He should probably have known better than to watch a movie that was triggering like that before bed, but he’s done it now and here he is on the verge of elsewhere. He’s woken up suddenly and looked over to see the bedside clock flick over to 11:09 before his eyes. Maybe not a portent exactly, but a number with meaning for him below reason in the realm of oneiric logic.
Nothing like this has happened for months. The meds had been doing their job of keeping it under the carpet. Their efficacy was bound to wane eventually, along with the validity of their prescription. The associations would return and they would double-back with intensity for having been repressed, and he would have some unknown reason to get out of bed again. Better than sleeping fourteen hours a day.
He now steps out of bed with diligence he can only remember from before the meds. He moves to the open window and yes, a course of tingles cascades down from his crown because yes, of course the traffic lights are green outside the window. It’s a main road out there and it’s the middle of the night, but such profane logic is not what registers when he looks back at the clock to see the numbers tick over to 11:12. It hasn’t felt like three minutes, but who is he to argue.
Others believe 11:11 is the master number, but his purpose is different. This isn’t some “secret mission”. It is below secret, arising from the primordial within.
Dr Schneider has other ideas, of course. And lots of elaborate linguistic chicanery for defending a model of aetiology as profane now as it was once arcane. This is not just apophenia. It is apophenia, yes, but it is not just some elaborate abstraction from reality to help the man cope with the abnegation of his responsibility. It is the perception of patterns that others cannot perceive, which does not mean the patterns are not there. As though to confirm this, a butterfly makes it path across the backyard in the direction of the green traffic lights.
He doesn’t know whether butterflies emerge at night, this man, but he knows that doesn’t matter. He knows what butterflies mean – that to not climb out the window would be a true abnegation of his arcane duty. He has waited months for this, sleeping fourteen hours a day in what he now understands was a narcotic cocoon.
He doesn’t expect to fly or anything crazy like that. But he knows when he jumps that he will land elsewhere, having committed himself to a leap into dimensions with their own notions of causality. And when he lands, the butterfly returns, doubling back in loops on the wings of infinity to bless his crown with a kiss of welcome. He climbs the fence with his crown tingling and crosses the road against the red light of the standing man.
This draft was produced for the EWF20 Swinburne Microfiction Challenge