It was almost completely dark. The phone he kept upright on his lap had created light, pressing the on button every two minutes until he forgot about that. Now the faintest glow of red. He didn’t keep track of time just stared ahead into nothingness. He closed his eyes and opened them. Not a blink, involuntarily slower. He felt nothing any more. Wait. What’s shaking? Am I shaking? No, something is vibrating. I don’t like this. He tried to get up but something was in the way. He felt metal and pushed and fell chin first onto something hard. I don’t like this he thought again. I don’t want this. He tried to crawl. Something was there watching him.
He groaned, and his arms lifted, thrashed. As his legs tensed they pushed on the arm of the couch, roped together and moving as one, shoving his torso close, then soon over the tipping point and sliding off of the couch, rolling, falling and hitting the ground solidly. Face first. He awoke in pain. Spun. He felt something beside him and, grabbing his nose, lifted himself up, his right eye connecting then with the rounded edge of the coffee table. He fell back and cringed. His hands covering his face and breathing heavy. He lay there, between the couch and the table, tangled in the blanket. Slowly, eventually, he looked between his fingers, holding them like a target, and knew where he was. It was a nightmare. He laughed a bit. Not quite honest but almost. He put his hands on top of his head and turned it to the right. Through the table top and the smaller stained shelf underneath he could see his door. Actually closed he thought. He stayed for a while, thinking of the dream. He remembered being confined. What was the dream about? Something was shaking me? He carefully lifted himself. His eyes met the glass from the night before. Black flecks on a tiny lake of gold. He didn’t debate, just lifted, left arm pushing up on the couch, right hand allowing the flow into his mouth, he steadied himself as he stood, while he lifted each leg in turn to loosen the blanket. He placed the glass behind him on the table and picked up his phone. It was dead, but the grey twilight coming through the bottom of the throw he had tacked onto the wall around the window instead of a curtain told him it was early. He slipped out of the rest of his blanket restraint and turned towards his bedroom. Turning back, he grabbed the blanket then walked to the bed. He thought that it felt like forever since he felt his mattress. He flopped. He remembered the phone was dead and grasped blindly at the side of the mattress where it should be, coming up with nothing, eventually peaking over the side and spotting the cord. Plugged. He turned his head away and closed his eyes.
Ururururuurururuurururu
He could feel it vibrate.
Ururururururuurururur
Two.
Ururururururuurururur
He rolled back over. Three missed texts.
Urururururuurururuurur
Four. The screen told him ‘MOM’ was the last one. It also read 10:22. He stared and then stood, not reading the texts but figuring it out. Quickly looking at the closet, he opened a drawer and pulled out underwear and socks, socks lightly holed with age and the shirt his mom had got him months before for his birthday. He scanned the floor and found jeans. These ones had a large smear on the front. He looked at the pair he had on still. They seemed clean. He walked towards the bathroom. Tossing his clothes onto the floor he turned and pulled on the shower knob, pulled the curtain down, shed the ones he still had on, not careful to separate the ones he was wearing and the ones he would wear and walked back to the living room. He spied his cigarettes and pink lighter on the table. Grabbing them, he didn’t know where he got a pink lighter from. Back to the toilet. He sat back down, lit a cigarette and decided to let the water warm up while he waited. Calmed, looking down now. The grey sock on one foot and the brown cloth tightened with the tensor under the sock on the other. He pulled the sock off. He began to unravel the tensor. He hadn’t noticed any pain since he searched the place yesterday but now he felt it. Throbbing. With each twist, more and more burgundy, dried blood, until the cloth fell. He examined his foot. A cut still raw. Too raw. Pink radiating and fading onto his toes. It hurt now more than it did before. Standing up, he looked into the fogging mirror. The scratch just above his beard looked worse. Scabbed now but wider. His eye. Red forming under it. He scratched his head and swept away the curtain.
He sat on the end of the bed. Shoes on already, cut double socked, he pulled on the shirt and his black jacket that had the torn right inside pocket he was careful not to put anything inside. He thought about his parents and lamented what was to come. He had always been close with his mother and father but ever since the accident, it had been strained. They had blamed him for what had happened to his son. He didn’t disagree. He checked his pockets and counted to five: wallet, phone, cigarettes, lighter…Wait…he counted again: wallet, phone, cigarettes, lighter…he groped his pockets, searching, before finding the fifth. He pulled his keys from his back left pocket that was full of change as well from the night before. He recounted and made his way to the door, stopping to pick up the bottle on his way. He stopped though, and put the bottle down. He left and closed the door, positive it was closed when he slammed it. He pressed 1 5 0 5 on the keypad. Just a beep. 1 5 0 5. The door opened, slowly, with purpose. He didn’t duck under as it lifted as he normally would but waited, eventually revealing the desk in the corner covered in sparse tools, a half missing ratchet set, a hammer, a plastic container that held most of the essentials for hanging framed pictures of your loved ones, a few random screwdrivers, a utility knife and a length of eavesdrop drainage pipe on the floor, bent into a crude arch. He looked at the pipe and kicked it aside and opened the truck, realizing it had come off the side of the garage but unable to remember why it was no longer serving its purpose. It wasn’t quite closed, only halfway. He got in and turned the key. The music started with a screech, several guitars singing a high note. Startled, he punched the stereo at the volume button. The screech was now accompanied by a buzz. He turned it off. He couldn’t remember having the music that high. He didn’t like the music that loud. He turned the key. It turned over but wouldn’t start. Again, same result. Third time it sputtered to life. It shook, convulsing a bit, just enough for him to see that the gauge read E. It died again. He tried again. Punch the horn. Heavy breath. Okay, he thought. He opened the door pressed the button attached to the sun visor and ducked under before the garage door closed. He went back inside the apartment. He stood in the center of the hall for a bit but then went to the table, looked at the bottle, turned and made his way out of the door. Frustrated. He slammed the door several times. Today is Saturday he thought.
He sat. Bouncing. The brown seat concealing springs that had long since decided they had served their purpose and retired. He tried to forget why he was riding the bus across the city to his parents’ house. It smelled. Piss and ash. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. 4 texts now.
You’re still coming right sweetie?
Let us know if you need a ride okay?
Then unexpectedly:
Hey, how’s things?
Listen you should call me, okie?
He read and reread the last two several times…
The jerking bus didn’t wake him but rather an elderly lady pushing down on his toe with her brass tipped stick as she walked towards the front of the bus. He reacted in pain, pulling his foot out from under the spear and out of the aisle, but stopped himself from yelling as he realized what had happened. She looked back at him, crudely wrinkled face showing no remorse. He looked up and recognized the name that tickered across the orange and black screen. Oaky St. He had gone too far, maybe a few blocks he thought. He followed the woman and several others off of the bus. Onto the sidewalk. The street was lined with businesses, small brick and plaster buildings that he didn’t recognize. A small defunct lumber company, a pawn shop, a vacuum and small engine repair business that looked abandoned for decades if not for the open sign hanging on the door, framed by bare grey wood that had long since lost its paint. The sky was greyer today. Greyer and hotter. He wondered how close he was right then to the fire tha
t was consuming the countryside and hills. He tried to light a cigarette as he began walking and pivoted around and faced the bus stop, walking backwards as he did in order to shield his lighter from the breeze that didn’t exist. As he did, he glanced up at the people that had left the bus with him. Most seemed old, too old, and he thought that most were looking in his direction. All were looking in his direction. Some walked slowly towards him, some standing rigidly. Looking at him. Beyond him. Dressed in suits and dresses, Sunday finery. A lone young boy wearing a blue and yellow baseball uniform. He turned and walked faster than normal, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It told him he was six blocks away.
You’re late you know, his father accused him.
Yep, I’m aware.
Your mother is napping; don’t slam the door.
He said nothing. He followed his father to the kitchen, past the hallway and the door to the room he slept in for 17 years of his life that held posters and girlfriends and trophies and pot and memories, past the stairway that led to the basement where he played Legos and barbies with his older sister and they would sneak down and watch movies late at night, cartoons and comedies and westerns, without their parents knowing even though they knew. Past the photos of them, as a family, throughout the years when they were happy, through childhood and teenage years and graduations and sickness. Past the painting of rocks and a dirt road his grandmother had painted because it reminded her of her childhood before she was struck with cancer and passed. Past the ceramic bear with the barely noticeable glued on head that sat in front of photos that his sister had made in 6th grade and gave her mother on mother’s day that were grouped together on top of the darkly stained wooden pedestal that his father loved but his mother secretly hated and that he had cut his head on after he had been pushed as a child by his sister, afterwards promising each other they wouldn’t tell dad. He had been past these things many times and yet it seemed to him it was the first time he ever really saw them. He sat at the table he ate at as a child as his father pulled a saran covered plate from fridge. The table where he made his parents proud and disappointed. Where he was scolded and praised. Where he was asked to come home and told to leave. His father put what looked a piece of casserole into the microwave then sat at the table. Neither noticed the faint smudge of blood he left behind.
So your mother was looking forward to seeing you today, his father said.
I know…my truck wouldn’t start this morning… I actually think it was out of gas but I managed to park it so I don’t know how.
How do you run out of gas?
I don’t know, Dad. It wasn’t a well thought out plan. I wasn’t even low when I got home on Thursday…Friday. Maybe kids broke in and siphoned it.
He shook his head sarcastically as he said this but realized at the same time that his garage had been broken into before and that actually could have happened.
Kay, his dad shook.
The microwave beeped it’s annoying three beeps and his father went to a drawer and pulled out a fork, then took what he now saw was Shepard’s pie from the microwave. His father brought it to him but after he placed the china down as one would normally, he dropped the fork down and it bounced off of the table cloth, almost off the table. He moved it to the plate.
I assume this has nothing to do with your face, right?
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, keeping a smile on his face as he did before looking back at his father.
These are actually separate incidents believe it or not, he explained. I managed to hit myself in the face with a screwdriver while fixing my door yesterday, he lied. And I rolled off the couch sleeping this morning and managed to smack my eye off the table when I went to got up, he said truthfully.
His father looked down and nodded as he scooped some food into his mouth, the first he had had in…he couldn’t remember.
And I assume work is going well, no problems there?
He wondered quickly if his father could possibly know about yesterday, wondered whether he had caught him saying Thursday before catching himself and replacing it with Friday. He weighed his options.
It’s fine, he lied and paused. It’s work I guess I don’t know. I still hate it but I show up, he said. A truth and a lie.
His father stood up and went to the cupboard and as he did, he scooped more of the corn and potato and beef into his mouth. He hadn’t felt hungry in a day or two and sill didn’t. His father poured himself a drink, in view of his son, and walked back to the table. He placed the drink in front of himself, but placed it down deliberately, presenting it.
You want a drink?
No, Dad, he said, another lie, but a conflicting one.
Have you been to see your sister?
He looked down and ate another forkful.
Not for a week, Dad, he said through corn.
Why?
Because…because I don’t like seeing her li— He was interrupted.
You think she wants to be there?
He thought about standing, leaving. He put his fork down. Sarcastically, he said, No, Dad, I don’t think my sister likes seeing herself have cancer. What are y— Cut off again.
Shut the Fuck UUUUUUPP!
He stood up and backed into the pedestal. He didn’t know where this burst had come from. He had never seen his father mad. His eyes were wild. Not with anger. With hate, it seemed.
Calm down. I’ll go see her tomorrow. It’s okay.
No it fucking isn’t okay.
We can go right now if you want.
You know what, I don’t want to see you right now. Get out.
He didn’t respond for a few seconds. You’re serious, he said, I’m going to hug Mom first.
His father pushed him by the chest, almost to the ground but instead hit the door.
Get the fuck out! Get out now!
He turned. Fuck you. He left.
He hadn’t noticed the ash coming down when he left his place this afternoon, not until he had turned the corner onto the street that led to his alley that led to his apartment. It ambushed him. He had been sweating in the evening sun and the ash clung to him in grey streaks and slashes. He hadn’t noticed. He had been replaying the afternoon’s events in his mind. Going over every detail. Wondering why today would be the day his father would snap. Wondering what had set him off. Wondering when he would hug his mother again. Wondering when he should visit his sister, whether she would want him to, but knowing she would. He hadn’t noticed his shirt becoming greyer, that the neckline was colouring his throat a darker grey. He kept his head low, focusing on the sidewalk, focusing on each individual seam in the concrete. He didn’t notice that he was leaving marks on the concrete behind him. Each step more deliberate than the last, each one a step closer to being at his apartment again, a step closer to his mattress and pillows and quilt his grandmother had created for him years before. He hadn’t noticed that there was only his footprints in the ash he left behind, as if he had been walking in snow, or that this particular street was abandoned except for himself. He hadn’t noticed the wind picking up, the first breeze he had felt in days. He hadn’t noticed until he had turned the corner and a rush burnt its way into his throat, threatening to choke him. He coughed. As he coughed, his eyes watered. As his eyes watered, the soot that had gathered in the folds of his eyelids liquefied and burned its way into him. He rubbed his blackened eyes with his blackened hands, then pulled his shirt over his eyes in desperation. He stayed like that, hunched on the sidewalk, in the ashes. He stayed in that position, afraid to remove the shirt from his cheeks should it allow more ash into his eyes. Pressing the cotton into his eyes gave him a sense of safety, even as he braced himself to see again. It was now he noticed how much his foot hurt. He hadn’t felt the scab strain and loosen and eventually break apart as he walked. Now he could. He pulled the shirt away from his eyes, looking down at his feet to no end and seeing the bright red mark on his grey shirt, unsure of how long he had been bleeding from the face, from the scab on
his cheek that he still had no explanation for. It was now he realized the fire had to be getting closer to the city, that there were ashes snowing down upon him. It was now he realized he was alone. He strained and looked behind him, to see a face, any face, anything to let him know that he wasn’t abandoned though now he was. He scanned the sidewalk. He did not see any footsteps. He scanned the ashes on the street. He did not see any tire marks. He told himself, reassured himself, that the falling ash had simply hidden any marks that were there, that it was too dark to see them. Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Someone was there, though not on the street, but staring at him out of the window to their second story home. A woman. Glaring. And another. A man a few windows down. Same expressionless look on his face that the woman had. Expressionless, yet somehow glaring. Hatefully. He turned his head and walked, wanting to conceal his view of the two just as soon as to be out of view of the two. A light chill came over him and left just as quickly. He wiped his face on the shirt once more. Just a few blocks away now. Just one or two stops before home. Just one. Maybe two.
Dreams Page 2