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| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Action/Adventure >> ID #1804404 |   |
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[Introduction]
  Co-Written by: breshke  and Kilpik is back!  |
 breshke  “Please, please, let this end soon,” he mumbled for what felt like the hundredth time before his heart began calming down. Douglas carefully took his hands off of his face, unfurling from the ball he had previously been in. He opened his eyes and warily looked around the room. Huh, that was odd. He could have sworn that something awful had happened. Something horrific. It had felt—and sounded—like he was being torn into pieces; his mind being sucked into a vacuum. But it must have all been a bad dream, because here he was, back in his bedroom. “That was one freaky nightmare. It felt so real,” Douglas mumbled. Yawning, he burrowed back under his purple polka dotted sheets, only to shoot back up in shock. “Purple sheets? Polka dots? This must be some kind of prank. I’ll bet it was Henry. I knew it was a bad idea telling his sister about my fear of Barney!” He angrily shoved the sheets off his bed, feeling around for his phone. “Never trust a Benedict, no matter how cute she is,” he muttered to himself. Rubbing his hands through his hair in frustration, he tried to remember where he had last seen his phone. Looking past the glaring changes around the room, he glanced around for a small place that Henry would have put his phone. “Mom?” Douglas pulled open his doors, looking for answers to the changes in his room— or at the very least, an explanation why Henry had been let inside their house. After his last fiasco—which had included honey, toilet paper, and Imp, their husky—Douglas’ mom had sworn that Henry was not allowed to step more than two feet inside their house. “Yes, Dougie? Is there something you need?” his mother came down the hall, cigarette in hand. Douglas’ eyes grew, “Why are you smoking, mom? I thought the nicotine patches were helping you stop.” She laughed, “Nicotine patches? I haven’t used those in years! Especially after your uncle died from overdosing on those dumb things.” He froze, Uncle? Since when do I have an uncle? Trying to focus back at the situation at hand—after all, his mother was known to have her bouts of what most would call insanity—he continued, “Why did you let Henry into my room? He completely trashed it! I can’t find anything.” She blew a few smoke rings before answering, “Is this a trick question? Henry, your friend with the little sister you used to have a crush on?” She smirked at Douglas’ red face. “They moved away over five years ago. Don’t you remember?” Douglas laughed as he tried to cover his red face and confusion, “Uh, oh yeah. Just forgot for a moment. I’m going to let Imp in now,” he opened the front door just as his mom responded. “Imp?” she called out. “Why, he’s been gone for—” “Gone?” he whirled around in disbelief. “What do you mean, gone?” “Are you feeling okay, Dougie?” she asked with a worried look on her face. Brusquely brushing aside her concerns, he repeated, “What do you mean, gone?” Watching his face, she slowly said, “That was one of the first motions the state of Southern California passed. The outlawing of all pets bigger than twenty pounds. What’s happening to you, Dougie? Why can’t you remember anything?” Her voice rose with every question. “I don’t know, I’m going to go out and get some fresh air,” he stuttered, feeling stifled under all the conflicting thoughts running through his head. “Don’t go too far,” she called after him. “Prop 27 was just passed—you can’t be outside for longer than ten minutes without a face mask.” At his bewildered face she clarified, “The smog, Dougie. It’ll kill you—or at the very least, ruin your lungs.” Closing the door, he heard her mutter about how forgetful teens were these days. Maybe this was all a bad dream. Maybe he was just stuck in a bad dream—a nightmare—for a while, and needed to wake up. But a small part of him acknowledged that this might not be a dream; that this may be a different reality he was living. “Where am I, and what’s happened to my world?” Douglas asked himself, looking towards the gray sky for an answer, or at the very least, some rays of warming sunshine. Neither one appeared. Kilpik is back! Meanwhile… A phone vibrated on a bed stand, the tiny device sending surprisingly large quakes throughout the entire room. “Wakey, wakey! Time to wakey! Beep, beep, beeeeeeeep, beeeeeeee-“ The ungodly wailing was cut short as a drowsy fist made contact, shattering the phone in two. Doug sighed, considered how he should reprimand Frederick for this most recent lapse in protocol, and stretched. He flexed his toes and ran a hand through his hair. That $400 haircut had really been worth it. The wind wasn’t even flowing through it yet, and it already had a toss and shine that Superman himself would be jealous of. He finally sat up, stretching his hands across the soothing purple and white polka dots of his sheets. Except… Wait. Doug squeezed his eyes shut and used his fingers to tug at his eyelids just the way Dr. Manning had suggested. It was some Himalayan practice used to ward off hallucinations. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. The sheets still had white and black circular objects whirling athletically around a green background. (He wanted to say they were ballfoots or sockers, but to be honest, he had never really paid attention during Sports History classes.) The general effect was disorientating and a little sickening. Not soothing at all. This was too much. First the weird phone alarm incident, now the sheets. Mother always said he was too hard on Frederick, but this was simply inappropriate. “Frederick!” he bellowed, hand slipping in the morning light to find the service button on the side of the bed, “Frederick, I need to see you this instant!” Doug ticked off the passing seconds in his head as he waited. He had already counted enough Mississippi Rivers to fill the Atlantic before his door creaked open. Instead of Frederick, a sleepy figure in a pink bathrobe and a frizzy halo of blond hair came out from around the door. “What is it, Dougie? You have another nightmare?” Doug stared at his mother for a few seconds. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. And a nightmare? There had been something. But he couldn’t put his finger on that either. Maybe there had been a nightmare. That might explain the very not soothing and not calming morning he was currently experiencing. Of course, the sheets couldn’t be a manifestation of a nightmare. Or the absence of the service button. Or that phone from hell. “Dougie? What’s wrong?” “Sorry, mother. Nothing is wrong. Just call in Frederick for me, will you? The blasted button isn’t working.” That was a lie. Unless not working included not existing. Oh well, he’d let Frederick sort it out. “Who’s Frederick, Dougie? Wait! Please tell me you renamed Imp! Frederick? What a lovely name! I’ll go get Frederick right now.” She scurried out before Doug could say anything. Before he could register his complete incomprehension at his mother’s mention of his childhood pet or the suspicious presence of a nicotine patch on her neck, a big, slobbering beast appeared in the doorway, launching itself into the air to land with a thud on the bed. Heavy paws and a slobbering tongue overtook his senses. “Frederick, let him breathe,” his mother’s voice called out from somewhere far above the fur and saliva. “Come on, Frederick!” Once the strange dog had been extracted, Doug took a deep breath. “Mother, why are you calling this dog the name of our butler? Have you taken your pills this morning?” “My pills? What? A butler? I—I don’t understand.” Doug swung himself out of bed, expecting to sink his feet into his plush, ergonomic slippers, but instead slipped on a stack of video games. “Okay, I am going to say three things before I leave. I have a big day, and I can’t deal with all this weirdness. It’s making me cranky and that effects my super-ness. So one, you need to take your pills, mother. Regularly. You shouldn’t have gotten this dog, and you really shouldn’t have changed my room around without permission. Two, take that nicotine patch off. You know Dr. Manning said that smoking increases life expectancy, and the patch does the opposite. Remember Uncle Gordon? And three…. I don’t remember! Carpe Diem or some crap like that. I need to go.” Doug stood up, placed his hands above his head, and inhaled. “Suit up!” he shouted into the auto-dress. Nothing happened. “Um, honey,” his mother said worryingly a couple seconds later, “I’m going to call Dr. Manning. I think you may be a little unwell.” He ignored her. “Suit up!” he screamed again. A costume did not descend from the ceiling, his helm of awesomeness failed to drop, and his red boots did not pop from the ground and mold to his feet. He hung his head. Maybe he was unwell. © Copyright 2011 breshke, Kilpik is back!, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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