Secrets of the Subconscious Mind

Just like clockwork. That’s what they say isn’t it? Every three years, on the exact same day, I fall into the deepest slumber and emerge within a world quite unlike my own. I walk along the same cobblestone path of this medieval wonderland, the clip clop of the horses carting townsfolk from place to place is always music to my ears. Though the marketplace is bustling with the early afternoon rush, there’s something calming in the clear and simple routine. I almost forget this isn’t my waking world. It feels so familiar.

It’s only when I see him step towards me, I remember this calm does not last. Every part of this dream world is identical to when I last visited. Every moment, every object, even down to the last grain of dirt on the ground is exactly the same. Everything, that is, except him. He changes with me, grows with me.

The first time I entered this imaginary space, I was four years old and it wasn’t long before a little boy with piercing blue eyes to match my own appeared before me. Brice was as short as I was, which was really saying something, and though his hair was a different style to my own wavy locks, it was sandy blonde just like mine. I felt immediately connected to him and wanted nothing more than to spend all my time in his world. What I wouldn’t give to trade his life for mine.

Now, he stands before me once again, no longer the youthful child I had known. Sixteen years old, he smiles at me with the same crooked smile he always has, but I know where he will lead me.

“Aren’t we getting a little old for this?” I ask, “Surely, a little walk around town isn’t too much to ask.”

“Come with me,” he whispers, as urgent as always if somewhat deeper, “There’s something you need to see.”

With a tired sigh, I take his hand and let him lead me to not the deep, dark forest at the edge of town. As always, he strides forward with such conviction until woods begin to close in around us. The path beneath our feet disappears and we can no longer find our way. There is no trail before, nor one to back. We have no way to go on, until a faint flutter of feathers catches our ear.

Upon a gnarled and bowing branch, settles a strange scarlet macaw, the same we always see. It’s near featherless face tilts in our direction, a wisdom in its eyes unknown to those as young as we. When it speaks, it speaks with authority, intelligence, and just a hint of sass.

“Lost your way little ones?” the colourful bird questions, “What is it that you seek within this darkened forest?”

“Truth.” Brice replies, “Deep within this forest lies the cottage. You know the one I mean. This one will find the secret within its walls.”

The old macaw meets my eyes for just a moment, before it nods its head with great intent. The walls of bark and leaves part to reveal a one thing path and one alone. We thank it for its guidance and wind our way through the wilting wood. The trees begin to droop as we venture further inward, until finally we reach a small clearing.

There, within the clearing sits a decrepit, old cottage. The dusty stonework crumbles at the edges and odd, round windows are tainted with tiny cracks. This is where he stops, where he always stops. I know all too well these next steps will be taken without my guide, my lifelong companion.

Breathing slow, steady breaths, I creep carefully towards the cottage. As I reach the door, a cackling call rings out through the air around us. I turn back towards Brice for support, but, as usual, with him the sound draws no response.

When I wrap my fingers around the rusty doorknob, it turns with ease. The door creaks open and I step. The interior is well dressed with colourful potions of every hue lining shelves upon the walls. A crackling fireplace lives on the far end of this empty room, with a pristine, brass staircase, winding upward to its right. Everything in the room has its place. Everything, that is, except for square, blended rug sitting slightly off centre.

Each step towards the rugs raises the sense of dread within me. Something lies beneath it. I know it does. Something important, so important I fear what it will do to me if I finally find it. As I peel back the well known rug, revealing a waning trapdoor, my hand begins to shake. I’m so close. My fingers touch the handle and I lift it lightly, knowing I’ve never been this close before.

Every three years, I’ve come here, and every three years I’ve found the source of that pit in my stomach, the one that follows me home. I grasp the handle within my hand and try to find the courage to face what lies within this hole. On the count of three. One, two, three.