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There was no point when he woke up because there was no point when he fell asleep. It was merely that there was nothing. There wasn’t an idea there was much to remember. Maybe he was supposed to know this place.
The sun beats down on him. It isn’t his sun. There’s no burn to it and there’s no true warmth. It feels clinical like the lights in a hospital. He feels the essence of wind, but he knows it’s not there. At least he’s pretty sure of it. The leaves move in front of him as if it is there. It’s not. A bug flies past him without a noise. It reminds him of nothing.
When he finally listens, he hears nothing except for a loud buzzing noise. It warbles until it no longer hums a recognizable note. It doesn’t hurt, but it almost does.
Something is watching him, or maybe many things. A constant set of eyes stares at him from the corner of his vision. It disappears when he tries to look at it. A hole bores into the back of his head and into each inch of his body from the obsessive stare. He walks inside of a building and it doesn’t help. Neither does walking back outside.
Something walks up to him. Maybe it’s rather someone. He can’t tell. They’re large and possibly blue. He can’t find their eyes. He can’t find their head. Maybe they don’t have one. It flickers in and out of existence. He doesn’t blink, but he needs to.
The figure waves at him. He doesn’t know if he waves back. Maybe he did. He says something, but the words get too jumbled in the noise to make out. The figure says something back. He hands the figure something. Maybe it’s a box. The figure laughs, probably, and gets on all fours. He just stares. He gets tackled. He runs, he thinks, until he is somewhere.
There is a bag around his body. He remembers that. At least, he feels it there now. He runs his hand against the leather, but there is no touch. His fingers feel numb. He reaches inside. There is paper with names written on it that are too messy and blurry to read. He thinks he’s supposed to give them to people. He doesn’t know who, but he does know. He knows that these papers go to the blue figure. He knows these other papers go to a yellow figure. The yellow figure gives more papers to give to a different yellow figure. He does this until his bag is empty.
His bag shouldn’t be empty. He needs paper.
He enters a building. He looks at the counter. It’s possibly a store, with a figure behind the counter. They seem like they’re a puppet. Are there strings? Sometimes they seem more muscular. Sometimes they seem skinnier. They ask him a question. He can’t answer. They ask him another question. He still can’t answer.
In his hands is paper. Maybe he picked it up on his way to the counter. Why does he have it? He doesn't need paper.
He sets the paper down on the counter. The figure laughs. He leaves. The figure stops laughing. The figure calls out to him, or at least maybe they do.
The sun isn’t real. It’s too blue, and it’s too red, and it’s too green. It’s too many colors.
His feet stop. His hair stands on end. The eyes watching him pinpoint into one spot like they finally put themselves together. He looks up.
A pair of eyes stare back at him.
He stares back.
When did they appear? Did he always pass by them? Why didn’t he stop to notice? They stare threateningly, yet he can’t look away. He can’t help but feel comforted. These eyes were always there for him, weren’t they? Sweat begins to roll down his forehead. His hands begin to shake.
The world spins and stretches beneath him and around him. He is not himself just as the eyes are not. Who is he?
There are not two eyes. There are not three, or four, or any number a man could count on his hands. Too many eyes stare back at him. They look at him with pity, adoration, sadness, and any feeling under the sun, but most importantly every one of him stares like he is worth every ounce of joy he could give them. They don’t know him, or maybe they do.
He stares back. It would be rude not to.
The eyes get confused. He can feel it. Maybe he’s the one who’s confused? It’s hard to tell.
Tentatively, he waves. A few wave back, though he can’t see it. He says hi. He can hear the warbled sound of his voice, and the watchers greet him back.
One of the watchers asks him his name. He doesn’t know. He’s supposed to know, isn’t he? They don’t tell him what it is. They tell him he will know. It’s interesting. He will know.
There is no sun. There is no wind. There are no bugs. There is only him, and the eyes.
Suddenly the world is stretched. Then, like a rubber band, it snaps.
Two painted eyes stare back at him clicking back and forth like a cuckoo clock in the windows of a barn colored house. For a second they lock eyes with him. They seem to almost laugh. He feels he should laugh along with him. His hands no longer feel numb. A cloud has been lifted and his eyes can see.
He stumbles forward. Someone is shaking him. They speak at him, but he is too overwhelmed to hear. The dirt is soft underneath his knees. He didn’t even know he was kneeling.
“Huh?” he mumbles.
“Eddie? Eddie, are you okay?” a gray person asks. His head moves clean into his neck with no jawline, only separated from his body with a collar and a nice bowtie. His vest is very colorful.
“Eddie?” he asks.
The gray person blinks a few times. His voice breaks as he says, “Yes, you. Eddie Dear.”
He looks at his hands. His hands are orange. He hasn’t noticed that before. A tie rests on his own neck tucked in the navy collar of his shirt. It contrasts nicely with the white. As he looks at his outfit and down to his brown leather bag, still empty, he realizes he must have been a form of postal worker. He remembers he likes delivering things. He likes making people smile.
“Who are you? I can’t remember” he asks.
“Frank Frankly,” the person says. Frank Frankly.
He remembers now. He remembers spending days at his house and spending days with Frank’s best friend and he remembers him helping take care of insects. Yes, insects were his hobby. Maybe they were. He has a butterfly shaped bowtie.
Eddie smiles and says, “I remember you!”
The eyes on the house trail back and forth until suddenly they stop, but they don’t stare. They merely rest on Eddie until he stares back. Their stare almost hurts and, for a moment, Eddie’s eyes begin to blur. Then the eyes go right back to wandering and Eddie’s vision clears.
Frank smiles back, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.