Trapped Within
Page 36
He crumbles the note into a ball and throws it against the wall. Bites back a shriek. No, maybe he isn't too late. He flees from the apartment, not bothering to lock the door, and runs along the edge of the world where flat meets real, calling out her name, knowing she can't hear, but calling anyway. Tears pour down his cheeks, and the hurt turns every heartbeat to pain. He can't believe she's gone. He refuses to believe she's left him like this.
Then he skids to a halt. There. His Maddie. Standing with a small smile on her face and the paper rose held in one hand. Her other is extended, palm up, beckoning him closer. Fingers stiff, he traces around the shape she's made, standing so close that every exhalation warms his cheeks.
"Why did you leave me? Oh Maddie, why didn't you wait?"
He thinks about the paper flower, the way she'd tipped her head back and laughed when he'd presented it, feeling foolish, but right. The way her fingers twined round his own.
And the tears won't stop; he can't make them stop. He sobs until his throat aches, until his eyes are swollen and the world is a blur.
I would've gone with you, if you'd asked me to. If only you'd asked. It isn't better this way. Not for me.
When he wakes the next morning, the buildings across the street are captured in russet and amber. The sidewalk in front of his building and most of the street is still safe, still the color of real. Not the color of past.
He can no longer see Maddie, but he knows she is there.
Somewhere.
He hopes she isn't afraid. He hopes she isn't in pain.
A loud rumble of thunder wakes him from a deep sleep. Fat drops of grey are falling from the sliver of sky, dark clouds roiling in the small space.
He sits at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, listening to the storm cry its rage. After a time, he takes a napkin, folding it by memory, his movements sure and careful. When he finishes the first rose, he makes another and then another, until a dozen lay on the table.
I'll see you tomorrow, Maddie. Tomorrow. Even if you don't know I'm there.
In the morning, rain still falls, but of a gentler sort, and mud spatters the street. The last of the tea tastes like tears on his tongue. He ties the roses together with a purple ribbon, Maddie's favorite color. Bouquet against his chest, he traces his fingers over their wedding photograph and says goodbye to all the things they bought together. The soft smell of her lingers in the apartment, and he breathes it in, willing it to memory.
Then he hears a shout, not of dismay, but wonder and, with heavy feet, he walks to the window. The rain has washed everything clean, and the mud isn't mud at all, but a mix of umber and sienna. All the colors have been stripped away, leaving behind a stark landscape of black, white, and grey.
He stumbles as a woman approaches one of the black and white buildings and disappears around the side and sinks to his knees when she returns. "You have to see this," she cries. "Everyone, please, please, come and see!"
Several people emerge from buildings on the real side of the world, people he vaguely remembers from the time before, people he passed on the sidewalk or almost bumped into at the corner coffee shop. They follow the woman through the door, their voices trailing behind in syllabic streamers of anticipation.
Joshua races from the apartment. All around him stands a forest of paper dolls and thin scraps of buildings, the fronts and backs pressed against each other, the interiors locked away, tucked inside like flowers pressed between pages of a book.
He runs again until he finds her, motionless and still.
Ignoring those running in circles around him, shouting out 'whys' and 'hows' and 'what nows' (he doesn't care about any of their questions. He doesn't need reasons), he touches Maddie's face. Her skin, the texture of good paper, warms beneath his palm. He clenches a fist to his chest. His heart hurts in a place he didn't know existed.
"I wish," he says, a catch in his words. "I wish you'd held on just a little longer."
He swallows his sorrow. He won't leave her in the street. He can't. She belongs at home, with him, not here. He lifts her with gentle arms, and though the weight is wrong, it will be better soon. He knows it will.
Careful not to bump her on the door or the walls, he carries her into their apartment, puts her in bed, and tucks the covers around her shoulders, ignoring the way the sheet clings to flat lines and angles instead of curves. He sets the paper roses on the nightstand so she'll see them
if
when she wakes and sits on the floor beside the bed.
"Everything will be okay," he says. "I know it will."
As the sun arcs across the room, his back aches and his stomach growls, but he's afraid she'll fade away into nothing if he moves. If he were a painter, maybe he'd know how to bring her colors back, but all he can do is keep still and hope.
When the room turns to shadow, he joins her in their bed, imagining he can hear a tiny breath forming deep in her lungs, waiting to emerge, waiting to push her back to real.
"Please come back, Maddie. Please come back to me. You're all I have."
He falls asleep with one hand curled under his cheek and the other holding hers, dreaming of paper cuts and maybes and time.
Damien Angelica Walters is the author of Paper Tigers (Dark House Press, 2016) and Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Publications, 2015). Her short fiction has been nominated twice for a Bram Stoker Award, reprinted in The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror and The Year’s Best Weird Fiction, and published in various anthologies and magazines, including the 2016 World Fantasy Award Finalist Cassilda's Song, Nightscript, Cemetery Dance Online, Nightmare Magazine, and Black Static. Find her on Twitter @DamienAWalters or on the web at http://damienangelicawalters.com.
https://www.stroke.org.uk/
The UK’s leading stroke charity, changing the lives of all those affected by stroke and funding cutting-edge treatments.
There are over 1.2 million stroke survivors in the UK with 100,000 strokes happening in the UK each year. That’s one stroke every five minutes.
Even though you are now twice as likely to survive a stroke compared to 20 years ago, stroke is still the fourth single largest cause of death in the UK.
We know we need to change how people think about stroke and challenge the myths surrounding it. We push for greater awareness of stroke and its warning signs and campaign for better stroke care.
We believe:
strokes can and should be prevented
everyone has the right to make the best recovery they can after stroke
research has the power to save lives and ensure people make the best recovery they can.
These beliefs drive us forward to change the world for people affected by stroke.
I just want to thank each and every author contained within this book, who either wrote something specifically, or offered a reprint of their work. Your time, work and words is hugely appreciated, and made this project a reality. Thank you.
I have to say a big thank you to Adam Millard, for proofing this and sorting out all that fun stuff.
A nod and a drink to Nev Murray over at Confessions of a Reviewer, for organising the launch party, and allowing me to spend some time waffling on about the stories in this book, appreciated.
Thank you to Siobhan Casson over at the Stroke Association. Without your help, this book would probably not exist.
Finally, to each and every one of you who buys this book, your support is hugely appreciated.
You rock.
EC1 – CLASS THREE
(Zombie comedy)
EC2 – CLASS FOUR: THOSE WHO SURVIVE
(Zombie survival horror)
EC3 – BOOK OF ISHTAR
(Both of the above books combined into a limited edition)
EC4 – CELBRITY CULTURE
(Bizarro novella, liable to turn your brain into a slinky)
EC5 – PRIME DIRECTIVE
(Sci-fi/horror novella)
EC6 – HEXAGRAM
(Time spanning, historical EP
IC horror novel)
EC7 – CHUMP
(Zombie short story collection)
EC8 – TRAPPED WITHIN
(Charity horror anthology)
All books except for TRAPPED WITHIN, are written by Duncan P. Bradshaw.
www.duncanpbradshaw.co.uk