I Will Rise

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  What is it with these rude fucking humans?

  I want to scream, I’m right here! There’s no need to honk your horn, look at me, acknowledge me, there’ s no need to—

  He honks it again, loudly and long.

  I reach for the door handle and my stump thunks uselessly against the metal (idiot). Shaking it off I grab the handle with my right hand, throw open the door and hop in. The moment we speed away, the cabdriver, still staring straight ahead, says, “Where to?”

  “I knew you were there,” I say, annoyed, “you didn’t have to keep honking. That was incredibly rude, you know.” Not that it matters, but something aggravated inside needs placating. I have to at least make this guy aware of how goddamn discourteous his actions were. I have to have some sort of satisfaction. Maybe a head nod and a smile. Maybe a sneer. Something. Anything, just so long as he understands that I am pissed.

  He ignores me and reiterates, “Where to?”

  Let it go. It’s not worth it. Humans are not worth the time. They’re not worth—

  “Where to?”

  I dig into my sock, retrieve Annabelle’s address and blurt it out to the driver.

  “Ten minutes.” Mr. Sunshine gives me a quick look in the rearview and then goes back to staring out the windshield. Good. Keep your eyes on the road. Worthless. Giving relaxation a shot, I settle into the backseat.

  Okay, assessment time:

  Though it’s gone, it still feels like I have a left hand. If I don’t look at my stump, I can use my brain and flex my fingers and make a fist and everything feels normal, everything feels operational, my left hand wraps itself around air and my fingers touch down upon my palm. However, when I look at the stump, there is no hand, just the stump, and those normal feelings, the sensations of touch vanish. I want to examine the gnarled mound of flesh and bone that used to be my hand in greater detail, but it will have to wait. Back in the employee break room, after I stripped Jim and donned this fine suit, I turned his undershirt into a makeshift bandage and wrapped it tightly around my wrist and forearm. I did such a kick-ass, expert job dressing the stump that I am not quite ready to unravel it.

  Later, when I have a moment to scrutinize the wound, maybe I will be able to learn something about the horror show of tendrils that exploded from within. Maybe Annabelle will have some answers.

  Unless Jim was right.

  Unless she knows less of the truth than I do.

  How am I going to figure this one through? If Jim is right and Annabelle is disillusioned, how am I going to convince her of the truth? What she knows is embedded deep in her head, it’s all she knows, and as far as she is concerned it is the truth.

  Everything is so screwed up. I am dead and still no answers. My whole life, the God thing, and somehow, despite all rationale I managed to believe. I believed and I hoped and in my beliefs I even worked myself into a ridiculous personal position of power. I wasn’t just one of God’s believers, I was his second son. I readily suffered for the sins of the world, suffered the slings and arrows of cruel humanity, and threw my heart into the foolish idea that maybe (despite belief, there was still a maybe) I was more. Maybe I was special.

  And then I die and Annabelle crowns me the most important man in the world and you know what? God and Jesus and my pseudo-pious behaviors mean jack shit.

  Now it’s all about the dreamer, but it’s really not that different because here I am sinking my faith into the preposterous, ready to suffer just like before. Ready to die over and over again for your sins.

  And now, headless Jim. Now some off-the-wall shit about the dead rising. Except it really doesn’t seem that out there when juxtaposed with God or the dreamer. More convincingly, Jim’s theories jibe with my dreams. A world of markers and the gloomy-as-can-be imagery dancing around in my brain seem to correlate with this notion of a dead world.

  Three realities. Is there much difference? Not surface, not the obvious, physical tangibles, but within, in my heart, my mind, my being, my whatever? In me? Will I ever be happy, or satisfied or even comfortable in heaven or completely erased or living life dead? Is there a time or a place that truly belongs to me that allows my potential, my heart song, my everlasting matter, the dust and desire that fills my bones, to be spread across the universe and settled content, burned out and grayed out and at long last free?

  I roll my head from side to side and close my eyes. A pinwheel aflame, contemplation round and round, thoughts like a snake eating its own tail. Somewhere within the convoluted spiraling, glowing in the eye of the cerebral storm is an answer. Truth. My providence. It’s in here somewhere. Inside me, not in Jim or Annabelle or number three or the great dreamer or God or Buddha or Allah or L. Ron Hubbard, but in me. For all things great and small that I do not know (and believe me, there are lots of them), that I continually fuck up or misunderstand or let slip by, I know this.

  Suddenly, dead and handless, dressed to the nines, heading to pick up my girlfriend (my girlfriend!), I know the solution ticks away inside of me. I know that in time, no matter what happens, I will find it. I will find it and maybe I will finally understand.

  Suddenly, I feel at ease. The eyes are gone. The paranoia is gone. Even my distaste for the rude cabdriver is gone.

  Suddenly, I feel good and that good feeling resonates with more good feelings.

  This is probably one of those ill-fated epiphanies. Any moment now I’ll start thinking negative, I’ll realize I don’t know shit and I’ll bring myself way, way down. Any moment now, but before the descent Mr. Sunshine grunts, “Twelve fifty.”

  We’re here. We’re at Annabelle’s. At long last we are at my Annabelle’s. My girlfriend’s. And that good feeling (you know, the one emanating even more good feelings?) explodes into a zillion good-feeling pieces and goddamn it I am fucking floating.

  “Twelve fifty,” again, assholish, rude. The cabdriver turns around and holds his hand out in expectation. He frowns and looks at me like I am an idiot or something.

  I’m not.

  I’m the furthest thing from an idiot and there is no way I am going to let this fuck bring me down.

  “Twelve fifty!” With a little volume this time. His eyebrows dip impossibly far.

  I have no money.

  This fool will not bring me down.

  He will not bring me down. He will not.

  He will.

  He.

  He will.

  He will die.

  Fast as a serpent, I grab for his hand with my stump (idiot) and then luckily correct my dim-witted reaction in time to get a hold of it with my right hand before he is able to pull away.

  The moment my skin touches his, he stiffens. His eyes water and his lips pull tight against his teeth. My vision recedes and turns and the next thing you know I am in my head, mini-me, small, standing on the gooey landscape of my brain, staring up in awe at the thousands upon thousands of eyeballs that line the convex surfaces of my skull. I take a few steps, but my feet resist and dig into the mush. Slowly, I sink into a pool of grayish, pinkish quicksand. Wait, strike slowly, it only takes a mere ten seconds for my brain to swallow me down.

  As usual, I am falling. As usual, it is dark.

  I pull my knees close to my chest and tuck my head in the fetal position. My right hand wraps around my knees. My left arm folds itself over the right and the expert dressings I so carefully and tightly wrapped around my stump fall away. I wait for the hallucination to pass. Soon, I will be unsticking my right hand from the asshole cabdriver and approaching Annabelle’s front door. Soon.

  Still falling. Still dark.

  The stump begins to hum and the ravaged wound maws and gapes like a second mouth. I crinkle my nose in disgust. The wound opens as wide as possible, full dilation, and then shoots forth those mysterious tendrils. They weave and loop and wisp about the dark nothingness like curious antennae. It is hard to discern any detail, what with the dark and the continual downward velocity, but they seem less malignant than earlier. They look almo
st soft. Playful. Smooth.

  They spread out around me like the branches of an ancient tree. More tendrils snake from my wrist. They dance in the dark for a few seconds, twisting and whipping before turning in and wrapping around me like the others. More and more tendrils creep from the hole in my forearm and more and more tendrils cocoon me. Before long, I am completely entombed, held tightly by a makeshift womb of stump strands.

  I may or may not have stopped falling and the dark nothing may or may not engulf the world beyond. It is impossible to tell, but frankly I don’t care. This is perfect. This is true beauty. If this isn’t the perfection and beauty Annabelle was talking about when she told me what the dreamer had shown her, then I don’t know what is. Warm and safe and vital: the blood of life, the breath of ages flooding my being, entering my body through my pores and filling me with hope. My brain is newborn, fresh from the mold, and it feels as though I know nothing and everything at the same time.

  The womb tendrils begin to glow, faintly at first, white light like back in the grocery store break room. The glow intensifies with defining detail:

  Me: infantile, smooth, unmade.

  My womb: a thousand desiccated skulls. The end. A drain.

  Detail is washed away as the glow continues to deepen, obliterating everything in a great cloud of overwhelming radiance.

  My eyes blur. Retinas fight and focus on a smudgy shape. They strain and are rewarded for their efforts. Well sort of. They attain vision, but are greeted by the sunken face of the rude cabdriver. I shake my head and loosen any lingering imprints of my hallucinatory state. Before my mind has a chance to process, a single pulsing thought arises: Annabelle.

  I reach for the door handle and again thunk it with my stump (idiot). Right hand. I disgorge it from the mess that was Mr. Sunshine’s greedy hand; his corpse teeters this way and that and then falls into the passenger’s seat. Ignoring the gore slicking my hand, I reach for the handle and throw open the door.

  This is it, here I am, and in a blurry second’s time I am standing at the front door. I don’t even remember walking the short distance from the cab. Right now, I can’t remember much of anything. My head buzzes and a swarm of butterflies flutters in my stomach.

  I knock with my remaining hand and depress the doorbell with my stump. My feet tap in nervous anticipation. A minute or so passes and nothing. I ring the bell and knock again. Another minute passes and still nothing. This time I knock extra hard and ring the bell three times. Still nothing.

  What if Annabelle doesn’t exist? What if her dream form, my hallucination, only thinks she exists? What if I have fooled myself into believing in a fantasy? But this address is real. This house and this street are real and with my limited knowledge, I know nothing about Arizona, so how could I have known to come here? I had never even been outside of California up until a couple days ago.

  I knock again.

  Nothing.

  My face goes flush and teary warmth tingles throughout. I am crazy. There’s no Annabelle. I bang on the door savagely. I depress the doorbell over and over and over. Tears start to roll. I am crazy.

  It feels like I am depressing the doorbell with my left index finger. It could be that strange phantom limb effect, or, as crazy as I probably am, it could be that I never lost my hand. It could be that Jim and his small army aren’t even real. It could be that none of this is real. Maybe I am truly dead and this is hell or heaven or wherever you go when your soul vacates your body.

  If Annabelle doesn’t exist, then none of this exists.

  I rest my forehead against the grainy wood of the front door and sob unenthusiastically. Even my tears, my sorrow pangs, don’t feel real.

  “Charles?” Annabelle’s voice travels faintly through the door.

  Internally kicking myself, I wipe at my miserable face and straighten up. “Annabelle?”

  “You made it.” She sounds pleased.

  “Are you okay?” Why hasn’t she opened the door?

  “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

  I clear my throat and try to project. “Yeah, I’m good. So…”

  “You sound different. I guess this is the first time we are really hearing each other. Do I sound different?”

  “No. Well, yeah, the door is kind of muffling. Are you going to let me in?” Excitement has returned. It ratchets inside me, sending giddy little explosions of pleasure up and down my spine.

  “In a minute. I still can’t believe you are here.”

  “I’ve been out here for a while. I got worried when you didn’t answer the door.”

  “After I left you in the parking lot I took care of some things and fell back asleep. I just woke up.”

  “You fell back asleep? Where were you?” Has she been watching me? “Did you see what happened?”

  “Go around to the garage, I’ll open the door. Get in the car. The keys are already in the ignition. Start it and wait for me, I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Wait, where were you, why didn’t you come to me in your dreams?” I could have really used her guidance.

  “Just go around to the garage.”

  I turn from the door and make for the garage. Annabelle’s muffled voice calls after me, “Charles?”

  I walk back to the door. “Yeah?”

  “Remember, I look different. I’m sorry if I disappoint you.”

  “You could never disappoint me,” I respond encouragingly.

  “Just brace yourself, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I wait for a response and hear the garage door opener straining and groaning. I run around to the front of the house. The garage door is halfway up. I duck just in time to see a door leading from the garage interior into the house swing shut.

  No matter what she looks like she will still be beautiful to me. Right? I turn this over as I wait for the garage door to finish its beleaguered, squeaky climb.

  Annabelle’s parents’ car looks like a newer version of Eddie’s mom’s car: big and boaty and undoubtedly comfortable. I hop in and start her up as instructed. It idles as smooth as silk. I rest my head against the seat back and wait in fluttery anticipation. In the rearview mirror I notice Mr. Sunshine’s cab. I’ll have to move it to maintain inconspicuousness. Barring Jim and his kind, who can supposedly see me when they sleep, this car should make for a veritable safe haven. It isn’t stolen or red-flagged or in any way associated with the destructive swath I have carved across the American West. The cab on the other hand, what with its dead driver, would only help police tie things together. It has to be disposed of.

  Something inside, something impatient and anxious, can wait no longer. It blows up within and tells me to check on Annabelle. I’ve been waiting for a little while and she may be in trouble. In actuality, this is her house and she’s probably fine, but maybe she needs some help. I can’t just sit here and let my girlfriend do whatever it is she is doing without at least offering a helping hand.

  I get out of the car and approach the door. I am about to enter when I stop myself. Where are her parents? Maybe that’s why I am waiting outside. Maybe her parents are in there with her. Maybe she is saying her good-byes. Maybe she is afraid I will accidentally touch them or harm them.

  Her parents cannot feel good about any of this. They’re probably worried sick about their blind daughter running off with some unknown stranger, providing of course she has told them. She must have—it’s not like she can just drive off on her own. That settles it—I have to say something to them. I won’t touch them or hurt them, I just have to assure them that Annabelle is in good hands (hand). I have to tell them that I will protect her with everything I am.

  Opening the door, I step inside. Immediately, I am hit by a wave of fetid air. “Annabelle?” I call.

  Nothing.

  The smell is dense and eye-wateringly disgusting. Closing off my nasal passages I move through the house.

  Everything is Picture Perfect Americana Normality: a country-style kitchen with cows, calico patterns and
horrible shit like that, a comfy dining room complete with a massive oak dining table and I shit you not, a cornucopia for a centerpiece, an even comfier living room with soft, lived-in couches and an impressive home-theater setup. Annabelle’s parents have quite the pleasant home. I am impressed and envious. I salivate with Westernized desire. I would love to live in a place like this.

  Two thoughts pull me from my meanderings and overtake my covetous feelings: what the hell is that smell, and where is everybody?

  “Annabelle?” I call a little louder. Still nothing.

  I creep down a hallway. Two closed doors line one side of the hallway, which terminates at a third door. They are all shut. The smell seems to be getting stronger. The hallway walls are peppered with framed pictures and I stop to look at a few. Annabelle looks infinitely different than her dream form. She has stringy brown hair and in the pictures that feature her as an adult, she is more than a little overweight. She isn’t ugly though. Despite what she says, she is fairly attractive. Or at least I think so. However, I understand her numerous warnings. She is definitely not as overtly beautiful or as intensely sexual as is her dream form.

  In one picture she is a kid, smiling, still sighted, by all appearances happy and unaware of the impending blindness. Two adults who are probably her parents stand on either side of her and they too are smiling big. Cute. In another, she is older, easily in her thirties and obviously blind, and her eyes stare off into nothing, her mouth is a straight line. Again, she is framed by the two people who must be her parents. They are still smiling, but something is off. Their expressions have dulled and the smiles look rather forced. It is an odd photograph, the way both parents stare at the camera, pretending to be happy, trying to fool the outside world into believing that they are something they’re not while the woman standing between them looks as if she is staring into herself, trying to fool herself that she is something she’s not. It is an entirely unhealthy portrait. It reeks of dysfunction.