Young Oscar Bruges returned to stalk the streets of his city--no, not his city, but a dark, nightmare version thereof. The streets were as he had remembered them, yet everything else had changed. He knew what was happening. This was all a dream. He'd had the same dream several times before--walking through the city before finding himself in the park or at a graveyard, staring at Madeleine's tombstone. Her last name read as Bruges, leading him to believe that they'd been married once upon a time in this dreary world and wonder why his dreams were never of those (assumed) happier times.
He also dreamed once of writing. He sat down at his old typewriter, struggling at first to find the words, but they came in time. Upon waking, he found this particularly odd since he'd been told that one cannot read in dreams, and if one cannot read, one cannot write. But the words had been clear. More importantly, they continued on each night, from where he'd left off the time before. In these dreams, he was writing the same novel, with the very same words, as one in the waking world, and that next night, finding himself trapped again within his strange, prophetic dreams, he was able to recall his place--no longer doomed to wander the same empty streets night after night. In a week's worth of dreams, he wrote.
For awhile, the dreams stopped, and he couldn't remember anything when he woke the mornings after. It was as if there was nothing more to dream about--only a dark void, absent of purpose and meaning. Soon, the dreams returned, and with them came a sort of understanding. He could remember things that had never happened, and like his own Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, he wandered the streets of his future, to see things as they would come to be. His town was to be a corrupted place, the buildings and streets coated in a thin layer of corrosion. Something bad was going to happen, he realized, but he had no idea what it would be.
He walked quickly past the diner, clad in the sneakers he'd found at his bedside, and this time, he remembered to change the rest of his clothes first, never comfortable wearing only the bed clothes he had in all his dreams before. This time was different. This time he felt as if there were some grand design.
As he rambled down Main Street, the first inkling of that purpose presented itself. There had once been two book shops on this street, right across the street from each other, not far from the town square. One dealt only in new books; the other only in used, and though there was never any direct competition between the two, there was still a celebrated rivalry, with one constantly trying to outsell the other, throwing impromptu sales when the neighbor across the street did the same, though each maintained their own distinct clientele. It was all in the name of fun, and their efforts were often toasted at a gathering at the end of every year, when employees from both shops got together without the pretense of mock indignation that swirled around both businesses every other day. Both had once been staples of this town. Both were now gone. One had become the outpost of a chain of coffee shops; the other a neon-signed hair salon.
Oscar began to wonder what could happen to drive both, the pillars that had once supported the town's small artistic and literary scene, away. A certain fear crept into his mind--something that makes all writers shiver and keeps them awake at night like the boogeyman of an entire profession rattling chains beneath the bed. He ran the entire mile, crossing the square and bringing him near the university campus, where a small bookstore that catered mainly to students once operated. It, too, was now gone. Another few blocks away stood the public library, now divvied into a set of small offices and a cafe that specialized in bagels.
Suddenly, as if a memory had been dislodged, everything made sense, and his fear was confirmed. Somewhere, somehow, the novel had died, and there was nothing he could do. There was another, though. That much became clearer in time. There was someone who could do something. Maybe she couldn't perform a resurrection, but at least she could plant a seed that had long gone dormant.
He knew exactly where to find her--an apartment by the railroad tracks. It was a place he had never been, but he could see and feel it from so far away. He sprinted down the streets, traveling easily back to the edge of the campus, following the railroad tracks with his eyes as he darted along the sidewalk and finally settling in front of a dark brown row of quiet, dormant apartments. The third from the right, he somehow knew, was the one he wanted. Outside the door, there was a vague scent of old paper and ink--as musty as leather, the rugged smell of worn books.
He hesitated a moment before knocking. There was something he was supposed to say, something he had to tell her, but what? As if sitting in front of his typewriter, he searched for words that he could not find and knocked only out of desperation, fearing he would wake before he could pass the message along, if only he could figure out what that message was supposed to be.
There was a long pause before the door opened, but when it finally did, she stood there, beyond the threshold, dark of hair, gleaming green eyes in the weak yellow light of the street lamps outside. In that brief moment, she looked so much like Madeleine. It was an eventuality for which he had attempted to prepare himself, but even so, shock ran like chain lightning along both sides of the door. She stared at him, her eyes wide and mouth agape.
"Kate!" he said, as if he had known her name all along. "It is you. I have something to tell you... something... something important."
Her mouth moved, as if speaking, but he could hear nothing. It was as if her words existed in another wavelength, something far beyond his ability to listen.
"I can't remember... I can't remember what I have to say."
Then it came to him, and he knew what the message was meant to be. Just as he began to speak again, she took him by the arm, her hands wrapping around the muscle of his forearm. His words halted. His eyes closed. The world went dark.
"Oscar? Oscar!"
He opened his eyes to find Kate standing before him, clutching his arm in her hands. The look on her face was an amalgamation of fear and surprise, and as he came to his senses, he would have fallen if not for Kate's determination and firm grip, pulling him immediately back to his feet. At last comprehending where he was, his eyes darted to his hands, rough and wrinkled. He examined his arms, now pale and thin. He was the same man he had always been, trapped in an aging body that had been worn away by time as waves wear against rock.
"I don't understand," he muttered to himself.
"Oscar, what's going on?"
"Kate, tell me what happened!"
"I just finished reading the segment of the novel you gave me. You knocked on my door, I answered it, and here we are. By my count, it's your turn for an explanation."
"I was asleep, Kate. Asleep."
"Oh."
"Was I young? Was I a young man when you opened the door?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Kate, when you opened the door, was there a young man standing where I am now?"
"No, Oscar, just you."
He sighed, exhaling held breath.
"It was just you."
He also dreamed once of writing. He sat down at his old typewriter, struggling at first to find the words, but they came in time. Upon waking, he found this particularly odd since he'd been told that one cannot read in dreams, and if one cannot read, one cannot write. But the words had been clear. More importantly, they continued on each night, from where he'd left off the time before. In these dreams, he was writing the same novel, with the very same words, as one in the waking world, and that next night, finding himself trapped again within his strange, prophetic dreams, he was able to recall his place--no longer doomed to wander the same empty streets night after night. In a week's worth of dreams, he wrote.
For awhile, the dreams stopped, and he couldn't remember anything when he woke the mornings after. It was as if there was nothing more to dream about--only a dark void, absent of purpose and meaning. Soon, the dreams returned, and with them came a sort of understanding. He could remember things that had never happened, and like his own Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, he wandered the streets of his future, to see things as they would come to be. His town was to be a corrupted place, the buildings and streets coated in a thin layer of corrosion. Something bad was going to happen, he realized, but he had no idea what it would be.
He walked quickly past the diner, clad in the sneakers he'd found at his bedside, and this time, he remembered to change the rest of his clothes first, never comfortable wearing only the bed clothes he had in all his dreams before. This time was different. This time he felt as if there were some grand design.
As he rambled down Main Street, the first inkling of that purpose presented itself. There had once been two book shops on this street, right across the street from each other, not far from the town square. One dealt only in new books; the other only in used, and though there was never any direct competition between the two, there was still a celebrated rivalry, with one constantly trying to outsell the other, throwing impromptu sales when the neighbor across the street did the same, though each maintained their own distinct clientele. It was all in the name of fun, and their efforts were often toasted at a gathering at the end of every year, when employees from both shops got together without the pretense of mock indignation that swirled around both businesses every other day. Both had once been staples of this town. Both were now gone. One had become the outpost of a chain of coffee shops; the other a neon-signed hair salon.
Oscar began to wonder what could happen to drive both, the pillars that had once supported the town's small artistic and literary scene, away. A certain fear crept into his mind--something that makes all writers shiver and keeps them awake at night like the boogeyman of an entire profession rattling chains beneath the bed. He ran the entire mile, crossing the square and bringing him near the university campus, where a small bookstore that catered mainly to students once operated. It, too, was now gone. Another few blocks away stood the public library, now divvied into a set of small offices and a cafe that specialized in bagels.
Suddenly, as if a memory had been dislodged, everything made sense, and his fear was confirmed. Somewhere, somehow, the novel had died, and there was nothing he could do. There was another, though. That much became clearer in time. There was someone who could do something. Maybe she couldn't perform a resurrection, but at least she could plant a seed that had long gone dormant.
He knew exactly where to find her--an apartment by the railroad tracks. It was a place he had never been, but he could see and feel it from so far away. He sprinted down the streets, traveling easily back to the edge of the campus, following the railroad tracks with his eyes as he darted along the sidewalk and finally settling in front of a dark brown row of quiet, dormant apartments. The third from the right, he somehow knew, was the one he wanted. Outside the door, there was a vague scent of old paper and ink--as musty as leather, the rugged smell of worn books.
He hesitated a moment before knocking. There was something he was supposed to say, something he had to tell her, but what? As if sitting in front of his typewriter, he searched for words that he could not find and knocked only out of desperation, fearing he would wake before he could pass the message along, if only he could figure out what that message was supposed to be.
There was a long pause before the door opened, but when it finally did, she stood there, beyond the threshold, dark of hair, gleaming green eyes in the weak yellow light of the street lamps outside. In that brief moment, she looked so much like Madeleine. It was an eventuality for which he had attempted to prepare himself, but even so, shock ran like chain lightning along both sides of the door. She stared at him, her eyes wide and mouth agape.
"Kate!" he said, as if he had known her name all along. "It is you. I have something to tell you... something... something important."
Her mouth moved, as if speaking, but he could hear nothing. It was as if her words existed in another wavelength, something far beyond his ability to listen.
"I can't remember... I can't remember what I have to say."
Then it came to him, and he knew what the message was meant to be. Just as he began to speak again, she took him by the arm, her hands wrapping around the muscle of his forearm. His words halted. His eyes closed. The world went dark.
***
"Oscar? Oscar!"
He opened his eyes to find Kate standing before him, clutching his arm in her hands. The look on her face was an amalgamation of fear and surprise, and as he came to his senses, he would have fallen if not for Kate's determination and firm grip, pulling him immediately back to his feet. At last comprehending where he was, his eyes darted to his hands, rough and wrinkled. He examined his arms, now pale and thin. He was the same man he had always been, trapped in an aging body that had been worn away by time as waves wear against rock.
"I don't understand," he muttered to himself.
"Oscar, what's going on?"
"Kate, tell me what happened!"
"I just finished reading the segment of the novel you gave me. You knocked on my door, I answered it, and here we are. By my count, it's your turn for an explanation."
"I was asleep, Kate. Asleep."
"Oh."
"Was I young? Was I a young man when you opened the door?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Kate, when you opened the door, was there a young man standing where I am now?"
"No, Oscar, just you."
He sighed, exhaling held breath.
"It was just you."
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