Entry Two

Sorry for not posting sooner. Fall is always a struggle for me because the moon seems to be at its strongest. At that time of year, the veil is always stretched thin. A poorly made net riddled with numerous holes. Let me better explain what the veil is and how it works. The veil is what separates our world from the other. Whether that be the dead, demonic, or supernatural. The veil isn’t perfect, though. Each time the sun is blotted out, it becomes thinner. More and more holes – doors – have appeared throughout humanity’s time.

Those doors are open during those times of year, and I tend to dream more than usual. I struggle to differentiate the waking world from dreams. A labyrinth crafted by another for me to venture through. A test rat with a predetermined ending. I’ve learned to go through the motions as this is my appointed position for the sins of my ancestors.

As a child, I enjoyed dreaming. I’d often travel far away on adventures, watching my sleeping self before flying away as the night blanketed the sky. Dreaming became my refuge, an escape from the unpredictable reality of each morning. As I closed my eyes each night, I entered a world of endless possibilities, helping me cope with the anxiety of not knowing if I would wake up the next day.

My other safe haven was the stuffed animals I loved dearly. They helped wash away whatever childlike fears I had mixed with the grim reality I lived with. The puffy red scar on my chest wasn’t as scary when many of my stuffed animals had them, too.

My favorite stuffed animal was a mouse I named Mousey. All my plushies had original names like this; don’t judge me. Mousey had to do everything I did. If I had a peanut butter sandwich, Mousey needed one for lunch, too. We often played hide-and-seek or watched Disney movies. To me, he was real and my friend. Until he decided to leave.

During a nasty snowstorm, Mousey ran out the front door. In my eyes, he ran out, yelling for me to follow. I tried, but my dad was quicker. I screamed for him to come back, completely distraught. My dad says that me running out the door in nothing but footie pajamas and crying hysterically isn’t what scared him. It was the tiny mouse-like footprints in the snow that frightened him.

I asked my mom about what happened that day over two decades later and what happened to my mouse stuffed animal. She told me I never had one. That Mousey was an imaginary friend.