His arms flailed around as he tore the scratchy wool blanket off of him. The memories of the nightmare faded from his mind as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Cold sweat kept his pyjamas stuck tight against his skin.
Thomas stretched his arms out wide and yawned. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, then slowly slid off of it.
Floorboards creaked as he landed with a soft thump. With Shaky steps, he waddled over to the dinner table in the middle of the room. Stretching his hands up high, he hooked his fingers over the rim and hung from it, balancing on the tips of his toes to keep himself from losing balance.
He caught a flicker of silver in the corner of his eye, turning his face to it, he saw himself in the mirror. Thin, pale and adorned in ratty old nightwear. Light brown hair came down to his shoulders. Thomas smiled wide and ran his tongue across his teeth, he wiggled it inside the gap where his last front tooth used to be. After a day of fiddling with it, the old baby tooth had finally fallen out. He just wished that the adult ones would grow in faster.
Thomas glanced about the room. The last few months had been a blur of moving from one place to the next, his mum told him that she just needed to find a place where she could get the right job. Though it wasn’t anything like home, Thomas had gotten quite used to the single room hovel they had been staying in for the past few weeks.
The bed they shared sat in the corner, a chest containing their belongings was cuddled in beside it. Two dark varnished chairs were tucked against the dinner table, the only proper seating they had. On the table was a vase, white and speckled with blue stars, Mother thought it would help brighten up the room. It used to have roses, but they had wilted and died a few days ago, she said she didn’t have the time to find fresh ones.
In the opposite corner from the bed was the kitchen. The counter top was made from what looked like spare lengths of floorboard, just sanded smooth and sealed with oil. Under it were a few cabinets and drawers for holding bowls, plates and utensils. To the side was a pile of wood, and to the side of that was the fireplace. An arch of red bricks with a chimney that towered upwards through the ceiling. A blackened pot hung above the flames.
And tending to the fire, gently prodding with a poker and feeding it slivers of the firewood, squatted Thomas’s mother. She was wrapped in a dark green sun dress, bright spirals of yellow looped across the fabric. Wavy locks of brown cascaded down her shoulders. She had her back turned to him.
His cheeks went flushed, and his eyes stung with tears. Thomas knew it hadn't been long, but he was so happy to see her. He raced across the room and threw his arms around her, squeezing her tight around her waist.
“Mum, Mum!” the young Thomas whined, “I had a horrible dream, I was all old and smelly and there were monsters. You weren’t there, I thought I would never see you again.”
“Oh, deary me,” his mother sighed as she continued to stoke the flame, not turning to face him, “That must have been so awful. But it was just a dream, now go back to bed sweetheart. It’s still late, we’re having stew for breakfast, it needs to cook overnight, and I need to make sure the flame will last.”
Thomas pouted, “But I’m too scared to fall asleep, won’t you please read me a story?”
His mother huffed, “Don’t talk back to me. I said I need to tend to the fire. Go to bed, and I will read you a story when I am done,” her grip on the poker tightened as it stirred the coals more vigorously.
He stopped hugging her and took a step back, “Oh, I’m sorry Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you. Are you okay?”
“What are you still doing here? I told you I will read you a story when I’m done.”
Thomas was stunned silent. He slowly blinked as he processed what his mother said. Nervous suspicion began to stir in his stomach. Something wasn’t right, this isn’t how his mother talks to him. He took one glacial step after another, slowly circling to her side without drawing her attention and further anger. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, leaning forwards in order to see her face.
“Mum?”
Thomas screamed; he squeezed his hand tight as the burnt gash began to throb. Notes of roast beef filled his nostrils. It was agony.
“You stupid boy, I told you to go back to bed!” his mother growled as she came to her feet, winding back her arm for a second swing with the white-hot fire poker.
Thomas gazed upwards, confused and afraid. His eyes widened as her hair parted from her face.
There was no face, only a featureless patch of skin.
Reflectively, he fell backwards, desperately pushing himself away from the thing that he thought was his mother. Thomas bit his tongue, wincing with every step he took with his burnt hand as he scuttled on his hands and knees.
“Useless rat!” the doppelgänger bellowed like an enraged bull, “Why can’t you do anything right?”
His head turned to the side as the mirror caught his attention again. The image before him was his true self, old and decrepit, but still possessing the height of a child when compared to the surrounding hell.
He leapt away from one swing only to catch another on the hip, warm frothy apple cider poured from the wound. Thomas nearly slipped on the drink as he stumbled away.
Rushing for the door, he jumped up at the handle with all the strength he could muster. The door stretched and contorted to keep it just out of reach. Cursing under his breath, he scanned the room for another way out, only to be interrupted by another flurry of swipes. Thomas twisted and contorted around each swing, just barely missing the last blow as the hooked end of the poker tore at his bed shirt.
His eyes flicked between the monster and the door.
The doppelgänger’s weapon would be more than long enough to reach the handle.
Thomas ran to the opposite side of the room, the doppelgänger hot on his heels. Diving forward as he dodged another strike, he slid on his belly towards his bed. He lunged a hand under it towards a familiar corner. His mother stomped towards him, raising the fire poker above her faceless head, ready to bring it down with force.
Thomas’s fingers curled around his story book, carefully wrapped and tucked safe under his bed where he always kept it. She gasped as she toppled over, tripping over the prized tome Thomas threw at her foot, the bed frame creaked as she collided into it. He then took his chance and bolted to the dinner table, climbing onto a chair before hoisting himself onto the tabletop.
The doppelgänger had moved from the bed.
He could not find her.
Thomas held the vase firmly between his hands, raised high and waiting for her to come near. As if following the cue from a story, her featureless head peered over the side of the table. The vase shattered into a thousand pieces and the doppelgänger fell onto her back.
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With a yell, Thomas jumped off the table, landing with all his weight onto her head. There was a gentle crackle. Thomas felt cold ooze under his feet. Her head had caved in like an egg, her hair falling off like a poorly fitted wig, and out from the shattered egg leaked a bright yellow yoke. The yoke stared up at Thomas with pinprick eyes and wailed like a baby.
He wasted no time, grabbing the fire poker and awkwardly dragging it towards the door. Groaning, he hefted the length of steel over his head and hooked it onto the handle, then relaxed his grip and let the poker slide slowly downwards between his hands, pulling the handle open in the process. With a soft click, the door swung open.
Thomas went through without hesitation.
As soon as he stepped outside, the door slammed shut behind him.
Thomas placed his hands on his knees and took a moment to catch his breath. His childhood pyjamas had been replaced with his typical hunting gear, thick leather boots, dark pants, shirt and a tattered hood he repurposed from an old blanket, the wounds on his hand and side had vanished, in place of the fire poker was his trusty bow. The quiver was nowhere in sight. Thomas sighed as he unstrung the bow, ready to use it as an improvised staff.
He flinched slightly with surprise as he turned behind him. The door was missing, in its place was a marble pillar. He glanced around and found more, they criss-crossed an endless expanse, supporting an all-encompassing vaulted ceiling above. The room was like the great hall of a cathedral that went on forever, every surface crafted from grey stone. The light of a full moon emitted from behind his head, no matter how he twisted and turned, he could not find the source.
With nowhere to go and without a real choice, Thomas picked a random point in the distance and began to walk straight towards it.
⁂
His only solace was that in the purgatory he found himself in was that he didn’t grow tired, and his feet didn’t ache from walking.
The endless walking.
The echo of one foot fall was followed rhythmically by another.
On and on and on.
Thomas couldn’t remember where he started from or how long it had been since he began. A few hours, days, weeks, months, there was no way for him to tell. There was no sun or moon, morning birdsong or nighttime chorus of insects, only the sound of his own breathing. Thomas was beyond boredom; the monotony tore at him like a wolf biting through a deer.
He picked a pillar at random, slumped down against it, the mental exhaustion striking him as soon as he sat down with the force of a hammer. He closed his eyes, focusing on his heartbeat.
“Oh, stop it, you’ve been through worse. Do you have to look so sorry for yourself?” an old man said, mockingly. Thomas snapped to attention, twisting backwards to face the stranger.
On an old tree stump sat Flanigan, staring back at him with a familiar scowl, beams of sun poured through the leaves and left spots of gold where it fell on his leathery face.
Thomas stumbled over his words, any idea of what he could say to his no longer dead mentor. His mouth was left agape as he examined his surroundings. He was no longer in the endless room. Thomas knew where he was, the clearing was in the northern section of the Delmerk, about an hour and a half walk from Orhill. It was late spring, fresh green leaves adorned the trees and the air was filled with the sweet perfume of wild flowers.
“How did we get” – Thomas paused, biting his tongue. It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. Once more, he met Flanigan’s gaze – “how did you get here?”
The old man was an aged mirror of his nephew Rodrick. His skin was wrinkled from old age and countless hours working under the sun, a few wisps of white hair surrounded a glistening bald patch like a silver crown. He had the same clothes as Thomas, although less worn and with fewer patches. Thomas had inherited most of his wardrobe from Flanigan.
He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow at Thomas, “You’re close, but that's not the question you should be asking. How did you even get here?”
Thomas stuttered, “I-I don’t know.”
“Well, that's a damn pity. I can't believe it took two years without me for you to lose your head.”
“Oi!”
“Don’t you oi me, you’ve probably been spending more time at the White Lilly than your own home without me having to drag you back every evening.”
Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples, “It’s been difficult without you. The town has never been kind to people like me.”
“It was never kind to both of us. But at least you’re still alive, that's something.”
“I suppose so.”
“But enough about that. Think boy, how did you get here?”
Thomas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly retracing his steps in his mind, “I woke up in bed in –”
“Before that.”
“What do you” – he paused, a realisation smacked him upside the head – “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
“There you go, was that so hard?”
“How long?”
“No more than an hour. If you’re still with them, your new friends are probably already sick of having to drag you around.”
“Or they left me behind. Either way, I need to wake up. How do I get out of here?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, the fact you finally put together that this is a dream means you’re close already,” Flanigan scoffed, “You could have figured it out sooner, though. The faceless mother and the infinite church would've been my first guess that something was amiss.”
“How do you –”
“It's a dream, you idiot. I’m a figment of your imagination.”
“Could've fooled me”, Thomas said, rolling his eyes, “you’re just as much of a pain in the ass as he was.”
“Just as much as you remember him being, you mean?”
“I said what I said.”
“I know you did.”
Thomas sighed, turning to face away from the living memory of Flanigan. He was not in the mood to be harassed by the dead. Gazing upwards, he took the moment to feel the warm sun on his face. Goosebumps forming as a cool breeze passed over his skin.
“You don’t happen to know a way for me to wake up faster, do you?”
“I do,” Flanigan replied, “Just hold still.”
Thomas turned around, “what do you mean hold-”
Before he could scream, a charging frogtaur tackled him, knocking the wind from his lungs as he smacked into the floor. A glowing alien weapon was pressed against his head. Thomas pushed against his attacker, but it wouldn’t budge. The weapon grew hot against his skin, the pitch of the hum growing louder and louder.
There was a loud bang as his vision went white.
⁂
There was a loud smack as Thomas sat upwards. He held his mouth in his hands, muffling a groan of pain.
Collapsed to his left, nursing a bruised cheek, was Paul.
Thomas realised he must have been checking up on him when he began to stir, and that he gave him a full force headbutt when he snapped awake.
The room he found himself in was dark, the slow pulsing of red ceiling lights gave only enough light to make out silhouettes. Every surface was lined with metal plates bound together with thick rivets. Crates were stacked floor to ceiling, completely filling the far end of the room.
Thomas placed his hand to his forehead, a thick cloth was wrapped tight around it, sticky to the touch. With the dim glow, he noticed his left pant leg came down to his knee instead of his ankle like the right one. He swore under his breath, he liked that pair of pants.
The rest of the surviving group members sat in a row along the walls, either whispering amongst themselves or trying to take whatever amount of rest they could get from the calm the brief pause gave them. Junior was off by himself, squatting by the door, turning his head back and forth as he peered up and down the outside corridor.
“He's been keeping watch since we found this room,” Paul said, answering the question Thomas thought but didn’t state.