In-between Pages
SARAH OSBORNE
He wished he’d acted on the things that cascaded through his thoughts. Instead, he kept himself confined within these four walls. Instead of being isolated, he’d act with exhilaration. Instead of loneliness, he'd be kept awake with excitement. And instead of being heartbroken, he would be living with obsession and passion.
But instead his best friend is the wall, opposite the television. During the day, he stares at it, waiting for another dose of energy. During the night he does the same, body stoic, hidden in the shadows, unblinking. His mobility had been snatched away from under the cover of his own home.
He watches the moon go through phases of emptiness every night. And every night the moon’s snare encased him, as if he too, disapproved of him.
Then, late one night, a cold hand is placed onto his shoulder, snapping him out of his stupor.
“I have been constantly calling you, and you haven’t even sent me a message saying ‘I’m okay,’ What have you been doing?” She comes to check on him occasionally, but lately she might as well have moved in. She inherited their mother’s generosity. However he wasn’t so fortunate.
Stepping into his line of focus, she obstructs the moon's distaste and condescending glower, and scowls at him. Tousling her dirty blonde locks, she points to the hallway, down to the front of the house.
“The front door is wide open. Do I even want to know how long it’s been that way?”
Shuffling around the living room, she finds a blanket and covers his body. Disappearing for a moment, she returns seconds later after the door ‘clicks’ shut. The house now encompassed in darkness, his eyes never falter, staying pinned to the blank wall as she starts to tidy his place.
“Mum would hate to see you like this. You just know how she’ll react. She’s already complaining to me about how you won’t make the effort to see her, especially at an old age.”
Tripping over an empty tuna can, she frowns and lets out a sigh. “Your place is a dump.”
His eyes never stray from the wall. Moving became too much for him.
Placing the pillows back onto the couch, closing the blinds, and carrying filthy plates into the kitchen, she hustles around. Tucking in chairs and picking up clothes she works, gathering wrappers and throwing rubbish away. Picking up pieces of his life, and trying to fix him.
Coming across a stain in the carpet that smells strongly of alcohol, she exhales, her anxiety starting to sky rocket. It’s cold in the house now, and since he hasn’t replaced any of the lightbulbs she has to squint to see him. She can barely see his silhouette, but his eyes shine in the darkness, a look so eerie she thinks about keeping her thoughts to herself.
But as a sister, she cannot.
“You’re 34 years old. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Henry.”
Sitting down gently next to him, she settles herself into the cushions, the pillow cradling her neck as she tilts her head to the side to look at him. They never looked alike, not even when they were little. Whilst she had blonde hair and chestnut brown eyes, he followed in his dad’s trail of brown hair and blue eyes. They used to be so full of thrill and happiness, the blue so light it almost won over the sun. Now they are as dull and lifeless as the monster that’s crawled inside of him.
“You hated staying inside.” Looking around she adds in haste “and you hated the dark. Now you live and breathe in it.”
Sitting forward, she leans into him, opposite eyes staring into one another, one pair seeing everything, and one that sees nothing at all.
Lightly she adds, “You lost your job, Henry.” Looking around at the once grand house, she shakes her head and places her head into her hands. “You’ll lose your house.”
There was silence then. As her words sink in and circle around his head, her words slice him open. He oozes pain.
Slowly, he shifts his head. It’s stiff and heavy, his neck struggling to balance all the thoughts gushing through and spiralling down his body, waking his limbs up. Tasting anger, his eyes leave the wall and rest on his sister, who sits with a defeated look, weighing her down into the couch.
“Get.” “Out.” If you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it. His voice, raspy with disuse, carried no emotion. But they’re sitting so close their legs touch, and darkness fetches noise, and rides it to the farthest point it can go.
Shining hair falls in front of her face as she lifts her head up from her hands. Without looking at him, her shoulders grow stiffer, and her back straightens, like a child who grabbed at her doll and tugged.
“I’m trying to help you. There’s nothing left of you, Henry. You’re all skin and bones.”
All that anger is now funnelled together in a ball. And he wants nothing more than to throw it right at her face. How dare she judge him under his roof? She needed to leave. Now. Now. Now, now, now.
“Now!” He shouts. His yell resounded off every wall, dust bouncing off the shelves. Confused, she asks, “What?”
“Leave!” There leaves no room for debate.
The door slams shut.
Suddenly, the colour falls from his body and leaks out onto the wooden floorboards, his skin a ghostly pale glow in the gloom. Exhaustion overwhelms him. Laying back, he slams his eyes shut and sleeps the entire day away.
Like a spirit, his body lifts high into the air. As if he had been picked up from his shirt, he floats in the centre of the room, still completely unconscious. The hair that usually sits limp on his shoulders floats above him, tickling his face.
Laying succumbed and suspended in the air, no movement comes from his limbs. The room is darker now, like even the moon couldn’t stay to witness. The black encompasses him and he is swallowed whole.
—
He feels … nothing.
There is no unforgiving breeze, nor is there any noise. There isn’t a pillow comforting his neck as he lays, nor the light of sun poking through his lids. There’s no pain or anger. No misery, or despair. No pressure, anxiety, or sadness. Everything just … still. Too still. Blinking his eyes open, he’s greeted with an open white sky. Crinkles run through it like a balled up sheet of paper unravelled. No clouds, or birds. No trees sprouting out the ground. Just white.
Groaning, he sits up and rubs his head. Looking to the right, he double takes, his skull pounding as he shakes his head clear. Fighting the urge to faint, he takes in his surroundings. Unable to process his thoughts, his eyes grazed over the paper thin trees stapled to the ground and the cut out flowers glued onto the floor. Everything is two dimensional. Shifting to make an effort to stand, his fingers thread through the flimsy blades of grass, making a crumply sound as they fold beneath his weight. Everything is one solid colour, stretching as far as the eye can see.
What is going on?
Standing on wobbling legs, he takes a moment to look at himself. He’s a small frame, and abnormally thin, but normal. Perfectly normal. Human. Relieved, his head tilts up and takes another moment to process what he sees.
*Grrr*
The silence is sliced by the agitation of his stomach. Breaking him out of his thoughts, he places a hand on his belly, and lifts his gaze. Unsure of why his stomach feels so hollow, his mouth waters when he catches sight of an apple tree not far off in the distance. Lifting himself up and off the blades made of paper, he walks up to the small tree, stands on his tiptoes and grabs the closest apple. It’s beautifully red and luscious, shining in all the right places. But when his hands grab it, the perfect origami apple is squashed until it’s merely a ball squashed under dirty hands.
Is everything made of paper?
Thoughts scrambled, and fear setting in, he strains to remember the previous night and the acts that led up to him being here. Did he fall asleep? Is this simply a dream, his eyes shut being the only reason he's here? Fingers touching the corner of his open eyes, he prays he wakes up soon. Unable to think of any other explanation, he lays down on the paper, and shuts his eyes. Waiting for his body to simply thrust him back into reality, he forces himself to lay still on the hard, flat surface.
Quiet voices wake him up moments later.
“Talk to it.” One said.
“No you.”
“You found it first.”
“Yeah well you were the one who wanted to go off route. You talk to it.”
Feeling his boot kicked, Henry continues to lay there. Too scared to look at them, his lids stay fastened down, his eyelashes skimming the top of his pronounced cheekbones.
“There, I nudged it. It didn’t wake up. Let’s go.”
“Bernie, no. It could be in trouble.”
Silence. Then he felt a puff of breath on his face. Then two. Three. Four.
“What is it, Rey?” Stuttering, the stranger swallows before he continues, “It’s certainly not from here. It looks.. squishy.”
Another kick to the boot. His body rocks slightly, and it takes effort for him to keep his breaths even and heart rate steady.
“It’s breathing. It must be fine.”
A prod to his skin.
“I bet it’s another one of those beings from the other world.”
Another prod to his stomach.
Another kick to his arm.
Another jab at his waist.
A sharp stinging pain comes from his arm.
Shooting up, he lets out a hiss as he snatches his arm away from the onslaught and rubs. Hearing two pairs of feet bound off, he whips his head around, trying to catch sight of the curious duo. Scanning the forest looking for the two culprits that sprout curiosity from their head, he spots them.
A bush just to the left of him. Shaking, its leaves fall off, one by one cartoonishly. The bush then lays bare, and the two boys sit with their butts in the air, and their heads in their hands. Turning to take a glimpse at him, but seeing him already staring, they shake and shove their face back into their hands.
“Um.” They gasp. They huddled closer.
“Hello.” One whacks the other, mumbling about getting them into trouble.
“I was just wondering if you might be able to tell me where I am.” Looking between their legs at him, and seeing his cautious smile, they stand up.
They’re small, barely taller than knee height. They stand close to each other, their bellies slightly too big for their shirt. Pointy nose, long hair, and small spiral horns, they stare at him.
Henry stares at them.
What strange looking creatures. Oddly looking, they shuffle closer, their two dimensional body almost blending into the background.
“You are simply here.” One responds back with.
“Where is that?” Henry questions.
“That is here, where you are.” They look at each other and nod.
“What is this place?”
“Our home.” Nodding, they look at him.
Sighing, Henry runs his hands through his knotted hair.
“I’m trying to go home. I woke up here, I’m lost. How do I go back home?”
“You’re home?” They attempt to mimic him, threading their fingers over their blocked paper hair, but their arms are not long enough to reach, so they rub their pointed chin.
“Yes, home. The opposite of this place.”
“Opposite?”
“Yes, the opposite. Three dimensional. Manmade. Humanity.”
They look at him. Then each other. Then at him. Then each other.
“Sounds sad.” Bernie states. Henry’s arms collapse to his sides.
“No. I mean, I can’t remember exactly. I can't remember anything before this. But I don’t belong here, like you two. I’m not a drawing. I’m not a cartoon.” His head tilts down.
“But you could be.” Staring into their forest green eyes, he realises they’re being serious. Taking a step closer, his small paper hand touches his round arm.
Finally looking down at himself, he takes in what he hadn’t noticed. His shirt is filthy, the material in tatters. His body is doused in cuts, and wounds half healed. Nails bitten to the quick and socks with holes, he stays silent. Then the most prominent, his hunger. He’s deathly hungry. Had he not had a good life?
“Be with us. In between pages.”
“What?”
“Do not return. Remain here. We’ll help you forget. You don’t have to live that life anymore.”
Leave?
Although he can’t remember who he had been before this, Henry knew he must have had loved ones. He must have a life, wherever that may be. Desires, wishes and needs. Love, excitement and acceptance. Looking at the tears in his clothes, he decides he needs to help this person, whoever he may be.
Sarah Osborne is an aspiring writer from Macquarie University who draws inspiration from fiction and fantasy novels. Spending hours at a time reading, she hopes to one day publish a novel that excites and transports people into a imaginative world of her own.
