticed Frankie's eyes on me, I kicked a beer can into the bushes, as if I'd been aiming for it the first time.

"What's it like inside?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I went in there with my friends when I was little, but I got so creeped out, I avoided it for years. Even when I stopped being scared of it, it still seemed kind of unsanitary, so I haven't been in since."

"It can't be that bad." She made for the door. I had to admit, Bloo had a point. Why did Frankie want to come here of all places?

I followed her in. Everything was just as dusty, splintery and touchable as I'd remembered. There was a table covered in strange burn marks, atop which sat a pair of candles and a pile of magazines. Not porn, I thought. Why was that the first thing I noticed about them?

As Frankie rifled through them, I made my way upstairs. A familiar but unexpected dread clenched my stomach as I beheld the wooden box, the monolith to a fear I had never identified, a kobold lurking in the shadows of my memory and my imagination. Knowing I had no choice, I lifted the lid.

A knot formed in my throat. Inside the box lay a shotgun, black and shiny. Who left it here? Was it for me? I glanced around furtively, wary of some strange trap. There was Bloo, looking up at me and waving from the clearing outside. I heard Frankie approaching behind me and immediately shut the lid, though I couldn't have said why.

"What's in it?" she asked, pointing.

"A gun," I replied, making an awkward shrugging gesture in an attempt to feign disinterest.

Her eyes widened. "Really? Let me see!"

I lifted the lid, carefully averting my gaze from the thing as she approached it and I stepped away. "Wow… so I guess a hunter left it here? Or what if it's some crazy guy who lives here?"

"Could be."

She stiffened. "If someone lives here, then they could be back any minute. We should probably leave."

"Good idea," I said, glad for an excuse to rush down the stairs and out the door.

…

"You still need to draw me," she stated suddenly while we were on our way back. Bloo waggled his eyebrows at me suggestively.

"I don't have any paper or a pencil with me," I said.

"Well, we can just go to your house, can't we?"

"Oh, Mac," moaned Bloo, rubbing his chest. "Let's go back to your place. Draw me like you draw your French girls. I'll model however you want."

Ignoring him was like holding my breath, but I managed it.

…

As we passed through the front door, Frankie looked around, studying the photos on the wall, the furniture, everything. Why was she so interested in boring things? Was she somehow noticing this wasn't the abode of one big happy family?

"Are your parents not home?" she asked.

"My uncle," I corrected softly. "And no, I don't think he is."

"Why do you live with your uncle?"

I spent a few seconds trying to think of a lie before I realized how absurd and impractical the notion was. "They passed away a long time ago."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! That's terrible!"

"It was a long time ago. Don't worry about it."

…

I found myself sitting opposite her with my sketchpad, Bloo at my side. She sat up straight, smiling, producing a sudden and powerful image of beauty that seemed to shine through her rather than from her, as if it were a bedazzling light cast from another dimension.

"Alright," she said. "Whenever you're ready."

Bloo elbowed me. "This won't do at all," he whispered. "Tell her to pose sexier." I looked down and started drawing. As I formed her face, I took a brief trip through uncanny valley until I stylized her eyes to make them more expressive. She did an excellent job of holding still as I set about adding shading, and before long, she was looking up at me from the paper with the same smile she wore in real life.

"Alright," I said, turning it around nervously. "Here you go."

"Oh, wow, it's great! I look so pretty! I mean, in the picture, not—you know."

I carefully separated the page from the binding. "You can keep it if you want."

"Sure. I'd like that."

…

Eventually, it was time for her to go, so I drove her home. She told me it had been fun, that she was looking forward to next time, that it was fun to imagine that the road was moving under us while the car stood still. Every hundred yards or so, I would see Bloo on the sidewalk, waving at me with both arms, as if he needed a lift in order to follow me.