Chapter 2: Chapter 1 — Peach Moon

The cold toilet seat eventually morphed after what felt like an eternity in the void. I could still see nothing, but I felt the cold on my back and posterior fade into a soft cushion. It was still cold, but I could feel myself heating up and the cushion moulding to my shape, giving me a fuzzy warm feeling of home. Light came to be on the other side of the pitch black room, outlining a door with soft morning light. I could barely see the shape of a bathroom, but I couldn’t make out anything past the bare minimum. 

I made a special effort to get up from the toilet seat. Only thing I hear are my bare footsteps on the slightly cold bathroom floor and my clothing moving and grazing my skin. I reach for the doorknob, instinctively knowing where it’s located on the door like I’ve lived here my entire life, and gently pushed what felt like a real wooden door. I haven’t felt a wooden door apart from those in my boss’ big house. 

I walked out to my home bedroom, coloured in soft salmon and pink with plant and flower patterns and golden borders on the corners like a Victorian dream. It looked like grandma’s house which I used to visit a lot as a kid. The lighting made it look like it was three o'clock in the afternoon, but the only window on the room to the right makes it look like I’m stuck in the shadow dimension.

The first footsteps I took I felt a familiar warmth as my feet sank into a half inch deep carpet. It was coloured a tasty cream and it massaged my feet like I’d never felt before. Or, well, I had felt it before — again, at my grandmother’s house —, but it’s been so long. My apartment’s floors were all made of hard grey concrete, and carpet was left a privilege held by high quality fashion stores as they were incredibly strict with their no stepping on the carpet policy. Couldn’t take my shoes off to feel the carpet with my bare feet again; I would have if I wasn’t smart. Well, no, I’m not smart, just cowardly.

Against the wall opposite to the bathroom door there was a large bed with white curtains. The bed itself was made out of reddish brown cherry wood. I couldn’t see well from back here — my vision was still blurry —, but on the bed were a bunch of plushies varying from cats to dogs and whatever else I could remember. Sheets and curtains were also made of the blissful cream colour.

All other furniture was a mix of cherry and mahogany woods, varying from black to brownish red and reddish brown. Next to the bed was a dark wood cabinet with more toys and plushies on top. The top door was half open and I could barely make out the shape of a guitar. Why would I keep a guitar in a cabinet? Oh yeah, my grandmother.

Right next to that, below a window on the right wall there was a desk with countless books and notebooks messily spread on the surface. A comfortable wooden chair sat in front of it with pillow support for the posterior. I couldn’t see anything outside the window though. I could see the metal bars, which people used to put in front of windows for whatever reason, made out of unremarkable metal, and behind it is just the dark void.

Right next to that were two simple bookshelves filled to the brim with books: mostly old books I remember seeing in my childhood’s home but also newer works. Some books were on the floor. And here’s where my vision began to clear up. A bunch of the books were damaged and yellow, a couple even missing the cover, and even the newer volumes were a bit degraded. Then I looked at the carpet, which looked dusty and a bit worn off on spaces. 

The whole room looked old and desolate. The curtains were dusty when I moved them to take a good look at the bed, and I saw that the plushies were in great need of a bath. All the wooden furniture was dusty, and a bit rotten. It’s like no one’s been here for years, and, as far as I know, that might have been the case. Still, if this place was squeaky clean all the way through I would become a little suspicious. I don’t know why the dust and rot makes me feel at home, but it does. 

To my left, on the same wall as the bathroom door, there was another door. In front of it I saw a vanity set with a cute mirror with pink bordings and a pink stool sat in front. On the left wall is what I assume to be the door leading out the room because it’s almost perfect black in contrast with the other two doors, which are a soft pink. 

Still, the vanity set called to me. It took me six to seven steps to reach it from the bathroom door. Each step caressed my soles with the same nostalgic feeling of a furry floor. It brings a warmth to my soul I believed to be lost long years ago. 

Reaching the stool, I sat and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a gentle chin free of facial hair; I saw soft lips that weren’t too big or too small; my skin was a beautiful bronze and my hair was perfectly curly and dark as the natural night I’d never gotten the opportunity to get a glimpse from since I’ve always lived in the city; my eyes were adorably downturned like I was constantly sleepy, but not too much to look distorted or like I’m high; my eye colour was almost pitch black and bright like you could see my soul on full display through the circular screen. I was dressed in a simple white shirt that reached down to right above my knees. I had to get up to see more. My figure had curves, but wasn’t too explicit or sexual. I had breasts.

I lost sight of this face again, my vision blurring. It was my face after all, or what could have been. A weird cough-like sound escapes my now smooth throat. I soon find myself bawling and crying on the floor. I know this isn’t real because if I had functioning lungs they would have already escaped my body through my oesophagus with how hard I was feeling it. Still, I was happy to see myself this way after all. After this my face on mirrors oscillated between being the blurry dissociated mess it always has been and this vision of me. And, even as I was crying, I felt connected to my own body, and I felt comfortable in the pain.

My tears cleaned some of the dust from the carpet, staining it with salty sadness. It felt like hours had passed and I couldn’t stop crying, but after that eternity I eventually stopped. The feeling had to pass at some point. 

While on the floor, I pathetically climbed onto the bed, pushing away the curtains and dropping on a cloud pillow. I felt safe in the middle of the plushy fort that held onto hope for decades now, waiting for me to come back. Now I’m home, and I planned to sleep there for a couple decades more. I gently closed my eyes, feeling the eyelashes I just got. 

I don’t know how many hours I slept. I could probably count them in days too. Still, I felt my soul not only rested but cleansed and warmed up. I had dug myself into the sheets and put some plushies and extra stuff on top of me to feel the push down on me as I slept. Apparently a thing autists like. I don’t know; I don’t care. I emerge from my comfy burial. I’m smiling. My hair is messy and all over the place, but it still keeps those cute curls I love so much.

After my eternal slumber I feel a bit dirty and in the need of a bath and a change of clothes. A couple minutes later I got rid of my singular piece of clothing and enjoyed a nice bath. The distinction from shower to bath has never been of the utmost importance to me really. I’m ok with taking showers, I don’t really care. Regardless, it’s nice to have one from time to time. Doesn’t have anything to do with skincare or hygiene; it’s just plain fun and relaxing.

You are reading story How to Disappear Halfway at novel35.com

I then went to the closet which I correctly assumed to be the second door right next to the bathroom. I’ve always wanted to have a closet this big: have a closet be its own room and not just a tiny compartment of my room. Said closet room was filled to the brim with every single clothing style I could imagine and fathom: Ornamental dresses with patterns I can barely decipher with my blurry vision but which I can notice with just my hands; mall gothic; casual streetwear; party dresses; baggy sweaters and hoodies that work like dresses; sportswear?, even though I don’t really play sports; those weird japanese schoolgirl uniforms which are adorable but which I also feel weird about. I can’t decide on what to wear. I end up trying out what feels like a thousand styles in the span of two to three hours.

My “fit” was one of the oversized sweaters that had an open shoulder not by design, a tank top below that, and baggy sweatpants. I don’t really think too much about my footwear so I just pick whatever tennis shoes fit with the colour palette I make. 

I was ready to take on the world. Or, well, whatever is left outside the black door. I don’t really know where I am exactly, I just know that this room specifically is my home. My bliss. 

Never really bothered taking off my shoes on the carpet; I think the carpet is instead gonna stain my shoes, not the other way. I went over to the bookcase to check it out while I’m still here since I won’t be able to come back once I go through the black door. Not much of interest here; it’s all books I’ve read before. Dad used to have bookcases back home full of these. At some point after dropping out of college I just read every single one and then I kept reading. I wanted to be an english major instead of whatever major I was studying for before, but by the point I dropped out our economical situation had worsened and I could not afford the fee. 

What surprises me is that, despite all of this being dreamlike, when I opened up the books the whole content was still there. I thought that in dreams I wouldn’t remember the contents of the books I read, so I either do remember everything, or this is something else.

I looked over at the desk and I found old drawing sketchbooks and other writings I’ve done before. Same issue with the books; I don’t think I even remembered most of these before I saw them on the desk. I opened the cabinet to take a good look at that guitar I had there and it was my old classical nylon string. I can definitely believe my subconscious remembering details from this one. This was my main de-stresser before I signed myself into the army. I tried to play something and the strings reacted realistically too. Whenever I’ve tried to play guitar in my dreams I just hear a recording of other songs and tunes like my brain didn’t have the processing power to render the sounds properly. 

All of this feels a bit too real. I would honestly be a bit more worried if the room was squeaky clean when I got here, but all this dirt… It’s like this place has always been real and I’m finally coming home. Of course, that can’t really be true… I think. 

Shit, it happened so fast I even forgot where I came from for a moment there. Now I’ve entered a monologue with myself. I didn’t even notice my vision came back! Why am I talking to myself? I can suddenly see myself in the mirror more clearly… Oh, wait, nevermind. Doesn’t matter. 

Actually, where exactly am I? I was so entranced in the feeling of the room I forgot who I was for a moment and… Well, I don’t… 

…It’s a weird feeling I’ve never felt before. I can… feel myself. This is as unrealistic as it can get: I passed out in the bathroom and now I’m… in the afterlife? Am I just having a really good dream? But it can’t really be a dream with the books being this detailed… The only two things that are a signal of a dream are the eternal black void outside and me in the mirror… And also the body changes, but… This somehow feels more true than whatever I was experiencing all those years. I even began talking in present tense; I’m currently talking in present tense. Well, not exactly, but you get what I mean.

Wait, who am I even talking to? Wait, no. I can see myself in the mirror again. It’s the same face I looked at when I first arrived here after stumbling out of the bathroom. Now I can see more closely. It’s not as perfect as I first envisioned it as when I could still not see, but anything is better than… Well…

It’s the odd feeling of recognising this is not real but also feeling more legitimate than ever. Do I feel hunger? I haven’t eaten anything in what’s probably been days now. How’s my voice?

I vocalise a word. “Hello.” It’s a woman’s voice; it’s my voice. I almost accidentally slip into a breakdown like I did when I first saw the new me. When did this happen? Who or what do I have to thank for this? I maintain myself functional, but I cannot help but let tears of joy out, squealing stupidly from hapiness. Jesus, I’m so dumb. 

Yet the feeling remains. I honestly think I could stay here forever… I mean, I hope so. But no, it’s never that good. I need to see where everything is. Where I ended up. I walk towards the black door, with an overlining smile covering an unshakeable feeling of uneasiness. 

Before I do anything I take one good look at myself. It’s… literally a thing of dreams. I reach out for the doorknob and I get a creeping sensation down my spine. I have to do this. Don’t kid yourself now… 

Who am I kidding? I’ve always been kidding myself.

You can find story with these keywords: How to Disappear Halfway, Read How to Disappear Halfway, How to Disappear Halfway novel, How to Disappear Halfway book, How to Disappear Halfway story, How to Disappear Halfway full, How to Disappear Halfway Latest Chapter