The Oracle’s Tale Part 6

(Beep. Music fades in)

Maybe I don’t need to say this, but to pick up the story where we left it, Mom and I left shortly after Grandpa’s outburst. And that might have been the only appropriate response to what he said. I mean, it did weigh on me for the longest time. I mean, I can’t deny that his words did hurt me Nor will I. But that wasn’t. It could have been, but Mom never get that far. You see, we didn’t leave because his attitudes about obedience and the cosmic order were detrimental to me, even though they probably were. We left because in his outburst, he had wounded my mother’s pride, and she had never learned how to cope with that. Or deal with him. It was why she left his house in the first place.

She’s never been that good at handling her emotions, even for her child’s sake. And true to form, this is why we left. We didn’t leave for me. And what’s worse, I don’t know if leaving was the best thing for me. Yes, he was capable of hurting me. In some way. His antiquated values were not going to come without a cost. I was going to be collateral damage for the many fights he and my mom were going to have. I can’t deny any of that, but at the same time, he knew what I was. He always had. And at that point, he was the only one. It would take me years to find someone else.       

I’m not saying he would have been a great guide. I doubt it. But I think it was my right to have him as a guide. I think it was my right to have something--even this non-ideal model to trace over while I worked everything else out. But once again, my mother’s pride took that away from me. She took something from me that was mine technically by birthright. It happened all the time. I fail to see how I couldn’t have been a little bitter about it. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

The drama of our hastily departure was forgotten soon after we returned. If anyone was curious about the timeline of events, Mom shut down their concerns with a quick and harsh look. She did it all the time. I twas not something anyone of us weren’t used to. But honestly, because my stepdad was notoriously for not being able to handle literally anything on his own, I don’t think anyone was inclined to ask. In that brief time, our household had descended into chaos, and everyone was glad for the reprieve.

And I hated that. I hated that I was the only person in the world who could see this injustice I had suffered. And I hated that I was expected to overlook it for everyone else’s sake. But that wasn’t even the worst part. This was the defining theme of the story of my life. It was always expected that I would set aside my concerns or feelings because it was convenient for everyone else. Especially my mother.

She never apologized for that. For leaving. For taking this away. In her defense, it’s not like I said anything about being hurt. In my defense, I was far too beaten down to talk.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

My pain and failure to protest aside, life moved on. Strangely enough, I found I could handle this mounting sense of despair and disappointment. I mean I found a coping mechanism. Actually that is to say, that I found a refuge of some kind. I found a safe place to lay down my burdens, though to my surprise that I wasn’t thrown out.  And if you know anything about the Catholic Church, you would probably be surprised too. They’re pretty rigid about the no fortune telling, no tarot cards, no predictions or telepathy or whatever this is. But then again, it’s not like they knew. That’s a critical part of being shunned, and it’s the one good thing that came from my mother’s abrasive nature and distaste for all of this.

I don’t want to say that was the only good thing about her, even if I do feel like that from time to time. It’s usually better for everyone if I just disengage with her. Or soon her memory. 

It helps, I think, that I don’t look like her. I see quite a few blessings in that because I imagine it can’t be easy to hate the sight of your face. But on the other hand, with the way things are, I end up spending hours looking in the mirror on a bad day. Because it’s not a reflection of something I dislike; it is a portal to my past. To my dad. But he’s not in this part of the story.

(Extended transition - Music fades out and new music fades in)

However, I should point out that the dreams never stopped. I wanted them to. In my desperation, I really didn’t have a choice but to try and brute force them out of my head to some sort of end. But it never worked. They did, however, become about more trivial things. Like where my band teacher misplaced his stuff, especially his baton. If that’s what it’s called. I’m talking about that long usually white stick with the chunky bottom. I don’t anything about band anymore. That feels like another life. A life I had to leave. And there’s something tragic about that because that was my other haven until it was taken away from me a few years after this. And even then, the cracks were starting to show. 

But the church was always there. And I thought my constant visits to it helped make these dreams more bearable. Don’t ask me how. I didn’t care about the how. It was just so easy to see causation where there maybe isn’t any because it beats the terrible, terrible uncertainty of a coincidence. And I mean, hey, it’s not like this whole thing doesn’t occasionally feel demonic.

The church my family attended was a brief walk from our home. Close enough that my mom permitted me to come and go as I please. To add to that, the side door was never locked. It didn’t need to be. It was off-to-the-side and out of sight. You had to know it was there, and if you knew it was there, you would also know that our church wasn’t the type to have anything worth stealing.

I knew this, not that I cared about theft or my potential for it. It was just my way of getting in when I was desperate. And apparently I knew this both in real life and in my dreams.  On the night everything went wrong, when my peace was destroyed, I could also call it. Or when this new era of fear and dread was ushered into my life. There’s so many ways I could say it, but none of them can really make you understand what I felt in that moment. I don’t even know how I felt. I don’t even know how I feel now half the time. Sometimes it is just better to disengage.

I came into awareness in the dream during that all too familiar walk to the church from our home. It was familiar, but as I came into myself, it happened with a jolt. Nothing about this was particularly odd. So why was I so scared? I glanced around. It looked like it was night, but no, it wasn’t night. It was the early morning. When the world around you stands in anticipation of the sun’s arrival, and the stars begin their departure, fading into the sky in their flight. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

No matter where I’m going, I shouldn’t be out late at night. Or early. Or whatever. That’s why I was so frightened at first. Force of habit you could say: it reaches you even in your dreams. I was bound to our home by the movement of the sun, and yet, I was outside, where I should not have been. I did not retreat. I did not have that option. I kept moving forward. Autopilot or external force, whatever was driving me wasn’t clear. It didn’t announce its presence. But did it matter? I want it to matter. Both then and now. I don’t know why I care now, but back then, it was a distraction before I ended up at that door.

I came up to my usual side door. As always, it opened up to a small architectural inlet behind the altar. You were essentially contained in this small corner once you crossed the threshold of the door, but to be fully in the church, you had to make a grand entrance of sorts by coming around the corner. Or that’s how I always thought of it. I think it’s just the weird way the synapses of my brain fire, I guess. I mean, I had an odd way of coming around that corner, and sometimes thought and action geet intertwined into nonsense

Instead of just walking in, I would crane my neck around the wall, peering into the main body of the church before proceeding in. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I guess if I saw a reason to not go in, I could heed it.

That’s real life though. A place that has always seemed safer to me. In real life, it’s so much easier. In real life, the place would have been empty. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

But in the dream, that’s when I saw him. I saw him, sprawled out on the floor, held down by his old age. His body, twisted and distorted, was still. It couldn’t move. I could see the life slowly seep away from the physical body. But worse yet, the mid remained clear. He stared back at me. Begging me. For what, I don’t know.

I didn’t know what to do. It was a dream, yes, but it was a type and style of dream that had proven itself to be reliable. But all the same, when I woke up, shaking and stricken with abject horror and terror, I tried to write it off as nothing. Dismiss it as nothing. Maybe not a lie but not my responsibility. After all, I thought to myself, it didn’t matter if it was real. I didn’t know when it could happen, if it would. He was there every day, every morning. That was his church after all. But it was a church shared by many. He was never the only one.  

This did not need to be my problem because certainly someone else would find him.

(Music fades out. Beep.)

Fourth wall break. One thing to tell you. The Oracle of Dusk has a Patreon now! Link in the show notes. I’ve got three perks for you. Ad reads you didn’t have to hear because of donations, a Q and A, and a bonus series. Check it all out.