by Gord Rollo
Her hand reached out, and she slapped him even harder across the face. “Good…’cause I hate you too, you good for nothing loser!” She began to bawl, makeup running down her face on the flood of tears. “I’m gonna lock you back in the closet, Sammy! Lock you in there for a week!”
Gritting his teeth, pushed beyond his breaking point, Sam reached for the nightstand. He picked up the revolver, a murderous smile beginning to form on his lips. “The hell you will! I should have done this long ago!”
He pointed the gun at Pam’s chest and pulled the trigger. Again and again, his finger twitched on the trigger repeatedly, violent explosions echoing through the room.
***
Sam was still pulling the trigger of the long-emptied gun, when Toni came home an hour later, a huge contented smile plastered on his tired, ancient face.
“Dad? What are you doing still…I mean, where’s Pam?” Then Toni saw her sister sprawled out on the floor on the far side of the bed, bullet holes and blood everywhere she looked. But something didn’t fit, old-fashioned blue dress, hair dyed brown and cut shorter.
An awful dread clutched Toni’s heart like the hand of death placed gently on her shoulder in a dark and lonely room. In the eyes of a demented man rapidly loosing reason, she must have looked just like Doris Petigo. “Noooooooooooo!” Toni screamed, realizing what it was her sister had done. “Why Pam…why?”
The world turned upside down then, darkness descending, and Toni fell to the floor unconscious. Sam just kept right on pulling the trigger and smiling, happier now than he’d been in his whole life.
Click! Click! Click!
STORY NOTES
Memories can be funny things. We have good ones and we have bad ones, and over the years the cruel hand of time starts to chip away at us and we’ll start to forget a lot of them. Not all of them, though. No, we’ll retain the ones that are important to us, or the ones that affected us the most as we lived our lives. Unfortunately that means we sometimes get to keep and relive the bad memories along with all the happy ones. Alzheimer’s disease is prevalent in our society and all you have to do is take a walk through any long term care facility or old age home to see how savagely the loss of memories can destroy our elders. Perhaps forgetting isn’t always a bad thing though. Perhaps there are some people out there who wished they could forget some of the terrible things that have happened to them in their lives. It’s not that easy though, and that’s the gist of the story you just read.
Memories of a Haunted Man is a collaboration I did years ago with a good friend of mine named Everette Bell. Everette lives in Kentucky and him and I have never actually met in person but we’ve spent countless hours together online first as fiction editors at a defunct webzine called Sinister Element, then later as co-writers of four or five decent movie scripts that still haven’t seen the light of day.
Memories almost suffered a similar fate. We wrote it and had it accepted for a small press horror anthology called Terrible Beauty, Fearful Symmetry, but the publisher went belly up just as the book was going to print and I doubt anyone other than the contributing authors and editors ever actually saw it. Everette and I even sold the movie rights to this story once upon a time to a guy who was putting together a trilogy-of-terror type film, of which our story was going to make up one of the sections. We even got paid for that film option but unfortunately that was the last we ever heard from the filmmaker and to my knowledge the movie was never made. Regardless, it’s a good story dealing with a highly dysfunctional family and how time and the heavy burden of their memories can ravage the elderly people we love and care for. I’m happy to finally have more people finally get a chance to read it. If you enjoy the story, please take the time to check out more of Everette’s excellent work. You can look him up and buy more of his fiction here:
http://www.wartoothebooks.blogspot.com
LOST IN A FIELD OF PAPER FLOWERS
Whenever evil befalls us, we ought to ask ourselves, after the first suffering,
how we can turn it into good? So shall we take occasion, from
one bitter root, to raise perhaps many flowers.
– Leigh Hunt (1784 – 1859)
A teenage boy lies in a coma.
Fell down the stairs, bumped his head.
Ask his father, standing by his bedside. He’s telling everyone that’s what happened.
Don’t ask the poor boy’s mother, though. No, not her, she’s far too busy crying.
* * *
Existence #1: Dreamland
“Hello?”
“Can anyone hear me?”
There’s fear in your voice. No panic, yet, but definitely a hint of alarm. At first this strange dream had been thrilling, running and playing in this massive field of orange-red dirt; something you’d never have been able to do from the seat of the wheelchair in real life. The euphoric freedom of standing, of actually running on your own two legs is a joy you’d nearly forgotten. Two years have passed since the accident left your spine twisted, legs withered and useless. But in the dream you’re running full out, pumping arms, chasing your shadow across the unusual colored soil with the exuberance and energy of youth. It feels great to be healthy again, to be whole.
It isn’t until your feet slip, and you roll laughing to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust that you begin to wonder about your surroundings. What kind of field is this, anyway? A farmer’s field, by the looks of it, the soil cared for and plowed in even, parallel grooves. But if this is a farm, where are the barn, crops, animals, or the farmer for that matter. Standing up, you slowly turn round, trying to spot something familiar. Surely there’s a fence line, a pond, or a nearby road. There’s nothing, just an endless expanse of flat, orange-red dirt for as far as the eye can see.
You strain to hear any of the normal everyday sounds like birds, airplanes, insects, wind, laughter, but this field is void of those things – a dead place that despite its vastness begins to close in on you, the dusty air tickling your throat, making you dry swallow your first taste of fear.
“Is anyone out there?”
“Where am I? Please…somebody answer me!”
Inside your head you hear a woman’s voice, tiny and faint, as if spoken across a great distance. You can’t make out the words.
“Momma?” you ask, confused.
No, boy, I’m not your mother. I’m a friend.
“A friend? What do you want?”
To help you get back home.
“I don’t know what you mean. Where are you?”
A long way off, but closer than you think. Don’t worry about it right now. Stick out your right arm, then turn and walk in that direction. I brought you something.
You’re more confused than ever, but at least you aren’t feeling as scared. Even a phantom voice is welcome in this desolate place, better than being alone. You do as instructed, and are soon walking in a new direction. You walk for ten minutes, not at all sure why you’re doing this.
“Where am I supposed to be going?” you finally ask, but there’s no reply. “Hello? Are you still there?”
Silence, inside and out.
You stop, unsure what to do next, considering retracing your steps–
Something green stands out in the orange-red distance.
“What’s that? Is this what you brought me?”
A whisper: Yes.
You start running, excitement and curiosity propelling you toward the small green dot on the horizon. Slowing your pace, you walk the final thirty feet. It’s a flower! A light green carnation growing out of the otherwise barren soil. Its stem reaches up past your knees, its flower round, symmetrical, and in full bloom. Beautiful, sure, but it looks so strange and out of place growing on its own in this massive field. You don’t know what to make of it.
“You brought me a flower? Why?”
Silence.
Existence #2: Reality
“Stay cool, Sally. I told you ten times already, I got it covered. You don’t need to say squat t
o anyone.”
The tall man spoke quietly, checking over his shoulder down the corridor as he led his wife firmly by the arm into their son’s private room.
“But, Paul, I’m just—“
“But nothin’, Sally. Let me do the talking and everything will be fine. Understand?”
Sally nodded her head, but Paul wasn’t looking at her anymore. She followed his gaze over to the foot of their son’s bed, where a small woman stood leaning on a wooden cane. Even before the woman turned to face them, it was clear she was old and obviously quite frail. Her left eye was completely white, no iris or pupil, her vision clouded by a thick milky cataract. When she lifted the corners of her mouth to smile, it seemed to take a Herculean effort, depleting her limited energy. Sally felt pity for the poor woman.
“Who are you?” Paul asked, his tone confrontational. “What are you doing in Robbie’s room? This is a private suite.”
“Is it? Forgive me, Mr. Moore. I just came to see how Robbie was doing and bring him a little flower to cheer up the room. I meant no harm.”
Sally pulled her eyes away from the diminutive woman to look at the blossom laying at her son’s feet on the bedspread and noticed that it wasn’t a real flower, but rather a paper one intricately folded using several layers of thin green onion paper.
Paul, not even noticing the flower, continued on. “You a nurse or something?”
This caused the old woman to smile, her face lighting up and revealing some of the beauty she’d possessed in her youth.
“Good Lord, at my age, I sure hope not!”
“Who are you, then?” Sally asked gently, trying to diffuse her husband’s anger.
“The doctors and nurses all call me Aggie.”
“Yeah, well, nice to meet you, but my wife and I would appreciate it if—”
“Did you make that flower, Aggie?” Sally interrupted.
“Why yes, I did.” Aggie said. “It’s called Origami. Learned how in craft class down on the ground floor.”
“The assisted living center?” Sally asked.
“Yep. That’s where I live, you know? Been there…well, seems like forever.”
“Then maybe you’d best get back,” Paul said sharply. “Robbie needs rest and I’m sure the nurses will be wondering where you are.”
“Heavens! You’re probably right,” Aggie nodded and started shuffling toward the door, leaning heavily on her cane for support. “Can I come for another visit tomorrow? Don’t like to brag, but everyone says I have a special way with children. Maybe I can help?”
Paul was about to object, but Sally beat him to the punch. “Yes you can, Aggie. Just make sure the people on your floor know where you are, okay?”
“Sure will. Thanks.”
Halfway out the door, Aggie stopped. “Hospitals are strange places. Buildings made of concrete, glass, brick, and steel; built strong enough to withstand years of pounding from wind and rain, but they’re helpless to contain the surge of pain and suffering emanating daily within their walls. All that suffering…it has to go somewhere, don’t you think?”
The tiny old woman left without another word, leaving Paul and Sally staring after her in stunned silence.
“What was that all about?” Sally asked.
“Nothin’ Sally, just a crazy old fool who likes to hear herself talk. Probably out of her freakin’ mind, and you’re gonna let her visit Robbie.”
“She’s harmless.”
“I don’t care. Tell the nurses that Robbie has no other visitors, especially nutty old bats from downstairs!”
Existence #1: Dreamland
“Are you still there?”
You wait a long time for the phantom voice to answer, standing ramrod straight, eyes closed, ears open, hoping the woman will talk and not leave you alone in this bleak place. Well, you aren’t completely alone. You have the flower.
Feeling frustrated and lonely, you sit down in the dirt to study the green flower closer. It looks like a normal, everyday carnation, only slightly bigger. Leaning in close, your nose almost touches the delicate petals. You inhale deeply, and again, savoring the sweet fragrance. It smells wonderful, reminding you of your mother and the small garden she lovingly tends in the yard back home.
Back home–
You shut that thought off immediately, not willing, or able to go down that dark road just yet. A single tear runs down your cheek, a tiny drop of loneliness that escapes the raging river of self-pity building steadily within you. The tear curls around your lip, dangles from your chin, then drops silently into the center of the carnation.
The flower begins to grow.
Jumping to your feet, you watch in awe as the flower expands, the stalk as well as the bloom growing in front of your eyes. The story of Jack and the Beanstalk pops into your head, and for a moment you think this is how the mysterious woman plans on helping. Unfortunately, before you can envision the carnation growing up through the clouds and climbing it to find your way back to your family, the flower stops growing, leveling off just under the height of your chin, the bloom a full eight inches in diameter. A huge flower, the biggest you’ve ever seen, but still no help as far as you can see.
Disappointed and angry, you reach to rip the mutant flower out of the ground. You grip your right hand around the thick stalk and…
…you’re looking down upon yourself. Not here and now. Has to be several years back. You’re younger, smaller, dressed in a blue baseball uniform; knee-high socks, cap, and glove. You are hot and sweaty, the uniform stained with dirt, a huge contented grin on your face—
You shudder, realizing there is no wheelchair…yet.
Your father’s shiny new Mazda RX-7 roars into the scene, skidding to a stop in a shower of dust and gravel. From above, you can easily see how drunk he is as he climbs out of the car and starts waving for you to hurry up and get in. Back then you hadn’t been able to tell, hadn’t had a clue your father had taken the afternoon off work to tie one on with a few buddies down at the local pool hall. Now, you know better. Horrified, you watch yourself climb into the car fully trusting your father to take care of you and get you home safely.
It wasn’t going to happen.
You watch the Mazda squeal out of sight, knowing that three intersections away your father will run a red light and a yellow Ryder rental truck will t-bone the car on the passenger side, tearing the small foreign car nearly in half, ending your baseball playing days forever…
The strange vision fades slowly from sight, water down a semi-clogged drain, and you are staring at the green flower gripped in your closed fist. Your hand is sore, fingers cramping, so you let go of the carnation, only then noticing the thin ribbon of blood running the length of your palm, dripping steadily onto the parched dirt below. Seeing the blood triggers pain, and your hand begins to burn. Examining the hand closer, it doesn’t appear to be much of a wound, hardly a scratch in fact, more like a superficial paper cut, but it hurts badly and bleeds as if it were a gash cutting right to the bone. You reach for the flower again, to carefully check for hidden thorns on the stem. Your finger has barely caressed the smooth stalk when you wince in pain and pull your hand back to find yet another paper-thin cut. Blood runs freely from both wounds now, and no matter how hard you think about it, you can’t understand why touching the flower is cutting you. It’s as if the flower is coated with invisible razor blades.
Trying not to panic, you remove your t-shirt and are about to wrap up your injured hand when something incredible happens. The bleeding stops all on its own. The thin wounds begin to heal, the torn skin re-knitting back together as the pain fades away. Within seconds, your right hand is fully healed and the only sign that you’ve ever been bleeding are the scattered crimson stains on the ground at your feet.
You don’t understand what has just happened; don’t understand any of this, in fact. Where are you and why is all this crazy stuff happening? The only certainty right now is that you desperately want to go home.
But for s
eemingly hours you roam the barren field, at times calling out for the phantom woman to speak again, sulking around depressed and afraid you’ll be left here in this awful place forever. No matter how far you walk, or which direction you choose to step, you never allow yourself to lose sight of the green carnation – your anchor in this wasteland.
The sky begins to darken. Spending the night in this field, alone in the dark, is a terrifying prospect, but staying near the mysterious flower gives you some comfort, some sense of protection, even if it’s only in your head. You lie down on the ground and curl around the base of the giant carnation, and soon fall fast asleep, totally oblivious to the fact that all around you the field is coming alive and the flowers are finally starting to grow.
Existence #2: Reality
Paul and Sally Moore made it home from the hospital in record time. Paul had bitched about the downtown traffic regardless of their progress but that was just the way he was and Sally was used to it. Climbing out of the car, she stood by the front door of their Cape Cod home, waiting for Paul to unlock the door. For some reason, he was still sitting in the car. When she went back to check why, Sally saw Paul trying to wipe tears from his obviously red-rimmed eyes.
“Why are you crying?” Sally asked.
“I’m not,” Paul shot back defensively. “I’m just, you know, upset about Robbie. He looked so small in that bed. So…fragile. Is he gonna die, Sally?”
Tears filled Sally’s eyes too, thrilled and a little shocked at her husband’s unexpected show of emotion.
“I don’t know, honey,” she said. “The doctor said it could go either way. Come on in, let’s have a nice supper and we can talk about it, okay?”
When he finally came up the stairs onto the porch she noticed a red stain on the collar of his shirt.
“Jesus, you’re bleeding, Paul. What happened?”