Simony didn't perceive things as a normal person did. When he turned five, it was as if merely a second had passed since birth. Such as a blur, or when someone shifts their gaze from one area to another. This change was imperceptible. As he moved from one house to another, his mind barely picked up on the different walls or steps. As if on autopilot, he didn't let such changes trip him.
Perhaps it was his parents who pointed it out first. Without them, he would never have realized what he was missing out on. Things called 'moments' were passing, and had passed. His parent's memories were so very solid to them, which was quite different with him. His memories were as malleable and variable as a dream-scape. Most of his memories were, in fact, intermingled with dreams, and his dreams with memories. A sort of worry grew in his parents when he described what he missed most about the old house:
"I do miss the old house, it was so big and fun. I could run from one end of the house to the other and hide without anyone hearing my space. I used the pully-thingy and went into the basement, trying not to squeak. And then the mice were there, trying to help me under the stairs and into the brown tunnel of quilts and light bulbs. You never came with me though, I wanted to show you..."
His parents looked to one another, knowing full-well of the condo that they lived in previously. Large, yes. Multi-level with a basement? No. Much less did they have a basement where mice were who could guide a child into a non-existent tunnel full of bulbs and blankets.
Psychologists didn't bother much with this case:
"Well, Mister and Missus Dawnson, these things pass. He'll acclimate himself by grade-school. He'll fit right in. Times are changing, folks, and instead of merely one or two imaginary friends-- kids have whole worlds that they imagine. I suggest, to cut down on these imaginings, that you remove such stimuli as iPhones and tablets... Hmm?"
He sat there, telling them this and that about the psychological trends of children since the twenties. They felt patronized, but they had paid ahead. They were going to get their money's worth.
It was a waiting game, and finally grade school was approaching.
"Mom, where are we?"
"What, honey? Well we're on the way to school, on Preston Road."
"But where is that?"
"It's between home and school."
"Oh... Where am I, then?"
"You're in a car, sweetheart. What are you thinking about?"
"I dunno. I wanted to know. Are we in the same place?"
"Haha, yes, sweet. Same car, same road, same city."
"Does that mean that you're me?"
She was just silent for a while, rather creeped out by this exchange.
"Well, we're in different seats, so no. We can't be in the same place at once."
"Oh. What if I don't like school?"
She sighed, relieved by this more reasonable conversation, removed from the existential crisis he was on the verge of before.
The days went by, and he did art, and practiced writing, and learned addition. Art went up on the fridge, his parents explained simple addition, swelling with pride and confidence in themselves and their child. A few neighbors that they had made friends with came by, admiring the artwork on the fridge.
"Oh that is so cute! He did this one too, with all of the people standing next to each other?"
"Yea, well, I think his teacher helped. I think it was for a kind of self portrait."
"That's really neat. He's got some talent--"
Another neighbor chimed in. "That's a really conceptual portrait. To express oneself as more than one person, that's some transcendental influence-- who is the teacher?"
"Uh... Jones. Missus Jones. Yea, I think she helped. A lot."
The focus went from the artwork to the appetizers. Missus Dawnson stared at the art for a long while, just out of the corner of her eye. The night seemed to fly past.
--
"I just wanted to touch base and meet with you two again to discuss your child's progress in my class."
Missus Jones seemed more cheerful on the phone than now. Her hands were wrought together, almost white-knuckled. A tension rose in a nervousness in her voice.
"Yes? Is there anything wrong? How is he doing?" Missus Dawnson asked, her own blood pressure rising from the vibe in the room.
Missus Jones made herself relax some, chuckling. "Not at all, he's just very interesting, is all. Did you see the painting we sent home with him recently?"
"Oh, yes, the portrait? It was a real big hit at our house-warming party." The couple smiled to one another.
"Yes. I'm sure! Has he talked about it at all?"
"No, not really, why do you ask?"
"Well, he couldn't stop talking about it in class." Another nervous chuckle. "Would you care to watch him in class? We videotape sessions, for security and surveillance purposes only..."
"Oh, sure!"
The recording began on the tablet, fast-forwarding through what looked like the other class-mates standing in front of the class to present their paintings. Their son came up, and the tape slowed. The teacher's recorded voice began:
"Go on, Simony."
"It's me."
"Of course, and who is everyone else?"
"But there isn't anyone else. It's just me."
"But the other figures... The people. Who is that?" She points to a random figure on the paper.
"Me!"
This exchange went on rather relentlessly, to the point of tension for the parents. At first they were leaning forward, with a bit of a smile, listening and watching intently. After a moment, they leaned up, staring. Soon, they were looking from the corners of their eyes, leaning back and holding hands.
"Yes. So, it seems that he knows how interesting he is."
His parents felt the quotes around the word 'interesting'.
"But you've seen this kind of thing before, I bet." The father offered.
"Well, sure, but not as much. More of an identity confusion, not so much of this, where he seems certain that he is all of the figures in the picture.
"What does it mean?" The mother almost whispered.
"I'm not sure. Hah, I'm sure it's no big deal-- but I wanted to share it. Are you okay, Missus Dawnson?"
"I just... Need water."
--
That night, as they tucked their son into bed, they presented the portrait, asking him what his teacher had asked him.
"Who is everyone else?"
"It's me." He even pointed to each figure. "Me."
"But what do you mean? You drew yourself a lot of times?"
"Yea, but I dunno. It's me and others, I guess. They have different clothes, see? And some are girls."
"But you can't be more than one person, sweetheart. Did you get confused by the project?"
"No! She said that we could paint who we are! And it's me!"
That night, they couldn't make much more sense of him, and soon, he was softly crying himself to sleep. They too fell asleep with heavy hearts, for having hurt their son with such a barrage of questions, all out of fear.
"Maybe it's one of those neuro-colds..."
"They don't last this long..."
"We need help."
":Let's just sleep."
--
Now he was where he would be comfortable, with people like him, with people who knew what he was going through. In a quaint little town, in a happy little complex, in a sweet little community of similar minded folk.
"I think they're new."
"Well, they're never really 'new', Simony."
"True... But I've never them personally before."
"True, I think that they fit in."
"Well, of course. They always have."
"I think that we should introduce ourselves."
The two young men laughed, nodding at the joke. In this place, everyone already knew each other-- at least as well as they knew themselves.
The newcomer approached them, sitting down.
"It's taken me a while, I know. But I'm glad to be back."
Everyone settled into their seats after making room for the newcomer and sitting in a comfortable silence among the others on the patio. Small chit-chat took place, as they exercised their verbal skills.
Everyone already knew what the others were thinking, though. Now, ask them if they were psychic, and you'd get a laugh.
To you, these people could read one another's minds.
To them, you just didn't know what they were thinking, yet.
[The shot zooms out, and a hand-made banner flutters on a flagstaff reading: University of Universal Consciousness."]
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