2019-06-04 - The Red Dress. The Plaid Shirt.

Waking up while upright is an odd feeling.

Opening his eyes, the first thing Easton sees is not his ceiling or his bedroom or any normal sight. No he's standing on the boardwalk, and kind of cold. Slowly his eyes focus and notice that he's not alone, there are people moving about the crowded boardwalk on what appears to be a very busy and sunny day here in Gray Harbor.

But as the wind blows in off the ocean, Easton becomes aware of two salient facts. First, he's naked, save for his artificial leg he's entirely bare, hence the bit of chill. Two, the other 'people' walking around the boardwalk are the exact opposite, they appear to be sets of clothing walking along, doing all the actions of people, looking filled out as if wrapped around people, but otherwise empty.

Trying to come to grips with how this has come about feels like a less important thing than figuring out the rules of his new environment. First and foremost are we dealing with invisible people and visible clothes? Because Easton like to think that would leave an artificial leg clomping about.

That theory seems to not be supported by the way that pair of jeggings and trendy loose hoodie over a tanktop just wrapped their sleeve around where the head of the smaller set of children's clothes walking nearby it.

Oh good. So he's naked. People can see him.

poke

It's normally rude to poke at people's heads but Easton figures this probably isn't real anyway so rudeness can probably be forgiven. That and the fact that his hand soars right through where the head of the person tee-shirt should be on, should be.

Easton frowns deeply and tries to figure out what that means when he sees just a plaid shirt, jeans and boots approaching him. And not just any plaid shirt, but his plaid shirt. His jeans and boots. The shirt reaches out a sleeve, wraps it around his hand and starts to lead him down the boardwalk. Plenty of clothes people turn to look at him, some seem to turn quickly away embarrassed, some seem to openly appraise him. One tight sparkly shirt and tight well fit jeans obviously cranes it's neckline to watch him walk away, not wanting to miss a minute of the show. Oddly Easton is pretty sure he recognizes a pair of bright yellow pants, top hat and black suit jacket over an ironic tee-shirt, that appears to be doing magic tricks on the boardwalk. He tries to call out to what must be Aidan, or at least his clothes, but finds that his voice doesn't seem to work here. And trying to send his thoughts does nothing except cause the shirt to tug on his hand harder.

Moving past the crowd, which parts to make way for him, Easton is less concerned with the clothes getting a peak at him in his altogether than where this plaid shirt is taking him and if the fact that it's his clothes means that it's him or some version of him? There's a joke about the clothes making the man there but he doesn't have anyone to tell it to and isn't sure it's all the funny to begin with.

Walking into the bar, his bar, Easton is relieved to see that it too is only populated by clothes, but noticeably dressier clothes. There are a few suits and fancier dresses around that clash with both the usual clientele and the clothes walking around on the boardwalk outside.

But there.
At the bar.
The Red Dress.

It's that weird knowing you get in dreams that he's here for her. Wait is a dress a her or an it? Her. Weird. Easton is no longer being lead by the hand, instead the plaid shirt walks behind him, pushing down the stairs from the entrance to the main room and towards the red dress. Easton can tell by the glasses being set down, and the forks and knives stopping midair that the patrons are turning to watch this spectacle. And while others might be a bit abashed at being out in public in their altogether, Easton's more concerned about what the shirt and dress are trying to make happen here than if people, let alone empty clothes see him in the raw.

The dress turns her top half apparently noticing him and even does an appraising up and down dip. And then it lifts smoothly up off the bar stool and approaches him, pressing it's smooth red fabric against Easton's chest. There's not body heat, no presence behind the dress, just the fabric itself brushing against him, which only further confuses him. The sleeve of the raises as if some hand or arm would touch his face or wind about his neck, but nothing like that occurs.

And then the plaid shirt behind him opens and starts to slide on one arm. Easton look down in confusion as it pulls itself on and manages to pull back his other arm and slide up. Now that it has his arms it forces them around the dress, in some sort of embrace.

It's at this moment that Easton realizes something is very wrong, and not just because he's dressed in just a plaid shirt in the bar clasping an empty red dress. But because all the other clothes in the room have now stood and are blatantly watching him, and starting to encircle him.

A slow creep of panic rises up his spine from his bare tush to his neck just as the sleeves wrap his arms uselessly around his torso and the red dress lunges for his face, wrapping itself around his head. He falls to the ground writhing in a pile of cloth as more clothes attack, latching themselves on until he's covered in a ball of clothing, rolling around unable to get any air in as the garments continue to squeeze tighter on his frame.

He tries desperately to use his abilities to tear these things off, to pull each one layer by layer off of the cozy spherical tomb that encases him, but to no avail. He can't focus. He can't feel where one ends and another begins. And just as he blacks out he's pretty sure he can hear what sounds like the plaid shirt and the red dress laughing. It comes off as less creepy and more WTF-y though, right before he loses conciousness.

THUMP

Hitting the floor of his bedroom, Easton gasps for air trying to untangle himself from the sheets and blankets swirled around him in a tight cocoon. Soaked in sweat, he breathes hard, sitting in the pile of blankets as he tries to get a grasp on where he is and what just happened. He pulls in deep breaths and realizes to his horror that he can still hear the laughter of the plaid shirt from this dream. He looks around frantically, pulling his still naked frame up onto his bed with some effort only to see the shirt from his dream hanging on the back of his bedroom door.

The laughing however is not coming from the shirt, but instead from the slender ghost 'leaning' against the doorframe. Banks audibly laughs and points at the spectacle that is Easton fighting blankets in the nude and losing apparently.

Then as if noticing the shirt hanging off the back of the door for the first time, Banks stops laughing and comments, "That was always my favorite shirt.."

The pillow sails harmless through Banks and slides across the living room floor behind him.

Easton frustrated, collapses back on the bed.