Chapter Forty-One: Nightmare (Patreon)

Eyeing the nasty chimera warily while backing up, I wonder how to kill it. I don’t exactly want to get anywhere near its venomous bits – because you can’t tell me that those fangs aren’t just as likely to be venomous as the tail – but my knife and mace are both close-range weapons. Then, once more, I remember that, a) my Inventory still contains a slot full of flint nodules, more stones available on the floor as well, and, b) I also have that branch I picked up for my axe which might do as a spear at a pinch. Plus, the only real advantage in my favour is, once again, size. The creature is big for a spider, but it’s still only about as big as a large cat or small dog.

The spider-monkey-snake thing lunges at me. It’s quick, the six legs not just there for show. I don’t think running away will be feasible – I think it’s probably faster than I am. As a strike from its tail comes at me, I realise I need to get my head in the game.

Throwing myself sideways to avoid the creature, I grab a stone in each hand as I push myself to my feet. I throw one of the stones, missing as it dodges agilely. It’s almost on me again and I dodge backwards, throwing the other stone at almost point-blank range. It hits and the creature makes a horrible shrieking sound, but the thing is still tenacious enough to latch onto my leg with its fanged mouth.

I shout in pain, the curved fangs digging right into me. At the same time, I’m convinced that I can feel its venom pumping into me, even though I probably actually can’t. Fear isn’t usually very logical. After my experience with the black blob and finding out that Lay-on-hands isn’t a catchall for poison, I’m a little paranoid about getting hit with it. I catch its tail as it tries to strike me again, and, pulling my knife out, I stab it frantically.

Its pincered legs scrabble against me, cutting into my vulnerable flesh – and turning my jeans into ribbons at the same time. I don’t let go, and neither does it, not until it just suddenly goes limp, all life leaking from it with the ichorous substance that appears to be its blood. Very aware that whatever venom its fangs undoubtedly have is still probably pumping into me, dead or not, I quickly pull its head forwards and out, my stomach turning at the sensation of tugging and sliding.

I dump the creature on the ground and sway on my feet. I don’t feel so good… Quickly sitting down before I can fall down, I cast Lay-on-hands, hoping and praying that it will work.

The venom burns in my veins – I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining it this time – and I feel weak and sick. In fact, I end up dumping the contents of my stomach onto the ground next to my head as my body reacts to being poisoned. I break out in cold sweat and my throat goes dry. When my vision starts wavering, I become really worried – did I not catch it quickly enough? Is Lay-on-hands, even at Novice rank, not strong enough? Or is this poison another one that’s somehow immune to my healing magic?

I can’t really do much more, though. I don’t know what this venom is doing to me, so I can’t use the more focused version of Lay-on-hands to offer better healing. All I can do is just keep casting and hope I have enough mana in the tank to deal with the damage.

It feels a bit touch and go for a while, but eventually, my surroundings fade back into full colour, my body no longer needing to concentrate so much on the poison attacking it. I still feel sick and weak, but I’ve been on death’s door often enough recently to know when I’ve pulled back from it.

When I’m able to get to my feet and start walking slowly, I decide to just go home straight – no point chancing my arm. I’d planned to leave the corpse of the horror-movie reject – sponkake? Monspike? - where I’d dropped it before, but a few steps away, I reconsidered. What if I could use its venom on my arrows? I hesitate, but eventually turn back to put the thing in my Inventory – it’s worth a shot. Pun not intended.

Heading back, I keep casting Lay-on-hands as soon as I get enough for two in the tank, and slowly I start feeling better than death warmed over. I pick up the pace a bit and reach the cave as night is falling.

After what happened earlier, I feel a bit awkward and wary walking past Kalanthia. She probably realises – no doubt I’m releasing fear pheromone that she can smell, never mind the fact that she’s a telepath. Either way, she does me the favour of ignoring me, allowing me to sneak past without exchanging a word.

My grilled bird meat tastes good, especially when I sprinkle a few grains of salt on it: nothing like a life-death struggle to increase one’s appetite! I suppose it’s the realisation that I’m still alive and my opponent isn’t that adds a bit of spice to what has become very boring otherwise. I’d felt too sick after my encounter to feel the usual triumph, but satisfaction fills my belly, both physically and emotionally.

Exhausted by the events of the day, I go to bed soon after eating and fall asleep quickly.

*****

I suppose that after the stresses of the day, it’s not surprising that I have nightmares. Honestly, it’s probably more surprising that I haven’t had them earlier – my nights so far have mostly been blissfully empty of dreams. That I remember, anyway.

Tonight, though, it’s a return to those good ol’ nightmares I really don’t miss. Fearful visions that leave me panting with a pounding heart and cold sweat all over my body. They’re not all logical, mostly fragments of being attacked, being chased, teeth tearing into me, claws ripping me apart…. Kalanthia has a role, but no more than any of the other monsters: some of them monstrosities I’ve come across in this world; others I’ve never seen while awake.

My dad’s there too. Sometimes he is with me, running away from the monsters. Sometimes he’s pulled down and killed first. Sometimes he pushes me into them. I wonder what that says about my opinion of my father. A therapist would probably have a great time trying to analyse them. No, that’s not right. A therapist would just drive me mad with asking ‘and how do you feel about that?’. I’ve had enough therapy sessions in my life to know how it goes.

But there’s no therapy here. I’ll just have to deal with my own demons. Fortunately, there’s no alcohol either as I have a feeling I would have dived back in the bottle to get me through the night, if I’d had the chance.

I used to love the dead of night, when all is quiet and still. Sometimes when I was young I’d wake up for some reason at some strange hour and wonder if witches were out flying on their broomsticks – the witching hour. I’d read several books where the hour between midnight and one was a time of magic, of creatures emerging which otherwise stayed hidden, or of normally ordinary kids being able to extraordinary things.

Then my mum had the accident and that magical time turned into a nightmare.

Instead of being filled with magic and wonder, I started spending long hours in the middle of the night stuck in a mire of my own thoughts. Nasty, accusing voices would entangle me in a web like a fly struggling against a spider. My strategy of filling every moment of the day to push the voices away didn’t work between midnight and dawn.

Although therapy helped me regain a sense of peace with myself, the middle of the night never returned to the time of quiet, watchful, liminal space that it had been before my life first took a nose-dive. At best, I manage to sleep through it.

Right now, though, I don’t feel very sleepy after such disturbed sleep. Hit with a pang of longing, I pull my backpack out of my Inventory and rummage in it, my sense of touch finally finding the slim device it’s looking for. Turning my phone on, I’m dismayed to see the level of its battery. Despite having been off for basically the whole time I’ve been here, it’s already below forty percent in battery charge.

I mean, it wasn’t fully charged before I arrived in this world, but I wouldn’t have thought it would lose battery charge less quickly. Perhaps there’s something about the Inventory which drains the battery. Either that or my battery’s age is working against it.

Biting my lip, I decide whether to turn it off again, or not. In the end, I decide to use it. The current power’s not going to last the length of time I’m stuck here, for sure, and I highly doubt I’ll be able to create the kind of stable electricity it would need to charge – even if I found the right kind of metal and was able to make wires, I don’t think a potato battery would cope with my phone’s greedy consumption. I might as well use it while it still has battery left.

For a long time, I flick through the photos and videos held on my storage card. It’s bittersweet, seeing pictures of my ex, my dad, Lucy’s family who had almost become my family before she broke up with me and I couldn’t bear to face them, even various colleagues who I’d gone out to drinks with. I watch a video which I’d managed to take of my dad unawares, when he was watching his favourite comedy. I took it because it was one of the few times since his diagnosis that I’d seen him laugh until tears ran down his cheeks.

My eyes blur as I replay the video again and again. It’s only a few seconds of video before he caught me taking it and laughter was replaced by a frown, but it’s a very precious few seconds.

When my screen goes black, it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Have I drained the battery that fast? Maybe I should have turned on airplane mode, preserved its battery just a bit longer. Regret fills me, along with its common accomplice: guilt. If only I’d…

No.

No. I’ve worked too long and too hard on my mental health to allow myself to be pulled back in. I let it happen before, too much shit happening with no one around to help me keep my head above water, and look what happened. I got to the point of suicide, and then made a stupid decision to leave everything behind and come to this hellhole.

“I’m not guilty,” I whisper severely to myself, trying to remind myself of the conclusions I came to after years of therapy. “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill him. The accident wasn’t my fault. The cancer wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything to cause either situation, and I did all I could to help them.”

I repeat the words over to myself like a mantra, feeling like they’re hollow in the dead of night. But I have to believe them, I have to. I can’t afford to loose my motivation, not here. I’ve rediscovered my zest for life, and I can’t let the tide of depression pull me back down.

Markus Wolfe, what ails you? The voice in my head makes me jump, but for all that, it’s a relief. Kalanthia’s clear tones cut straight through the sticky sludge of my thoughts like a bell would cut through the mournful howl of wind.

“Sorry, did I disturb you?” I reply after a moment, my voice scratchy and thick.

I woke because of the waves of distress emanating from you. I don’t believe we are under attack: are you ill?

“Not physically,” I admit. Then, because it is the dead of night, and because the ball of tangled negative thoughts and feelings demands to be released, I continue. “I just...I miss home. I miss my...I miss my family.” The ball of emotions within me pulses once more and I swipe at my hot eyes. There’s a long pause.

Come, she commands. I hesitate, not wanting to face her, not wanting to leave my cocoon, just...not wanting to move. Come, she commands again after waiting for a few moments. Her tone is unmistakably authoritative. I can’t resist it, especially not now with my willpower at such a low ebb.

Crawling out of my cocoon of jacket/blankets, I head out of my alcove and stand awkwardly near the hole which is my entranceway.

Closer, she commands, and I wordlessly obey. What else can I do? Sure, I could walk out of the cave – I doubt she’d follow me, not with Lathani sleeping cuddled up to her side, visible to my eyes only because of a shaft of moonlight. But honestly? I don’t want to be alone. I reallydon’t want to be alone.

As I get closer, she lifts one of her forelegs and hooks her paw around me. The paw by itself is the size of my torso, highlighting just how big she is. Gently, as if I’m a cub like Lathani, she pulls me in close to her. Prodding and poking me, she guides my body into an arrangement where I’m snuggling up to her shoulder, held in the circle of her foreleg and against the side of her head.

It’s...surprisingly comfortable. Warm, for sure, and fluffy. Really fluffy. I mean, not as fluffy as a kitten, or even a cat – she clearly is an outdoors creature – but still far softer than I would have expected. It’s also a bit of a change: from threatening to kill me earlier today, to cuddling me now. But everything that has happened since I’ve arrived in this world, I think the fact that said giant leopard doesn’t hold grudges is probably the best news I’ve had all week.

Sleep, Markus Wolfe, she tells me. And I do.