"Far out!" The exclamation burst from me as I sprang back off the couch, my brief moment of anticipated rest disrupted. The couch's comfort had beckoned, promising a brief respite from the day's toils. The boxes of shelving had weighed heavily on my muscles, clashing with the physical demands far removed from my usual routine. The Clivilius sun, unforgiving and relentless, had sapped my strength, its heat a constant adversary throughout the day's labour.
Despite my occasional visits to the gym, where I lifted weights and ran on treadmills in a controlled environment, today's exertion had been different. It was a raw, unfiltered physicality that gym routines couldn't replicate. My body, accustomed to the posture of sitting before a computer, had protested against the day's demands, the strain highlighting the chasm between exercise and real-world physical work.
I heaved a sigh, my body aching, as I opened the front door, only to be greeted by the sight of a small Coles truck parked at the end of the driveway. The arrival of yet another task stood before me, a mundane yet necessary interruption.
"Delivery for Luke Smith," the delivery man announced, a hint of routine in his voice as he extended the handheld device toward me for a signature.
"Yeah, thanks," I replied, mustering a semblance of gratitude amidst my fatigue. "Just leave the bags by the front door, and I'll take them inside myself." My voice carried the weight of the day, a subtle plea for this interaction to be swift and unburdened by additional demands.
"Not a problem," the man responded, his tone professional and indifferent to the weariness that clung to me.
As he unloaded the groceries, placing them methodically by the front door, I braced myself for another round of lifting. Each bag I carried inside was a testament to the day's ongoing challenges, the physical exertion a continuous thread that wove through the fabric of my day.
"Last one," the delivery man declared, his voice marking the end of this small yet significant intrusion into my day. He placed a bag brimming with tinned dog food on the front porch, a mundane detail that somehow punctuated the day's relentless demands.
"Thanks," I muttered, more out of social obligation than genuine gratitude. I hauled the bag inside, its weight a minor burden compared to the day's earlier exertions, and shut the door behind me. The click of the latch was a small signal, a temporary barrier between me and the world outside.
My hands found their way between the slats of the venetian blinds in the dining room, peering out with a mix of impatience and vigilance. I tapped my foot, a silent echo of my growing frustration. What the hell is taking the man so long to get back in his damn truck? The question churned in my mind, a trivial concern magnified by the day's accumulated stresses.
As soon as the delivery truck vanished from view, a sense of urgency overtook me. I fished out the Portal Key from my pocket, its familiar contours a reminder of the extraordinary.
Stepping through the portal to Clivilius, the transition was jarring. The familiar landscape, with its dust and small hills, greeted me, yet Paul and Jamie were nowhere to be seen. I set down the first load of groceries, the bags landing softly in the Clivilius dust.
"Paul!" My voice broke the silence, a mix of irritation and concern as I unloaded the second round of groceries. The landscape stretched out before me, unresponsive and vast. Where the heck is Paul? The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Switching tactics, I shouted, "Food!" hoping the prospect of provisions might hasten his appearance. My voice carried across the barren landscape, an attempt to bridge the distance between us.
Moments later, Paul's figure materialised atop the nearest hill, his presence a reassurance amid the solitude. Much better, I acknowledged internally, a smile breaking through the frustration as I turned back to retrieve more bags.
"I don't have time to help you move them," I stated firmly to Paul as I returned, setting down another trio of shopping bags alongside the accumulating half dozen in the dust near the Portal. The urgency of my schedule pressed upon me, leaving no room for delay. "I have another delivery arriving within the hour."
"Another food delivery?" Paul inquired, his hands reaching for the first bag, his brow furrowed in a mix of surprise and curiosity.
I nodded, confirming his guess. "Yeah. I made two online grocery orders from two different supermarkets last night." The words were matter-of-fact, a simple explanation for the abundance of supplies now sitting in the Clivilius dust.
"Oh, I didn't realise," Paul replied, a note of appreciation mingling with his earlier surprise.
With a sense of duty pressing on me, I stepped back into the portal's vibrant embrace, the colours swirling around me as I transitioned between worlds once more. Re-emerging with the final four bags, I assured Paul, "There should be enough to last you at least a few days," my words hanging in the air as I disappeared again, the portal closing behind me with its colours dissipating into the ether.
Back in the open-plan area of my home, I paused, taking a moment to survey the interconnected spaces of the dining room, kitchen, and living room. The thought struck me, unbidden yet insistent: Maybe I should start packing up the house? The idea lingered, gaining weight and clarity as I considered the future. Yes, when the boys finally get their sheds built, I'll bring through everything else in the house.
The notion of packing up, of transitioning everything to Clivilius, was more than just a logistical consideration—it was a commitment to the path I had chosen, a tangible step toward the life I was carving out in that other world. The rooms around me, filled with memories and the residue of daily life, would soon be emptied, their contents transported to support new beginnings.
The Woolworths delivery van rolled up, a timely arrival that spared me the complication of juggling two deliveries at once. I had deliberately chosen overlapping delivery windows, not out of a desire for efficiency alone but because my schedule couldn't afford the luxury of idleness, despite every muscle in my body screaming for a pause, a moment of respite.
Stepping out onto the front porch, I prepared to receive the groceries, my mind partly on the task at hand and partly on the need to wrap this up quickly. However, my attention was abruptly diverted by a familiar figure across the street. Our elderly neighbour, was there, methodically watering his lawn, his gaze intermittently shifting towards my house. With a sense of forced normality, I raised my hand in a friendly gesture, eliciting a reciprocal wave from him.
Yet, beneath the veneer of neighbourly exchange, a surge of anxiety welled up within me. Had he seen anything earlier? The question gnawed at me, unsettling in its implications. Our neighbourhood, typically a place of communal trust and benign curiosity, now felt like a stage under scrutiny, especially under our neighbour’s watchful eyes.
This unexpected observation forced a rapid reassessment of my actions. The realisation that the portal's use, so crucial to my operations, could no longer be so openly conducted was frustrating. The necessity of stealth, of guarding my extraordinary secret in such a mundane setting, was a constraint I hadn't fully anticipated. The thought of no longer being able to drive trucks in and out, a simple yet essential part of the logistics, was particularly irksome. I frowned, my mind churning with the inconvenience of it all. Stupid, nosy neighbour, I thought, a mix of annoyance and begrudging acknowledgment of my need for caution.
"Your signature please," the driver's request was brisk, his device thrust forward, encroaching on my personal space.
I obliged, my signature a quick, fluid motion. The driver, satisfied with the transaction, departed with haste, leaving behind the tangible evidence of our exchange: bags of groceries scattered at my feet.
Mimicking the actions taken earlier, I transported the groceries through the Portal, depositing them near the Drop Zone with a sense of urgency. "Paul!" I called out, my voice piercing the Clivilius air, eager to ensure the supplies were secured and not left to the mercy of the harsh sun. Yet, I lingered not for a response, my own schedule pressing.
Back home, the familiar creak of the leather couch greeted me as I surrendered to its embrace, my body sinking into the soft, worn cushions. My eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, succumbed to the sweet allure of rest, if only for a moment.
But peace was fleeting. "Shit! Glenda!" The realisation struck like a bolt, jolting me from the nascent grip of sleep. The appointment with Dr. De Bruyn loomed, a beacon of hope and anxiety intertwined. I rose with a start, the inertia of rest replaced by a surge of adrenaline.
My stomach churned, a tumultuous sea of butterflies unleashed by the anticipation of the upcoming encounter. The question of Dr. De Bruyn's potential assistance loomed large, a pivotal point that could shape the path ahead. For Jamie’s sake, could she offer the help I so desperately sought? The uncertainty was a tangible presence, fuelling a cocktail of hope and trepidation as I prepared to step into the unknown, seeking answers, seeking solace, seeking a way forward in the convoluted journey that was my life.
