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You don’t feel like doing your chores right now. However, you’re a good boy, and Mom wants them done by the time she gets home. Therefore, you don’t have a choice in the matter.
You make no sound as you exit your bed, prepared to endure the agonizing boredom of another day. This waking time has become nothing to you, it is simply the intermittent period of monotony between sleep cycles. You feel nothing during this time. There is nothing to feel.
There’s a list of chores near your bedroom door. Your mother will be coming home in a few weeks, and there are still lots of things to do in preparation for her return. You briefly scan the list, trying to order them in your mind.
There are several things you remember already doing yesterday, but you see that you still have to dust off all the furniture, polish the silverware, empty out the trash, and clean out the-
“Clean out the treehouse.”
That can’t be right. Mom knows you don’t like to go outside. Why would she ask you to do this? Come to think of it, since when did you even have a treehouse? You suppose it’s possible, you certainly haven’t been out there in a very long time. The thought bothers you, so you try reading it again. Maybe you read it wrong the first time-
“Clean out the treehouse.”
No, you absolutely read it right the first time. Your brow furrows.
You try to remember. You close your eyes and find a picture forming in your mind, as though it were emerging from a chasmic swamp…
…the hottest day of the summer, why did it have to be on the hottest day of the summer? You want to help them build it…
As quickly as it came, the vision fades away. You feel a pit begin to form in your stomach. Why can’t you remember?
Uncomfortable, you decide to just do your other chores, leaving any thoughts of the mysterious “treehouse” behind. You’ll just tell mom that you forgot, and she probably won’t care. Hopefully.
You put the list down, and prepare to do your chores as quickly as possible so that you can return to sleep.
***
It’s been several hours, and you’ve completed all of your chores for today. Mom will think you’re such a good boy, and you’re almost proud of yourself. You very much look forward to getting back to bed, though.
After you finish washing your hands, you exit the kitchen and turn to go to the staircase. For a brief moment, you catch a glimpse of the setting sun through the screen door in the living room.
You’re suddenly reminded of your discarded chore from the morning’s list. You find a nagging curiosity draws you towards the screen door, even just to see what could have been meant by “clean out the treehouse”. It would have to be in the backyard, right?
You cautiously approach the door. A feeling of dread begins to weigh on your neck and chest, and you notice your breathing is becoming difficult. Still, a morbid curiosity keeps you moving until…
You look through the glass screen door.
You looked through the glass screen door.
The setting sun colors everything a shade of muted orange.
There was no light. You cannot see anything beyond the glass.
There’s a tree stump outside.
There was a tall tree outside.
Something is watching you from outside.
You wanted to run away.
You blink. The tree stump is gone. It was never there to begin with.
Nothing is watching you.
You watch as your arm rises up, pulling open the screen door. You don’t want to do this, but you can’t think of a good reason not to.
You step outside. It’s warm. An intermittent breeze stimulates your arms and legs as you walk. The feeling is nostalgic to you, almost alien.
You’re a good boy, and good boys do their chores.
You have to clean out the treehouse.
***
You’re afraid of heights.
You didn’t consider this as a potential issue, but there is a significant distance between the ground and the treehouse. A rope ladder extends down from the familiar wooden construction, and you grab hold of it with your hands. It’s rough and coarse against your skin, and the construction creaks in an unpleasant way.
You stand there for a long time, holding the rope ladder in your hands. Your feet refuse to leave the ground. Your heart is racing. Why are you doing this?
You reflect on how awful your situation is. You have no reason to be doing what you’re doing, and yet…
Your right foot leaves the ground and connects with the bottommost step. You leverage it to lift your left foot onto the same step. You close your eyes and let instinct take over.
Soon, you’re at the top. Your hands graze the creaking wood and fraying rope, feeling the shoddy construction. You don’t dare look down.
***
You don’t want to see this room. Why did you come back here?
Ugly memories rear their heads as you survey the abandoned treehouse. The musty smell of decay tugs at the corners of your mind, drawing out the disjointed bits and pieces of things you forgot. You wish you could shake them out of your head. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to remember.
The treehouse is a mess. Toys and trinkets litter the floor, wearing away from disuse and exposure to the elements. A pile of books in the corner, an old TV, scattered playing cards, all reminders of things you destroyed and of promises you broke.
There’s a photograph on the windowsill, but you refuse to touch it.
Your breathing is getting faster. Your eyes feel like they’re burning. A dull, throbbing pain erupts in your head. The whole room dissolves into static. You can’t stay here for long.
You huff your breaths in and out, your lungs screaming and begging for you to leave. You feel faint. Automatically, your hand reaches out to stabilize yourself, and lands on…
…a faded toy plushie. Your eyes fixate on its sleepy expression, familiar in a comforting way. Its bulbous head caves under the weight of your palm, the well-worn material releasing a sad, squeaky groan. With great effort, a name bubbles up from your swamp of a memory:
Plantegg. Mr. Plantegg.
In that moment, everything else disappears. You stare at the plushie for a very long time, almost incapable of acknowledging its reality. It is surreal to you, that in this place of corpses you would so carelessly unearth a friend from long ago.
He was once yours, in fact he was one of many. He had a different name, and he lived with his friends: Happy, Brows, and Nose. Until one day, he was rechristened.
One day, you chose to give him to someone else. You struggle to remember who, and why.
Like the breaching of a dam, the reasons suddenly flood back to you. Everything about the plushie comes to you at once. From your hoarse and aching throat, you gasp.
***
It’s late at night. Your friends are all sleeping on the floor around the sofa, the aftermath of a rowdy sleepover at your house. Your bodies are all strewn about the family room, each wrapped in their own respective blankets.
_ _ _ is on the couch, his head curiously bent over the armrest and hanging upside-down over the side. Drool drips from his mouth, sliding up onto his upside-down forehead. You can’t help but wonder incredulously how he could possibly have fallen asleep in a position like that, and you’re mildly concerned for his health.
_ _ _ _ _ is wrapped up in his blanket like a burrito, with only his face peeking out of a small hole. His blonde locks spill out from the blanket tied firmly over the top of his head, making him look like a very odd caterpillar. He seems comfortable.
_ _ _ _ is nestled up to _ _ _ _ on the floor by the TV, a wide smile adorning her smooth, perfect face. Her arms are loosely wrapped around _ _ _ _’s torso, the two almost spooning. They’re very lucky _ _ _ _ _ is securely burritoed, as you’re sure he wouldn’t hesitate to snap another photo of the pair sleeping so cutely together.
Your own blanket is warm and cozy. On every side of you, you can find comfort looking up towards one of your friends.
You feel safe. You feel happy. You feel loved.
A whispering voice causes you to open one eye.
“Pssst, _ _ _ _ _! Are you awake?”
_ _ _ _ _ _ pokes you in the shoulder. You turn over to look at her.
_ _ _ _ _ _ is sitting on her knees, fidgeting with her pale green nightgown. She looks upset.
“I had a nightmare…” she confesses, teary-eyed. “But I don’t wanna wake up _ _ _ _ ‘cause she looks so happy… I don’t know what to do!”
You can’t help but empathize with _ _ _ _ _ _’s struggle, since you have lots of bad dreams too. Normally, when you have a nightmare, you sleep with _ _ _ _ until you feel better, but she appears to be… occupied at the moment. You think for a moment, and then an idea strikes.
You leap up from your blankets, and quietly hurry to your bedroom. You grab a plushie off of your bed, and tip-toe back down the stairs.
“_ _ _ _ _? What’s that in your hands?” _ _ _ _ _ _ whispers, confused. You hand her the plushie without a word, practically shoving it into her arms.
“Huh? For me?” She looks at it for a moment, turning it in her hands. You see a smile form on her face as she plays with it. “He’s so… cute! He’s like a little eggplant!”
She tilts her head to the side. “Can I keep him?” She asks, eagerly.
You watch as she hugs your toy tightly to her body. You feel a warm, fuzzy feeling swell in your chest. You nod, more than ready to part with your toy if it makes your friend happy.
“Thank you, _ _ _ _ _!” The girl cries, hugging you. “I’ll treasure him forever!”
You feel the warmth of her cheek against yours, her arms tightly wound around your back. The feeling is in full force now, and you feel your hands turn hot. You’re thankful for the darkness, as you can feel your entire face burning up.
_ _ _ _ _ _ quickly goes to sleep, hugging her new plushie tightly. She would officially name it the next morning, and from then on it would be Mr. Plantegg. You watch her for a while, curled up in her pink bunny blanket with her new plushie’s bulbous head peeking out from her chest.
With a stomach full of butterflies and ears still as red as tomatoes, you eventually nod off as well. You dream of a cute little girl with a pink bow in her hair.
***
You don’t remember leaving the treehouse. You don’t remember climbing back down the rope ladder. You don’t remember the journey back to the house, or going through the screen door. You don’t remember going up the stairs, or using the bathroom, or getting into bed.
All you can think about is the faded purple plushie. The ratty old thing in your hands is rough, torn, and hardly holds together as one piece. It leaks straw stuffing and smells like death.
But it’s real . It’s not a dream, and it doesn’t go away when you open your eyes. As long as you hold it in your hands, the sweet childhood memories stay with you. They circulate through your mind like air flowing through your lungs, giving you a sense of meaning and purpose.
Yes, Mr. Plantegg is real, which means she’s real too. She’s real, and she’s still out there somewhere. She’s still looking for her lost stuffed toy, or maybe she’s waiting patiently for you to bring it back to her. You can only wonder how long you’ve kept her waiting.
A nervous anticipation keeps you awake, and you find yourself tossing and turning in your bed far more than usual. You’re going to go outside again tomorrow, you realize. You no longer have the option of staying inside. You’re going to return Mr. Plantegg to his rightful owner.
For the first time in years, you fall asleep with butterflies in your stomach, thinking of the girl you loved so long ago and wondering if she still remembers you at all.