Prologue.
III. Preemption
Insomnia is not something to be taken lightly. Emmett was meditating on this and how he would give anything to fall asleep when he heard a loud noise, akin to a door slamming shut.
The mind of a child works in strange ways, ways usually only understood by people as they live with children. A teen cannot quite comprehend the babblings of a toddler, nor a twentysomething the wavering moods of a teen. Emmett's mind registered some things I cannot quite explain the origin of, but they occurred to him nonetheless. What was the cause of this noise? Why, aliens of course.
Emmett sat up in bed. Or ghosts, back to take revenge on his family for building their house on a sacred burial ground. It could have been, he reasoned, a robber. But the latter was not nearly as intimidating nor exciting. After all, it made more sense to be afraid something you cannot understand or fight as opposed to a mortal being that could be overcome by something as simple as a baseball bat.
Footsteps echoed from the small house's lower level. Emmett slid out of bed and located a small, souvenir hockey stick that he kept hanging on the wall. The realization that there might actually be someone unwelcome in his house was infinitely more terrifying than his mind had fabricated it to be.
He stood in the corner of his room for several minutes, hoping that another family member would rise and inspect the sleeping house for him, but twelve-fifty-three turned to one-seventeen, and still no noise came from the hallway outside his room. In a rush of admirable naivety, Emmett began to creep out of his room and down the stairs, in that silent and innocent way that only young children can; the ability to defy logic seems to be lost as reality sets into a maturing mind.
Emmett reached the end of the stairwell and pressed his back against the wall. A wave of comfort washed over him as he heard his mother's voice from the kitchen.
"…just go… talk to him, okay?" Justine sighed a brief, squeaking, painful sigh. It was one of the sighs of parenthood that any mother would recognize from another as a sign of dealing with a child. But Emmett did not know this. Images of murderers and thieves crept back into his head as he heard his mother talking to someone he could not see.
"…everything'll be okay, I promise…" Emmett's heart rate slowed again. He told himself he was too old for this kind of stress.
Now, footsteps came toward the stairwell. In his young way, Emmett raced like a fox up the stairs and threw himself into his bed, hockey stick and all. When he saw his mother step into his room, he shut his eyes. Ah, another art of the child: pretending to be asleep.
Contrary to his earlier desires, Emmett did not want to fall back into unconsciousness. However, Justine sat at her son's bedside (for whatever reason, she felt it necessary at that moment), and Emmett was overcome by the stillness, the darkness, and the silence.
.:i:.
Twenty-four hours later, it was the sound of doors and feet that roused Emmett from his sleep once more.
He pulled the covers over his head, begging the good Lord to let him fall back to sleep. But the good Lord had more important plans, and none of them involved Emmett regaining the slumber that had been taken so rudely from him.
The covers were thrown off his face, and he stared at the ceiling, aggravated. He lay there like this for several minutes, forgetting about the strange noise that had disturbed him. Instead, he sang to himself quietly, a horse whisper, trying to lull himself back into unawareness.
I'm tired and I want to go to bed…
The song had many memories attached to it, including one very interesting firework escapade during the summer prior to the occurrences now being described. Emmett could clearly hear his mother, aunt, and uncle singing the song in faulty harmony at his cousin's house on Christmas. He could see the jerky motions of the family pet—a bitter old pidgey—as even it sang, unable to resist the happiness in the room. Holidays were always a time of family and fun.
…I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it went right to my head…
Emmett recalled the events of the previous day. It had been a nice day. Much to Justine's dismay, her son had begun to ask for permission to go unsupervised into the nearby town with his friends. This particular day, Emmett had gone with a group of boys—Ian included—to play stickball on their school's playground and into the town itself to have lunch.
…and where ever I may roam…
More noise from downstairs. He could hear, now—he had always been able to hear well, though he would admit his eyesight was sub-par—he could hear his mother's voice as she addressed his sister, with a reserved harshness.
He squeezed the pillow over his head and gave the bed a kick. He wanted to go back to bed. He knew now that it was nothing more than a petty argument between mother and daughter, and that he did not care much about. He did, however, have some concern about not being able to get back to sleep for the next few hours. As any insomniac knows, waking up at night might just mean being up for the day.
…on land, or sea, or foam…
He made his way across the hall, into the bathroom. A change of scenery always did his senses good when he found himself struggling to sleep, and it always would. He continued to play the tune in his head, praying that some form of tiredness would come over him. Maybe he could just drop dead there, in the sink. He mentally urged his mother and sister to shut up and go to bed themselves.
…you can always hear me singin' this song…
Crossing back into his room, he heard the front door click shut. It was not a slam, but a normal, everyday, act of the closing off of the entrance to their house. It was followed several minutes later by another click.
This was strange.
Emmett rushed downstairs. He inspected every room in the house, even though he was fairly sure it was empty after he saw no one in the front hall. Lastly he checked his parent's room, hoping to find his father there avoiding the whole mess. The climb up the stairs was slow and tedious, even though he felt he was running his fastest (which, incidentally, was not all too fast). His father was nowhere to be found.
The door clicked a third time, but now it was Emmett, in his pajamas, running through their front yard, trying to figure out which direction everyone had headed in.
…show me the way to go home…
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his sister in the backyard. He raced toward her, angry at himself for not having confronted his mother the night before; he accused himself of everything he could think of, until he tripped over a root concealed by a patch of weeds. He hit the ground hard, and lay there for several seconds, trying to collect himself.
…go home.
.:ii:.
Laryssa knew already. Yet, she was still shaken by the scene. She wondered, feared for the future of everything and everyone.
That was the state Emmett found her in, out in the woods. He had no desire to let her know that he had followed them, so when she came into view he crept away to the side in his quiet way. He came upon the scene from a different angle.
His parents stood there in an embrace that seemed mutually reluctant. He could clearly see his father's face, staring into a nonexistent abyss, the expression a strange medley of relief and fear. Justine's face was buried in his shoulder, the young woman's countenance hidden from public view.
And suddenly, a wave of feelings overcame Emmett. At first he couldn't understand what they were—some, he didn't even recognize as feelings—but, as he listened to his parent's words, the oddities of his life piled up. Things he had blown off as quirky became evidence against the solemn face, and Emmett could only think about what an idiot he was. Time slowed (as it does in my recounting the scene, which seems to only be able to convey itself properly in slow motion and in the most indirect of ways possible).
Emmett ran. He wasn't sure where he was headed, but he hoped it was toward his bed. Leaves and twigs breaking and rustling were a symphony underneath his feet, the playful naïveté of children gone from his muscles. He wanted to run, needed to. Quietness was a ridiculous thing to worry about.
But, as he tripped over the same root, he realized he had nowhere to go. There was no place wanted to go.
Do you have any intention of ever going on a pokèmon journey?
He needed to run.
Why or why not?
He needed to.
…the ten or so children that would leave at the end of the next week…
So, dear reader, he did. But no matter where he ran in life, however far away, the question that had chased him through the woods that night would always find him.
Then… what am I?
