Not Just Any Bed

Once upon a time, I was a real boy. I can remember sitting on a blue bed with a book of stickers. All the stickers had robots and swords, or maybe dragons flying through space. Some of the stickers were puffy, and some glittered. I had lots of paper too. I used to sketch back then too. That's why I'm sure it was me, and why I'm sure I used to be real.

I don't know where that bed is. I must have had some parents or something, but I can't remember them at all. They must have loved me a whole bunch, to buy me all those stickers. I really loved drawing and comics and playing with pictures and stickers and they got all that stuff for me, so I must have been good to them and they must have loved me. That is a good feeling I have. I hold on to that one.

I live in a small apartment, but it's kind of nice. I have all sorts of stuff and it's pretty cool. Best of all, there's a whole room for my paintings. I set up these huge canvases right in the middle and I get to paint and draw cool stuff all day. I want to draw dragons and swords or whatever, but they never come out like that. Every painting I make ends up looking like the shapes in the darkness. The ones in my dreams that take me apart. The ones I can't get away from.

The paintings make lots of money. There is a woman who helps me sell them. She sets up galleries all over town and I go to shows. People always act really excited to see my work. I try to explain how I want it to be different, but they don't really listen. The woman is really good at selling my paintings and I make plenty of money. She wears huge, fancy glasses. I think she throws away alot of newspapers.

I have a bed now, but it's not blue. I was going to buy blue sheets and everything, but the color wasn't just right. Also, i knew it wouldn't be the same. I don't want a blue bed, I want the blue bed. I want to be back there just like in my memories where I'm real. But that can't happen, can it?

I don't like leaving the house when it's dark out. All sorts of things can hide in the dark, but that doesn't scare me. When something is in the dark, then the dark can't be there. That's what I'm really worried about, the dark. People don't think the dark can get you. They don't think the dark wants anything. They're wrong, but they won't listen to me.

Sometimes infront of a mirror, I can see through myself. I can fade away if I'm not careful. They took so much out of me, those shapes. They took away all the pictures I had in my brain and now it's just darkness. I can't even remember how I grew up. I can't remember my real name.

I hate my paintings. It's not my work. It doesn't belong to me. It's all theirs. The dark did this to me so I could make those pictures, so everyone would see them. Maybe that's how they get people, by looking at those pictures. Maybe that's how they got me.

No, not any more. I find a blade. I find a lighter. I find a hammer. I put on my walking jacket. I grab that mask I wear when I use oils. I can get a list from the lady with the glasses. I can find all my paintings everywhere and cut them up. Even if the dark tries to stop me, even if they take me back. No one else is going to forget their own names, not if I can help it.

I'll never find that bed. I hope my parents aren't too worried about me. I hope they think that I'm somewhere being happy, that I have all sorts of stickers and eat ice cream whenever I want. I hope they think that I'm a brave boy and they did a good job with me. Even if I can't remember them.