Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Chapter 7

The day felt sluggish compared to the days before. He felt like his body was being moved without his brain knowing. For example, he had gotten out of his bed and ended up in his office. He didn't remember getting dressed yet when he looked down, he was fully clothed. He didn't mind it much as long as he didn't screw anything up to make others notice him. His sight seemed more blurry than normal.

What's going on with my vision? He wondered as he collected his papers from his office and began his walk to the front door.

He took his eyes off the door and when he looked back, he was walking up to the front door of his house instead of the front door of his workplace. He definitely doesn't remember walking all that way in such a short amount of time. His mind was fuzzy but he continued with his day.

Cooking felt faster than it usually does. Eggs were done in seconds compared to the normal amount of time. He liked how fast the day was because the quicker night fell, the earlier he could lay in bed and rest his aching head. He began working on cooking lunch: a BLE sandwich, a bowl of chips, and a cup of refrigerated milk. Porter tried reaching for the milk from the fridge and was met with a snap of a trap. He moved his hand away just as the bear trap in place of the milk carton gripped to air. He definitely doesn't remember placing an open trap where the milk should be. He was beginning to feel weirded out and he closed the fridge door. He sighed, clearing his mind. He turned around to see the carton of store milk he was trying to reach for before. It sat innocently on the dining table.

What the hell?! He gasped to himself.

His anxiety put him on edge the rest of the day. If he went outside, he spoke to no one. If anyone spoke to him, he would not look away from where he was walking in fear of stepping in a trap. If he had to speak, he would struggle to form sentences. He felt suffocated each time he tried to breathe or speak. It felt like he had a cloth pillow case bag over his head and he could barely stand it. He decided staying inside.. staying out of sight.. staying out of mind.. was the perfect thing to do today. He sat himself down in a corner and stared at the floor of his living room. He seemed to have zoned out because a new wind blew after he blinked a few times.

"Ey, uh, Porter? You, uh, feelin' alrighty?" Bard's concerned voice pierced through the silent room. Porter looked around in fear, not realizing he had let reality escape him again. He was a place he had only seen once. Standing, he saw the room of his childhood around him. Bard's hand felt like a blanket on his shoulder.

"Bard? I'm... I'm fine. Just not sure where I am." Porter admitted.

Bard smiled kindly and nodded. "I, uh, understand your confusion, son."

The familiar tone in his voice soothed Porter's anxiety. He let out a sigh and put his head to the ground. Seeing the floor, it looked blood stained and rotting. When he looked up, he was in his old house. The house of murder. The too familiar smell cluttered his airways and suffocated him. He coughed quietly before walking around. Everything was how he last saw it: chains hanging from the ceiling, blood staining the floors in dried pools, the clean upstairs rooms, and even the uneven grounds of his backyard that was littered with unmarked graves.

He felt like he was going to be sick but his body did not move fast enough to even think about being sick. As soon as he turned his eyes off the backyard, he was in the basement room he had left the Brown women. He stared down at the shackles that he knew to hold many bruised wrists. So many screams from the very room he stood. So many things happened in this one little cell and he tried escaping from it. He tried the handle of the door. Locked. He looked at the small window.

There's no way I'd ever be able to fit, He told himself. There's no way!

He looked back at the door to see it was open. Without questions, he made his way out of the room. He froze when he looked up from the floor. He was back in his new house. He had his back to his front door. Porter realized for the first time that day that he hadn't ever checked what time it was.

Walking felt slower than ever. He tried running through his hallway but he felt like he was being pushed back by an invisible field of quarterbacks. He gave up on running and groaned in building anger. He walked into his bedroom and reached for his alarm clock. His hand was met by another snap sound. He moved his hand away from another jumping bear trap. He tried yelling in anger but erupted in nothing but silence.

He rolled his eyes and sat in his bed. His bed felt lumpier than he remembered. He ran his fingers over the fabric, feeling noting but air.

I'm so confused! He tried to scream. Again, nothing came out. The indescribable eleutheromania was stronger than ever before. He needed a way to calm down.

He laid the body he claimed as his down on the bed. The moment he closed his eyes to sleep, he woke up. This time, it was early in the morning. His vision was no longer blurry, his body felt like he had control of it again, and if he looked around, nothing would change.

"What the-" he began. He realized he could speak without suffocation.

Realization soon hit him hard. He had been dreaming the entire time.

Jesus Christ... He whined in his head.

He checked the time. 4:19am. He didn't want to sleep ever again. That, or, he'd want to never dream like that again. A stroll through memory lane for him was more like a march through a battlefield of a battle you caused. It was torturous by how gruesome the regret gnawed at his body and his thoughts.