Click. Click. Click.

The boy under the table pathetically chokes back on his sobs. What a stupid child: how can he really believe that he’s properly hidden? Even if he were able to prevent the whimpers from escaping his lips, even if he were able to calm his hysterical, saw-tooth gasps for air, even if his wild scrambling didn’t cause the table to wobble and groan, it’s still just a plain wooden table. And it saw him dive under there.

Click. Click. Click.

Through his tear-filled eyes, the boy can barely make out the shifting shapes in the shadows. Something is taking slow, deliberate steps towards the table, towards him, but the idiot doesn’t have the common sense to try to do anything. How can he not try to do something? A petty, self-centred child who can’t see beyond himself, who can’t see the inevitable consequences of his inaction. He alone is able to do something. Yet…

Click. Click. Click.

A monstrous foot smoothly connects with the floor mere inches from the boy’s leg, claw tips catching the tiles with a soft Click. The boy’s screams lodge in his throat as his gaze travels up that impossibly bulky, green-scaled limb. Now he succumbs to absolute terror, his blood freezing over and locking all his limbs in place. Strangely, the incomprehensible horror gives brief comfort to the child. The utter despair paired with the impossibility of the situation – it must be a dream! And now he has realised it, surely he’ll wake up any second, back in his bed, his parents getting ready for work?

What an idiot.

In an instant the table is torn away, the explosive shattering of glass signalling its collision with the window. With the curtains now ripped clean off their rail, blinding moonlight streams in from behind the boy, framing the monster in a demonic spotlight.

There’s no frame of reference for what this is, simply a chaotic mismatch of features. Two green scaled legs, each ending in a foot with three black talons. A curved yellow beak. An impossibly long, fleshy tail. Two black, hairy, lumbering arms swaying as though disturbed by a breeze. A body pitched forward, balancing the arms and tail. Upon its back, a gently swirling mass of pale pink scaled tentacles stand lazily, some as thick as clubs, others as sharp as a blade.

Even more terrifying than all of this, however, are the eyes. Green, humanoid eyes. Completely devoid of anything resembling thought. The world seems to stop as the boy makes eye contact. There was a cold, inevitable reality in those eyes that banished any sense of fleeing or fighting. No, that’s not right - the idea of fighting had never even occurred to the boy. How? How can he just sit there, and not do anything!?

The monster rears back and shrieks, louder and more ferociously than anything the boy had ever heard in his life. The finer tentacles on its back snap into action independent of the rest of the body, whipping over the creature's head to impale the boy in a dozen different places. Subconsciously the boy tries to lean forward to assess the damage, but the tentacles have him pinned in place. For a moment he feels warmth from his pooling blood, before being replaced by a coldness spreading throughout his chest.

So what? You can still fight. You would win! There’s a kitchen beyond the door, with so many different kinds of knives. In an instant you could be there, and then kill this thing with your own bare hands. Or you could just run into your parent’s room, and shuffle them out through the back door. Please, just hurry, before-

The monster, secure in its catch, now moves unnaturally slowly. It turns to face the boy, and takes slow, methodical steps in his direction.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The cold has spread all over, and the boy refuses to think. He makes no thoughts as the beast lumbers closer. Through the tears and fading eyesight, the boy sees the lumbering arms slowly raise, outstretching primal, leathery hands towards his face. Despite the smooth tenderness of the motion, there’s no doubt: those arms will rip the boy to shreds.

The spark of that thought triggers the innate fear of death. What ought to be the last beat of the boy’s heart is louder and more powerful than any before it. The boy begs God, the universe, anyone, just to be gone, to be impossibly far from here. The furthest he had ever been was on holiday once, to the Kolation Isles... Why can't I be there? thinks the boy.

And suddenly, the boy is on a beach.

A perfectly blue sky, the sun stands high overhead, the waves gently roll and crash mere metres before him over the pristine white sand. For a while, the boy has no thoughts. He just experiences the space around him. The happy sounds of children talking, the deeper, calming response of their parents. The world is at peace, in a truly idyllic landscape, on holiday with his Mum and Dad, right?

But… the monster? The boy looks down – he can clearly see his pyjamas, shredded and saturated with his blood. With a shaking hand, the boy opens up a gash in the wet cloth, expecting to see the holes in his skin. But no. There is nothing. No gaping wound, no cut, not even a blemish behind slick pools of blood. He sits, there, dumbfounded.

Come on, hurry up. Figure it out. It’s obvious. You teleported. What else could it be? Now, go back. I said, GO BACK. Get back home as soon as possible! Why are you wasting time, you must know what will happen! HOW DARE YOU FEEL RELIEVED, THINK ABOUT MUM, THINK ABOUT DAD. WHY ARE YOU JUST SITTING THERE GO BACK FOR THEM BEFORE-

!!!

The sudden pain in my forehead knocks the dream out of my mind. Where am I? I need some time to reorient myself. I’m breathing too hard, I’m completely slick with sweat. Well, there goes my night’s sleep. I throw the covers off, and turn from the wall where I bumped my head to squint at the clock on the bed-side table. Yep, there’s no recovering from this – morning: ruined. A shame really, cos this is by far the best bed I’ve slept in in months. Silk duvet covers are hard to come by, even in this part of town.

Well if it’s time to get up, that means it must be time for breakfast. As I stand, I feel no sense of fatigue. Did I even fall asleep at all, or was it just a runaway memory? Maybe I didn’t even need that much of a rest, I have been pretty lazy for the last few days after all.

Now I stand before the fridge. Half a pint of milk, a few eggs, some fruit. All well past their expiration date, of course. People don’t normally stock up on food before they go on holiday, after all. Maybe there’s a place I can get a bite nearby?

Now I’m in front of the window – there, with its front door and sign perfectly silhouetted in the lamplight: a bakery! And now I stand before the front door. I cup my hands over my eyes between my head and the glass to get a better view of the inside against the glare. Yes, a selection of biscuits and cakes lie in glass containers, undoubtedly tomorrow’s half-price selection.

And now I’m inside, rooting around a cookie stack for the one with the most icing, and then I’m sitting in the living room, my new prize in hand. I take a bite as I fumble around for the TV remote – yeah, it tastes a day old. Sweet, though. Ah, there’s the remote.

Just before I can turn the TV on, I hear the blaring of an alarm from outside.

Oh, come on. Really, did I really just trigger that? I’ve been able to keep a low profile in this city for weeks, and I’m about to be undone by a midnight snack? I know a million-and-one places without any sort of security system, but I chose to sample the local delights. Is this high-rise accommodation getting to me? Sy, you’re an idiot. Well, let’s just check out what I just set off.

I’m back in the bakery, and the ringing of the alarm instantaneously transitions to deafening. I look up – ah great, it’s just a motion sensor, not a camera. Okay, I’ll just –

Tap tap tap.

It came from the door. An instant later and I’m back in the apartment, standing at the window overlooking the bakery. A dishevelled, hunched man in thick, worn clothes totters confusedly, tapping on the door. He’s alone in the street, framed wholly in the lamplight,

Oh dear. I bury my forehead into my palm, and take another bite out of the iced cookie. I did check across the road right? I always check the other side of the road. You know, so I don’t get seen just teleporting into a bakery? I mean, I know I always get a little rattled after the dream, but this is just sloppy. How can you be so dumb, Sy?

So now there’s a homeless man banging on the door of a bakery, with a siren blaring. Any officer will get there, put two and two together, and that guy will get put away for attempting to break in. For God’s sake. I take one last bite, leaving half the cookie remaining, and swallow as I rest it on the window sill.

Now I stand next to the man, and tap him on the shoulder. He whirls around, nearly collapsing with the speed with which he stops. Up close I can see how old he is. Wrinkles, grey hair, a beard that surely hasn’t been trimmed in years. In the light I can make out the sickening mosaic of bruises and scars across his cheeks and forehead. His bloodshot eyes blink in shock as his mouth drops agape.

“You! I’ve… I’ve heard of you!”

“Oh really?” I ask, putting my arm on his shoulder and gently leading him along the pavement with me.

“Yes! Yes I have! They all talk about you, the boy who disappears! I didn’t believe in you!”

“Easily done,” I half laugh as I pick up the pace. I can hear cars in the distance – could it be the police? We need to get a bit further away before I relax.

“They say you bring food and drinks,” the man says. Oddly, I don’t hear a request in that statement.

“I’ll get you something in a minute, okay? I didn’t mean to set off that alarm, and I don’t want you caught up in it.”

“Oh,” mutters the man, who turns his head as though realising the alarm was blaring for the first time. “Thanks, but... don’t you think you’re a little… young to be doing all this? There should be foster care for kids your age.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be homeless? There should be a hole in the ground with your name over it for people your age.”

The old man laughs louder and longer than he ought to, but I couldn’t help but join in. He seems like a cool guy.

“Okay, point taken. It’s not my business. Just be careful, okay? Don’t be setting off any more alarms, of they’ll get to you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t thinking straight. A bad dream and all.”

“What about?”

“You know, just a bad dream.”

The man nods sagely.

“Of course,” he says as we turn a corner. “I’ve had my fair share of those. I recommend a glass of milk before bed – it used to do me a world of good.”

Really? Well, it sounds cliché, but I’ll definitely give that a try. The alarm sounds more distant now, but I’ll accompany him to the shelter, just in case. What day is it? When do the meals get served?

“Thanks for the tip. What do you fancy, by the way?” I ask nonchalantly as I hear distant cars pull up to the bakery. The man shakes his head aggressively, so hard that I need to catch his arm before he topples over.

“NOTHING! Nothing at all, young man! I will not have a child stealing on my behalf!”

“Calm down, calm down,” I say in an even tone. We’re too close to a suspected break-in to be raising our voices. Still, it’s kind of funny that I’m the guy saying that, of all people. “Look, that’s not up to you. No matter what, I’m going to get you something to eat and drink. And if I’m stealing for you, may as well get something you actually like out of it, right?”

I keep my voice calm, but firm. Whether it’s old age or something else, the man clearly isn’t all there. He needs help that I cannot give, and that hurts. The best I can do to ease the pain is this small gesture.

The man doesn’t speak for a few seconds, and when he speaks it’s as though something is lodged in his throat.

“I, umm, well, if you insist… I don’t suppose a bottle of green is too much?” As he spoke, the man had started to fidget a little. I understand of course – it’s hard to ask for help normally, but I sense this is the sort of guy unaccustomed to it. What sort of life had he led before he lost his license? I glance up to meet his eyes, and as we pass a light I notice a droplet of azure blood rolling down his cheek.

I let go of the man’s arm in an instant, afraid I’ll squeeze it by mistake. Control your breathing Sy, keep calm! Don’t lose it here.

I make a smile.

“You know, usually I don’t get alcohol. But I’ll make an exception just this once, if you do something for me.”

The man blinks in surprise – perhaps he hasn’t heard of the disappearing boy asking for anything before. But I sense a spark of pride light within him, and he stands a little straighter.

“Yes, sir! If you need assistance, I’ll be happy to provide it!”

“Thanks man, you’ll be doing me a massive favour.” I take a second, making sure I maintain my composure. “I don’t suppose you can tell me where you got that cut?” I ask, tracing my finger along my cheek to mirror his injury.

The man snaps a quivering hand to his face, smearing the blood over the side of his face. He stares at his stained hands as we walk.

“I mean,” I continue, carefully trying to keep my voice even as we traverse the darkness between the lamps, “I can tell it’s relatively new compared to the rest. I think it opened up a little while ago while we were talking. It doesn’t look like you cut yourself shaving, sir.”

“Oh, well, you know, it’s…” the man says, his thoughts in disarray. I can tell he’s picked up on the feelings I’ve meant to keep hidden. What’s wrong with me today!? At this point, it’s just a comedy of errors, except without a drip of humour.

“Someone did that to you, didn’t they?” I don’t think I can mask my disgust any more, regardless of how hard I clench the fist in my pocket. “Just tell me who, and I’ll get you an entire bottle of green.” I force a laugh. “Just don’t drink it all at once, okay?”

“I… I don’t think I should say. It isn’t your concern, young one. I don’t think I feel thirsty, actually.”

Okay, calm down, calm down. Calm my breathing. Relax my arms. Pretend as though I don’t want to punch through a brick wall. Fake it ‘til you make it, Sy. I cover my face with my palm in mock humility.

“No sir, please don’t misunderstand! It’s just… well, it’s just that I meet a lot of people like yourself. If there’s a dangerous group of people, or a place to stay away from, I like to pass on the message.”

There’s a pause. The old man brings his hand to his face, gently biting the tip of his finger. I can sense that beneath many layers there’s a man who knows I’m lying. But the man standing before me is no longer that person, and confusion flickers across his face, before he nods enthusiastically.

“Oh, of course! That, er, that makes sense.”

“Of course it does. So, where did it happen?”

“What happen?”

“The cut, sir.”

“Of course! Well, I was sitting along the pavement along Blackwell Road.”

“Outside the pet store?”

“No, beside the bank. I was sitting there, asking for… well, you know, when along walks this dazzling young lady! Her hair all done up, biggest earrings I’ve ever seen, and the sort of dress you only see on TV, right? But I could tell by the way she walked she wasn’t the type to engage with what I had to say, so I didn’t say anything. I think that might have upset her somehow, as she kicked my right in the face with that stiletto heel of hers!”

Breathe, Sy, breathe.

“Did you recognise her? Catch a name?”

“No, no… So, if you pass on the message to others, let them know to be careful of who they ignore I suppose. The world is full of all types.”

I can’t take it. I take the man’s hand firmly, and bring us to a stop. With all my strength, I force another smile.

“Thanks for letting me know. Now, wait just right here for a minute, okay?”

Before he can respond, I’m gone.

It’s day time now, and like my dream I’m once again at the beach. Today, it’s a dreary day, with a clouded sky and murky waters, almost like nature knows how I’m feeling. It feels a lot smaller for some reason – the entire perimeter of the island can be seen as I turn slowly. My own private island, hundreds of miles from anywhere else, where nobody can hear me scream.

I scream.

I scream, I beat my hands into the sand. My anger overflows uncontrollably, and I don’t know what exactly my arms are doing. There’s a tiny part of me – the part of me formulating these thoughts – that is able to partially detach itself from the rage of the rest. But not fully.

How…why… how can people do that? Every day it’s the same rubbish. Every day I see it, the way they treat the people on the street. How people will treat those who fail to maintain a civilian license. How cruel and EVIL people will be to each other!

I remember as a kid watching early morning cartoons. The bad guys were all massive men with capes and twirling moustaches. They’d boldly announce themselves and revel in their heinous deeds. But real people, the real SCUM of the earth, are those who don’t even think about the shit they do! It’s not fair! Just a ‘young lady’. A rich young lady. That doesn’t narrow it down! I can’t stand it! I’m still screaming and thrashing my fists, and I can’t take it. All this anger, and nobody to punish. She’ll just go about her stupid, insignificant life like nothing happened.

Okay, Sy, it’s time to calm down. How long has it been? Is my throat saw yet? I promised the man a minute. I look around: the scarred site before me looks no different to the rest of the sand in the island this far away from the waves. I dust down my hoodie – I don’t want the guy asking too many questions after all. I check both my pockets – yep, switchblades are still there! As my hands brush against the handles, the rage boils over yet again as I imagine what I would have done if I’d been given just a bit more information.

Steady breath. Let it go, Sy.

Now I’m a cellar halfway around the world. My eyes adjust pretty quickly as I peruse the selection before me. Funny, really – it’s been months since I’ve been here, but it only ever looks more and more abandoned. That’s the stupid-rich for you – what’s a mere missing fortune here and there?

Now, when it comes to green, old is best, right? I just grab the oldest date I see, and now I’m in a larder. An entire fruit cake on an ornate silver tray– that’s both healthy and tasty, right? It is fruit after all. I balance the tray in my arms, and then I’m back on the street, the old man dutifully standing where I had left him. After a second, he leaps back in shock, then starts laughing hysterically.

“Blimey! Blimey! Could have given me a heart attack! You were gone for a while - I thought you said a minute?”

“Oh well,” I pass over the bottle whilst keeping the tray balanced on my knee, “it was a hard choice. You deserve the best.”

The man turned the bottle in his hands as his eyes glaze over in a memory. “You know, I used to… never mind. Thank you very much, young man! This will keep me warm tonight.”

“Don’t drink it all at once. Take this, too, you’re all skin and bones.” I start to pass the tray over, then realise the absurdity of expecting him to wander the streets with it. “Oh, one second.”

A few moments later I stand before him with the cake packed into a plastic box. He eagerly accepts, like a child receiving a birthday present. Then he wavers, a flash of concern across his face. The next instant, the expression is gone again.

“Oh, you’re the boy who can disappear! I didn’t believe you really existed!”

“You know, I hear that a lot,” I say cheerfully, my heart breaking.

“You know, I was just taking my stuff,” he indicates to his bottle and box, “to the shelter, but I can’t quite remember…”

“This shelter?” I ask, indicating to the derelict, poorly illuminated old house behind me. The man nods his head enthusiastically.

“Ah yes, thank you child! Well, I’ll be off now, it was nice talking to you. Be careful out at this time of night, it sounds like there’s a robbery going on somewhere.”

He stumbles off behind me. I don’t like it. I never like it. But I need to say it.

“Goodbye,” I mutter.

Wait, I need more.

“What did you say your name was, again?” I call just as he reaches the door. He jolts around, and is clearly surprised to see me. He clutches his bottle to his chest and draws up to full height.

“Michaelo duPont. Glad to meet your acquaintance. And what is your name?”

I hold my tongue. He’s clearly not right in the head. Could I give my real name? What if he remembered just enough to let it slip, though?

Michaelo sways a little, his expression faltering. Actually, I don’t think he’ll cause me any trouble.

“Sy. Sy Actis. It was nice to meet you, Michaelo.”

Michaelo salutes me formally. “And an honour to meet you, sir! Good luck with your bad dreams!”

And with that he makes an expert right turn, and disappears into the homeless shelter.