2019-12-25 - Cali Christmas

Tyrone heard the alarm. He was already awake when it went off. He knew what time it was. His phone wasn't even someplace he couldn't reach. He didn't even make an attempt. He just let it go, ignoring it. After three minutes, it turned off. Then it started up again two minutes later and again he ignored it. There was one more cycle before the alarm disengaged and let him lay there. It wasn't that he was still sleepy. It wasn't that he was too busy to get to it. The issue was that today was Christmas.

The landlord knocked on his door at what had to have been around noon. Tyrone still hadn't left his bed. It wasn't until his bladder finally forced his hand that he stirred. That was nearly 1:30 PM. But once he was up and in his chair, he didn't want to just lay back down. Going to the small under-cabinet fridge in his room, he pulled out a bottle of vodka he'd purchased for the day and cracked it open. He was about to take a swig right from the bottle, when something stopped him. Slightly surprised, he didn't feel like being drunk just yet. So, instead he put the bottle back in the fridge and got out a water bottle instead.

With no computer and no libraries open, there wasn't any research Tyrone could accomplish today. None of the shooting ranges would be open, either, so he couldn't hone his skills. So, he sat in his room and flipped through videos on YouTube. That took him through another couple of hours. But, then, since he had his phone open, he decided to look through his contacts. Or, more specifically, he looked at Lyric's contact. It would be so easy. Just hit the button. Send her a text. Or heck, even call her. Just to hear her voice, or to let her know he was alive and that it wasn't her, it was him, and ....

Tyrone grimaced and closed out of his contacts on his phone. She hadn't called or texted him, so why should he call or text her? She'd had just as much fun as he'd had that night and /she/ hadn't reached out to HIM. Why should he be the one to break the silence? (Because you're a man, you dumbass,)Oo. he thought to himself. Sighing and scowling, he opened her contact information again. But just as his thumb hovered over the button to call her, he paused. Much like with the vodka, he found he didn't really want to. He'd be much happier NOT talking to her; not talking about what happened or if it meant anything, not finding out for sure that she thought he was a lot of fun but wasn't interested in making them a regular thing. (Some Christmas present THAT would be!)

Scrolling back up through his contacts, Harper's name stood out and he paused. She hadn't done anything wrong. To the contrary, she had tried to help, had tried to be understanding. She'd even gone to the lengths to hide a reminder in his phone that had gone off a few days ago, reminding him that she was there if he wanted to talk. "Talk," Tyrone said out loud, his voice full of derision. (Like talking ever helped anything,) he concluded. Still, Harper was a good person and she deserved to know he was okay, right? He'd sent her his keys, but with no return address, there was no way she could have found him. Still ... she had his number. SHE hadn't called either. Or texted. But, then again, it was Christmas, and she was probably with her boyfriend, Geoff. Or with Geoff's family. Or with /her/ family.

That made Tyrone think of Lyric again. Lyric would be alone on Christmas, just like he was. Her mom was gone. There was some little boy ghost that had found her on Halloween, but now he was gone, too. And Tyrone was gone. (You dumbass, you abandoned her. Now you're just like everything she was afraid you'd be and everything you wanted to convince her you weren't!)Oo. Tyrone yelled at himself. He dug the base of his palm into the center of his brow, physically trying to press the anger and frustration that was leaking back into the box. Dropping his phone into his lap, he used both hands to rub his face and try to force himself into some semblance of composure. Lyric was alone. Tyrone had left her alone. While there were a lot of wrongs out there that he couldn't do anything about, this was one that he could at least try. Picking up his phone again, he raised it towards his ear and hit the call button.

Then he disconnected and pulled the phone away before it could ring. Why would he call her? It was insane. He'd left without saying goodbye. He hadn't spoken to her in over a week. He wasn't about to tell her where he was, where he was going, or what he was trying to do. He couldn't even tell her why he had left because he wasn't sure he knew, himself. So what would he say?

"Say you're sorry," came a voice from across the room. It startled Tyrone, nearly to death, but his marine instincts kicked in and he spun around quickly, lifting one hand to defend himself from attack. But the attack would never come. As Tyrone looked across the room, he couldn't believe his eyes. There, leaning against the doorway to his bathroom, was a man he knew he'd never see again in his entire life. In a dark red flannel shirt and grey sweatpants, head bald as the last time he'd seen him, with a couple days growth of beard on his chin, Tyrone's father, Dale, smirked knowingly at him. "Hello, son."

Tyrone's mind whirred into a cyclone. This couldn't be. It was impossible. Tyrone's father had died while he was at boot camp. He got called away from training to receive the news and was excused from exercises for the rest of the day. He could have gone home, been with his family, and come back to boot camp some other time. But ... that wasn't Tyrone. And that wasn't his relationship with his father. His father was mad at him for joining the service. He was disappointed. His dad held a grudge against the military for taking Tyrone's uncle away from his dad when his dad was young. And not even by death, but by service in the Navy which had him out on a boat and out of communication for months at a time. So when Tyrone indicated he was joining the military and leaving straight after his graduation ceremony, it hadn't gone over well. He and his father hadn't spoken a kind word to one another for a month before he passed away. And now, here he was, the same knowing, playful smirk on his face that he always used when he knew he'd 'got' Tyrone.

"You could always say hi, you know. It's been quite a while," Dale said, still leaning with his arms folded across his stomach., one ankle crossed over the other.

"You're dead," Tyrone responded, still astonished.

"I'm here, aren't I?" came the reply.

"You can't be, you're dead."

"Then how are we having a conversation?" his dad questioned.

"... Glimmer," Tyrone realized, his brow furrowing. But he wasn't picking anything up from his father; no tingle, no shine, no nothing. This couldn't be possible.

"Then how is it happening?" Dale probed.

The fact that his dad answered a question he hadn't asked made Tyrone realize, "I must be Dreaming." His father looked hurt.

"How can you say that? I'm right here," his father asked.

"You're not. You're in my mind. That's how you know what I'm thinking," Tyrone answered. The pain from his father's face vanished. It was replaced with a sneer he'd never seen his father use before. It was cold, almost malevolent, and lacked any of the mirth, humor, or kindness that he remembered his father being so full of.

"So you figured it out. Good for you. Do you want a medal or a chest to pin it on?" the visage jeered.

Ignoring the fake father-figure, Tyrone began scanning his environment. When had he entered the Dream? How long had he been Dreaming? Why was he seeing his father in the Dream world?

"You know none of that matters, right?" his father says. "I'm here, now. So talk to me, son." And with that, his father's face went back to the way he remembered it: kind, warm, friendly.

Tyrone furrowed his brow. "What am I supposed to say? You know what I'm thinking, so why do I need to say anything?" he asked.

"Because you need someone to talk to," his father answered.

"If I wanted to talk, I could have talked to Harper."

"But you didn't."

"Right. Because I don't want to talk."

"Then why am I here?" his father asked.

(... dammit,)Oo. Tyrone thought to himself. His father /did/ know what he was going to say before he said it and had responses just as quickly.

"Which is why you should just talk to me, instead of trying to figure it all out in your head again. Look how well that's gone, so far," his father pointed out.

Throwing his hands up in the air, Tyrone relented. "Okay, okay, fine. What do you want to talk about?" Exasperation was evident in his voice as he settled back in his chair.

Moving from the doorway to the bathroom to the folding chair leaning up against the wall next to his dresser, the visage of Tyrone's father unfolded the seat and took it, leaning back and stretching out. "I think the question is, what do /you/ need to talk about?" he suggests, folding his hands together and resting them on his stomach.

His father could be infuriating sometimes, with his wiser-than-thou questioning and knowing looks. It always irked Tyrone to know end. This wasn't any different. Rubbing his forehead with both hands again, Tyrone sighed. "Lyric?" His father just shrugged and waited. Tyrone let out a disgusted sigh and shook his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"We just went over that," his father reminded him.

"Then just tell me what it is I'm supposed to say, goddammit!" Tyrone shouted, glaring at the person he used to admire most in the world. His father had been the kindest, nicest man he'd know, even if he'd been a pretty terrible father. He never had advice for his son. He never told him what he should do or pushed him to do anything. 'I don't care what you do, just do your best,' was his response to any sort of request for guidance in life. And when Tyrone /did/ his best, the response was always, 'Just remember, there's always someone better.' And when he didn't win, when he didn't do better than everyone else, the question was why and what else did he need to do to succeed. There was just never any way to win. It was a lose-lose situation.

"And that's what I was trying to teach you," the ghost said.

Tyrone glared. "What? That no matter how hard I tried, I'd never be the best?"

"Not just that," the ghost said, and then the malevolence returned to his face. "You're close, but you're not there yet," it teased, a grin tugging up at the corners of its mouth. The look was becoming garish and unrealistic. It wasn't a smile, it was too sinister for that. It was a face that no sane human could ever make. If Tyrone weren't already angry, it might scare him. Instead, it just made him more angry.

"That no matter how hard I try, I would never be good enough?" Tyrone offered. The ghost nodded, gleefully. "That I'm not worth anything?" The visage looked even more pleased. "That there isn't anything I can do to succeed?"

"Now you've got it!" the ghost said. And, even though it still resembled his father, Tyrone could recognize it now. It wasn't his father at all. It was one of the dark entities that he was trying to figure out how to hunt and eliminate.

There were two problems, as Tyrone saw it right now. The first was that this was a Dream he'd entered without even knowing it and he wasn't entirely sure how he would get out as he'd never been sucked into one so realistic before. The second was that this thing resembled his father and he wasn't sure what he was going to do about it. Originally, if you got found by something bad, you ran until you could find a way out. But, since this dream was taking place in the small studio he rented at the back of a house, there really wasn't a good place to run. Which reminded him ....

"What do you think you're doing?" the visage sneered as Tyrone pressed his hands firmly against the armrests of his chair. Try as he might, he couldn't get his legs to stand him up or otherwise cooperate. Which meant he was going to be crippled for the remainder of the dream. That would make it that much harder to try and avoid the creature's grasp if he wanted to run by it. The creature laughed in his father's voice but there was no humor in it. Tyrone gripped his wheels. As he started to turn, the creature moved to block his way. As he went to turn the other way, the creature again moved preemptively to block his attempt. Tyrone frowned. The creature knew every move he was going to make it just as he decided to make the move. There was no way for him to avoid the creature. Unless ....

(I know you can hear my thoughts, boy,)Oo. Tyrone thought, looking at the thing sitting across from him. It smirked back at him, smug, folding its arms across its chest and looking at him. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. (Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow,) he sang in his mind. The creature looked confused. Continuing to sing the song from the commercial in his mind, Tyrone rolled over to his dresser while the thing watched him. He moved over to the side and then pulled open the top drawer. And then, in one fluid motion, he pulled out his pistol and fired several shots into the creature. It shrieked in surprise and pain and fell off of the chair it had been sitting on. It began writing and twitching on the floor, partially loosing its human shape.

Tyrone rolled up next to the creature as it squirmed and spasmed on the floor. "You pulled everything from my memories of how my dad was. If I was still that kid, it might have worked. But I'mma cot damn mothafuckin' marine, asshole. And I 'on't give a /fuck/ what you think. I'mma learn to kick all y'alls asses. You tell whatever hell you came from that they go'n have to work a whole lot harder to get to me. Peace." And then he pulled the trigger again and the creature's face exploded in a spray of puss, goo and particles.

Tyrone blinked. Things had shifted. He wasn't at the edge of the bed anymore, he was parked next to his refrigerator. He looked down. His gun wasn't in his hand any longer. Instead, he was holding the bottle of vodka. Or, at least, it /had/ been the bottle of vodka. Now it was just a bottle. An empty one. And he suddenly felt woozy and discovered he had a headache.

Looking out his window, Tyrone could see it was pitch black outside. His next glance was at his phone. It was almost midnight, but it was still Christmas. He reached over for his phone and almost immediately regretted it as his vision swam and his balance spun. He hadn't been this hammered in a LONG time. Once he'd managed to get his hands on his phone, he chucked the empty bottle in the trash and unlocked his phone. He quickly pulled up Lyric's contact info and hit the call button. It rang several times and then went to voicemail. He hung up.

It took him a few seconds, but the liquid courage in his veins gave him the resolve to dial the number again. Voicemail again. .oO(Here it goes.)

Hey, Lyric. It's Tyrone. Happy Chris- er, Mer, oh, [burp]. 'SCUSE meh. Merry Chrissssmas. I miss you. I fucked up. I left. I'm sorry. I don't know how to love you. I've never loved anybody before and you don't love me so I don't know what to do. Ssso I left. And now I'm in California 'n' I'm gunna learn howda kill alla bad stuff in the Glimmer, 'n' I'll come back and I'll tell you I love you and I'll learn how. So I'm sorry. If you want to call me back, I'll answer. I PROMISE. Okay? Okay. I love you. Okay? I do. I know it doesn't seem like it, but that's because I don't know how and I-

The voicemail cut him off then and announced he was out of time and asked him how he would like to send his message. Tyrone pulled the phone away from his face and glared at it. "Well fuck you, too!" he told it. And then he listened again, hit a button, then ended the call. He wobbled in his seat a little and thought about his message. He decided it was good enough as is and tried several times to put his phone back in his shirt pocket before he realized his shirt didn't /have/ any pockets. So he tossed it back on his dresser.

Tyrone burped again and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. That one felt a little different. He waited a second and another burp arose. THAT one was definitely different. Having not been drunk in quite a long time, Tyrone was lucky that he made it to the toilet before his body emptied some of the vodka back out. He'd puke twice more before he was done, then he'd rinse his mouth out and head back to bed. Burying his head under his pillow, Tyrone flopped onto his belly and left his legs dangling off the side of the bed while burying himself in the dark comfort the pillow could provide. It would be a mercifully short time before he fell back asleep.

Merry Christmas, Tyrone. Merry Christmas.