LOVE AND OTHER NIGHTMARES
chapter one
time to start anew
*
I've been dreaming about things best left to the imagination. One day I became vulnerable, slipped into a coma and met a legendary face-to-face. I make jokes about Arceus, but I think He's been forgetting about me since the day I was born. Kyurem is just fitting a role I wish had been filled sooner.
I feel some kind of pressure on my body. I see a light, which means I must still be dreaming. And sure enough, there comes my starter, ready to fight our first official battle. Fire burns in my throat as I yell commands I don't know much about. I make my other pokémon fight too, not for money, but for the respect I've lost. I'm not sure who I'm trying to impress at this point. I suppose it doesn't matter.
More light appears. My starter runs after me, mouth agape as I'm picked up by an unknown figure. The gesture is nice, but it isn't getting me anywhere useful.
This is happening because I rarely went to the doctor when I was young. My parents would drag me screaming across the floor and out the door if a visit was necessary. I had chronic ear infections and sore throats, but I insisted leaving them alone. I could still talk and sing, after all. I could dance, watch television and play games. Kids know better than adults sometimes, I told my parents.
It'll go away. You'll see. The problem
did go away—without antibiotics, ongoing ear tubes or injections. My parents shrugged.
My parents shrugged, like I'm shrugging now. As Kyurem said, it's time to start anew. I stir. I ignore the inordinate amount of painkillers, anti-convulsants and medicine for blood pressure levels. I can't tell if my stomach rumbles because I'm hungry or full from the IV fluids. The fog in my brain disappears. As if by instinct, I grab my forehead, feeling for knots, an ache of sorts. There's nothing. I had hoped to wake up, of course, but I thought I'd be more restless when I did.
Looking up, I see an excited face, a head bobbed to the side and a hand waving back and forth. The thin blonde hair I see is like my own, as well as two emerald specks that speak volumes. The voice I hear is female, and, best of all,
familiar.
"Annie!"
The sudden loudness startles me. My mind attempts to slow down and examine my other senses. A soft, cottony gown caresses my skin down to the knees. There's wires lying across my body, along with needles in my right hand and a tube up my nose. My breath hitches, because none of this is a sign of good fortune.
I try to talk to my mother. "I... I..." My mouth is dry. I need answers, but my words come out raspy and wrong.
"Oh, honey, don't try to talk. Here. Have a glass of water..." My mother hands me a cup. I sit up and take it with shaking hands. I gulp down its contents and close my eyes. After a few moments, I open them again out of fear.
"Where am I?" I ask. It's a common question, right? And an honest one.
"We're at Sandgem Medical Center, honey." My mother frowns, the corner of her eyes tearing up, then continues, "Y-You were... We thought you..."
My mother's distress is clear. I gaze around the room and see a television portraying two lillipup dancing in some cartoon I watched when I was four. One other person blocks my view, taking away my distraction. It's my father.
"Dad? What's going on?"
He sighs and rubs his neck. He doesn't seem keen on explaining either, but I need it. "Annie, you had a stroke. You had a ruptured blood vessel in your brain, then went comatose. They said... They said you wouldn't wake up." He walks up to me, takes my hand. "It's a miracle, Annie, as you would say. Or something like it."
At this, I smile. "Thank Arceus. He's such a wonderful being, isn't He?"
"That's my girl." He gives me a crooked, tired smile. "Really, though. You were alone when it happened. I'm sorry we weren't there... It was the middle of the day and we were working... You called your mother and she couldn't understand anything you were saying. When you went silent, she heard a crash and came home right away. We've been waiting for months, Annie. The doctors sounded so sure, and they were preparing for you... to leave us. None of us were expecting this. I don't—I don't know how else to put it."
"That's all right, Dad." I look away from him. I've always seen him be calm, never so nerve-wracked. The story itself should leave some impression, but I don't remember any of it.
"Their tests couldn't have been wrong, but they say the bridge between your brain and your body stopped working. Three days ago they said it was only a matter of time till you woke up. " He peers at me, his face twisting into a frown. "It's cliche, but—could you hear us? Did you want to blink when we asked, but couldn't? Is it too soon to—"
"Dad. Please!" His behavior disturbs me. I need time to think, but it's still difficult. I assume it'll be like that for a while, but making anyone else comprehend such a fine concept would be impossible, so I don't try. Instead I try to come up with a response. No, I couldn't hear them. Their motions and words were separate, distant from my own.
I heard Kyurem. I heard things about a bet, a lifetime challenge in exchange for life itself. If I were my normal self, I'd be getting dressed and heading out already. But I'm not my normal self and I don't know where to start. And I don't know how to give my father the truth, so I settle for otherwise. Lies can spawn miracles if you're careful enough.
"Ah, well... I'd rather not talk about it. It was like being stuck inside my own head and not being able to do anything about it, you know?"
My mother comes into the conversation again. She had been wiping her face with a nearby napkin. "Whenever you're ready, then. And you don't even have to tell us. Do that therapy stuff you always talk about."
"Well..." It's true, I want to be a therapist—what will become of that goal now?—but my techniques never quite work on myself. I smoke cigarettes to relieve tension, but other than that, I'm the put together person. I'm the fun, kind, loving daughter and friend, and I'm here to play the part. "I'll work on it. Promise."
"Of course," my mother says. "We're proud of you. You are nothing short of extraordinary. This is proof of that."
"Typical Mom thing to say," I say, crossing my arms. "Can't you think of anything more fantastical? Say I was born out of the womb at age twenty. That'd make a great story."
"I have no idea whose daughter she is," my father says, chuckling. "Do you?"
"Not a clue..." my mother says, one last tear rolling down her chin. "But look. We brought you something." She stands up, goes to the other side of the room. As she rummages through her backpack, I can tell they've been here for days, maybe weeks. I scold them mentally as my mother hands me a picture, frayed at the edges and smeared with blue marker in the middle.
"This was your favorite picture when you were little," she says. "You liked it so much you drew on it so no one else would take it."
I take the frame from her and fumble with it as a joke. I turn serious when I actually see who—and what—is in the picture. There's me, younger, with pigtails and overalls like I were a farmer in the desert, and a baby deerling, just as small.
"We had a deerling?"
"Why, yes... You don't remember? Well, maybe in time you will. We had her before you were born, and she passed when you were four. You would always play with her, and sleep with her..."
I once had a pokémon. But I don't even
like pokémon. Why would I have one as a pet? I recall a night with heavy rainfall, which is unusual in Sandgem Town. That night, I rescued a pokémon. I'm certain that my resentment started when that pokémon ran away before I could make sure it was safe and healthy. Well, at least I know the deerling was real. The picture exists, so the deerling must be hiding in my memories, somewhere... I only remember Kyurem, and I'm sure the deerling wasn't a threat to anyone, least of all a child. This would take work. This would take a lot of consideration.
"About that... About pokémon..."
"Yes?"
I finger the blue marker on the picture, then the deerling's fur, which of course feels nothing like fur but rather like loss. I only wish they hadn't removed the glass from the picture frame. I
did cut my skin once while trying to replace a hung-up picture. But I was little, then! I don't appreciate the reminder of my own fragility and I mourn for the chances I couldn't take before today.
"Well..."
*
So I tell a convoluted version of my story. The doctors interrupt three times to check my vitals, my eye movement and other important things Kyurem has taken care of. I'm healthy, the white coats say... They don't know how it happened, but there's no denying it. I even spin another tale when the doctors come in. I say I'm off to fight the demon pokémon, Giratina, so I can save the earth and become a hero. They say I've already earned that title by just living.
My parents, though confused, don't show as much surprise as I thought they would. They stop me in the middle, too, to ask what spurred my interest in pokémon. Was it the picture? Did I have visions in my comatose state? No, no—this was a secret I had kept for years, my yearning for travel and traveling companions. I didn't have the heart to leave my family and friends behind, but these events, this stroke had inspired me. What could I do but follow my dreams?
"Annie," my mother says with a stern tone. My mouth closes, lips curved downward. "If this is what you want to do, we won't stop you. You're an adult. But what about your schooling? It's February. The winter is almost over. Maybe you should wait until the end of the year, or until the end of your degree..."
I consider this for her. I wish Kyurem had specified a time frame, but no. He had been as vague as I would expect a legendary to be. The legendary sees all, controls all, but contributes nothing besides end results. If I take chances, I might end up where I started. So I shake my head and say, "No. I don't graduate for another two years. I can't wait that long. What if... What if this happens again? At least I'll have learned some therapy techniques and journeyed!" I manage a smile.
"Yes, well... It's possible... Annie, don't say that, please," my mother says. She turns and leaves the room, only stopping to open the door.
I turn to my father. "Hmm. Did I make her mad? It's like I'm four again. Guess I can't go on a journey, after all."
"She'll be all right. She can treat Renee like a baby next."
"Where is she, anyway?"
"Staying at her friend's house. She's been looking for support elsewhere. You know teenagers... Don't like their parents." He shakes his head. "She didn't exactly enjoy seeing you like that either."
"I can imagine." I imagine my sister, her friends cradling her like they'd cradle an young child. Renee's ambitious, but fragile. I have high expectations of her, but I'm not sure she'll ever live up to them. If a journey didn't involve danger, I'd encourage her to come with. Alas. "I'll tell her the news before I go."
"I think she'd appreciate that."
I nod. "What do you think about all this?"
He pauses before answering. "It's your life, not mine. You're not ten-years-old anymore, so that's a plus," my father says, grinning. "When you were ten, you were still chasing buneary and pidove out of the yard with a stick in your hand..."
Now that I think about it, my silly actions were most likely done in response to the deerling's passing. I had been bitter and angry, and had never quite recovered... The death had crushed my dreams. It's nonsensical for me to do that anymore, though, even if it is part of my personality. If I have to help pokémon feel better, threatening to hit them in the forehead with a weird object isn't the best idea. Instead I can give my pokémon gifts that will remind them of decent memories rather than horrid ones.
"That doesn't sound like me at all," I say, keeping my chin up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
My father goes to sit and folds his hand together, lost in sudden concentration. "You've just woken up and it's like things never happened," he says.
I don't know what to say to that. I feel the exact same way, a bit more surprised and a little less like a phenomenon.
*
The doctors tell me to eat healthy foods, drink plenty of water and record any peculiar symptoms on a chart they give to me before I leave. Exercise is crucial, too, but I know I'll be doing a lot of that, mentally
and physically.
One doctor has a problem, not with me, but with my treatment plans. There
are no treatment plans. He's not convinced that I'm safe. If I'm going to venture into the wild, then I need to be one hundred percent prepared.
So for an entire day I'm stuck inside a room with several clinicians of varying types. There's a speech therapist, a woman with brown hair, dyed to avoid dreaded grey hairs. The physical therapist is also a woman, because that's what I had requested. The lone man in the room is an occupational therapist, and he seems to be the most boring man in the world. He's the one who said I need to get tested before I'm released officially.
The room, tiny and cramped, doesn't make me feel at home. The three of them mumble to each other and give each other strange looks, as if to ask who's brave enough to step in first. The speech therapist is the brave one. I had been hoping to fight back against the occupational therapist as soon as possible, but I guess he'll have to wait.
"Okay, Annie," she says with a wispy voice. "We'll have to go to the radiology lab later and have some tests done there, but they're booked right now. Here, we're going to check your speech and cognitive abilities…"
"Well, that's what the title
speech therapist implies," I say, folding my arms. Why am I with old people that want to treat me like a kid? ...Never mind the fact that I wanted to be four-years-old again less than a day ago. Why can't I be at the store, wasting twenty dollars on beef jerky instead?
"Well, yes, but some things are out of my control, such as those tests I mentioned."
Fair enough. "What kind of tests will I need?" I ask.
"A CT scan will locate any lesions in your brain, and thus present to us the underlying cause of possible aphasic disorders. It will also show us any leftover internal bleeding, which we will address immediately if found."
I wait for her to go on. She doesn't. "Is that it?" I ask.
"Yes, Annie. It is. Simple, right?"
"You said
tests. That's just one test."
"The other neuroimaging tests we might use for aphasia are inappropriate for your situation." She sighs. Someone must have warned her, saying I'd act this way. Dealing with a patient that recovered out of the blue can't be easy. "Are you ready to get started?"
"I guess so."
"We will evaluate several components of language, such as spontaneous speech, naming, repetition, comprehension, reading and writing. Do you think that sounds okay?"
"I can't say I'm qualified to answer that question, but I can try if you really want me to."
She nods her head, then writes something down on the blank sheet in front of her. I suppose that means I'm being tested already, even if I'm not answering any tough questions. She must be assessing my conversational abilities.
"Well, go ahead and elaborate for me," she says.
I clear my throat for emphasis. It seems like as good a time as any to do so. "Aphasia encompasses the inability to communicate through speech or written language. I assume you want to test both." I pause. No one answers. "That's a yes! Write that one down." The speech therapist covers her paper with her flabby arms. She prompts me to go on. "Okay." Hmm. This is tough. I know little about the subject. "Do I have to do this?"
The other woman in the room coughs. The speech therapist pulls out a piece of paper from underneath her scoring sheet and passes it to me. "Please tell me everything you can about this picture, Annie," she says.
It's a picture of three people standing in a kitchen. A young boy is peering into a cookie jar while the mother isn't looking. I make a joke about my sister stealing cookies from the cookie jar, but no one laughs. "Oh, and there's a random girl in the corner with a shinx," I say. "It looks like they're about to go outside and play fetch or something."
At this, the speech therapist smiles. "Thank you, Annie. Can you show me where your shoulder is?"
"What?" She repeats the question. "It's right here," I say, pointing toward my shoulder confusedly. I glare at the occupational therapist again for making me go through such an ordeal. This is more tiresome than any pokémon journey.
"And could you blink your eyes two times, please…" she says, writing something down about my performance.
I blink my eyes twice, thinking about how my father asked me why I didn't blink when I was comatose. I don't
want to be comatose again, but this lady is here, rubbing it in my face that yes, I was
comatose—
"Can a stone sink in water, Annie?" she asks, tapping her pencil ion her clipboard. Are delayed responses recorded? Minus one for me, if so.
"Yes."
We go on like this, with her asking about complex ideas, simple ones, then complex ones again. It's as if she's trying to work my brain into a frenzy, kill it, then revive it with some kind of machinery I'm not aware of. She asks me to recite the alphabet, single words and entire sentences. Next she shows me several pictures, so that I can identify colors and numbers. Soon she challenges me. Posters full of what looks like Braille are brought in and I'm instructed to decipher them like it's no big deal. At the end, I'm asked to write elaborate stories about shoes, trees and other mundane objects. I write about a deerling stuck in a tree, like it's a glameow needing a firefighter's help getting down and put back into my arms. At the end of the story, I'm given a new pair of shoes as some sort of condolence present, though nobody died.
"I see no reason for further testing," the speech therapist declares.
Being smart is boring sometimes.
It's the physical therapist's turn. I can't escape them, the
therapists. They're not too thrilled to be with me either. I'm not sure why they chose the professions they did. The occupational therapist in particular looks like he's fit for an office job, where he can be boring in all the right ways.
"Annie," the physical therapist says. "Are you—"
"Are you going to give me a massage? That's what you guys do, isn't it?" She looks like she could use a nice massage herself, but I don't say that. "If not, I feel fine—"
"Strokes are like car accidents," she interrupts. "Even if you feel fine now, the damage may come back to haunt you later. It could be too late to heal at that point. I'm here to prevent that from happening."
"Ah." Her voice strikes me into speechlessness. If I took the test for aphasia now, I'd fail. "Okay. So. We're in a small room."
She looks at me, confused.
"How do I, you know,
move?"
"Well, give me a few moments and I'll let you know." But she just had a whole hour to figure it out! I need to go! I need to start my journey for some godforsaken reason I can't grasp quite yet.
The clock ticks by. "Uh," I say, still at a loss for words.
"Okay," she says. Isn't she going to introduce herself? Now that I think about it, the speech therapist didn't either. The only man in the room better show some respect. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Simple. "Two."
"Good. Can you touch my finger with your finger?"
I can, and it feels like I'm bumping fists with a baby. Or maybe my sister. She has small hands for a girl too. The physical therapist has me do this two more times in two different locations, once further away and once closer to my nose. I'm not sure if this is a trick test or not. Then she moves her finger as she asks me to touch it, and I do so, going as fast as I can, as instructed. We do this five times.
After that, she pulls out a small hammer-like object. Where did that come from? She tests my ankle reflexes as well as my knee reflexes, and I can't help but giggle. I'm not doing
this to be annoying.
"Take your shoes off, please," she says.
I do so, and she measures the shape of my foot. Apparently I have a normal foot, since she nods. Then it's like I'm inspected for weapons, as she moves her fingers along my arms, my hands, my legs.
"Don't look so glum," she says. "You're passing the test so far. I'm testing your body structure as well as making sure there's no weakness anywhere." She puts her hand against the back of my head. "Move your head against my hand, please."
I do so, though not too hard, in case she's got it out for me and she's going to pull her hand away, causing me to make a fool of myself. The idea is that if I have my eyes closed, my balance will either remain intact or make me fall over, depending on the strength of my arms.
We go on like this, much like I did with the speech therapist. It's not a fun test, nor is it boring, since it at least requires me to think, listen and pay attention to my movements. It's better than being in a coma, but it all reminds me, again, that I've not stretched my muscles for months.
At last the physical therapist nods and has nothing more to say. My strength is fine. My reflexes are fine. My bones are intact, doing their jobs, whatever. Good. Now can I get out of here and go
home? I plan to leave shortly after, but still.
The answer is a big, fat
no. The occupational therapist sits across from me at the tiniest table I have ever seen. If I didn't mention how tiny the table was before, I should now. It might just be because he's a bigger person and takes up more space, but I look around, nervous. There's something odd about his presence, but I can't quite place my finger on it, nor do I want to.
"My name is Dr. Holster," he says, reaching out his hand. I shake it. Rough and smooth, like he could be both a knife fighter and a lover. "Occupational therapy focuses on your hobbies, activities, jobs, schooling... " He trails off, looking at some papers and sorting through them with his thumb. "It looks like you're in school. Sophomore year. Psychology?"
"Yes. I'm a therapist." Or I wanted to be, before Kyurem came to me. Of course, I can't say such nonsense or he'll throw me into an asylum. It would be unwelcome compared to sending applications to a graduate school. All that required paperwork... Letters of recommendation, resumes, transcripts…
I'll never get to do any of that now.
I distract myself by judging the man in front of me. Dr. Holster. He's wearing a plain black suit with a white undershirt, perfectly cuffed, and his tie is blue. Neat goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, recently cut brown hair with shaved sideburns, the works. Yeah, he definitely needs an office job so he can stare at a computer screen all day. He must be a lonely man. How can you be lonely in a world with pokémon? I suppose you put them in your pokéballs, or you don't like pokémon at all.
"Any minors?" he asks.
"Mathematics and philosophy."
He looks perplexed. "Two minors? That's quite the challenge."
"No. Cognitive science, with an emphasis on philosophy and mathematics classes on the side. But no one knows what that means, so I say what everyone understands."
He smiles a crooked smile. Ah, so he does have personality. "Though math and philosophy can confuse people even when separated."
"Logarithms and differentiation." I name some topics off the top of my head. "Trigonometry is hard if you don't have the right mindset for it. Philosophy is only hard if you don't want to accept anyone else's views."
"What are your views, Miss Willems? That might help me work with you better."
...I'm the kind of person Kyurem hates. I'm selfish. I do what is good for me, even at the expense of other people. I am impulsive, because I'm inclined to think that my desires are going to help me succeed someday—in what, I don't know. Therapy? Not anymore. I guess I'll succeed in raising thickheaded little animals with special powers instead.
"It's a secret," I say.
He's not deterred. "And work?"
"I work at the Little Scrafty Bar. The name is serious. It's a little bar."
"Do you work alone?"
"Not allowed. But if someone's in the bathroom or something, I have a weapon on me… just in case.'
"Would you say you're skilled in self-defense?"
"Not at all. I'm clumsy, I guess. But it's comforting."
"Anything else?"
"I scare away customers with stories of my life, so I stay reserved. You know, for the money."
"You don't seem reserved now," he says. He takes off his glasses and rubs them with his cuffs. I wonder if that's a sign that I'm intimidating him. I look at the speech therapist, who has a perturbed look on her face. Dr. Holster's comment must have been an understatement.
"Yeah. I'm alive. That's something to cheer for, I guess."
"And you've chosen to go on a pokémon journey. In Sinnoh."
"What's wrong with Sinnoh?" Are there high crime rates? Rough winters? Either way, I don't have much of a choice but to stay and fight him on this one.
"Oh, nothing." Good. That's what I want to hear. "Some people like to see newer sights, not places they could go to for vacation."
"A journey is a tough, serious vacation."
"Something like that. All right, so here's what you're going to have to do…"
He goes through a list, and it looks like I do need his help. Anyone could benefit from it, to be honest, but he's persistent. As as a stroke patient, I'm at-risk for more strokes and other health concerns. He doubts I know how to take care of myself in an emergency, and it's true. I don't.
At the end of the meeting, the physical therapist and speech therapist say I'm not eligible for their services. I'll be all right as long as I don't have another stroke. If I have problems for some reason or another, I need to return to Sandgem Town immediately.
Dr. Holster keeps me even later and expands his list.
"If you're going to be my sidekick for this journey, I need to know your name! I keep thinking of you as, you know, an occupational therapist. OT. And that's not right," I say.
"Oh, Miss Willems…" He folds his hands and leans backward in his seat. "You've forgotten my name already?"
"Well, no, but I'd like to know your first name. We're going to be friends from now on." As long as he stops looking at me with that boring face of his. All jokes aside, though, I'm going to need him in the upcoming months. Maybe even for years.
"Are we? That sounds a little scary." He chuckles. "Well, dear, my name is Gregory."
I ignore his quipping. "Greg for short?"
"Just Gregory is fine. Makes me seem younger."
"I know what you mean.... The name Annie makes me sound like a two year old for life. Do OTs do anything for that?"
Another chuckle. "I don't think so. Knowing you, though, you'll make these tasks fun."
I shake his hand again. I'm looking forward to this new part of my life.
*
I put things into motion as soon as I can. The first step is to visit my school adviser. The adviser tells me which classes I've failed due to my prolonged absence: sociology of death, psycholinguistics, psychopharmacology... It would be hard to raise my GPA, but not impossible. Personal statements for graduate school will have to be well written if I want to make an impression, he says. I forget how long I was comatose, but this puts the time frame into some sort of perspective. I wait until he's done spewing the bad news, then I give my own.
I'm dropping out. There's no argument. We both know it's the better option.
My parents wish I would finish my degree. They feel it was all a waste because I spent so much money going to college only to leave without having learned everything about psychology. They feel it was all a waste.
"I don't think that's true," I say. "Psychology matters in everyday situations. Right now, for example,
I'm using structured statements to tell you how I feel without offending you. I'm trying to make you feel better by expressing myself in the best way possible." I know the reasoning behind personalities and motivational forces. Those are applicable traits to have for traveling in dangerous territory, right?
My parents nod.
"We won't doubt you, Annie," my mother says. "But with the hospital bills on top of student loans…"
"I know," I say. "You can't pay anymore."
"Well, pokémon training presents a lot of opportunities to earn money. She'll be all right," my father says, rubbing my mother's shoulders in a reassuring way. "She has a savings account she can pick at too."
This is true, because I refuse to spend money like a reckless teenager. It's different when you're a trainer, though. Trainers have to use pokédollars to buy traveling equipment, nonperishable foods and other necessities. Gregory's occupational therapy starts here. He allows me five thousand pokédollars per week, which is manageable. Seeing if I'm capable of converting my money is the hard part. I do the estimates in my head, ensure that a Master Ball Bank is in most towns and withdraw my money. The exchange rates are less than favorable, but I have no other choice.
I buy a decent backpack that feels comfortable on my hips. I choose a light, dry diet consisting of pasta, rice, cereal bars, beef jerky and a bag of nuts. Soon I also have a canteen, as well as some matches, a first-aid kit and a spare pair of clothes. Pokémon Centers offer hotel rooms to trainers, so a sleeping bag isn't needed. Finally, I get waterproof socks and hiking boots, which I'll have to break in before I go.
I think I'm set. I'm not. There's more for me to do, says my oh-so-wonderful occupational therapist.
He wants me to stay in Sandgem Town and practice hands-on training. I'm impatient, but I have to do what he says if I want to improve. During the first couple days, we light fires in the north end of town. We walk around and he points out pieces of tinder that will do the job. Along the way we search for both thin and thick pieces of firewood. Branches on trees won't work unless they snap immediately, without resistance. He makes a bow, a drill, a socket and a coal catcher, all with forest materials alone. The fire starts after he goes over a few more instructions. And then it's my turn. I try, but even after further instruction, Gregory tells me it'll take time. I can only hope that a fire-type pokémon will show its face early on.
Next comes finding clean water. Maybe I'll need a water-type, too, but I'm not sure how Kyurem plans these things. Gregory advises me to drink more water if there's high winds, and more due to my stroke risks. I take notes. Always sleep near a spring or river. Follow wild pokémon if I'm lost. Collect rainwater if possible. Purify the water first, or boil it for ten minutes to get rid of harmful bacteria. This is better than starting fires, but I refuse to drink the water until Gregory approves it. Just in case.
Socializing comes last. For this, I ask him to wait. I've learned so much in a few days, I need a break. And it's true. I need some time alone. One last night in my favorite Sandgem Town landmark: Leavanny Park.
*
I slept in my mother's bed every night after being coming home from the hospital. I feel sorry for my father, who's been sleeping on the couch. I know it hurts his back, but my old room is where I fell into the coma. I don't need to go in there. The room would remind me of the terror of that day, the not knowing whether you're dying or if something's wrong at all. When you're mentally or physically sick, life tricks you into thinking nothing's wrong at all. It's okay to lose your balance. It's okay to have hallucinations. It's okay to call your mother and scream at her until she comes home to determine something's wrong
for you.
But Leavanny Park is fine. There are no reminders in Leavanny Park. I mean, the swing set and the monkey bars and whatever make me wish I was young again. But I'm an older sister and an independent daughter. That means I have to do adult things, which, for me, means saving pokémon in dire need of saving. Kyurem needs to explain that further, whenever I see it next. Which I hope is soon. The passiveness I felt in that dream… I shiver just thinking about it. It's February and I have a jacket on, but that's not the point.
The point is that winter is almost over. I may not feel that passiveness for a long while. Summer will come, I'll go wild and no one will be able to keep up with me—not my family, nor Gregory. Gregory will discover, most of all, what it's like to be with me, in person and over the phone. Either way, he has no idea what he's getting into.
The winter, harsh but truthful, shows me that this world is useless. My body, especially after recent events, is useless. I should convince myself that the doctors, my family and Kyurem don't exist. I should convince myself that they act as ploys to make my mind and body cooperate. What if I could will everyone away? What if I willed myself to walk through a black void with no destination known? What if that didn't mean death, but merely living inside a world I constructed?
These ideas come to me through my senses, from my surroundings. That's what Leavanny Park does to me. The monkey bars tell me to let go. The slides tell me I'm a roller coaster of eccentricities. Going home would mean abandoning the last night alone with my shadow.
If only I
could will everyone else away. I can't, not even if I ignore the phone during my journey and not even if I forget their faces. If only my body could remain here, while my mind traveled and reformed the pokémon… Then I'd do more than anyone else possibly could. Infinity is a terrible word unless you're using it to describe yourself.
I need the comfort that infinity brings. I don't know why the physical world exists, after all. Why would a mind need to imagine millions of civilians spread throughout a planet limited in size? At least when I was in a coma I didn't need comfort. I had no senses, but I didn't ask myself, "Why aren't things normal?" And then there's another sad question: exactly how much did I miss out on? It would take years of dividing myself until I could make up for the time I lost. A mathematician never dreams of a line so short than it cannot be divided into two shorter lines, nor of an angle so small it cannot be bisected. But what about my body? May it be split in half, and then may it be split in half again, then again, so that I am the smallest piece in everything?
If I'm following Epicurean philosophy, I could do that. To him I have three souls: the lowest in my diaphragm, the second in my chest and the highest in my head. To him my soul consists of fine, smooth and round atoms, which are also atoms of fire. Imagine, a fire that might really appear like that… In my lungs these atoms give me air; in my heart these atoms give me emotion; in my brain these atoms give me thought. Life lasts as long as I breathe these atoms. In and out. In and out. Involuntarily during rest and voluntarily during speech. Perhaps Kyurem only gave me more of those atoms and called it a day.
But my mind is racing and making me think too much. The mind could be a substance, not like a drug or alcohol, but oh, boy, I could go for a cigarette right now.
I know that thoughts aren't made of matter, nor do they have any impact on the concept of time. In this, at least, I am limitless, as long as I don't consider myself inferior as well.
...It's getting late. I go home. On this journey, I'll just have to make sure I'm as happy, as full, as knowledgeable as only I can be.
*
"So basically I'll be a trainer without a pokémon," I say to Gregory the next day. He's just asked me to travel and interact with other trainers for one day. This, of course, makes no sense to me. What about my starter? "I won't accept the traditional starter, so don't try to pull that on me."
"Why not?" His expression is skeptical, as if he were going to give me a pokémon as a present today.
"I have my reasons," I say. How cryptic can I be while still getting away with it?
"Ah, you want to catch your first pokémon on your own…" Gregory nods. "I see those kinds of trainers a lot."
"Yeah. That's it."
"All right." He pulls out a pokéball, a plain red and white one. A plain pokéball for a plain man. "I'll let you borrow my snivy."
"Your
what?"
"My snivy. His name is Nate." Gregory presses the pokéball's middle button, making the sphere enlarge. He presses it again, releasing its contents. A green, bipedal lizard appears. Nate has dull, reddish eyes and a contrasting yellow crest. His short tail reminds me of a three-leaf clover. He rubs his underbelly and flickers his blood red tongue.
"A… snivy. Right. It's yours."
"Yes. He's my starter. He's the most behaved out of all my pokémon, and he's quiet around strangers. He shouldn't bother you at all."
"And his name is Nate."
"Yes."
"Why would you give him a human name? Can't you be more creative than that?" I ask, folding my arms.
"It was just the first name I thought of. Does it matter?" He shrugs and hides his face away from me. He seems offended, but I can't tell for sure.
"Yeah! I mean… Seriously, Gregory, pokémon and humans co-exist, but not to that extent!"
"He'll be good for you." He bends down and scratches the snivy underneath its snout. Nate smiles and lets out a stifled giggle. He really
is quiet. I wouldn't be able to understand him if he talked, anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter. "Anyway," Gregory continues, "I want you to record your experiences. Write down any reaction you think is relevant. Do you want me to go over the chart?"
He hands the chart to me, and I spend a good five seconds looking it over. "Nah," I say.
"All right," he says. "Be good to Nate. Nate will be good for you."
"I get it!" I say. But what about my own starter? Where am I supposed to find him? Or her? Well, I'll worry about that later.
I grab Nate by his little paws and drag him out of my house. We go down the driveway. At this point I remember that Gregory is a strange man and shouldn't be left alone in my house. I go back, say goodbye sheepishly, lock the door. And then we're off.
*
In total, I battle five trainers. That's enough for one pokémon in the span of twenty-four hours. I lose once, but I don't consider it official or fair. Nate is weak to fire-types and he's my only option. At times I find myself lost just watching him fight, then I come back to reality. I'm a part of this too. That fact sinks in when I collect my prize money and shake the hand of my opponents. Some of them talk about us battling in the future with evolved pokémon and a bigger team.
Nate does well, though. He listens to me as if he's been with me for years. His attacks are swift and he can take a hit. I only wish he'd talk to me and make things more interesting.
"Are you tired?" I ask him. We sit on a bench underneath a lamppost and watch trainers hang their heads low as they pass us. They must have fainted pokémon or not money left to spare. It's such a shame, but it seems like the battling section of the day is over.
Nate nods to me and rubs his belly for emphasis.
"Being hungry and tired are not the same thing, buddy," I tell him. "But I'll take you to get food and rest anyway."
After a few minutes of rest, we make our way to the the Pokémon Center at the end of the route. The lobby is full of trainers showing off. I join the crowd, accidentally bumping into a large, angry luxray in the process. It must have just lost a battle. I make a mental note to stay away from it.
The snivy's not mine, but he might as well be, considering his display of loyalty. He stands on his tiptoes and appears taller than the others, or at least tries to. He pounds his chest in a proud manner. Everyone claps and asks him to demonstrate some attacks. I'm prepared to join the showing off session until I realize we haven't eaten yet. I tell them to bug off and go to pick on another pokémon. But then I see Nate's joking side when he taps the luxray on the shoulder and then runs away. My mouth opens in shock. Nate is a happy, healthy pokémon. There are no dangers here—unless you count the luxray chasing him around the middle of the lobby.
Another trainer advises me to rent a room for the night before the Pokémon Center is full. I march straight to the counter, where I meet a pink-haired lady named Nurse Joy. I've heard stories about how every Pokémon Center nurse is related. Each family member is assigned to take care of a whole town. It's the same for every region, or so I've heard.
She checks me into my room, offers me the key. "Room 233, on the second floor!" she says in a too happy tone.
The night itself is peaceful, but I can't sleep. I've done that for so long, after all, so I write fake therapy notes. Nate is my patient and I need to come up with a treatment plan for him. His pride is too prideful, he's too short for a snivy and he has a complex speaking. But I wish Nate were a little more sinister, so that I could see what I'll be dealing with. I cross out the treatment plan that says he needs some kind of light therapy. I lay on my side when I'm done, scratch the snivy's tail and watch his chest move as he sleeps.
It might just be the joy I get out of simply living, but… I could get used to this.
