Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “We can't just sit here,” a woman sobbed. “It'll get in here too!”

  “We just have to wait for the cops to show up,” a man replied.

  “And what do you think they're gonna do?” the woman screamed. “Look out there! People are dying!”

  Wincing with pain, Colin slowly got to his feet. He hadn't really noticed at the time, but while running from the plaza he'd fallen several times, twisting his ankle and bashing his chest against a trashcan, and now his whole body was aching. He turned and looked over at the window again, just as a shadowy figure stumbled past. In the distance, there was a faint rumbling sound, but he was too scared to ask what that might mean. Stepping forward, he joined some of the others at the window and stared out, watching swirls of dust as they filled the air.

  “What happened?” he asks. “Are we... Are we dead?”

  “We're under attack,” a man said. “The whole city's getting destroyed.”

  Colin turned to him. “What?”

  “We've seen two planes so far,” he continued, “but there are probably more. They're probably gonna be raining down on us like...”

  His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence.

  “It might've been an accident,” a woman suggested.

  “What are you talking about?” the man screamed at her, slamming the palm of his hand against the window. “How is that an accident?”

  “I don't know!” she sobbed. “But if it isn't, then what -”

  “This is an attack!” he roared.

  As the argument raged behind him, Colin limped over to join the group that had gathered around the small TV. Staring at the screen, he saw one of the World Trade Center towers burning, but there was no sign of the other.

  “Where...” He paused, squinting as he tried to make sense of the image. “Where is it?” he asked. “Where's the -”

  Before he could finish, he saw the other tower starting to fall. He watched in horror as the North Tower disappeared into a cloud of dust. The woman next to him screamed and turned away, but Colin simply stared at the horrific scene. In his mind's eye, he was already thinking of all the people in his office. Had John and Jenny managed to make it out? What about Les and Patrick? What about Phil? What about the two Kevins? What about Monica, what about -

  Suddenly he froze, and for a moment he could only stare at the image of the tower collapsing. Finally he began to imagine the stationary closet with Monica's body shoved in the corner. In his mind's eye he saw the closet tilting and falling, and finally breaking apart as it collapsed into the flames. Still staring at the TV screen, he realized that the closet would be completely destroyed, as would everything inside, including Monica's corpse. Most likely, there wouldn't even be much of a corpse, not by the time the dust cleared.

  “This isn't happening,” a man said nearby, leaning against the wall. “This is not happening!”

  Colin turned and looked at the window again.

  “I've lost my mind,” he whispered under his breath. “I've suffered some kind of psychotic break.”

  At that moment in time, it was the only explanation that made any sense at all. He imagined himself still sitting on the bench near the World Trade Center, rocking back and forth as he imagined the towers being destroyed. He figured the horror of what had happened to Monica must have triggered some kind of emotional collapse, and that now he was lost in a fantasy world where her body was conveniently swept away as part of some greater catastrophe. The alternative – that the entire city was under attack and jet planes really had hit the towers – was just too horrific to contemplate. Somehow, his panicked mind had become twisted inside out and he'd imagined a vast, terrible attack on the city he loved, as if he could only process what had happened by assuming the whole world was coming to an end.

  “It's not real,” he said finally.

  “It can't be,” a woman replied, standing next to him as they both looked at the window. “It just can't be.”

  “It's all in my head,” he continued.

  She turned to him. “All in your head?”

  “Absolutely,” he continued, watching the swirls of dust as they passed the window. After a moment, he began to think they were actually rather beautiful. “This is my way of dealing with what happened to Monica in the stationary closet. There's no physical way this can actually be happening, so obviously I'm still sitting on that bench, and my mind has become completely detached from my body.” He paused, taking a deep breath despite the scratching sensation at the back of his throat. “It's just my fantasy. Even all of you in here, you're not real either.”

  He stood in silence for a moment, listening to the sobs nearby and the rumbling sound outside.

  “I hope you're right,” the woman said finally, her voice trembling with fear. “I'd sure hate for this to be real.”

  Three

  “Move!” the firefighter yelled, waving frantically for them to make their way along the dusty, rubble-strewn street. “Everybody come this way right now!”

  Staggering along the sidewalk, with panicked and sobbing people all around, Colin waited for the nightmare to end. Despite the pain that racked his body, he knew full well that the entire experience was just a fantasy that had been blasted out by his panicked, crumbling mind. By murdering Monica – and he accepted now that he had murdered her, even if he hadn't intended for her to hit her head on the shelf in the stationary closet – he'd opened up some kind of schism in his soul, and all this madness was now pouring out. The schism, he figured, had probably been dormant since birth, waiting for some act of insanity so it could finally be triggered. And now he was wandering through the horrific mindscape that had resulted, stumbling through a ravaged and destroyed vision of New York that he knew couldn't possibly be real.

  Nearby, a woman was screaming on her knees, pushing away everyone who tried to help her up.

  “Two planes hit the towers,” a man stammered, as Colin overtook him. “I saw it. First one, then the other. They say there were others, too. One hit the Pentagon.”

  “Sure,” Colin muttered, not even bothering to look at the man's face. He figured the details of the nightmare no longer mattered. He just had to keep going, and he assumed that at some point he'd eventually wake up, most likely strapped to a bed or chained in the corner of a padded cell. Then he'd have to face all the questions about Monica, and he'd have to admit to the drunken one night stand and the arguments after, and the incident in the stationary closet where he'd confronted her and accidentally slammed her head against the corner of the shelf, and then there'd be the trial and the arguments and the shame. His wife would undoubtedly abandon him, and the rest of his life would be lived in misery and shame.

  He knew that now.

  All he had to do, first, was wake up from this nightmare.

  Stopping suddenly, he saw a dark patch ahead. The sidewalk was covered in dust and rubble, but near the base of a trashcan there was a distinct, glistening area of darkness. Edging closer, Colin realized the 'darkness' was actually thick, rich blood that had apparently been lost by someone else passing along the street. The sight mesmerized him for a moment. After a few seconds, he realized someone else had come over to take a look, even as the rest of the crowd hobbled onward.

  “Poor bastard,” the man said.

  Glancing at him, Colin realized it was the man he'd passed a moment ago.

  “You realize this is war, right?” the man continued, his voice trembling slightly. “This is a declaration of war against the United States.”

  Colin squinted, tilting his head a little to get a better view of the man's face.

  “It's too big to be domestic terrorists,” the man muttered, looking back down at the blood. “If you ask me, this is from overseas. Someone's sending us a message, laying out their intent. God alone knows what we can do in response, but someone somewhere is about to get a big tasty dose of revenge from the United States military.”

  “Mr. Hopkins?” Colin as
ked after a moment.

  The man turned to him and frowned.

  “Gerald Hopkins?”

  “What?”

  “You're Gerald Hopkins,” Colin continued, with a faint smile. “You're my High School math teacher.”

  The man shook his head. “No, Sir, I am not.”

  “Yes, you are.” Colin nodded, as if he was finally starting to understand a little better. “My mind is using the faces of people I used to know, it's using their faces to fill the crowd.”

  “What are you talking about?” the man asked. “My name is Richard Cooke, I'm a -”

  “Math teacher.”

  “No, I'm a trader from -”

  “You're my old math teacher,” Colin continued. “Yes, I see it now. Okay, there are a few differences, but that''s only natural. You might not realize it, on account of how my mind has organized all of this, but don't worry about that too much. You can't expect to understand, seeing as how you're not real.”

  The man frowned again. “I'm not what?”

  “You're not real,” Colin told him. “Doesn't that make you feel a little better?” He put a hand on the man's arm, although the man quickly pulled away. “That's remarkable,” he continued. “You sure feel real, but I guess that's all part of the illusion. When I wake up, I hope I remember every detail of this fantasy.”

  “Do you have a head injury?” the man asked.

  “I have a delusion, and we're in it,” Colin said, stepping away and then looking along the street, back the way he'd just come. The dust had cleared a little now, but there were sirens and screams everywhere, and he could see the glow of a fire in the distance. “This whole thing is insane,” he continued. “I'll be honest, I never thought of myself as a very imaginative person. I kinda thought I was a little dumb in that respect, but I've got to say, I've really come up with something impressive. I guess it must be the schism fueling my nightmare, but I've imagined something truly detailed and unique.”

  He watched as a woman limped past, clutching a loose flap of flesh on the side of her bloodied face. More figures were shuffling along all the time, making their way to safety as they tried to escape the area near the fallen towers.

  “I've gone and imagined something vast,” Colin muttered. “To think, I'm sitting on that bench still, and all of this is unfolding in my mind.”

  He turned to look at the man again, before frowning as he realized he was gone. Glancing along the sidewalk, he was just about able to make out the man shuffling away.

  “Adios, Mr. Hopkins!” he called after him. “Thank you for all the math classes!”

  Receiving no reply, he turned and looking back the other way along the street, toward the heart of the disaster. More and more figures were stumbling through the dust, emerging like shadows and limping past. Although the sight was terrible, Colin couldn't help but stare in awed horror at the array of injuries. He was starting to feel deeply impressed by his own mind, by the fact that in his moment of madness he'd managed to conjure up such a vivid and awful scene. In a way, he felt it was better to spend his time in this fantasy world right now, rather than dealing with the horrors of reality when Monica's body was finally uncovered. There'd be time for horror later.

  “Everyone keep moving!” a voice yelled in the distance. “It's not safe here!”

  “My cellphone isn't working,” a woman stammered as she limped past. She turned to Colin. “Is yours?”

  “I doubt it,” he replied, barely able to stifle a faint smile. “Not here, not in this world.”

  He chuckled.

  “Why are you laughing?” the woman asked.

  “I don't know what else to do,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  Ignoring him, she kept moving, while Colin continued to watch the figures as they stumbled closer through the clouds of dust.

  “Cassie!” a man screamed in the distance. “Cassie, where are you?”

  “Not real,” Colin muttered under his breath. “That's where she is, my friend. None of you are real. You're all just figments of my imagination.” He paused for a moment, trying to work out how much time was passing. It felt like a couple of hours since the first plane had hit, but he knew time worked differently in dreams so he figured it might only be a few minutes in the real world.

  For a moment, he imagined himself still sitting on the bench, staring straight ahead with blank eyes ever since he'd hallucinated the first plane roaring low overhead.

  “Someone'll come and help me,” he said finally. “I'm better off here than -”

  Stopping suddenly, he saw more figures struggling along the street. Some were more heavily injured than others, but one of them in particular caught his attention. Its features were still not visible, and it was little more than a shadowy haze, but this particular figure seemed somehow familiar. Colin half expected another of his High School teachers to step into view, or perhaps an old friend from college, but as the figure limped closer he began to feel a slow, creeping sense of fear rippling through his gut. He couldn't explain the sensation, nor could he beat it back with reason or logic. Instead, he simply held his ground and watched as the figure advanced through the cloud of dust, its features becoming ever clearer until finally he saw eyes and a mouth, and a moment later a mop of short, curly black hair.

  “Monica,” he whispered, instinctively taking a step back.

  Four

  Breathlessly hurrying around the next corner, Colin leaned back against the wall and tried to get his thoughts together.

  It's not her, he told himself.

  It can't be her.

  Except...

  He froze for a moment.

  This is a dream, he noted. This is a fantasy, constructed in my mind.

  Monica might be dead in the real world, he realized, but in his wild, raging fantasy she could certainly rise from the ashes of the fallen towers and come lumbering along the street to gain her revenge.

  “Why aren't the cellphones working?” a woman yelled in the distance, her voice filled with terrified sobs. “I have to call my husband! I have to make sure he's okay!”

  “They're probably shut them off,” a man told her. “Just keep moving!”

  Taking slow, deep breaths – and wondering why breaths were so important in a fantasy anyway – Colin realized he had to confront his fear. If he continued to run, he figured he'd end up being pursued forever through his dream, at least until he woke up; if he looked Monica in the eyes and faced her, on the other hand, he'd be able to drive her back, to make her disappear entirely.

  “I will not be haunted,” he said out loud, trying to summon the courage to look around the corner. “This is my fantasy world, and I can exert some degree of control.”

  He felt stronger now, more able to face her. Still, he remained in place, somehow not managing to make his body toe the line. His mind was willing and ready, but his body seemed frozen, as if it had thoughts of its own. Taking another deep breath, Colin focused on making his legs move, and finally he was able to turn and creep closer to the corner. There were cries in the distance and the morning sun was still struggling to break through the clouds of dust that filled the street, but he knew those things weren't real, that they were just background. Instead, he leaned around the corner and saw -

  Gasping, he turned and ran, stumbling away along the street and almost tripping over several large chunks of concrete. He'd seen her, he'd seen Monica, and she'd been just a few feet away with blood dribbling down her face from the wound on her forehead. There'd been no time to stop, no time to confront her or tell her she wasn't real. Instead, he'd instinctively bolted, too terrified to even contemplate holding his ground. Even when he tripped over an upturned trashcan a few seconds later, he scrambled back to his feet and continued on his way, until reaching the far end of the street and collapsing against the window of a store, desperately trying to get his breath back.

  Suddenly realizing he had his back to where he'd last seen Monica, he spun around.

  She was stil
l coming.

  He stared in horror for a moment as he saw her limping along the street with her eyes fixed on him. He could see blood on her face and neck now, all the way down to the front of her shirt, and her manner of walking seemed stiff and lifeless, as if she was struggling to keep her limbs under control. As she edged closer, Colin saw her dark, almost sunken eyes, and he felt certain that her gaze was that of Death itself.

  “No,” he stammered, unable to contain his panic even though he knew she was an illusion. “I won't... No, I can't!”

  With that, he turned and stumbled around the corner, almost tripping again as he desperately tried to get away. A moment later, just as he was about to cross the street, he heard a rumbling sound and stopped just in time as a fire engine raced past, heading toward the heart of the carnage. Looking along the street, he saw two more heading his way, and a moment later they too charged straight past, whipping the dusty air into excited swirls and whoops that caused Colin's hair to ruffle and his tie to skip up onto his shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing standing there?” a man yelled at him from further along the street. “Move your ass!”

  Colin turned and looked at him, but it took a moment before he realized the man was a cop. He froze, blinking wildly, before turning back and seeing that Monica was still limping toward him at a slow but steady pace.

  “No,” he mumbled, filled with panic as he turned and hurried along the street.

  “Get the hell out of this area!” the cop shouted at him. “It's still not safe!”

  Panicked in case the cop figured out what he'd done to Monica, Colin made his way carefully around the man, although after a moment he tripped over the edge of a bench and fell, landing hard on his shoulder and letting out a cry of pain.