Forest of Rope

Chapter 8

Hello my wonderful readers! I'm going to try and make the next few chapters slow paced and focus heavily on Riley's backstory. Thanks to everyone who continued to read and make it this far! You guys mean the world to me :)

Dec 19

Riley awoke with a jolt, soaked in a cold sweat. He dared not close his eyes out of fear of being reclaimed by the nightmare. He lay there panting in the darkness, the old mattress squeaking noisily with each heaving breath.

Writhing agitatedly within his cocoon of bedsheets he commanded himself to forget the horrific terrors his subconscious had invented yet they refused to fade into obscurity.

For a brief moment he rolled over and half-expected to find Alexis tucked up beside him, still clinging onto sleep. Though of course, she was hundreds of miles away now and besides, the bed would surely buckle with any additional weight.

He stretched his limbs over the tiny mattress so that his bare feet touched the ground and yawned. The cheesy wind up clock on the bedside table read 16:30 in spite of the faint light outside that demanded it be late evening. Riley couldn't comprehend how he'd managed to doze off again. He was swooning more often now than ever and this made him uneasy.

Must be all that emotional baggage. He assured himself. Sucks the energy right outta ya'.

Riley forced himself into a sitting position to help him stay conscious and allowed his senses to guide him away from the realm of dreams. He reached out for the lamp on the dresser, tracing his fingers over the smooth porcelain stand. When he found the switch an eruption of amber light dazed him, making him turn away to the darkest refuges of the room to let his eyes readjust.

The walls in this corner were plastered with posters and drawings from his youth, images of rebellion and teenage angst. His gaze wandered over to the mahogany desk where the occasional framed picture would greet him amongst the piles of old textbooks and CDs. He looked particularly at his father's picture who stood beaming back at him from his polished silver frame with a seven-year old Riley slung over his shoulders. He was even tempted to go over and hold it for a second but succumbed to his laziness and instead fumbled for his secret box under the bed for more easily acquirable nostalgia.

If Riley were honest with himself, the box could hardly be considered to be very secret. It had no lock or seal of any kind and was clearly visible between the stacks of forgotten board games and his old amplifier beneath the bed boards. Not even the clumsily scrawled “SECRET” imprinted onto the lid could make it any less conspicuous. Riley placed his memoirs across his lap and emptied their contents across the bedspread.

Heaps of sentimental junk and emotional debris came tumbling out. There were little imperfect wood carvings left from grade school as well as a series of origami figures, each one more amateur than the last. Assortments of trinkets such as dainty plastic figurines, unpolished medals from sports days (mostly bronze) and useless trading cards lay there discarded as testaments to his childhood.

He filed through the various polaroids that documented his ridiculous escapades into adolescence. He watched the lanky little boy on his father's shoulders gradually transform into a lanky, spotty freak of nature. Riley smiled at the snaps of his old friends and frowned uncomfortably at the ones of his old flames. Here too, were records of high school sweethearts containing valentines day cards he dared not read, folds of paper he dared not unfold and knots of jewellery he dared not touch let alone untangle and wear.

The box contained all of his embarrassments, all his guilty pleasures. Among them, an expired packet of contraceptives, a pornographic magazine camouflaged all too cunningly within the pages of a sports almanac and a couple of tabs left over from the insane raves and parties he'd been dragged to over the years. He rolled the pills around with the tips of his fingers and considered what they might do for his anxiety before dropping them thoughtfully back into the box.

These things, they belonged to a different time, to a different life. So far away from now yet their remnants somehow kept it alive. Everything had been so different back then. The more Riley thought about the old days the more distant and alien they seemed to him. He took his gaze away from the bed and faced the window.

The neighbourhood outside watched him inertly exactly as it had all those years ago.

He clamoured out of bed, fighting an itch from the underside of his boxers and pressed his forehead against the glass. It felt cool and reinvigorating against his skin. A ghostly familiar mist was descending on Oakmaple Drive, marring the surrounding houses from view. Riley watched it sweep over the rows of trimmed hedge and backyard fence. The white picket from his own garden slowly flitted in and out of vision, disappearing and rematerialising into view, appearing as jagged teeth when viewed with unfocused eyes.

At such close proximity, Riley's breath began to fog over the glass. He drew his fingers through the condensation a little before forcing himself away.

Now fully awake, he dressed, returned the contents of his box, hid it away and left to go and find Tracey. When he slammed the bedroom door behind him the window panes rattled. A drip of condensation trailed through the words “home sweet home” on its inevitable fall to the bottom of the frame.