I Wish For Freedom

Midnight’s a bad time to die.

To be fair, it wasn’t like I’d planned to lose three games of cards in a row, then get drunk and holler for a rematch, but sometimes these things happen.

So here I am. After a ridiculously silly argument about “fairness” and “not cheating,” I’m falling some number of feet (likely predetermined by a shipwright in southeast Canada, which is awfully rude, since I’d like to choose myself how far I fall to my death) towards some very gray, very wet-looking water. If I were sober, I’d probably register the wind tearing across my skin and ruining my hair, or maybe even the people gathered at the railing of the boat far above me, but alas, I’m not. The only thing I’m concentrating on is Why am I not wearing gloves outside? before the wind changes direction and flings my body onto the unfortunately very uncomfortable dock.

Wow, I don’t like throwing up. I should drink less often.

I have also discovered I dislike passing out.

I don’t like magic.

This is just a general rule for me (I’ve had my butt kicked several times because of it), but sometimes I have to ignore it so I can properly thank someone when they’ve saved me from mostly-certain death.

This someone in particular was Patrick. Good ol’ Patrick the aspiring wind mage and mildly good acquaintance (in truth, I would call most people in this ridiculously tiny town a mildly good acquaintance, but Patrick’s one of the better ones). He likes to pretend that he is a wind mage, but I shall clear up any future confusion here and now: He is not. Yet. Someday, yes. Not now. I know this for a fact because a full mage wouldn’t have fainted right after me from the mana use. I know he fainted because he’s currently telling me all about it.

“Yeah man, I was practicing my water breathing spells when I saw you and went Ohmygod! So I cast Life-Saver Wind Bomb 2.3 right before you hit the water! And fwoosh, and boom, and then you threw up and fainted. Naturally I was gonna make sure you weren’t dead like the last guy, but that mana charge was really something, so I hafta calibrate it for next time to avoid future passing-out. Hey, are you good?”

No. “I’m great. Hey, thanks for saving me, dude. Appreciate it. See you around, huh?”

“Yeah, um, okay-” I don’t want to hear the end of that sentence. I stumble down the dock, head pounding, nearing the cafe run by my very greatest friend, Silvia Silveya. Yes that’s really her name, yes I’ve teased her about it, no I’m not dead yet (it was a close thing).

The little bell rings as I open the door, alerting nobody of my arrival. I believe it’s nearly closing time, but I don’t own a watch because phones are a thing and the only watch I would ever buy is an expensive one so I could sell it later. Or maybe it’s just really early - I can’t tell.

My nose is always confuzzled when I come in here. Let me be clear - I don’t have a great nose. It does nothing besides breathe and sneeze. You should see Robby Jr.’s sometime, because he can snort the alphabet. I don’t know how it works. I don’t think I want to.

Cinnamon and ginger are all I pick out before the scents meld into a delicious and drool-inducing aroma. I fumble around on the shelves, searching for my literally favorite potion ever, the amazing hangover-be-gone Silvia must have invented. A small hand-written sign reads “Your hang is OVER!” beneath the shelf, and I down one of the pink bottles. Weirdly sweet and non-tart grapefruit, yum. Each bottle tastes different. I don’t remember what it was last time.

Before you get on my case going all “OH I thought you didn’t like magic!!!”, I meant more specifically I don’t like magic that isn’t helpful to me. I understand your confusion. Trust me, I didn’t plan to be like this either, but here we are. And to prove my point, Silvia is also a mage, just a very nice one who owns two beige dogs and gives me pastries for free.

I don’t hear her as I plop a random bill and the bottle down by the cash register, its contents sloshing. I wander into the back room, following my nose.

My headache is gone now (dang, those things always work fast), so I’m in a better mood when I find Silvia texting on her phone while a sheet of croissants cools beside her.

“Hey,” she mutters. Eyes still down, she picks up one of the pastries and puts it into my open hands. It’s warm and fluffy and gosh I just love befriending bakers.

I don’t think I need to explain how pleased I am with life. The pastry’s gone in a few seconds and I snag a second éclair as I slip past Silvia up into her living space on the second floor.

Her two dogs, Bailey and Markus, run up to me and whine, watching me eat. Their big, beautiful eyes are making me feel bad. Dang it, doggies. Now I have to pet you and feed you and scruffle you and oh who’s such pretty babies yes you are my favorites oh mwa mwa mwa.

After Bailey and Markus and I go through our ritual, I look up and I see Her. The Queen, The Lady, The Singular Dog Who Is Absolutely Better Than You. She eyes me as I stand up. She’s sitting on the window seat Silvia had installed between her overstuffed bookshelves once she realized Sheila (The Queen, The Lady, The Singular Dog Who Is Absolutely Better Than You) liked observing outside (watching just isn’t regal enough) more than she did sleeping in the sun.

I bow deeply in front of her. “Thank you for allowing my presence, your Majesty. I will forever cherish this generosity.” I stand up and walk into the kitchen, where Bailey’s sitting by her food bowl.

“I just fed you, sweet baby.” Her appetite is a chihuahua on steroids. Actually, I don’t know any chihuahuas, and steroids are not my thing, so maybe it’s more like she’s a dog with zero cares in the world. She doesn’t respond (duh), and I walk past her to sit on the couch.

I sink into the very squishy furniture. Gosh, I love this. I wish I’d grabbed a third slice of pie, though. Silvia makes really good pie.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until a cold, wet nose nudges my hand. Ew. Dog snot. I look to the window; it’s fully dark outside. Shoot. I wonder how long I slept. I sit up, because if I don’t I’m going to fall asleep again and I think I will regret that tomorrow when I have to go to work. Ugh, work.

The stairs creak as I stumble down them into the back room of the bakery.

“Silvia?” I call her name a few times, but she isn’t answering. Maybe she left. I open the door of the shop and walk outside, but I’m not in town anymore. What the heck?

I’m in a goddamned rainforest. There’s a literal monkey staring at me, like full-on no-blinking as though we’re in a contest, which is making me feel pressured so I stop blinking too. Wow, my eyes hurt.

It’s weirdly cold and not humid at all as I ditch the monkey and turn around to find the confectionery is now a treehouse. I’m sorry, what? Actually, this is too cool to complain about. There must be very weird magic going on here.

Dude, I love magic. It’s so helpful, just in general. I would insert a memory here of me admiring the capabilities of magic, but I seriously don’t remember, so Patrick probably gave me a concussion or something.

I run up the stairs to the actual house, but when I get there, it’s just a gaping hole in what is probably the fabric of space and time. To be honest, it looks a lot less scary than how I’d imagine a hole in the fabric of space and time would look. There’s a literal rainbow just sitting in the middle, which is confusing me, but rainbows aren’t scary. Usually.

The monkey is standing across from me, on the other side of the hole. “Jump in.”

No thanks. “I’m good.”

“This is a gateway to freedom.”

I’m not in shackles, currently. “Why are you talking? Also, I am free.”

“Are you?”

“Fairly certainly, yes.”

“You are dreaming.”

“I feel like a talking monkey would say that.”

“Is dreaming an escape, or a prison cell?”

“I wasn’t a philosopher last time I checked.”

“You don’t need to be to see the monotony of reality.”

“Reality isn’t feeling very monotonous right now.”

“This is not reality.”

I don’t think I’m going to like monkeys very much after this.

“Are you confused?” I ask the monkey.

“I am free. You are chained.” Monkey is starting to sound patronizing.

“Dude, I’m feeling pretty free right now. I can literally do whatever I want.”

“Is that freedom?” Yes, Monkey is absolutely sounding patronizing.

“I think we have different definitions of freedom.”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“What?”

“You do speak English, correct?”

“No, actualmente, estoy hablando español. No, I don’t like my job, but who does?”

“The free ones.”

I hate Monkey. “What are you trying to get at here?”

“I do not think you enjoy life very much. I think dreaming is your escape that you can never make into truth. I think you are afraid to leave the comfort of your sad, bland life.”

“Firstly, rude. Secondly, I like life plenty. Thirdly, my life isn’t actually your business, so-”

“You want to open a bakery.”

“What-”

“You want to own two beige dogs. Who are sometimes three.”

“I mean, that would be nice. Hold on, what-”

“You want the financial stability to study how to reverse a hangover for your own good.”

“Dude, you have no clue how much I could make off of that. Also, I am financially stable. Most of the time.”

“Not enough for your dreams. Your hopes. Your wishes.”

“Are you my subconsciousness berating me for getting a new TV?”

“No, this is about the cat you didn’t actually want but you thought it was less work than a dog and you just really wanted a pet.”

“Hey, I love that cat! Can I leave now?”

“Jump in.”

“I mean can I go back to Silvia’s store?”

“Jump in and create your own store. Do not be afraid.”

I stare into the void-rainbow-hole-in-space-and-time. I do want two dogs, who may occasionally be three. I do want to start my own bakery. I want to bake things with nearly-silent French names, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life relying on dreams to be happy. Dreams that I won’t make true because I’m afraid to try. Maybe afraid to fail.

Monkey is still watching me.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Another deep breath in. Sure, why not. I love procrastinating.

Get it together.

You can do this. Yes, you really can. The monkey believes in you.

Oh god, what am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing, this is going to kill me-

I jump.

Midnight’s still a bad time to die.

I used to love dreams.

Then a monkey showed up in one and told me how badly I was failing in life. Now falling asleep makes me nervous, like he’s waiting to ambush me with more uncomfortable truths I don’t actually want to hear.

He was right, though.

I don’t get out of my house that often. I don’t like my job. Every day is the same, over and over. The same routine, the same people. I’m bored out of my mind and it feels like I am powerless to change.

Magic is not real. I wish it was. I’m not exactly financially stable, but I’m stable enough that doing something new scares me. It feels like my friends aren’t really friends, but more mildly good acquaintances. I want to get out of those “mehships” and into some really good “friendships.” But people freak me out. I have to remind myself that I’m not the only one who’s actually a sentient being, that life isn’t a simulation, and it’s not going to end the moment something amazing happens.

I wish I could be someone from a story, with powers and friends and a real life they could be proud of living. But I’m not, and some days it’s hard to deal with reality, because reality sucks a lot.

I also don’t like monkeys anymore. They feel mysterious and prophetic now. Sitting there with their beady eyes staring into your soul. I wish I was a monkey. I wish I could know the future. I wish I could know there were good things, happy things, waiting for me.

I wish for happiness.

I wish for life.

I wish for freedom.