What the fuck.
He took out his phone. Two texts. From his boss. From his friend. It hadn’t rung or vibrated.
All right, don’t even bother coming in.
You know what dude, were done. This is last time you’re going to fuck me over.
He panicked. What the fuck. He reread the texts a few times then he saw it. The clock on the phone. 11:02. That can’t be. Am I hallucinating? It was a fifteen-minute drive. Goddamnit! He texted back.
Hey, I don’t know what’s going on dude, I got jumped on the way home last Thursday and ended up in hospital. Somehow, my phone said it wasn’t even seven when I left this morning.
He tried calling. Voicemail. He hung up and tried again. Voicemail.
Answer your phone man!
He waited, pacing, his heart racing at the thought of what he would do if he lost this job.
He tried texting him back again. Message send failure. He tried again. Another failure. What in the fuck! He went back to his truck and tried a third time. Failure. He slammed his fist down on the dash. He sat in his truck for a while, rereading the texts and looking back at the time. He decided to visit his parents. He wouldn’t tell them about losing his job. Maybe he could convince his friend to rehire him. Maybe.
He sat in front of his parents’ house. He didn’t know how his dad would react to him being there, on a Monday. He knew that they would question why he wasn’t at work on a Monday morning. What do I say? Do I say he’s sick? No. There was something wrong with the equipment? No, the job was cancelled. New project tomorrow. That’s fine. He looked out the grey faded window at his parents’ house. Normally a light brick and green home, now tinged with ash. As he approached the door he noticed rust on his father’s car that he had never noticed before, a lot of rust looping about the wheel wells and spotting the door. There’s no way he’d let that happen he thought. He loves that car. He knocked on the door. Waiting. What was my excuse? Job cancelled. I guess they didn’t pay the deposit. Whatever. He knocked again. Waiting. What if dad’s still pissed? His mom would be awake at this time, no worries. Annoyed he knocked again. He pulled out his phone and texted them both.
Hey guys, you home? I’m out front.
Message Failure. He squeezed the phone in frustration. His mother didn’t drive. Where would they go. He walked to the window and looked in, covering his face with his hands forming a canopy as he did. Shock. It looked like his parents living room except not, a room pretending to be in a dream. Ashes had blown in recently and had coated the room in a thin layer. Furniture older somehow, leather cracked, wood pale and bleached. A picture behind the couch hung crookedly, a thick wedge of ash and dust sloped on the bottom ledge of the frame. It looked abandoned. For years. Panic now. He ran back to the door and frantically knocked again, texting them as well and receiving the same message. He tried turning the knob. Locked. 911. He dialled as he ran to the side of the house and reached over the fence and fumbled with the latch. Busy. Again. Through the gate, to the back door. Busy. Again. The drapes were drawn on the sliding glass doors and the handle locked. Nothing. He looked at the phone as it turned black. Dead. Not now. He tried to turn it back on. As he held the button, he calmed himself. There has to be a reason. He tried to spy through the individual slats of the drapes but couldn’t see anything, only darkness. There’s an explanation. The phone wouldn’t turn on. There’s a reason. He ran back to his truck. I’ll charge my phone when I get home. There has to be a reason. They’re fine. He sped away.
As he neared his home, he felt calmer. A mound of certainty still crowned lightly with doubt. They probably left the door open and the ash got in, he thought. They’ll be safe. They’ll… I’ll be all right. Perhaps it wasn’t just the house he told himself, something he knew but didn’t want to admit to himself. He had lost jobs before, especially in the last two years. He hadn’t cared he thought. He’d be alright. Outside of the truck, the wind had picked up again and was funnelling the ash. He had once worked at an industrial wash, cleaning hotel linens. He was done in week. He had worked as a plasma cutter nearly a year before as well. He liked that. He had been fired after falling asleep in his car during his lunch. Passed out. As he thought of these things, the wind and ash howled outside, pushing the truck, an few inches left and a few inches right, rocking it. He reached down to the radio, preferring to leave the music on at a very low volume until now, until now when the ash was worse than he’d seen it and he’d barely seen a person outside in days. He searched, slowly, until he had found what sounded like news. As he looked back at the road, the ash swarmed in front of him, suddenly forming an eyeless snarl trying to consume his path, a lifeless skull of hate, blowing through the vents trying to choke him. He swerved. The truck lead him left. As he covered his face and ducked to escape the ash that was trying to choke him, he pulled the truck right and spun. He screamed, something unintelligible except to him, as he came full circle and the vehicle collided with the high side-walk on his right. He remained hidden until he was sure he had stopped. He slowly peeked over the dash. The ash was slowly raining down onto the windshield and the hood. No longer snarling. He grabbed the sides of his head while he sat up. Breathe deeply. Just go home. It’s been a long day, just go home. You’re tired. Just go home. His truck has stalled during his spin. He tried to start it but stopped, putting his head down on the steering wheel. Breathe. No, breathe more. A while longer. He turned the key again; the engine came to life. As he put it back to drive he looked into the left side mirror. Them again. 4 this time. All staring at him. Emotionless from their windows. Emotionless, yet angry somehow. Watching him. His foot began to throb, furiously timing itself with his heartbeat.
Down the alley, he could see that the door was open once again. He punched the steering wheel as he drove. Not panic this time. No fear that someone may be inside.
FUCK!
Just frustration, anger.
As he backed into the garage, he could hear the eaves trough crunch under his left back wheel, and the broken bottle shatter just a little bit more. He didn’t care. Leaving through the broken door, he looked down to where the green stain should have been but was now drowned in ash. As he walked up the steps, he could see the ashes had pushed in throughout the day. He entered. He didn’t recognize it. The ash sloped in from the doorway into the place, blanketing the living room in a thin sheet of grey. The crevices of his couch had been filled giving the impression that there was only one flat cushion the length of it, and his television had aged throughout the day. The glass he had used the past few nights had partially filled with ash, to the point where it had reached the level of the gold he had been pouring into it, with grey brown smudges spackling the outside, evidence that he had repeatedly lifted and replaced the glass several times since it’s last wash with oily, unclean fingers. It looked unused, abandoned for some time. Leaving dark grey impressions, he stomped forward, making his way to his bedroom. There was some ash on his bed and the floor but just a light dusting compared to the living room. He pulled the blanket off of the bed and snapped it in waves to shake off the ash, though most of it settled on the bare mattress, which he swiped at immediately, an attempt to be quick, leaving black streaks on the cream fabric behind. He didn’t care. Checking his closet, he saw that the ash hadn’t made its way through the cracks in the folding door. He blew at the night table beside his bed, clearing it of ash and began to reach down to the floor to the charger that had slid down sometime during the night but stopped. His mind brought him back to the woman, the thing in his dreams. He backed up. Not enough. He backed up more until he was in the doorway and slowly knelt down, tilting his head to the left as he did, until he could see under the bed. Nothing. Childish. Nothing but dirt and lint and a shoebox. He wondered about the shoebox briefly but decided not to bring it out from its spot. He thought about how the carpet underneath it must be the cleanest spot in the place. On his hands and knees, he moved the length of the bed to the night table and retrieved the cord, never takin
g his full attention away from underneath, and plugged in the phone. After a few seconds a battery with a line crossing it appeared on the screen. He thought again about retrieving the box. He stood. He made his way quickly out of the room, imagining an arm reaching out and grabbing him from under the bed as he did. Childish. Into the kitchen. The ash hadn’t made its way around the corner. No ash, yet a pile of dishes still and a burnt toaster. A coffee pot that he was sure he hadn’t used in two weeks and hadn’t cleaned in longer. A newspaper box with an empty garbage bin. A full green bottle on the counter, next to a half full one. A microwave that hadn’t been cleaned in four months although he didn’t think it had been that long. A flag on the wall and a table with one lazy leg, surrounded by a few chairs and 8 bottles of varying sizes underneath now ready to serve as pallbearers for the table’s inevitable demise. He walked to the sink and opened the cupboard above and pulled out a clean glass and turned on the tap. Nothing. What now. He tried the hot tap and water sprayed out, shoving the glass under the tap to collect before it turned too hot. He drank. He had thought before how long it had been since he ate. Now he thought about the last time he had drank water. He dared to fill the glass again, but the steam that followed made him dump it. He tried the other tap again before heading to the bathroom. He turned the hot tap again and filled the glass quickly. As he drank he tilted his head backwards, eyes closed, draining the glass until finished, the tepid liquid soothing, placing the glass on the edge of the sink, opening his eyes. He seized. His pale, bloodless skin had become ringed green with rot stared back at him. His cheeks gaunt and pulled back, dry, exposing his cheekbones. His mouth, lips rotting, open, forced back exposing his black gums, dripping, smiling back at him. His pale grey eyelids lacking moisture, opening to present what was his eyes. His nose, sunken into his face, two black caves. Hair combed neatly to the right. He pushed off the counter, launching himself into the curtain and past into the tub. He groped at his arms at first, each fondling the other, a panicked choke and cough. He grabbed his face. He could see. He grabbed his mouth, his nose. His breathing became heavier, uncontrollable as he rolled his entire self into the tub basin and struggled for air. Desperation. He could see. His nose. His mouth, his lips. He squirmed onto his back. He felt his cheeks. Hot with panic. Grabbing the edge of the bathtub, he tried to push himself up, slipping back in, then succeeding and stared reluctantly back into the mirror. His face was red, his blue eyes staring back at him ringed with red, one with highlights of blue and yellow, mouth an oval, sucking in air desperately, the cut just above his beard worse than before and deep red and black with scab. He screamed, his voice cracking at the end and becoming shrill and painful, and flailed at the mirror connecting with the lower right corner, not shattering but cratering the corner and sending a single fissure shooting across the center. I’m losing it. Losing it. He sat on the lid of the toilet and breathed deeply, head in hands. He squeezed his face out of frustration and let a cry out, breaking open his cheek a little more, leaving just a little bit of blood on his palm. After several minutes he stood. Turning towards the fractured mirror, he stared. It was him. Sleepless and damaged. Still him. He reached for the light switch but pulled back and left the light on in the bathroom instead. A night light. He made his way to the kitchen in a state of panic, grabbed the half bottle and went to the living room, opening it on the way. Swallowing, he coughed, swallowed again. As he sat on the couch a puff of ash pushed out revealing the crevices that had been filled in earlier in the day. He placed the bottle on the ash covered table he noticed little marks, little footsteps, five toes each, rat sized, down the center. He stared at them, counted them. Twelve in total. His eyes watered. He breathed deeply, then laughed, brief and low but genuine. He blew towards the table clearing some ash. And again, the footsteps disappearing. Again, his remotes visible. Again, until the table was nearly clear. Taking another drink from the green bottle, he stood. Urrurururrurururrruurrrururr. He could hear his phone from the bedroom. He took another drink, a long one. More water? He thought about going back to the bathroom. He walked out the door instead.
The alley was dimly lit yet somehow, tonight, this didn’t bother him. The sky was deeply yellowed. He lit a cigarette and walked, the lighter striking on the first try. He calmed himself, trying to think. You’re tired, a lot has happened in the last few days. You’ll be fine. His mind briefly brought him to when he was younger. When he had asthma attacks that would take his breath and leave him gasping, unable. He hadn’t felt that in years. Remnants he thought, his mind drifting to other things. His sister briefly, and his parents, his son. Hush. I don’t want to deal with this right now. He turned the corner to the right. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow. He made his way to the doorway. Blues. Closed. The signed looked at him through the glass, taunted him, protected by the pull down steel barrier that was normally tucked away above. Normally a light on at night but nothing tonight. Blackness. He sighed, tossing the butt aside and lighting another cigarette, the lighter lighting again on the first try. It was dark and the ash was falling densely, forming drifts in the street. He turned and walked back towards the alley. This was good. Just go home. You need sleep. It’s been a long day. He turned the corner to the alley and stopped, wiping his forehead, smearing black the length of it as he did, not knowing he was sweating. He could see his place at the end. He felt dizzy now, it seemed far. He walked. His thoughts soon turned from sleep to the remainder of the bottle on his table. He walked past the garbage, the brick walls and the steel doors that led to the alley once again. Nothing. Just get home. He passed the shadowed red dumpster, the bottles and butts and cigarette packs and pill bottle buried under a layer of ash now. Perhaps by a bum as well, he hadn’t noticed. Past the open garage door, and the truck and sparse tools and bent eaves. He stumbled over the first step, hopping onto the second and into the door. It opened easily. He stood. Don’t bother with shoes. Leave them on. Couch. He made his way to the couch and twisted backwards allowing himself to fall, landing awkwardly, safely, on the cushions, ash erupting from either end and settling on the floor. He sat up and groped for the bottle in near dark save for the light coming from the bathroom down the short hall. Ururururuurrruruuururuur.
He drank. Pause. Breathe, and another gulp. Placing the bottle down, he moved his hand to the table searching for the remote. He studied the buttons with his fingers and pressed what he thought was the power button. Uururrururrruuuuruururrru.
He stood, walking towards his bedroom guided by the bathroom light then the green light of his phone on the night table, grabbing it and pulling it away from the wall rather than separating it from the charger properly. Back to the couch. He sat, picking up the remote as he fell and pressed the power button again. The TV turned on. The rushing sound of static, and the picture that accompanies. He used to imagine it as a million ants racing across the screen, scurrying, trying to get to work and home and baseball as soon as possible. He had imagined that since he was a child. He didn’t tonight. Tonight he was exhausted and had a feeling of dread he could not explain, as if his heart knew something he didn’t and was beating accordingly, though he would have described it more as restlessness. He pressed the button on the phone. Messages slid into the screen from the right. He stopped. No. Please No. He recognized the number. No.
Dad, are you there? Dad, I’m cold.
No. His breaths becoming shallow, panicky, as he read. No.
Dad, I’m cold. Why?
I’m sorry, he thought. No, who’s doing this to me? Why? He dropped the phone and stood, backing himself up to the wall on the edge of the couch. No! He stared at the phone. One more message. He slid down the couch and grabbed the phone.
Why, Dad?
Dizzy now, he threw his phone towards the wall. It went down the hallway and came to rest against the frame of the bathroom door. After a moment, he ran to it, tears flooding now, searching for her number.
It’s dark, Dad.
He found it.
Fuck you, if this i
s you doing I swear to god.
Why Dad?
Message not sent. He texted his ex-wife again.
Please. Stop.
Message not sent.
He pressed the green button shaped like a telephone. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
He threw the phone back to the floor, just as the television turned to black then back to static. Three separate strikes hammered the door. He stopped, staring at the door. The static turned to black. Three more strikes. One heavy sigh, a breath, then turning his head to the bedroom. He ran, scrambled. Through the doorway, he remembered and fell to his chest several feet from the bed. Nothing. Just a shoebox. Three more strikes. He pushed himself under the narrow gap to the wall and tried to grab the box, pawing, grabbing the lid on the second try. No one there he realized. He pulled it towards himself, out from under the bed and opened. Beads, a book, eight photos, a mechanical piece of steel with a laminated wooden handle, four boxes of bullets. He threw the box on the bed and picked it up. The gun looked loaded. It was heavier than he remembered. He pointed it at the door and slowly walked towards it, noticing his phone face up on the floor as he did. He heard a creak behind him, swinging around and aiming the gun at his bed, expecting to see that thing again. Nothing. Onto his knees. Nothing. Back to the door. What the fuck, he panted to himself.
He noticed the smell now. Wet ashes. Something sour. Something burning.
Why, Dad?
He screamed, pointing the gun towards the phone briefly then back to the door. Silence. For a moment, then three more strikes. The door bulged inward towards him an inch then back out. Breathing. He cocked the pistol now. Outside the window, the sky took a dark red hue, caught fire. He stood still in the middle of the living room now, gun still pointed towards the door. Nothing. Slow. He crept towards the door, turning around once to look into his bedroom again. Slow. Near the door now. He waited for another knock that wouldn’t come, trying to will it to happen. He reached for the knob now, building the courage to open. Ready. As he jerked on the door upwards and towards him, gun ready to fire, it burst open, forcing him against the wall, the gun pointing uselessly downwards, dull red light flooding in as well as a deafening sound, a wail. Both there and silent. In an instant he felt crushed, pushed to the ground. He could feel it. That thing. He couldn’t see it but it surrounded him, terrified him, trying to show him something he did not want to see. Please go. The gun was forced from his hand. He could not speak, nor did it, but he could feel it’s hatred, loathing, understand it was evil. Slowly, forcefully, it began to drag him away from the door, towards the kitchen, filling his head with thoughts he didn’t understand, visions of horrible things of eaves and fire and stains and death. No, please stop. He knew the thing could hear him. What do you want? He felt as though he was being pulled from within, from his ribs, the inside of his lungs. He struggled to breathe as he grabbed onto the edge of the wall helplessly. It dragged him around the corner and into the kitchen, holding him up on his knees. There was a shape on the floor he couldn’t make out, obscured by darkness, his sight blurred. Distorted. There was a figure above him, standing near the table. The wail seemed to be coming from it but he couldn’t make out its features. He could feel the figures pain. The agony it felt filled him while it, the thing holding him in place, torturing him, delighted. Seconds lasting hours as he felt a heartbreak worse than any he had felt before, worse than anything before. The kitchen, glowing red now, the inside of an ember. In an instant, the whole apartment heaved, breathed in, pulsed, red light becoming brighter and the air hot, a furnace, stifling, then darkness as it exhaled, dropping him to the floor. He closed his eyes.
Dreams Page 5