The Lost Asgardian (Loki)

Entry 3) Reality versus Insanity

"Once upon a dream" by Lana Del Rey
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AVA

When I was ten, dreams of meeting Loki filled my nights with vivid wonder. However, upon waking, his appearance always eluded my memory, a mystery that persists to this day. Despite dreaming of him more frequently lately, his face remains elusive.

In the dreams, every detail of being around him comes alive. The way his coarse hair sticks up in funny ways as he speeds through horseback riding becomes a captivating sight. Every nuance on his too-pale face, even the blue veins on his wrists, is etched in my mind. I observe how he refrains from smiling, but when a genuine smile graces his lips, it surpasses the beauty of sunsets and glorious mountain landscapes.

But every morning, the memory of Loki eludes me. He's a blur, an enigma—something I know to be beautiful yet remains unknown. His face and voice vanish as swiftly as they appear when I wake up. Still, I can't shake the sentimental connection I feel towards him. Even as I read what I've just written, I'm aware of the seeming absurdity. Loki isn't real; he's a concoction of randomness firing off in my head at strange intervals. My messed-up neurons playing tricks on me. The only Loki that ever existed was rooted in Norse mythology from the Viking era. Marvel added its twist, portraying Loki as a character with a penchant for green and deep parental issues. Despite this knowledge, the mornings after dreaming of him present extra struggles. In the lack of a better phrase, he always feels vividly real, as if I've genuinely experienced a first kiss with him.

Technically, this means nothing. I've experienced hundreds of kisses with him in my dreams ever since I turned sixteen. Soft kisses, sweet kisses, passionate kisses, sad ones...

Even after spending a long twenty minutes staring at my dark ceiling following the dream, sleep eluded me, and I didn't want it back. Sleep brought dreams, and dreams brought memories of a strong friendship with Loki—a bond that felt like he was my best friend, a friendship tinged with a developing crush. The recollections are so vivid, so colorful, it's as if I can replay the events in real time.

Slipping out of bed, I reached for the bottle of Haloperidol, my anti-psychotic medication deliberately left out on the nightstand. It usually calms my nerves and helps me think more rationally. Fluphenazine would come later to avoid taking both meds simultaneously. However, even the medication failed to bring calmness. I lay in bed for hours, experiencing an odd strangeness—a yearning for a boy whose appearance remains unknown, knowing he doesn't exist. Is it possible to miss someone who isn't real? That's the haunting question that has plagued me for years, lingering in the back of my mind when I wake up from these dreams. I find myself missing people who aren't real—friends, family, and even Loki. I miss imaginary beings based on legends from myths rooted in the Viking era.

This makes for fabulous material in my diary entry.

What would Dr. Carter think if I shared how truly messed up I am...? I would probably be committed to a full-time treatment center with around-the-clock care and no windows. Maybe the room would be padded as well, I'm not sure, I haven't been to the loony farm yet. My friend Bev (Friend is a loose term considering we only really talk in therapy and never actually communicate outside of it) told me it's not a fun place. All your free will gets stripped away from you while you get placed on stronger medication that you are already on.

Really, it's the lack of books and Starbucks that stop me from signing myself up for a mental hospital. I know I'm messed up six ways to Sunday, I just can't bring myself to committing myself fully to the asylum. It's not like I'm harming myself or others; I've never tried a suicide attempt or tried to harm someone during one of my hallucinations. Most of the time I simply try and ride out the mind trip by staying completely still.

Just like I did last night with the man and the giant wolf. I knew they weren't there, so I didn't try and fight it. When I got home later, I said nothing to my mother and stepfather. Telling them what I hallucinated would only frighten them...And possibly consider the loony bin for me. So, I simply explained I had an enjoyable time at work and a bus ride and then there I was.

Upon returning home, my mother exhibited an unprecedented level of concern. Her hugs and forehead kisses conveyed an overwhelming sense of worry. This departure from her usual reserved and aloof demeanor struck me as strange. She thanked me profoundly for being home, and then she and Monty hastily departed for their 'date night.'

I couldn't fathom the urgency of rushing home to babysit the bratty Tommy. At his age, he's more than capable of looking after himself. Instead, I retreated to my room, seeking refuge to avoid overhearing him rudely discussing me on the phone with a friend. I'm aware of my unconventional mindset, but that doesn't give my bratty stepbrother the right to mock it by sharing laughs about it with some kid from his school.

Other than pretending to watch a teenager that I really had no intention of watching, I hid in my room and tried to rationalize why my meds weren't working. That was obviously the case. Maybe I needed a stronger dose. Did turning twenty-one suddenly mean I outgrew my dosage? That happened at twelve, and then again at sixteen. Maybe the lucky twenty-first meant I suddenly needed a stronger dosage?

Probably not. Maybe I just have to rationalize there is no cure for me.

"Ava, you're going to be late for work if you don't get a move on," Monty grunted, barely sparing me a glance as he plucked the morning paper from the table. I nodded glumly, my focus still on scribbling in my notebook.

Tommy walked up and carelessly dropped his oversized hockey duffel onto the table, causing my small bag to spill its contents onto the floor. Tommy laughed, his insult towards me almost accompanied by air quotations. "Good job, freak."

I refrained from seeking Monty's intervention with his stepson. Engaging Tommy in a battle was a pointless and almost always led to negative results. It usually resulted in gaslighting from either my mom or Monty, claiming he hadn't said or done anything wrong, accusing me of imagining it.

Rising from my chair, I began gathering the scattered objects clattering onto the floor and into my bag. Emergency dosage of pills. An energy bar. Two herbal tea packets. Two pens. My wallet. It was the last item that made me do a double take. Half in the bag and half on the floor, a golden chain crisscrossed. Monty and Tommy were engrossed in discussing an upcoming game with a crosstown rival, oblivious to my actions. They didn't notice as I took the necklace fully from my bag to stare at it.

The pendant was breathtaking—bright gold with delicate patterns carving out a heart. Inside it, dozens of clear and dazzling diamonds sparkled, rivaling those I've seen in jewelry commercials. Strangely, it wasn't the discovery of what was likely a couple-thousand-dollar necklace inside my messenger bag that left me trembling in fear. It was the realization that this was the same necklace I had taken from the bag the wolf had pushed toward me—the exact same necklace Loki had gifted me in the dream the night before.

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