Travis tossed around his bed, his movement a restless turning, beads of sweat making points on his forehead as his shut eyes were strained. He woke up in a start, like an utterly frightened man. His breathing returning to normal after some self-induced calming moments, he whispered again and again, "It was only dream." He looked around his room but couldn't discern the familiarity of his surroundings. "Just a dream," he tried again to reassure himself controlling his jagged breaths.
But in his room there were no longer sooth walls or the morbid painting he had grown accustomed to seeing. It was like he had been teleported to a different place. It was no longer a room but a road. He was not on soft mattress but on a hard cemented road. In front of the road sits an exquisitely furnished three bedroom terrace duplex, which is painted a colourful yellow and sides red. A place Travis remembers so vividly that his body jerked with the identical motion of a man cursed with epilepsy.
The origin of all his nightmares, his trauma, his pain; he was laying right in front of his father's house and it was not a question of non-existent things being conjured up. It was laid out in front of him. Travis looked on through confused blurry eyes to the very place which defined his existence, which he had no reason to be back to.
No closure could ever be found from this place, only the worst memories his mind never wanted to lock away and totally forget about.
The house was the same as the past days, his childhood days; eloquent and pristine. The outdoor lights bright and encompassing over it's rich surroundings. The lawns were trimmed and held a healthy colour that showed it hadn't been abandoned for years but it had been–for years. He left. More like ran from here ages ago. it should be overgrown with weeds and past the stage of an abandoned building.
Maybe, he never did wake up from that dream? But this couldn't be a dream for his nightmares had never been as clear as this, his long nights had never been so vivid.
Gathering his courage, Travis got up. Push opened the dwarf gate that lead to his truth and in sluggish motion of the brain dead, walked towards the front door, looking around for anyone to jump out and say it was a prank. He was in a horror movie of his own making or rather his father's making because Travis was just one of the bricklayers, his father, the esteem Architect and nothing could be done about it.
"Go in, Travis," a voice whispered. And without no control of his bodily functions, his shaking hands were twisting down on the handle, his mouth gasping for any air available and sweat dripped from his already pale face.
"I won't go in," he answered, pained. He couldn't face his father or the remnants of the ghost that slugs his scent through the house. He couldn't face whatever that was waiting behind the door.
He ran from here. He should never be here. He ran! But his unwilling touchy hands couldn't hear his heart threatening to burst out from his chest, couldn't see his tear-stained face, or it fought all urge to care; his demons haven't always been the most affectionate type.
The door swung in slowly, it's handle making a sound as it collides with the adjacent wall and then, there was only darkness, and silence. A hand began forming in stages. From the grass and roots around, it sewed muscles and tendons. This hand made from seaweed and vines appeared beside Travis. In it's grassy hand, a phone with its touch on. It passed it, to which Travis gingerly took, proceeding to flash it inside the house. And all became white. There standing in the living room, breathing in and out at a fast pace that their face was redhot was him. Travis sees himself, very clear, very small. The fifteen year old version. Across this version of him, this very clear, very small self, was his father.
Travis looked on at this and was lost in despair. He tried to draw back, tried to shut the windows of his soul to this, there was no loophole, he had absolutely no control, and was only strong enough to content with his waking world, even the sweat already drowning him in, he had no control of that.
"Step in," the voice ordered in its whispery voice again. "It is your house isn't it? Step in and invite me like a gentleman."
"Please, anything, anything apart from this. I won't do this."
"Don't you want me to know you? I just want to know you. See you very inside, you very soul!"
Travis refused.
But the voice continued unperturbed by his stubbornness. The voice was curious. Curious and bitterly happy.
"Now what do you see? It is the thing hidden inside your soul that have come to life."
"So its not real," Travis replied. "This is an illusion. This is magic."
"I don't think you're blind. You will experience this truth that have certainly frightened you all your gloomy life."
"Don't do this," he cried out, when he realized the only logic explanation of this. This was magic. It was she toying with him like machine that he has become to her.
True to his admission, Jovic materialized beside him. Her beautiful face everly stoic, nothing but a hidden deep joy to see someone else's pain, Travis seeing her in her true light.
"Look," Travis gazed at her face, with baby tears, trying to find a way to coax out any better side to her. "Everyone has that one thing that's makes them the most scared. That one thing that is the broken part of their life. This life is filled with pain, I know that, but there is always some that define you." He pointed at this scene before him, "this is mine. So don't do this. I beg of you."
She shook her head disapprovingly. "I never knew you were this deep." Raised a hand caressing his cheek for a minute. "I hear you."
He nodded in relief. "Thanks."
"But I feel like I will like the broken you. Its much better to build, and don't worry, I will fix you well."
And came the wind that pushed him from the rear, and there was no more point in his continuous resistance. So he stood before father and son, his back against the door, his front to his past.