Midnight Me. By CpSingleton © 2017 (part one)
The following may or may not be a true story. Though, is anything untrue if it’s remembered and seen in the mind? Reality is in the thoughts of the beholder, after all.
It was just there; emanating an ice blue glow; sitting like the warm, cloudy night was full of light and the macabre wonderings of a teenaged guilt sponge was all too blasé for its time.
I stood, rigid, my eyes squinting, trying search beyond the twisted yew who’s branches reached out of the dark, like fingers pointing to the accused.
The spring-hinged gate behind me banged shut as I stepped forward for a better view, causing my chest to skip.
It didn’t move, or make a sound.
And even though it’s gaze was facing away from me, I got the impression that it knew I was there and expected me to speak first. It was similar to when I used to creep up on my granddad. I was the one trying to sneak up on him, but he would be the one ready to make me jump out of my skin.
The being seemed to exude that same kind of amused expectancy that demanded I call out first. But, I just didn’t know how to address it.
I wasn’t even sure what it was.
It had the frame of human man, but there were certain strange vibrations radiating from its demeanour that I couldn’t place.
‘Shouldn’t you be in your comfy bed, boy?’ It asked with voice like a cheeky violin. ‘And I’m not an it. I’m a Me.’
‘Erm-I-‘ I stammered.
‘Are you a lump-head?’ It cackled.
‘That’s not very fair!’ I snapped, at last finding my tongue. ‘I didn’t expect to bump into erm-someone else in a graveyard at midnight.’
‘And what might you be doing here? Because I could say the same thing myself.’
Despite my initial misgivings I stepped closer.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t eat troubled boys: just the well-adjusted, content ones. They taste sweeter: like sherbert UFO’s,’ it told me.
I wasn’t sure if it was joking, but at least it had no intentions of eating me.
‘So, tell me,’ it began, swinging its long legs, which I noticed were adorned with a pair of Nike Air trainers and silver pants. ‘Why are you traipsing around a graveyard at midnight, when you should be all tucked up in bed? Won’t your mother worry?’
‘No, she won’t. What are you?’
‘I told you, I’m a Me. Why won’t she worry? You can’t be more than fourteen.’
‘She’s away with her new husband. What do you mean by a Me?’
‘Leaving you on your own? I’m a Me. That is what I am. Is that so hard to understand? You are a boy and I am a Me.’
‘I was supposed to go to my dad’s but he was busy. Where do you come from? And where did you get those trainers?’
‘You’re a nosey Norbert aren’t you? Curiosity killed the cat, you know? I come from a place you couldn’t possibly have heard of. They were a gift, if you must know. For a good deed I performed. What was your father too busy doing?’
‘You’re nosey too. He was racing his pigeons and going to the pub. I might have heard of the place you come from.’
‘Does your father have wings?’
‘Well, how does he race pigeons without wings. That sounds like an exercise in futility, to try and race pigeons without also having wings.’
‘I’m joking. Come, sit opposite,’ he said, indicating the table-top gravestone opposite, similar to the one it was seated on.