Weightless

 Waking up and realizing that you’re not in your own bed can lead to a frighteningly varied amount of reactions. This may include: fear, eagerness, and, far more commonly, shock. It won’t be an exaggeration to say I was so shocked out of my mind, I even fell out of the said unfamiliar bed. A look across the unfamiliar room, I suddenly lock eyes with the reflection of a mirror, confirming what may have already been apparent to you readers.

Oh, I thought. I must be dreaming.

Because the young man that stared back at me certainly wasn’t who I’ve seen staring back at me from these glass objects for the past twenty-three years. Objectively, the tired eyes I had grown accustomed to seeing were incomparably uglier than the ones that returned their gaze to me. The man in the reflection was remarkably pretty, with dark hair that barely cut right above his eyebrow ridge, his eyes blue in color, and a skin color that complemented it well.

While my first thought was to compliment the man, it didn’t take long for my thoughts to wander. This dream feels incredibly realistic- I mean, what happened before I went to sleep last night for me to dream so vividly? I had just gotten done with my therapy session, had dinner with solely my mother for the night, and went to my bedroom to read manga, then…

Well, was it the vivid, creative, and imaginative beauty of my brain working wonders? Surely I was just transported to the world in my manga. Just as I groggily stood and readied to take whatever martial arts form I could remember, the room’s door opened wide, a slipper thrown at the back of my head, a clear sign that whatever powers I gained in this dream did not include foresight.

“If you’re done dreaming up your silly thoughts of leaving, hurry and help with the kitchen.” An older woman harshly spoke as she left the doorway, quickly moving to the next room with a tray of clinking plates.

I guess it’d be too unrealistic for my brain to dream up any other home life. This character had an older lady boss him around the way my mother has done, something I gratefully know how to work my way around.

“Any work I can do outside the house today?” A sing-songy, airy voice escaped my throat as I pulled a trick that always worked on my mother. This guy being pretty wasn’t enough; he just had to have a pretty voice, too, huh?

The woman sighed as she finally stepped past the doorway again. She stopped and glared at the handsome- uh, me. The resemblance to this woman felt pretty apparent. The two shared the same skin tone and hair color; her build was slightly heavier than the character I was. Additionally, her eyes were paler than the stark color wheel blue that mine were.

“Just want to avoid the work for the day, huh?” She heaved the dishes on the tray higher, her broad arms shaking with the motion as she struggled to hold it all up. Wordless, I walked over, picking a few from her grasp. The action seemed to soften her eyes, as if she’d been holding her breath; she sighed deeply again- just how many times does this man exasperate his poor mother? “Meet with the caravan halfway through the town. If you bring them to the inn, you can have the rest of the day off, free to do with what you like.”

“‘Course!” After giving her a slight bow, I turned to the room and found the easily accessible slippers by my door. Putting them on, I scurried back to the door frame, dashing with dishes in hand across the catwalk that overlooked a tavern below. Guests ate at tables; some were apparently regulars as they joked with the waiting staff, while others sat and enjoyed their meals in relative silence. Overlooking the catwalk provided a further look into the setting of my dream, though.

People in cloaks and armor sat by each other, weapons by their side or sprawled across the tables along with their food. A person sat with the warrior’s party, even fed a familiar beneath the table, as if they were sneaking the family dog some breakfast. I caught a glimpse of the kitchen from this vantage point, hurrying to do my chores and go and explore, something my character even appeared to be fond of. Rushing down the stairs and swinging into the kitchen, the varied sounds of greetings came from guests and wait staff. A man by the door frame of the kitchen nodded at me as he overlooked the tavern. He shared a striking resemblance to my assumed mother, as though they were twins.

“You’re going to meet with the caravan halfway over, right?” He said, a scruffy voice echoing in the short cobblestone door frame we stood in. A short nod earned me a slap on the back of my head. “Listen properly to your uncle, brat.”

“Ahh, what is it?” An annoyed voice escaped from the grunt of pain I let out.

“You keep that attitude with that noble caravan and see where that ends up!” Uncle Jerk placed his hand on his hip, the other swinging over my shoulder to bring me in closer for a whisper. “Those nobles from the capital are the worst. Rub one the wrong way and suddenly you’re losing your pinky.” The hand on my shoulders wiggled, and a little stump at the end of his hand.

Uncle’s hand didn’t hit nearly as hard as it could’ve, but the hit should’ve at least snapped me out of whatever narrative I was experiencing. In fact, wasn’t it strange that with a hit I’d flinch over, nothing happened? No jolt awake, or anything? “Uh, Uncle?” I asked quietly, suddenly hyper aware.

“Hm?” He peered down at me, the pale, near-gray eyes asked.

“Can you take these dishes?” Shoving them in his grasp, I started to speed off for the Tavern entrance. “I don’t think I’d want to anger these nobles for being late.”

While the anger of the nobles was something I’d rather not incur, I figured this was the best point in the narrative to snap out of it. If I had to greet some nobles who were well deserving of the therapy I had back home, I’d rather end this story before I get the chance to meet them.

Conflict and the like had never been my forte, said conflict being the reason I even had therapy sessions in the first place. Ever since I could remember, people assumed the worst from me.

I had unkept dark hair, sharper and dead-looking eyes, and a natural facial expression that was impossible to read. My sister was different, though. She was openly dramatic and friendly, and even popular. Even though we had nearly the same features, she was shiningly easy to understand. It may have been those descriptors and the people who boiled me down to them who made me into the unapproachable boy I ended up being.

My sister’s popularity and charisma came at a cost, however. Friends or boys would question why she wouldn’t get a boyfriend, pester her about her popularity, and ask how it would lengthen her reign in popularity.

I knew her answer; she simply wasn’t interested. Together, we often shared the same ideas and way of thinking. If someone didn’t like how we acted, we wouldn’t care- we didn’t owe them their satisfaction. But answering that way didn’t treat my sister kindly.

One day, a group of boys was confessing their love for her, and in the heated argument with each other, one asked my sister why she wasn’t stepping in, why she wasn’t trying to calm the situation.

The response was more of a second question than an actual answer.

“Why did you assume I would?” She bluntly said.

The three boys, suddenly distracted from their fight with each other, turned to my sister, who held her head high. Words flooded the air, ones like “This isn’t like you,” or “But you’re not like that.” But the worst were the ones I remembered the most. “Everyone knows what you’re thinking.”

My sister’s eyes flared up, I could tell from where I stood, having exited the school and into the courtyard. She scowled at them, her fists clenched and teeth grinding in the rage she obviously felt. My sister wasn’t a mind reader, and neither was I. But I thought we knew how to read each other. Right before she could even attempt to yell or throw a punch, I did it for her.

I raced across the dirt of the courtyard, fist out and yelling. The first boy I hit was caught off guard, stumbling back as I fell completely forward. That was probably the first loud noise anyone at school could’ve heard from me. I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking; some sort of adrenaline was blocking me from remembering. After the fact, I always considered the excuse that I only rushed in to save my sister’s reputation from failing. No one cared about me, my reputation was at rock bottom, so there’d be no pain to whatever game I was playing.

But reputation wasn’t the only thing at play here. It also involved memory. Were these guys going to remember how my sister looked at them? Were they going to remember the look of contempt or her angry face? I’d rather they don’t- I’d rather they remembered solely the pain they felt from my fists hitting their face over, and over, and over again. My sister was going to have a good life, a social and popular life. I won’t get that, so why bother trying?

But my sister looked sad, scared even. “Kou… What did you do?”

I know my sister asked that, but I didn’t have an answer. Am I scaring you? Did I ruin your reputation?

When we got home, my father couldn’t look me in the eye. Not that I could really see out of one. My sister wouldn’t talk to me, only meet my eyes, and frown at the sight of them. My mom talked to me, but would back off before I got too close. I figured this was just another way of saying ‘we can’t tell what he’s thinking’ or ‘when is he going to snap.’

Things got better with my mom; she’d sit with me and help me with job applications since I could never continue school. Our dad got in touch with the therapists he knew, so I knew he made an effort. My sister stopped speaking to me entirely.

All I needed was a jolt awake, some cold water hitting my face, or the feeling of falling, at least then, I’ll finally wake up. If I were going to live under the rule of some mentally unstable higher power- under rich people?! Yeah, I was not going to live under the whim of those people with my temper.

“Ugh, just get off our case!” A girl’s voice yelled out. “We don’t need escorts!”

My head whipped around. The sight of a young teenage girl with her arms spread out, defending what was clearly her family, immediately caught my attention. Her twin brother held their father back, his grip preventing him from protecting his clearly capable daughter. In front of them, two bigger guys hovered over the group. The escorts in question kept closing in on the girl, their bulky swords in their sheaths as they motioned towards them.

Hey, I’m not a conflict guy. How about I get a good whack to the head and wake up!

Great idea, my beautiful mind, you.

“Hey!” I shout from across the brick road. The two men glare over, but their eyes soften whenever they realize it’s me; whoever this character is must be a real heartbreaker.

“Karlo! Hey man, how are-” I quickly interrupt the friendly, intimidating man.

“Punch me, man.” Their shocked faces tell me this Karlo character wouldn’t ever ask this of them.

The other man’s face pales. “What the heck, man? We’re not gonna punch you.”

“Karlo, you good?” The other grabbed my shoulders.

“What’s wrong with this guy?” The teen boy unamusingly said.

“C’mon, just do it!” I shout. A glance down, and I see the hilt of their sword. I reach for it, the sheath having some sort of buckle to keep it in place. I yank at it over and over, enough to annoy this villager. Enough for him to try to drag me away. In the flailing, however, he accidentally elbowed the back of my head.

You know the feeling you get right when you’re about to fall? It also kind of happens when you submerge in water for the first time in a while; the feeling of weightlessness.

Yeah, apparently it happens when you get nearly knocked out and summon water from a blade.