Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  * * *

  MARK OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment feeling like he’d been cheated. His life had been turned upside-down—for what? The thoughts of K and Sam tortured him every moment of every day.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw them. When he walked down the street, they were with him. When he drove his car, he heard Sam’s chatter in the back seat. Felt K’s hand in his. He could barely eat. Could barely think.

  He ran his hand through his hair. He had to return to work. He’d call Hank tonight and tell him he was going to work tomorrow. That was the only way he would get his mind off his own personal hell.

  On the kitchen counter, he saw the bottle of wine that had been in one of the gift baskets sent to his hospital room. He didn’t remember who sent it, but it was just what he needed at the moment.

  He rummaged through the silverware drawer. After he found a corkscrew, he managed to pop the cork, despite his bandaged fingers, and pour himself a glass. He’d always thought people who drank to smother their pain were cowards. Now he wasn’t so sure. At least for today, he needed a break from the agony.

  He held his glass to his nose and breathed in deep, inhaling the rich scent of the red wine and the promise of relief. He sat on the couch, the bottle in one hand and the wine glass in the other.

  But his back, still sore from the rollover, seized as he sat, sending daggers of pain up and down his body. He dropped the glass. It hit the floor, and a red stain instantly spread across the area rug. He groaned, set the bottle down, and painfully maneuvered off the couch.

  After he cleaned the rug and hung it outside on the balcony to dry, he returned to the couch. This time, he lowered himself slowly, careful not to send his back into orbit again.

  He reached for the now empty wine glass he’d placed beside the sofa, looked at it, then back at the bottle on the coffee table. With a sigh, he set the glass on the end table. He could not numb the pain and the grief. He wanted to live, to feel. Bad feelings were just as much a part of life as good ones. This was how he would remember how much he loved K and Sam. The pain was his love for them, which would never die.

  * * *

  A THROB OF PAIN rushed through Kirk’s head, waking him from his forced slumber, his skull pulsing with each heartbeat. He opened his eyes but couldn’t see anything. He waved his hand madly in front his eyes.

  Nothing.

  Gingerly, painfully, he probed the back of his skull with his fingers.. His hair felt wet and tacky. Blood. He grunted, surprised he was happy to be alive. He rolled onto his back and felt for his gun. As he suspected, it was gone.

  He sat up and pushed himself to his knees, his head throbbing. The smooth, cold floor felt like it was made of metal.. Taking baby steps, he shuffled his way around his new home trying to imagine what it looked like, but he didn’t have much of an imagination. Hands in front of his face, he waved them back and forth, searching for a wall or---. He wouldn’t go there. Whatever he found, he didn’t want to find it with his forehead. He started to take another step, then stopped, his heart in his throat. His right hand felt something… Not something. Nothing. Nothing but air up above him, in front of him, behind him, to the left or to the right.

  Not good.

  He lowered himself to his belly. Hugging the floor, he rubbed the floor with his fingertips in ever-expanding swaths. Finally, he was able to trace the edge.

  The floor was two-inches thick and rounded, as if he was lying on a large Frisbee. He crawled in a circle to define his prison, determined to find the wall the cliff was attached to. That would be the safest place to be, he reasoned, so he wouldn’t roll off in his sleep and fall into nothingness.

  “No wall?” he muttered. “Something has to be holding this thing.” He felt sweat drenching his armpits and could smell fear seeping from his pores.

  He felt along the edge once again, hoping against hope he was wrong. But he found no wall, no supports, no cables to suspend it. Nothing but this crazy, floating, metal Frisbee and, as far as he knew, a deep, dark hole above and below him. He moved to the center of the disc to contemplate this new information.

  Click, click, pop, pop.

  Blinding, white light made him twitch and snap his eyes shut. He tried to open them, but after total darkness, he blinked uncontrollably.. He squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to make out what was in front of him.

  The room was about fifty feet in diameter, with a dome ceiling and warehouse lights hanging high above him, like huge, monstrous eyes staring at him. He was lying on a round chunk of metal fifteen feet in diameter. He wasn’t in the middle, like he’d thought. He pulled himself to the center, and as he did so, the disc swayed.

  He flattened himself to the floor, breathing hard and hugging it for all he was worth. At any moment, the disc could tip and pitch him over the side.

  Way below him—the room had to be at least a hundred feet to the bottom—he could see a single door. He searched the perimeter. As far as he could tell, that door was the only way in and out of the huge, round room. The walls were smooth, their silver sheen rippling as they bounced the light back and forth. He felt like he was inside a gigantic oven.

  Straight ahead, at eye level, a mirrored window broke the monotony of the glossy walls. He recognized it for what it was. A two-way. Just like the ones at the station back home. It was better to be on the other side of the glass.

  “Hello, Mr. Weston.” A deep voice thundered and circled the round room.

  Kirk flinched. His heart pounded in his ears. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

  His voice echoed off the walls, making his headache even worse. “Please do not talk, Mr. Weston. All you need to know is that you are a prisoner here. As you can see, if you try to escape, you will die in the attempt.

  “Look around, Mr. Weston. You are in what we call the MAG Chamber, a room built with magnets and specially engineered metals. The walls, the floor you are sitting on, even the lights, are set to an exact range and magnetic strength. A magnetic field supports you, a field we can control with ease.”

  He rose to his knees. “What kind of people are you? Do you—”

  The floor dropped from beneath him so quickly that he left the disc and was airborne. As suddenly as it started, the floor stopped. He crashed into the disc with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.

  The floor began to rise. “Mr. Weston, we asked you not to talk. If we want your comment on something, we will ask.”

  He rolled onto his back and made a thumbs-up motion.

  “The rules are as follows. No talking unless asked a direct question. Do not try to escape. You will be killed on-sight if you try. Last but not least, welcome to the WJA.”

  The sound system squealed and clicked off. The room was as silent as before. Then, just as fast, the lights shut off with the same sound of breakers popping.

  Kirk breathed in a sigh of relief. His pounding head couldn’t take any more loud noises or bright lights. He rolled onto his side. Now what?

  * * *

  “HELLO HANK.” MARK TURNED up the volume on his cell phone. “I just wanted to let you know I’m coming into work tomorrow.” He knew he would get resistance from his boss, but he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  “Mark, come on. You’ve only been off for like, what, a day?”

  “I really need this right now, Hank. I have to get my mind off everything. Just give me some small project to work on, and you won’t even know I’m there. I need to keep busy.”

  Hank sighed. “Fine, but you’re going to take some time off later in the year…when you can enjoy it. Are you sure you’re ready to come back this soon?”

  “I can’t just sit around here…” The silence was sharp. He knew it made Hank feel uncomfortable.

  Hank heaved a sigh. “All right, all right. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” He hung up the phone, then stared out the window. He had to get back into a routine. Memories of K
and Sam were consuming him. He wanted to remember them, and he felt somewhat like a selfish pig not wanting to think about them. But he couldn’t do it right now. Not now.

  He sat in front of the TV and flipped through the channels, going from the extreme to the ridiculous. He could find a hobby, something new to learn to keep himself busy. Golf? Fishing? Maybe he would join a gym and try for the six-pack he always wanted but had never found the drive within himself to go all the way.

  He stopped flipping when he saw the program on the Discovery Channel. They were running a series called The History of Weapons. He watched for a few minutes and was surprised how interesting it was and how many different guns there were: semi-auto, full auto, pistols, machine guns. They even showed one that could shoot around corners. He remembered that Bert down at the office had invited him to go shoot with him at the firing range a few times. He’d always had other things in the way. Now, it sounded like fun. This might be the thing to take the edge off. He might even like it.

  He’d used a thirty-thirty hunting rifle when he hunted with his dad back home. It was one of his few memories from his childhood. For some reason, he only remembered bits and pieces. Deep down, it bothered him. He should be able to remember. He’d ask Bert if he could go with him. It would be good to have proper instruction on how to shoot a handgun, maybe even get good enough to enter a competition someday.

  “Whoa there, bud. Let’s just take this one step at a time.” He was the type who threw himself into projects with all of his soul and energy. It might be too early to dive in headfirst.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARK walked into his office avoiding as many coworkers as possible. He didn’t want people to feel sorry for him or look at him like he was made of glass. He set his briefcase on his neatly organized desk and sat carefully in his chair. The wrap around his ribcage helped to ease the pain, but he was still sore. Sitting was the hardest thing to do with broken ribs. Then there were his hands. He hoped he could move his fingers enough to use his computer.

  Hank walked in. “Hey, Mark!”

  “Hi, Hank.” He raised his hands. “I’ll take it slow, I promise. No need to baby me.” Hank had a heart the size of Texas, but he didn’t want to take advantage of it.

  Hank frowned. “You sure you’re up to this? You broke a few ribs, you know.” He emphasized the work broke. He glanced at Mark’s bandaged hands.

  Mark rolled his eyes. “I’ll be okay; I just move slower than usual, so no making Bert run back and forth to the copier for me.”

  “Fair enough. I asked Maria to give you a hand for a few weeks, just to get you coffee and run errands for you.” Maria was the receptionist with shimmering brown-gold eyes who made sure Mark never forgot meetings or birthdays.

  Hank wasn’t asking. That meant he couldn’t argue the point. Not that he would have anyway. Maria was a good friend. It would be nice to have her around.

  “Thanks, I’ll appreciate her help.”

  Hank looked at his watch, mumbled something about being late for a meeting and hurried out of the office.

  Mark clicked on his computer and was shuffling through papers in his briefcase when he saw Maria coming toward his office, a skip in her step. She was a slender woman with brown hair that was always up in weird-looking buns or clips. If he had to guess, he would say she was in her mid-twenties. She was always on the verge of laughing or giggling. That was one of the reasons he got along with her so well. She always enjoyed a good joke or prank.

  When she walked in, he said, “Congrats, Maria, on moving to an admin position. Sorry it had to be me you got stuck with.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She walked around his desk to give him a hug, then stepped back. “How are you doing?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment then looked at her.

  “As good as can be expected, I s’pose. I just wish everyone would be themselves. No need to be so glum on account of me.”

  She sat in one of the low-backed chairs across from his desk. “We all care about you. It‘s hard to know what to say or how to act. You know what I mean? We want to help you through this hard time, and well… We’re worried about you. We hurt for you.”

  He smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was the best he could do.

  “Just know if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.” She stood to leave.

  “Yeah, I guess it’ll take some time… for everyone. Thanks, Maria.” He was relieved when she started for the door. Talking about what happened to his family was about to overwhelm him. He needed to change the subject.

  “Hey, do you want a coffee, or something to eat?” she asked. “I’m heading up to the cafeteria.”

  He nodded. “I could use an Almond Joy mocha and a bagel with cream cheese. Didn’t have any breakfast. Thanks.” He grinned as she left his office. This assistant thing was going to be nice. Maybe he could find a way to keep her on permanently.

  CHAPTER 8

  One Year Later

  CHRISTMAS EVE. THE OFFICE was all but deserted. Christmas fell on a Friday this year, and that made Mark, as well as the rest of the office, happy for a long weekend. The year had gone by without a second thought to his scarred body and broken heart.

  He dreaded going home to an empty apartment. Christmas had been the highlight of the year for his family. Despite his grumblings, the minute they’d eaten their last bite of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving Day, K would shove him and her dad out the door to hang the Christmas lights. Didn’t matter what team was playing who on television.

  He shook away the memory, dropped a couple projects into his briefcase to keep himself busy over the weekend, and snapped it shut. He knew he should move on with his life, but he kept falling back into the memories. Wallowing in his grief, as he’d heard a therapist on television say. His friends and coworkers told him time would heal his heart, but he had his doubts.

  He turned off the lights, shut the office door and locked it. As he turned around to head for the elevator, he almost ran over Maria. “Maria! What are you still doing here? It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Oh, I had a few things to finish before I took off.” She hesitated. “Um, Mark, I was wondering if you might…” She shifted her feet, looking down at the floor. “I…um. I don’t have anything going tonight. If you want—”

  He decided to rescue her from the awkward moment. “Sure. I would love to, but this time at my place. I haven’t decorated, but my neighbor gave me a potted tree, so maybe I could stop and get some lights and tinsel or whatever, and you could help me decorate. I’ll even make some of my famous eggnog.”

  Maria’s steady, faithful friendship had seen him through the last year. They’d shared dozens of long walks between the trees of the rooftop park. He talked about K and Sam. She listened. Not once had she made him feel weird or out of line.

  Her brown eyes lit up. “Oh, cool; I was hoping you wouldn’t have anything going on. I mean, not that I hoped you would be alone, but—”

  He laughed and took her arm, steering her toward her desk. “You’re a dork, Maria. Get your stuff. I need to hit the stores before they close.” As they rode the elevator to the parking garage, he listened to Maria’s happy chatter and watched her eyes sparkle and switch from gold to brown to gold again. Her knee-high boots, striped red-and-green dress and the pencil that secured her brown hair seemed to enhance her effervescent personality. She laughed, and he smiled. They were becoming great friends, but that was all. He was not ready for another relationship. It was just too soon.

  * * *

  KIRK HAD NEVER BEEN a fan of beards, or any facial hair for that matter. That was for the bums too lazy to work or shave. In this case, however, he didn’t have much of a choice. He ran his hand through his full beard and long hair that now intertwined, a year’s growth, as far as he could tell. He tried to keep track, but without the sun or anything to mark the passing time, he was lost.

  The lack of seeing the sun, clouds, moon and stars,
or even a nasty rainstorm, depressed him almost as much as being marooned on a sterile, metal island. He still didn’t know why they kidnapped him or whom he was dealing with, outside of the initials WJA.

  They were a high tech bunch, though. The room looked like something right out of a movie. Metal walls, wires interlaced in them, and the floating floor made him feel like Frankenstein’s experiment gone wrong. They fed him twice a day, whether he was awake or asleep. As his stomach was fully aware, the times were varied, probably so he couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

  The guards, or as Kirk liked to call them, Creepers, were always masked and never spoke to him. The handful of times he’d tried to engage in conversation, they had punished him with extended darkness or extended time between meals. But when they wanted to feed him or allow him to use the bathroom, the lights would flash on and the disc begin to lower.

  By the time his eyes had adjusted, he’d see the door at the bottom of the room open and two masked men walk into the tall, round room. About once a week, or so he figured, they would let him shower for five minutes, the timing and temperature controlled by a force outside the shower stall.

  The hallway leading to the bathroom had two doors, one on each side. The door to the left led to the bathroom, a simple affair, with metal walls and floor, a steel toilet, and a roll of toilet paper. No sink, not even a light.

  The door to the right opened to a small shower room with a showerhead in the metal ceiling and nothing else, except the floor drain. The Creepers controlled the water, which was always ice cold.

  First, soapy water rained down on him for a couple minutes in the pitch black room, then equally cold rinse water. Finally, the spray would stop and warm air would shoot out of the same nozzle to dry his goose-bumped flesh. The moment the air stopped, the door opened and the Creepers would hand him clean clothing and watch him dress.

  Each time he showered, he felt like he was in a human car wash and, each time, he imagined the flashing signs. Wash. Rinse. Dry. Exit carefully, ‘cause you don’t know what the dudes on the other side of the door are going to do.