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Thinking of starting to do fanart Fridays, but stayed up late painting and also got a late start. So here’s some silly sketches of an a+ enemy from Earthbound.
Rating and Warnings: Vulgar language, agoraphobia, anxiety
Summary: Charlie wants more than anything to travel and see the world abroad. There is one problem, however: he has not left his house in six years.
“Life is an adventure. You deserve to travel.”
That's what the commercial said, at least. The cool, soothing confidence of the voice over always gave Charlie pause when he heard it. She sounded so convincing, like the way he imagined hypnotists or therapists to sound. She knew what was best. He deserved to travel.
He never changed the channel when that commercial came on. It was an advertisement urging him to go partake of the wonders of the world and perhaps help line the pockets of the global tourist industry along the way.
The commercial showed tourism's finest: clips of soaring over jagged, pristine and snow-capped mountains from a bird's eye view, the blue vista as a waterproof camera followed happy scuba divers, neon tropical fish darting here and there, and dense, verdant forests stocked full of wild creatures, waterfalls and streams.
“Don't you want to see,” the same coolly confident voice challenged, “what's out there?”
Something about the entire thing gave Charlie a peculiar tingle, made his breath catch in his throat as though he was on the verge of falling, atop some high precipice. It made him restless.
This was not the first time he considered traveling, but every time it ended nowhere, the fear reaching up to seize him. But something greater now was pushing him, an urging, a whisper. An industry's plea for money or not, something in that message was a catalyst to him.
Don't you want to see what's out there?
Charlie pondered long and hard on this. The commercial wasn't the first thing to push him toward wanting to travel, wanting to break the monotony of his life and pry him out of his little self-constructed cage. It was something on the verge of his thoughts, buried in his subconscious and eventually consciousness for a long time. But the imagery, so bright and pure, with the hypnotist's voice over urging him to step forth made him especially antsy.
Life is an adventure.
One particular night, Charlie woke from a dream. In the dream, he was a bird, soaring gloriously and gently above mountain peaks, above veins of forest and branching rivers. The beating of his wings never tired, and there was never an end to the great tapestry of the world laid before him. The urgency and power of this dream called to him more than any other he had experienced, and in a sweating fit he threw off his tangle of covers, wrestled his pillow away, and stumbled through the dark of his house toward the front door.
You deserve to travel.
It was this night that Charlie felt the heavy, tight pumping of his heart, beating like the wings of his dream self, powering him forward toward the front door in his boxers and sleep shirt. With trembling hands he reached forward to undo the metal lock there, and all the strength and confidence began vanishing from him, falling out and draining quicker than any waterfall or river. He turned the lock, but the action became more of a question than a statement of confidence, and suddenly he found himself terribly frightened at his front door. He forced himself to grasp the handle, his palm sweaty and shaking. He turned, full of terror and uncertainty now, and pushed his door wide open. Warm, musky early morning air filled his nose and lungs then, and the sounds of distant cars on the highway and the last remnants of crickets filled his ears, a ringing symphony of sound.
Charlie then found himself standing in his open doorway, seized with horror and fear, fear that grasped his chest like an icy pang. The ice in his chest spread forward then, inching out quickly, rippling through his arms, his legs, his fingers and toes. With fear he slammed the door shut, locking it. He then double and triple checked the lock and only then was he satisfied enough to go stumbling away from the mouth of his residential cavern as though recoiling from a burn.
A sudden anger filled him then, sharp and bright like glancing accidentally into the sun.
“Fuck. Fuck!” he shouted, and began kicking around boxes and a pile of books he had set out earlier near his coffee table. “Fuck!!” He gave one last roar for good measure, feeling the blood as it raced into his head, into his cheeks, feeling the spittle fling out of his mouth. He was raging at himself, at his own uselessness. To be so conquered by fear.
It had been six years since Charlie last went outside. Once or twice he had ventured out into his lawn, only to go creeping back in with a feeling of great unease webbing over him. He opened the door when deliveries came, groceries or other goods ordered online, or to pay the boy who tended his lawn. But for most of the past several years, Charlie had not left his home, had not ventured outside the confines of his walls. Something about the openness, the vastness of everything frightened him. Something about all the people out in the world was dizzying. He couldn't quite place the reason for his fear, though he spent much time as of late dwelling on it in frustration and great sadness. The world terrified him as much as he longed to be a part of it.
Sometimes it got so bad that Charlie wept, wept long and hard. He was no longer embarrassed by these episodes, as there was no one in home with which to see his outbursts. He only felt a great deal of anger and helplessness at what he had become, at how much larger everything seemed than he. Sometimes he remembered being a younger man, a man who was full of life and curiosity and courage. He used to go surfing on weekends and driving old highways at night when the world was quiet, feeling the wind in his hair, the radio murmuring out a song about youth spent in dance halls. He felt that that man was Charlie, and that what he was now was something else, someone else, something that Charlie had shifted into. Something he had become, but not Charlie.
He sat watching television when the commercial came on again, the same vivid peaks and oceans and happy people living their lives without a fear of everything and without a fear of nothing at all. This time, when the voice over spoke, Charlie spoke too.
“Don't you want to see what's out there?”
He flipped the TV off and a silent black filled where the vivid pictures once were, a nothingness in place of adventure. He sat for a long while like that, unmoving in his chair. Something about the emptiness of the television screen was too familiar to him. It was time, he decided. It was time to change. To see what was beyond these walls. He would push against that fear or he would die in a cage.
Charlie purchased a plane ticket to California. It was where he had spent those glimmering days of his youth driving and surfing and having adventures, and it was where the sequoia trees were. In his dream of flight, the verdant forests called out to him most, inspired him the greatest. He could still almost smell the rich petrichor of a forest after rain. How long had it been since he had smelled a forest? Since he had been in the sun?
He spent the next two weeks leading up to his flight in a strange and fitful state of ecstasy and misery entwined, one in which courage and terror both came roiling over him in waves. Some hours he felt determined and enthusiastic, planning and researching other sights during his trip. Other times, it was all he could do to keep himself from frantically canceling his flight before it was too late.
When the day of his departure arrived, Charlie was overcome with a nervous and giddy sort of nausea, all his world brimming with a brightness both sickly and excited. He was determined this time not to let the sickness win, to push forward and do what he dreamed of every night. To go out and see. To be a part of the world once more.
The time came for Charlie to step outside and catch the bus to the airport. He stood before his door, his house quiet now, the lights and television and everything shut off, gone into an eerie electronic hibernation in preparation for his grand departure. His skin prickled with nerves as he paused before the door, baggage in hand. He reached forward, turning the lock, his hands beginning to sweat and shake once more.
“Not this time, you son of a bitch,” Charlie snarled, forcing the door open. Sunlight flooded in and all the outside world greeted him. He meant to step forward through the threshold but found himself frozen. “Not this time,” he echoed again, inhaling a sharp breath and stepping forward into the sun.
He was suddenly dizzy, wild with fright and sickness. The world was so cluttered and the sky was so big. A dog across the street spotted him and began anxiously barking, either in excitement or a warning, he couldn't tell. The sharp staccato sounds of it punctuated the air, filling his ears, making him overwhelmed. Overcome and seized with anxiousness, he rushed back inside and locked the door behind him.
Charlie did not swear this time. He did not shout or kick over his books with rage. He just felt a terrible sorrow, the sorrow that he had failed, that it had been too much for him. With his heart still pounding in his throat and ears, he slowly dropped his luggage and sank to the floor before his front door. The muffled sound of the dog still made its way through even the walls of his created, impenetrable fortress. He began to cry again, a horrible hurt welling up in place of the fear, slowly overcoming it, replacing it like the flood of a slow rising tide.
Charlie heard the sound of the bus as it made its way down the street, pausing before sluggishly picking up and going again. It carried with it his dream, his hope and intentions. He would miss his flight. He would not leave his house. He had failed. When he could not cry any further, reaching the point where the body simply becomes exhausted with headache and dries out, unable to produce more tears, he simply sat until he fell asleep, leaning against the door, resting against the thin barrier between inside and all that was outside.
He did not dream.
He awoke some time much later, coming to first in confusion at his unusual location, then with great sorrow at the memory of what had transpired. His house was silent and dark, evening had come and passed and in its wake, night had arrived. Moonlight filtered in pale through his curtains, shrouding the interior of his house with a picturesque stillness and glow. He sat for a long while upon waking, simply taking in all that had happened now that he was calm, now that he had rested. As he sat, a strange feeling came over him. It was something that came gently bubbling up from deep beneath the surface of his consciousness.
Charlie was calm. Despite everything, he was terribly calm. He felt almost as though he were dreaming then, though the sober reality of memory told him he was not. He had an idea though, and he meant to see it through. He rose slowly, luggage on the floor around him, and gently slid it out of his way. He fished through the smaller bag, procuring his key ring. Every sound was amplified there in the still dark of night, and the keys jangled and clanged as he grasped them. He turned to the door, and with a long, heavy inhale, opened it.
Again, Charlie was greeted by warm night air. There was no longer a dog across the street. The people and cars that usually filled his view from his window were gone now, quieted. The sounds of the distant highway hummed constantly, a heartbeat of the city. He felt strange: afraid and dizzy, but alive. He felt okay. He simply stood and watched, becoming used to the sounds and the warm air and the feel of everything, the vastness of the sky and the complexity of the world around him. And then he stepped outside. He stood on his porch for a long moment, becoming accustomed to it as well, and then shut the door behind him, locking it.
He had missed his flight, but he had another plan. A smaller plan. One that was more realistic for him. Charlie opened the garage to see his car still sitting in it, as it always had been. It had been six years since he had driven it, but he thought to give it a chance. He could not fly, but he could drive, like he used to, down quiet nighttime roads. He could take small steps back into the world instead of pushing himself in one great leap. He climbed into the car, the smell of dust and leather filling his nostrils. For a moment longer he sat, simply adjusting to the feel of it all. He pushed the key into the ignition and turned. The car barely choked out a gasp, then nothing. It was dead from sitting for so long.
“No,” he growled, turning the ignition again. Still, nothing. The vehicle had simply sat for too long. Suddenly all at once, he felt that anxiety, loud and enormous welling up like it did before, telling him to get inside, to go back to where it was safe, where it was quiet. He fought that urge, turning the ignition again. Still, nothing.
For a moment he simply sat in the car, dazed and terrified and frustrated, when he turned to see his old bicycle lying propped up against the wall. He climbed back out of the car and went over to it, examining it. It was covered in cobwebs from years of neglect. The tires were flat. He dug around, tense and fighting off the constant hounding of anxiety still, determined now. Finally he found his old manual air pump and refilled the tires. When he was done, he climbed up onto the seat of the bike, feeling strange to have it between his legs. How long had it been since he had gone for a ride? How long had it been since he'd truly enjoyed anything, sincerely, with passion?
He pushed forward on the bike now, and it wobbled dangerously beneath him. He pushed the pedals beneath his feet—a strange and powerful feeling to do such a thing—and regained his balance as he picked up speed. He guided the bicycle down the driveway, and then out onto the sidewalk, pushing against the pedals, against the resistance of them, feeling the warm breeze pick up around him as he went. For a brief moment, a tingling fear to stop and turn around before he went too far welled up, but it was drowned out in a greater feeling, one of anticipation... one of, perhaps, joy.
@leagueoflumps
