Author: Step Guy

Mustard.  

He opened the door to the refrigerator and furrowed his brow.  His kitchen was usually one of his least favorite place to be.  It wasn’t that he never learned to cook, in fact, he considered himself a good cook.  The problem was he hated grocery shopping.  Max hated grocery shopping more than any other activity of daily living. There was something terribly frustrating about having to spend money on a consistent basis for something that kept him alive.  He would argue, when his lifestyle of scavenging and take-out was challenged, that all unprepared food should somehow be free because he didn’t have to pay for air and both of them, in his mind, served the same purpose.

His political standpoint on the socialization of the food industry was never stronger than when he didn’t have the money for take-out and he was forced to create a meal out of the remnants of his kitchen.  

Finding nothing of substance to add to his turkey sandwich, Max took out a beer, closed the door and wandered back to his couch.  Brushing aside a number of empty beer bottles, Max set his sandwich and beer on the table and checked his phone.  No text messages.  No voicemails.  No emails.  No pokes, pins, tags, likes or tweets or anything else to connect him to the outside world.  A strange satisfied disappointment settled on him.  

The darkness of the apartment gave way to the glow of the ancient television set.  It was in this world that Max lost himself and apparently his sandwich as his reach towards the table produced the beer can instead.  He drank with one hand, checked his phone again with the other.  His eyes squinted against the bright screens in the dark apartment.

He sighed, set his phone next to him on the couch and gazed at the screen.    When he finished his beer he felt tired and slowly fell asleep to the backdrop of the hushed evening news.  

The additional alcohol relaxed him enough that he slept quite heavily.  So heavily in fact, he missed the creaking of the wooden stairs leading to his apartment.  He didn’t hear the footsteps or the first attempt at the locked door.  He also missed the lock disengaging from the other side and the door opening.  

He would have slept through nearly anything until-

“Wake up asshole!  You stink!  This apartment stinks!  Get the fuck off the couch and clean yourself up!  We’re leaving.”

Max’s eyes flew open and his body shook.  There was a look of terror on his face that faded to relief and finally settled on irritation.  His heart was pounding.

“What the fuck, John?  How the hell did you get in here?”  He was groggy and looking around the apartment, still disoriented.  His heart was racing and as his fear subsided, his annoyance and anger escalated.

“You gave me a key, dipshit.  Remember?”

“Yeah I’ll take that back thanks.  You can leave it on the fucking counter on your way out.”  Max re positioned himself defiantly back into the Max-shaped dent in his couch.

“Nah dude, fuck that.  Get up.  Seriously, I’m hungry.  We’re going out.  You need fresh air.  This place smells like a dead man’s dick.” John moved to the window, pulled back the thick curtain and let in what remained of the setting sunlight.  

Max covered his face as the intruding light irritated his eyes and his best friend irritated his last nerve.  “God dammit.”

John opened the window and cooler evening air made it’s way through.  “That’ll help.  A little febreeze and a fucking fire bomb would go further, but this’ll do.”  He made his way to the bathroom as Max sat up and lit a cigarette.

“What are you doing now?”  His question was immediately answered as he heard the shower and the squeak of a spray bottle.  “Dude don’t clean my fucking bathroom.  Seriously.”

“I’m not cleaning it, I’m just killing the mold so you can use this shower.  You smell like ass bro, I’m not going to dinner with you smelling like ass.  You have clean clothes somewhere?”

“Yeah probably… gimme a fucking minute.  Could have called you know.”  Max twisted his neck around and groaned when it cracked.

“Why?  You wouldn’t have answered.”

Max shrugged silently, took a long pull on his cigarette as he sat up and leaned forward.  He exhaled slowly, hoping his frustration would leave his body with the smoke.  It didn’t.  “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah I can tell.”  John looked around the bathroom, satisfied that it had been disinfected enough to remove any irony a shower in this room might create.  He squirted what was left of a toilet bowl cleaner into the commode and closed the lid, shaking his head as he did so.

John  moved into the small laundry room next to the bathroom to assess the situation.  “So which pile has the least amount of swamp ass on it?”

“There’s stuff in the dryer.  I’ll get it in a minute.”  Max continued to pull on his cigarette, his frustration with his friend subsiding as he did.  “Let me get a shower.”  He walked into the laundry room to find John starting a load of wash.  Max shook his head, took a towel from the floor, smelled it, shrugged and walked into the bathroom.  Whatever John mumbled under his breath wasn’t interesting enough for Max to question.

Entering the bathroom, Max closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.  Then he coughed from the mixture of steam and bleach.  

God damn John.

Max stared into the mirror for a long while, analyzing his face as his body warmed in the steamy bathroom.  His unwashed skin was pale and he hadn’t shaved in days.  His hair was oily.  It matted in some places and spiked in others.  He sighed, looked down and put toothpaste on his toothbrush.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had done this.  When he was finished with his teeth he looked back into the mirror and was glad to see that the steam from the running shower had fogged it over completely.  Max stripped off his clothes and got into the shower.  The hot water relaxed him, more than he thought possible.  He was sore, but not from exertion.  He was sore from days of laying about his apartment, anxious and teetering between levels of sobriety.

Max stretched and did his best to wash the week’s worth of wallowing and self-loathing from his body and mind.  When he was clean, he stood there in the shower letting the hot water run over him while he breathed deeply and tried not to think of anything at all.  He was relatively sober now, so he wasn’t as successful as he would have liked to have been.  He thought of his truck.  He hadn’t left his apartment for quite some time so he wondered if it would even start.  It didn’t always.

His next thoughts were about the last time he was in his truck.  Max had been driving home from his father’s house in Baltimore.  It was a long drive back to Virginia, parts of which devoid of radio reception.  He’d spent the weekend there after his mother’s funeral.  She hadn’t wanted a funeral but her sisters insisted it wasn’t for her, it was for the family.  

So they can mourn.

Max turned off the water and stepped out the shower.  He toweled himself off and set about shaving the days of stubble from his face.  His razor was old.  It hurt his face with every stroke and his face bled in places.  He splashed on some aftershave, wrapped the towel around his body and went back to the laundry room for something to wear.  

The apartment was noisy.  It was quiet until John got there.  It was quiet when he was on his couch.  Even the television was quiet.  John was very noisy.

Max looked around the laundry room.  On the days he had bothered to change his clothes, he would typically choose his clothes the way he had just chosen his towel, but his piles had been moved around, sorted.  His clean clothes had been folded and the washer and dryer were now both running.  

“There’s a shirt in the dryer, knockin’ out the wrinkles!”  John was yelling from the kitchen.

“Thanks.”

John didn’t respond as he didn’t hear Max over the washer, dryer, and dishwasher all of which running at full force.  John was otherwise occupied.

Max dressed in the laundry room and put his wet towel in a pile where he assumed John would approve and came back to the living room to find his shoes.  They were laying by his belt, keys and wallet in the center of his now bottle-free table.  All of the windows were open and while the air was cool, the apartment felt comfortable.  The stale stagnant air had dissipated and the living room somehow looked and smelled presentable and hospitable again.  Max sighed and figured he should take long showers more often.  Maybe his bills would magically get paid too.

Max looked into the kitchen and then for John.  The counter and sink were empty and had been wiped clean.  The dirty dishes were either in the dishwasher or were drying in the rack on the counter.  There was a subtle hint of lemon cleanser in the air.  It wasn’t spotless by any means, but the kitchen, despite being devoid of food, was a functional kitchen again.  Max chuckled and shook his head as he saw John heading down the stairs carrying four large bags of trash.

“Hurry up bro, I’m starving,” he yelled up the steps as made his way outside.

“Yeah.”

When John returned, he stopped at the door, and looked around the apartment with a satisfied grin on his face.  He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.  

“No more dead man’s dick.  Let’s roll.  I’m buying, you’re driving.”

“Yes dear.”

—-

As they approached the truck, Max slowed.  John turned to him.

“You alright?”

Max paused a moment then spoke.  “Yeah.  Just hope it starts.”  He pointed to the truck.

“I got cables if not.  No worries.”  John looked at Max, started to say something and then shook his head and continued to walk.

“Yeah.”  Max knew that John wasn’t fooled, but was glad he left it alone.  John got away with a lot, but even John knew when not to push.  

The two-tone pick-up started up immediately.  Max let the engine idle for a few minutes while he pretended to check his mirrors and adjust his seat belt.  

“Sometime today cupcake, I’m starving.”

“Fuck you.  It’s been a while.  Where we going anyway?”

“Lou’s.  Where else?”

Max sighed.  He wasn’t disappointed.  In fact, he preferred the Lou’s.  Lou’s was a diner a blocks miles from his apartment.  The diner was old.  The food was good.  The service was good.  But the diner was old.  There was wear on all the tables and chairs.  The once-white counter had deep scratches and had yellowed over the years.   Most of the stools made a horrible noise when they twisted.  None of the silverware matched and it was a rare thing to get a coffee mug that hadn’t been glued back together at some point.  And no one had ever met Lou or had any idea why is it was named Lou’s.  Lou’s was generally considered the shadow of a formerly successful diner… and it was Max’s favorite place to eat.

When they arrived, they found that their regular table towards the back was vacant, so they sat down and waited for Abby.  When she was in sight, John motioned in her direction.  

“That is why you showered bro.”

“Not today man, I’m tired.”

“I didn’t do anything, I’m just saying…”  John trailed off as Abby approached.  She was 28, tall, and beautiful.  Everyone thought so.  Max visibly sank into his chair.  John shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Hi guys!  Coffee?”  She smiled at them.

“Please.  And some water too.  Can we go ahead and order?”

“Sure, go right ahead.”

“Alright, I want a bacon cheeseburger and fries.  Hey can I get a little garden salad to go with that?”

“It’s $2 more, is that ok?”

“Yep.  You’re up bro.”

“What’s the special?”

“Meatloaf.”

“Sold.”

“Sides?”

“Mashed potatoes and green beans…  Please.”

“Alright guys, I’ll have that out in a bit.”  Abby smiled again and went back to the kitchen.  John watched her go.  Max didn’t stare, but he did glance.

“God she’s hot.”

“Yeah.  Nice kid too.”

“How long we been coming here bro?”

“I don’t know.  Couple years.  Why?”

“And in all that time, how long has she worked here?”

“Probably just as long.  Why?”

“And in all that time, how long have you wanted to ask her out?”

“I don’t know man.  I don’t want to do this today.”

“Do what?  We’re just talking.  What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.  She’s hot, alright?  I just don’t want to ask her out.”  Max was better at lying sometimes.  This time was not one of them.  

“Alright man, fine.  I’m just saying though.  She’s not going to be single forever.”

“How do you know she’s single now?”

“No ring.”

“So what?  She could have a boyfriend.”

“And then she would have to make a very difficult decision as to whether or not she would keep that boyfriend.”

“You’re a savage.”

“I’m a realist.”

“I’m not competing with some boyfriend.  I don’t want some jealous asshole showing up at my apartment or my job.”

“Who said she has a boyfriend?”

“I said she could have a boyfriend and you said it didn’t matter in so many words.”

Abby came back with the drinks and the two men tried to act as though they weren’t just discussing the pros and cons of beginning a relationship with the waitress that had been serving them faithfully and cheerfully for several years.  

“Thanks.”  Max took his coffee and immediately began to load it with cream and sugar.  Abby smiled and Max wasn’t sure if they’d been caught.  When she walked back to the counter, John continued the debate.

“But you don’t really know if she has a boyfriend.  So by your logic you can’t ask out anyone you don’t know really well, even if they aren’t married, because they could possibly be seeing someone that they aren’t legally bound to.”

“What the fuck?  ‘Legally bound.’  I said I didn’t want to do this today.”  Max was already hopelessly locked into this discussion and despite not admitting it, he enjoyed the banter with John.

“What?  All I’m saying is that you’re limiting your options based on fear of what you don’t know.”

“Who the fuck is talking about fear?  I just don’t want to deal with a jealous ex.  That’s all.”

“So you’re assuming that if you were to ask her out that she would then immediately go dump this hypothetical boyfriend?  Damn dude.  You think pretty highly of yourself.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t say that.  I just meant that jealous people do stupid shit and I don’t want to deal with it.”

“Because you’re scared of the unknown.”

“Because I got enough shit to deal with.”

“Yeah I was just at your place.  Pretty sure I just cleared your schedule for the next fucking month.”

“Fuck you.”  Max couldn’t hold back a small chuckle.

“Maybe later.  So you’re saying if she didn’t have a boyfriend, you’d consider it?”

“If it will shut you up, then yes.  If I knew she didn’t have a boyfriend or a recent ex-boyfriend, then maybe I would be interested in risking rejection to ask out the pretty waitress that’s brought me my food for at least the last 4 years.  Are you happy now dick head?  Can I enjoy my coffee?”

“All you had to say bro.”  John raised his hands to concede.  There was a snide grin of satisfaction on his face.  However, his victory was short-lived.

“I wouldn’t be able to eat here anymore though.  And this is my favorite place to eat.  In fact, I’d argue this place means more to me than the risk I’d be taking asking her out.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you be able to eat here anymore?!”  John was nearly shouting.

Max looked at John like he’d lost his mind and motioned to him to calm down while speaking quietly.  “Because, if she said ‘no’ I wouldn’t want to see her every day and be reminded of the rejection.  If she said yes I wouldn’t want to come in every day and have my girlfriend serve me food all the time.”

John looked pensive and was visibly mulling over the argument, glancing in several directions while scratching his chin.  He sighed.  “You make a valid point.  Now turn around.”  John pointed over Max’s shoulder.  Max turned to look and saw that Abby was leaning over the counter looking at a magazine.  Her jeans were tight and flattering to her body.  Her back was slightly arched and some of the curls of her hair were falling over her shoulders and slightly into her cleavage which from Max’s angle was very much visible.  

Max turned back to John and sighed.  “I mean, this ain’t the only fucking diner in town.”  

John’s look of satisfaction returned and he laughed.  “You going back to work next week?”

Max shrugged.  He hadn’t given it much thought.  He didn’t particularly love his job but at the same time he didn’t feel the need to be away from it.  “I don’t know yet.  I can take another week if I want.  I have the time and my boss doesn’t care.”

“Up to you I guess.  I’d go crazy with nothing to do for three weeks.”

“Yeah.”  

“How are the fellas?”

“Good I guess.  I got a call from one of them last week.  Left me a message.  Said he was sorry and that he hopes Mary dies really soon.”  

John chuckled.  “Gotta love the fellas.”

“Yeah.”  Max smiled a little.

When Abby returned with the food, she was smiling again and for a moment Max could have sworn she was smiling deliberately at him.  

“Here you go,” she said as she put John’s burger in front of him.  “And the special for you, Max.”

Max looked at her as he took his plate.  She’d never once, in all the years he’d been coming here, called him by his name.  He was so amazed that he didn’t notice the gravy spilling on his thumb until it burned the skin.  He almost dropped the plate and instinctively put his thumb in his mouth.  His eyes never left Abby.

She giggled.  “Careful Max, it’s hot.”  She smiled again at him, turned and went to another table.  

“Dude.”  

“Right?”  Max looked surprised, even with his thumb in his mouth.

“Dude,” John said again.

“No shit?”

“You know what?  I’m going to eat my burger.  I’m going to drink my coffee.  And I’m not going to say another fucking thing about this.  But I swear to you Max, if you don’t ask her out soon I’m selling your dick on eBay.”

Max chuckled and set about eating his dinner, then paused, and with a very serious and genuine look said, “Thanks John.”

John caught his glance but looked back at his burger.  “You’ll get me back next time.”

“I meant for everything today.”

“So did I.”  He picked up his burger and started to eat.

They ate in silence.

—-

John was at the cash register paying the tab while Max was in the diner’s bathroom.  He felt better.  The food had done him some good but not as much as the time with his friend.  As he washed his hands, he tried to remember the last time he had even seen John, let alone anyone else in a deliberate social situation. 

Oh right.

Max remembered the night he received the call from the hospital that his mother had been brought in by ambulance.  He was out that night with John and some other friends at a bar.  Having just finished a twelve-hour shift, he opted to celebrate and relax with his friends and postpone some of his other responsibilities until the next day.  

Max worked in a group home.  The people living in the group home all had some kind of intellectual disability… Down Syndrome, Fragile X Syndrome, etc.  He’d started there in college as a temporary staff and was promoted to a full-time specialist position with benefits not long after he had graduated.  It helped that the previous specialist was fired and ultimately arrested for stealing funds from the people that lived there.  

He liked the work and didn’t mind that his promotion was partially a desperation move on his supervisor’s part.  He knew he was qualified.  Max felt good about what he did and liked being a part of helping people.  He took pride in that.  As a specialist, he had input into all of the support planning for the people living there and thoroughly enjoyed helping them get the most out of life.  And while it didn’t pay much, his promotion paid the bills and afforded him the luxury of going to the diner fairly regularly and out to the bar occasionally as well.  Max felt like he was doing just enough good in the world to justify his existence.

Because of budgetary constraints outside of his control, the program where Max worked was often short-handed and he felt compelled to work longer hours and extra shifts to help fill the void.   Max worked hard and despite the long hours, he felt satisfied.  He was respected by his co-workers and he imagined the people living in the group home liked him too.   

After particularly long weeks, Max would usually meet up with his friends at the bar and have a few drinks.  None of his friends had jobs like Max’s.  John was an accountant and Max had always assumed that John wouldn’t last a day working at the group home.  So when the group of men would drink and regale the others with tales of their days, Max would usually just smile and wait his turn.  Ultimately his stories were better anyway, at least to him.  His stories had interesting characters and real conflict and comedy.  Even his friend the bartender had trouble competing with some of the stories Max would tell.  

Max was careful not to give away much information about the people he worked with.  Despite how amusing some of the things he saw were to him, he had a tremendous amount of respect for the people in the group home and the confidentiality of their lives.  His friends knew that too and never asked questions though they enjoyed the stories too.

To them it was like hearing a new episode of some dark comedy but not because of the disabled people… because of the other people in their lives.

Howard the bartender and Josh the web-designer would usually finish their stories with, “Ok Max, your turn,” and everyone would laugh.  Some days Max didn’t have a story.  Other days he had several.  Max liked to paint the world of his stories in a respectful shade that typically displayed the best attributes of the people he served while highlighting the shortcomings of the so-called “normal” people that interacted with them.  

He especially liked to tell stories about one of his co-workers being the victim of less desirable behavior by the people living in the group home.  This co-worker had a tendency to treat the people in the group home like unfortunate children and not adults with self-determination.  Max despised her and his stories made his listeners despise her too, like one despises the annoying character on their favorite sit-com.

She wasn’t particularly mean or even that offensive, but Max couldn’t stand seeing people treated like children.  One of the stories Max told was about rhis co-worker being humiliated in a grocery store by one of the guys in the group home.  Apparently he had had enough of being asked if he needed to “go potty,” in a public place in front of strangers.  And he let that be known when he  yelled very loudly, “Leave me alone bitch!  I don’t have to piss!”

His friends would sometimes ask if Mary, his co-worker, had fallen prey to any recent retaliation by “the fellas,” as they were fond of calling them.  This also made Max feel good.  Although his friends had no interest in working in a place like that, they at least understood that “the fellas” were people too and had personalities not unlike their own.  

Despite being exhausted at the end of his day, Max at least felt accomplished and enjoyed his drink with his friends as a reward and celebration for a job well done.  His only “bad” days were when he was at odds with an over-protective co-worker or disrespectful community members but usually Max was more reinforced by the fellas than punished by everything else.  

Max got to thinking about the last time he’d had a drink with his friends when his phone rang and a memory of his dead mother laying in a hospital bed flashed into his mind.  It startled Max and he reached for his phone.  It was John.

“Just trying to wash my fucking hands here, what do you want?”

“Don’t be mad,” said the muffled voice of John.

“Oh god.  What?”

“Just don’t be mad and get the fuck out here.”  John was insistent and whispering at the same time.

Max sighed into the receiver.  It was deliberate but still genuine.  “Whatever asshole.”

Max hung up, washed and dried his hands and found John by the cash register talking with Abby.

Oh god.  What the hell did he do?

As he approached, he tried to prepare himself for whatever John may have arranged.  Dinner.  A movie.  Marriage.  Max could really only eliminate dinner as they’d just eaten.

Abby and John looked at Max who spoke.

“Hey.  We all set?”

“Yeah, Abby gets off in an hour and said she’d meet us there.”

Max felt his stomach churn but tried not to show his anxiety.

“Oh good.  You going to walk or do you need a ride?”

“It’s only two blocks.  I can manage, but thanks.”  Abby smiled at Max who couldn’t believe he was having a conversation with Abby that included asking her if she wanted to be inside of his truck.  

“Cool.”

John had prepared for an awkward silence.  He patted Max on the back.

“Alright let’s get the fuck out of here.  We have to get ready for the party.”

Max wasn’t trying to play along anymore.  

“What party?”

John chuckled.  

“More of a celebration I guess.”

“What are we celebrating.”

“I don’t know.  Anything.  Who cares?  Maybe Abby is about to win something on eBay and she wants to celebrate.  Who gives a shit?  We’re drinkin’.  Let’s go.”

Max turned pale and his stomach churned more as John slapped him on the back and urged him out the door.  He heard Abby calling after them.

“See you in a bit guys!”  

When they were safely outside, Max was no longer feeling nauseous.  He was furious.

“What the fuck did you just do?  How could you fucking do that?”

“What?  You said if she didn’t have a boyfriend or a recent ex that you could probably find a new place to eat if she either would or would not go out with you.  Well, she’s been single for a while now and you can find your own fucking diner.”

“I can’t believe you man.  What did you say to her?”

“All I said was, ‘how come your boyfriend never comes to visit you at work?’ and she said she’s been single for a while.”

“Could you have been more obvious about it?  Jesus Christ, John.”  Max unlocked his truck and got in.  John waited until Max was in the cab before looking up at the sky in disbelief then getting in the truck himself.

“Just ‘John’ will do, thanks.  And yes, I could.  Relax, it was casual.  I told her we were going to the bar, she asked which one, I told her, she said she liked that one and I told her she should come hang out with us after work.”  John trailed off.

“And that was it?  There wasn’t anything else in that conversation I should know about?”

“What are you all investigative over?  God!”

“John, I took a piss, came back and I had a date.”

“Bitch please, how do you know I wasn’t coaxing her out for me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

Max glared ahead as he pulled the truck out of the diner’s parking lot.  

“Can we stop at the florist on the way?  I wanna get Abby a corsage for our big night.”

“God damn you John.”

—–

Someone at work brought pumpkin dip for me to try not long ago.  I of course resisted… but only at first.  Let me tell you about it because it’s awesome… it’s pumpkin, cream cheese, brown sugar, and “various pumpkin pie spices” combined to make a delicious dip…

…A dip derived from culinary sorcery the likes of which rivaled only by creation itself.  Oh you think that’s over the top?  Strap in.

A small dollop… just one small dollop atop a ginger snap and I was whisked away to a magical land where it’s always Autumn and you never get fat.  Where there’s always football to watch and your favorite baseball team is headed for the World Series.  Where everyone has pie and backpacks filled with Cool Whip.  The changing leaves fall to the ground and leave not the brittle nor soggy decay of fall’s end, but a gentle layer of graham cracker pieces, ginger snap morsels and pie crust slices.

Those confections pile en masse as the locals dance around it wielding their pumpkin-shaped bowls of pumpkin dip.  They whimsically graze the pile with their delicate fingers, fetching edible utensils  in rhythmic motion and timing to the sounds of the unheard songs of late October’s nutrition rebellion.

From over the hills, a warm breeze mixes with the cool air bringing with it the scent of distant apples baking in pies and dumplings as if a subtle foreshadowing of this fantasy land’s unending blessings.

Fairies glide above us leaving trails of sugar crystals that fasten themselves atop the tarts and pastries manifesting themselves on the brims of our favorite team’s hat.  To the left is more decadence as the cinnamon stick dam holding back the river of hot apple cider releases perfectly-timed mug-sized portions of its golden majesty.  One by one it drops into their mugs as those who desire find their way, wasting not a drop.

A sign above me reads “Welcome to Autumn’s Bliss! Established Before Time, Population Unending.”  A commotion can be heard in the town’s square as the mayor, adorned with fantastical walnut armor, reads the town’s creed, his slightly toasted marshmallow hat proudly standing, sprinkled with oats.

“Autumn’s Bliss, we do solemnly swear,
To treat all comers with sweets and care, To hold dear the sounds and smells, Of fall feasts and dinner bells.

To embrace dessert and with all share,
We purge all sadness, pain and wear.
An oath we offer to our home and cradle, ‘Let all be armed with plate and ladle!’

And in the depths of confectioner’s glee, Shall all be fed in awe of thee.
To our land, we hereby swear,
To share the spoils of October faire.

Threats of cravings you do destroy,
With treats and sweets we can enjoy.
Upon every bite and pastry’s kiss,
We all give thanks to Autumn’s Bliss!”

… then the friggin’ phone rang and I had to get back to work.  But yeah pretty good dip.

I arrived early. I always arrive early. I’m afraid of being late. I want to be dependable. I want to be trusted and appreciated. I always arrive early. Even in secret rendezvous, I arrive early. It’s a parking lot away from home. It’s a parking lot near her home and near mine. Our plan is to meet and ride together. I’ll drive. I’ll drive so that she can sit in her seat. It’s her seat. Other people sit there and some more than others, but this is her seat. I’d spent the day convincing myself to come and now I’m here and I’m waiting and I’m a wreck. It was a long day. It was a long journey for me today to get to tonight but I made it. So many pros and cons and so much inner turmoil but here I am. I’m waiting for her and I’m early. I’m always early.

I don’t sit still. I don’t quietly listen to music. I fidget. I buy water in the store to relieve my guilt of using the lot for my nefarious plotting. I fidget. She arrives. She’s early. She knows that I was early too.

I’m always early.

I don’t notice her vehicle, I can only see her. I’m lost in thought and awe as she gets out of her vehicle. I wanted to open the door for her. I wanted to be a gentleman. I was too slow. Pink shirt, light blue jeans, tennis shoes. Her lips shine like that afternoon they sparkled and I didn’t get caught watching.

She’s wearing earrings. Hoops. Hoops hang and sparkle from her ears and I remember her lips.

They’re shining. I’m allowed to look tonight. Maybe she wants me to look. Maybe I’m just her friend. I can be her friend. She’s my best friend. I won’t touch her. I won’t do anything to jeopardize what I have with my best friend.

It was a strange ride. Despite it being dark, I wasn’t sure if we were safe. I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. It was an anxious ride. We spoke. Short phrases. Mumbles. Small talk. I was nervous. It wasn’t until we’d made half our voyage that I realized she was nervous too. I relaxed in that small bit of shared misery. And then we spoke. Words that mattered. Thoughts and feelings with purpose. She’s my best friend and a tiny part of me believes that tonight things will change forever.

She’s so beautiful. Tonight, she’s more beautiful. Tonight we’re terrible and we’re together and I don’t care. I hate everything else around me. She’s so beautiful. There’s some confusion regarding our destination. I got us lost. “It’s an adventure,” she tells me. She’s so beautiful.

We arrive. We had left with plenty of time. We had “getting lost time.” And we’re still early. I’m always early. The theater is old and reminds me of a place that doesn’t exist. It reminds me of another time. If this theater is of the mind, then together we’re all that matters here.

Tickets.

Popcorn.

Soda.

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t look real. She came.

We climb the stairs to a small room with a small screen. Smaller than the digital monstrosity we’re used to back home. Smaller than the corporate franchises pumping gallons of cola and buckets of buttered corn. It’s smaller than we’re used to. I can’t breathe. I’m out of shape and I’ve walked a lot of steps. I have a cold and I’m struggling to breathe. There’s no one there. We’re early. I’m nervous and I can’t breathe.

Center of the room, we pick two chairs. The arm rests don’t move. I want them to move but I’m glad they don’t move. I have to keep my hands off her. I can’t touch her. I want to touch her. I never want to stop touching her. Why did I come?

We talk. With every passing word and breath I feel more daring, more confident, more ridiculous and foolish. I share with her something I wrote while thinking about her one day. Her lips sparkled that day too. I’m afraid to share it at first. I don’t want to scare her. I’m afraid of what it will look like. I want her to know what she means to me. I want her to know that she’s special and not just to me, but to the whole world. She reads. She fights tears. I’m glad that I’ve shared and I know she’s not afraid. She seems different now. Or maybe she’s just more of what she’s been. She’s validated. She’s relieved.

She knows. I haven’t said it. I won’t yet say it, but she knows. I look at her and she knows.

Fear grips me. She reads it again. I’m scared again. I’m happy but afraid and she reads it a third time. I take it from her, put it back in my pocket. She looks at me. I love when she looks at me. She’s still looking at me. I don’t want her to stop, I’m locked. Anxiety reaches past my fear and reminds me of reality. I look away.

Coward.

I call myself a coward in my mind and I look away.

It’s getting dark. There’s still no one else here. The previews begin. I don’t remember them. I don’t look at them. We’re all alone here. The theater of the mind is empty save for us. My hand is warm now. On a cool night in an old theater of the mind, my hand is warm. The fear subsides, my anxiety washes away. My hand is warm now. There’s pressure. I look. The space between each of my fingers is filled with one of her fingers. I stare. She’s holding my hand and I’m safe. The rest of the room dissolves into a blurry combination of light and sound coming from the theater effects. None of it makes sense. I don’t care. None of that matters. She’s so beautiful. She’s holding my hand and I’m safe.

She’s watching me stare. From the corner of my eye I can see she’s watching me stare. Her grip tightens around my fingers and silently tells me that the world is indeed the magical and safe place I thought it was as a child. She pulls my arm to her and her arms wrap around it, securing it to her body.

I’m warm.

I’m disarmed again. Stumbling for security, I try to speak. Whatever is said is nonsense. She speaks.

“Arm good.”

She’s taken my hand and my arm and she’s left me vulnerable. I’ve attacked for less. But I don’t. The fear returns. It starts slow and builds like the steam in a kettle. A million reasons to run away. I have one million reasons to run away. Circumstances. Others. Sadness. Pain. Children. Fear. We’re going to get caught. Stop touching her. Run away. Talk!

I speak.

I tell her I’m happy and afraid. I tell her a lot. Words pour from me for a long time. I make the same point with different words for a long time. My point is we need to wait. We need to be sensible. She hears me over and over again and she touches my face. She likes when I talk. But she’s not liking what I say. I don’t like what I say. She’s touching me. The nonsensical light and sound fragments from the movie are gone now. I’m lost in her touch. I take her hand and hold it to my face. She speaks.

With few words she dismisses what I considered to be my profound point. “Please choose me,” she says and I’m aware of how transparent I am. She knows that at the root of my long winded speech is my fear of change, of uncertainty, and of what’s to come. “Please choose me.”

It echoes in my mind. I close my eyes to find the words dancing around my mind. “Please choose me.” I open my eyes and see her face. She’s so beautiful. Her face now exists as an imprint and background to the rest of my world. In all things from now on, I wish to do for you and because of you. I choose you. I chose you.

I’m still trying to speak, trying to make sense of all this. I’m trying to escape. I’m trying to justify reveling in a moment of happiness. I hate myself so much that it’s hard for me to allow a moment of peaceful reward. She must have sensed it. She must have sensed my foundation’s crumble. She attacks my fear again and puts her arms around my neck. There’s more pressure. Her head moves towards mine. She pulls me to her. I panic in the moment between now and what’s to come. I panic. I’m afraid.

In that moment, my insecurities intensify like a flashing hazard light at the edge of a cliff. They flash bright at the end of a road I know well, but beyond which, I have no idea. In that moment I am speeding past my comfort. I am speeding beyond what I know well. I am speeding to that edge. The flashing light grows as I approach, begging my sensibility to stop.

In that moment I make a weak and strangled effort to resist but it does me no good. She has me. I want her to have me. I’ve always wanted her to have me. She kisses me while I try to make words. She kisses me. Her lips are soft, her breath is sweet. The fear subsides and I am lost. The flashing light is gone, I’ve passed it. There’s a wonderful and terrible uncertainty ahead now, but I’m not alone. She’s kissing me. I can’t go back. She’s kissing me. I kiss her. I can never go back.

I forget to breathe and I don’t care. I could fade away in this moment and know my life had meaning.

She’s still kissing me. My lungs burn and I pull away, drawing in air. I look at her. Her eyes are still closed. Her mouth moves as if I were still there. She’s in a trance. She’s so beautiful.

I touch her face and my hands shake. I hope she doesn’t notice my hands shaking, but my hands stop shaking when her face moves with my hands. She’s still in a trance. She’s lost in my touch. After a few moments or maybe an eternity her eyes open. She smiles. She’s smiling at me as I touch her face and I’m reduced to a primal form of what I used to be. I’m stripped of sarcasm, cynicism and objections.

She’s stripped me of my defenses and I am hers. I stare into her eyes, having forgotten all that I so pitifully had used to restrain myself before. She’s so beautiful.

I feel relieved, stronger. I feel daring and foolish. I recognize what reality will bring and mention it again, though with less fear and more caring. She’s aware but she’s free and she speaks again. She speaks simply with a fiery calm. She reduces my pragmatism to ashes with her fiery calm.

“No rules tonight.”

I accept. My apprehension dissolves early this time. I surprise myself. No objections, no fear, no reality.

No rules tonight. I agree. We kiss again and again and I agree. No rules tonight. I’m not afraid for now.

It was at this moment that she wanted me to meet her between freedom and celebration and I made it and I was early.

I’m always early.

A misty sea breeze filled the air.  It was cool and offered relief to her sun-kissed skin.  She couldn’t find her sunglasses so she squinted to see the ocean before her.  From her grandmother’s quilt she even brighter light glistening from the tips of the water peaks before they crashed into the surf.  While she only heard the tidal rhythms, she was sure she would at least see a bird in the sky.

The sky today was so bright as to almost forbid the intrusion of such a blemish on it’s radiant glory.  And while there was no cloud cover, she felt herself cooling from the breeze in defiance of the sun’s rays.  Beneath her was warm and soft and her comfort slipped to coziness before plunging into unconsciousness.

She woke with a start at a pulsing light and a horrible sound.  The alarm was blaring.  She swatted towards it and missed.  It was worse than other mornings, it was making a sound she’d never heard before.  It was grating and awful.  Long steady sounds.  At least two seconds each with equal silences between them.  Louder than ever.  So loud and it wouldn’t stop.  It wasn’t the classical music station she’d heard every other morning for the past 2 years.  

Her hands fumbled for the clock on the nightstand.  But before she could reach the nightstand her hands met with something glass.  It felt light but had a wide base.  When she hit it by mistake it didn’t fall but she heard something slosh inside of it.  She pulled her hand back and reached for ears.  If only she could stop that sound and try to remember.  Her hand met a plastic object… a pill bottle of some kind. 

Ignoring the pain in her ears she reached a bit further, felt nothing new and was suddenly very confused.  She wasn’t used to there being so much bed.  But here she was, in bed reaching for her nightstand and finding only more bed.  She pulled back her hand again with greater force than before.

Where’s my clock?  What the hell is going on?  

Her hand hit the glass container which promptly rolled over, spilled liquid on the mattress and fell.  She heard it breaking loudly below the mattress.  The crashing sound of breaking glass on what was clearly not her carpet made Julia’s heart sink.  A cold sweat came over her and she began to tremble.

Where am I?!

She continued to reach for the nightstand, for something, for some light, for some answers.  Nothing.  There was nothing else around her.  The alarm wouldn’t stop.  It kept blaring as if warning her all too late that she was in some kind of danger.

The contrast of sight was menacing.  It was completely dark save for a flash of blinding white light that followed each blare of the alarm.  Julia tried to move.  She felt unsteady and weak.  Coordination was no more than a fleeting fantasy at this point.  She sat still for a moment and tried to focus on the room around her.  It was too dark to see between flashes.  The light from the flashes was just as frustrating.  

She looked about the room, trying to understand her surroundings with each pulse of light as her eyes tried to adjust to the madness.  It was too bright and too brief to tell her anything specific.  There didn’t appear to be any furniture save the mattress she was laying on.  One of the lights was directly above her, mounted to the ceiling.  The flashes were so fast and the gaps between them were so great it was hard to make out anything at all.

She was about to step off the bed when she realized she still didn’t know where she was or what could be waiting for her.  And at least for the moment, she wasn’t sure she could trust her own equilibrium.  She remembered the broken glass and slid to the end of the mattress so as not to step on the shards.  Before stepping down, she rolled onto her stomach and with her hands she slowly reached over the end of the bed and touched the ground.  Sweeping it gently for debris or anything else that may hurt her, Julia verified what she already knew.  This wasn’t her floor.  

She felt where the bed met the floor.  There was no space.  There was no “under the bed.”  There was nothing.  Just floor.  A bittersweet relief came and left in a flash as she understood almost simultaneously that nothing from under the bed could grab her… but from everywhere else, she couldn’t know.  

The floor was cold and solid.  It seemed smooth and felt damp.  There was something wet on the ground, she could feel it on her fingers but she didn’t know what it was.  She raised her fingers to her nose, it didn’t have a scent.  It was moisture, maybe water from the glass container.  She didn’t know.  She sat up slowly.  

“Hello?” she shouted over the alarm.  There was no answer.  “Where am I?  Who did this to me?”

In her last sentence her voice cracked and she began to sob.  The sobs didn’t last long, each tear warming as they rolled down her nearly infuriated face.  

“Whoever did this is FUCKING DEAD!  YOU HEAR ME?!” She shouted into the darkness.  The alarm failed to drown her out.  

And then it was silent.  The alarm stopped in the middle of a pulse and so did the light.  Julia gasped, realizing she may have offended whomever was holding her here.  

Holding me here?

Her mind raced at the possible scenarios of what was to come.  She tried to prepare herself for it… scrambling her hands around the mattress and floor for something to use or throw, but found nothing.  She stood and raised her arms, balling her fists as she did…  Waiting for it to come… Waiting for anything to come. 

But there was nothing.  Only silence.  Only darkness.

She immediately missed the pulsing lights though her head appreciated the silence.  The only sounds she could sense were her own breathing and racing heart.  She felt disoriented in the dark.  Her thoughts flashed to the pill bottle.  She ran her hands over the mattress again, slower this time, searching for it.  She found it, picked it up to read it but couldn’t see.  It was too dark.  Her hands were still shaking at the thought of what could be in the bottle, what could be in her body.  

“Always read the label” her mother reminded her from a distant memory.

She began to sob more and searched her body with her hands, feeling for injury, for violation.  She felt nothing.  Her clothing felt unfamiliar but intact.  They were pajamas of some sort.  There were large buttons on a collared shirt and a pair of pants with a similar button holding them closed.  They weren’t particularly soft, almost like nursing scrubs.  Julia knew she owned nothing of the sort.  

She had been dressed but she hadn’t done it herself.  Someone had dressed her.  She sobbed more.  

Someone had un-dressed her.

She tried to remember how she got to where she was.  Her last conscious memory was going to bed in her own home, in her own bed.  She thought of everything she’d eaten the night before.  All of it, she remembered, was prepared by her from her cabinets, from her refrigerator.  She’d had nothing out of the ordinary to eat or drink.  She’d seen no one out of the ordinary.

It’s a dream.

Her mind searched her entire day, trying desperately to find a clue to her current whereabouts and how she arrived there.  She remembered getting up the morning before.  Her alarm had played classical music then.  It had comforted her, the way it always had.  Bach, Beethoven… she didn’t know.  It was “cartoon music” to her.  But she adored the security it brought her every morning.

The consistency.  The safety.  Memories of cereal eaten on an old living room floor while Tom and Jerry violently danced with one another.

She remembered her shower, the long wait for the warm water and the missing curtain ring she never remembered to replace. 

She thought of her cat and her breakfast, her work day, her co-workers, her mother, and her drive home.  Nothing was out of place.  Everything until now was as it should have been.  Everything had been perfect and safe.  Everything had been warm and bright.  But not now.

Be dreaming.  Please be dreaming.

There was no reason to be in this hell and yet despite all her previous normality, here she was in this terrible place surrounded by terrible emptiness and darkness with no possible explanation and the knowledge that everything could change in an instant for better or worse and she’d be powerless to stop it.

I’m not powerless.  I’m dreaming. 

She went back to the edge of the bed and felt the ground again.  This time she lightly traced the outline of the mattress on the ground from the foot of the bed to where the glass had fallen.  The moisture she had felt before was colder than the moisture surrounding the broken glass.

She tried to be delicate and sweep the glass into a small pile next to the mattress in case she needed to leave the bed in that direction.  She continued to move around the mattress to the head of the bed where the mattress met the wall.

It may not have been the head.  There was no way to tell.  This had been where her head had been, resting comfortably on a pillow until the alarm.

It doesn’t matter.

 

Aside from the pillow, nothing was different about this part of the mattress.  she continued to trace the top of the mattress, along the wall.  It was larger than her mattress.  She tried to get her fingers between the wall and mattress and while she managed to get her fingertips into the small space, she found nothing useful.  When she finally found the other corner of the mattress she had only a slightly better understanding than she had before.

King sized mattress.  

Only in hotels had she slept on mattresses so large.  Several months ago she’d gone to a conference for work and it was there that she last experienced such spacious sleeping arrangements.  The sheets were white and soft.  The sun from the balcony seemed to activate some inner light that made the whole room warm.  It had smelled of detergent or fabric softener, foreign to her, but inviting nonetheless.  

Now she smelled moisture and something else.  Some kind of cleaning product.  She continued along the edge of the mattress.  Other than the pill bottle and the now-broken glass there was nothing.  

Julia thought about the flashes of light and tried to remember if she saw a door somewhere.  

There has to be a door, how the fuck did I get in here without a door?

Her breathing slowed in the silence as she forced herself to take deeper breaths.  She was preparing herself.  She reached behind her and grabbed the pillow, clutching it to herself as she slowly put her feet over the edge of the mattress.  She hovered them for a moment, hesitating before gently resting them on the damp floor.  She took another deep breath and leaned forward, clutching the end of the mattress with her fingers and abandoning her pillow.

She stood.  In the dark and cool air she stood, taking her hands off the mattress as she did, suddenly feeling very much exposed and very much afraid.  Her hands reached ahead of her in all directions.  She was reaching for anything that might hurt or teach her.  She was reaching for the wall she was sure she had seen when the alarm was blaring.  

Her slow shuffling footsteps made sweeping wisps across the floor to feel out any debris or hazards that may injure her bare feet.  

One step.  Two steps.  Three.  Four.  Five-

Her hands touched the wall and she startled backwards, then forward again, slowly reaching for the wall and searching it with her hands as her right foot found where the floor met the wall.  It felt identical to the floor… damp… cold… solid.  Favoring her right, she chose to explore the wall in that direction.  She reached as high as she could, hoping to determine where the ceiling met the wall.  It was too high.  She remembered from the light, it was very high.  She moved her hands and even her body along the wall searching for some weakness, for some new piece to this puzzle.  A door or window.  Anything. 

She counted her steps as she moved, assuming she had started directly in front of the bed.  The wall gave no clues.  Its uniformity was as frustrating to Julia as it was foreign.  She continued down the wall, to her right.

Four.  Five.  Six.  Seven.  Eight-

She reached a corner.  From here she would have to move to the right and she could almost picture the long edge of the mattress as parallel with this new wall.  Without the fear she had before, she searched the corner with her hands from the floor to as high as she could reach, looking for an imperfection, for a seam.  She felt nothing new.  No indication of a door or switch. 

Her unease quickened at the thought of her distance from the bed.  She turned back to her left and began to walk.  

Eight.  Seven.  Six.  Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.

She stopped, turned towards the bed and walked back to it.  She sat.  She was close to where she had started.  She ran her hands along the floor again and confirmed her thought.  While she was pleased with her accuracy, the obvious concern remained that finding her way back didn’t guarantee her safety.  

Her world had grown now and despite the limited solace she found on the mattress, she did not allow herself much time to rest.  From inside, a deep place, a savage place, Julia felt compelled to move.  To learn.  To “see” more of her new world with the senses that had not yet abandoned her.

She stood and walked back to the wall.  Continuing to the left, she counted as she searched the wall with her sprawling hands and fingers.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  Nine.  Ten.  Eleven.

She stopped, her breathing quickened.  Her eagerness to explore was beginning to fade and she was doubting her accuracy over a long distance.

Keep going.  It doesn’t matter.  Keep going. 

She continued down the wall, hoping each step would bring her to a door.  At 24 steps, she felt the next corner, this one forcing her to turn left.  She considered retracing her steps back to the bed again but she hesitated.

She was afraid.  Of course she was afraid.  But now she was afraid to go back.  It felt so far away and where she was seemed… safe?  Not safe.  Familiar.  As safe as any other place she’d “seen” so far.  She considered the opposite wall that she hadn’t finished exploring.  It seemed so far away now and yet so close to the mattress.  

Keep going.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.

She moved down the new wall, continuing her search pattern as she had before.  Every ten steps she would pause, breathe deeply and try to hear through deafening silence interrupted only by her pounding heart.  Her fear came in waves and each crest brought with it a distracting static to her careful listening.  That in turn brought greater waves followed by longer pauses and deeper breaths.  But despite the silent tumult, her remaining senses found nothing.

At 40 fruitless steps she came to the next corner.  Another left turn.  She felt around it for a few moments, searching for new information.  Finding none she exhaled, considered where the bed must be if the room was truly empty and sat on the floor in the corner, clutching her knees into her chest.

She rocked for a few moments, trying again to remember how she got into this now obviously not-square room and into these clothes.  She smelled the air around her.  It was thicker and more damp in this corner than it had been near the bed.  There was a hint of lemon-scented cleanser and bleach.  She immediately thought about work.  The bathrooms in the office were always cleaned with bleach and a lemon disinfectant.  She thought about the area of this room and the possibility that there might be drains on the floor.

Is this a basement?  A dungeon?  

Her mind raced with images of concrete walls and emaciated souls chained to them.  She allowed herself to picture co-workers hiding in bathroom stalls and may have nearly smiled had the cloth of her shirt not shifted on the wall from the pressure she was applying as she rocked. 

She continued to rock, not wanting to keep searching, afraid of what she might find, afraid of how much of this room was left to search.  And then a light sound.  

Suddenly Julia stopped rocking as she heard a faint noise or voice or whisper from the other side of the room.  It was unintelligible and brief, but she knew she heard it.  She clutched her chest to mute her pounding heart but it did no good as she sat in silence, waiting to hear it again.  She did not.  She cursed herself for letting her mind wander.  For not paying attention.  For being in this place.

I’m somewhere terrible and there’s someone else here.  

Julia pushed herself as far into the corner as she could.  She was so firmly pressed against the walls that her back began to ache.  She was using her heels to push her knees so tightly into herself that the silence was broken again, this time by the sound of her foot slipping back out into the unknown darkness away from her body.  

Julia tried to map what she knew of the room and this new sound.  There was no doubt in her mind.  Her heart pounded in her chest and tears began to fall as her chin shook despite her fear.  

The whisper, long-since gone, had come from the direction of the mattress.  

 

There had been silence for what Julia assumed had to have been at least ten minutes.  She relaxed her leg and arm muscles, allowing herself to move from the corner.  It hurt to move.  She had been pressed against it so hard before.  Her breathing had slowed slightly and she stopped sobbing.  With her hands on the ground she pushed herself up and stood with her back to the wall.  If she could see she would have been looking directly at the mattress.  But still there was no light.  

She was grateful for that.  She hoped that if she couldn’t see it, then it couldn’t see her.  She didn’t even know what “it” was.  And despite her fears, she didn’t even know if there was an “it” to begin with.

With her hands and back flat against the wall behind her, she continued to search the wall, using her feet to sweep again, only this time facing the opposite direction.  She found the work more difficult and slow but she dare not put her back to the area around the bed.  She counted in her head from the corner as she searched.  

One.  Two.  Three.  

Her right arm touched it first and her right foot touched another side of it before she reeled back to where she was standing before.  Whatever it was, it was solid but gave slightly when touched.  It made next to no sound but Julia was sure that whatever she touched was on wheels.  

She stood silently for a moment, looking in all directions and using her hands to feel in front of her whenever she turned.  When her breathing slowed again, she quietly approached whatever she had touched before.   When she made contact she noticed it was cold and felt metal.

She put pressure on the place she was touching and it seemed to give slightly.  If it were on wheels, they were either stuck or whatever this thing was had to be fairly heavy.  As Julia tactically inspected the object, she concluded that there were in fact wheels on the bottom.  The wheels were small.  The object itself seemed to be a cart of some kind.  Julia felt two separate rectangular shelves on the cart, one above the other.  The bottom shelf was grated and carrying nothing.  Parts of it felt brittle to the touch.  Julia imagined it was rust and inspected the top shelf.    

The top shelf had what felt like glass tubes in a wire rack and several small vials with varying amounts of liquids in them standing on the shelf next to the rack.  Julia continued to search the shelf but found nothing else.  

Damn.

She had hoped to find a syringe.  She had hoped to find something, anything, sharp she could use to protect herself if the time came.  She found nothing.  She thought of the vials, wondering what could have been in them.  She thought of her mother’s diabetes and how much she had hated giving herself two shots of insulin every day.  Those vials were small too.  They were also cold.  Those vials had to be kept cold.  For a moment she considered that these couldn’t be insulin because insulin has to be refrigerated.  Her chin quivered slightly and she began to cry.

Nothing made sense here.  There weren’t rules here.  The vials could be anything.  She should be home.  She should be getting ready for work.  She shouldn’t be here.  There was no reason for her to be somewhere she didn’t recognize.  There was no reason she should be in a dark cold place with vials and tubes and carts and whispers.  The tears flowed from Julia’s eyes as she leaned back against the wall and sank to the floor, hoping to find comfort in the only certainty she’d discovered so far; the wall.  

She sat for a few moments with her face in her hands, wiping tears away as quietly as she could, shaking her head and imagining all the things she should be doing or could be doing if she wasn’t here.  She couldn’t imagine why she was in this place or away from her life.  She couldn’t imagine anyone who would want to hurt her.  When she used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes she remembered again that these were not her clothes.  She stopped crying and did not wipe the last tear from her face.  Julia took a deep breath and slowly let it out. 

Rising to her feet once again she approached the cart and thought about its contents again.  She took one of the vials and placed it in the large baggy pocket of her foreign pajama bottoms.  She thought of the wire rack and glass tubes inside.  She ran her fingers across it and decided against taking out the individual tubes.  She was afraid of the sound she might make.  On the tops of some of the tubes were rubber caps.  Some of them had no caps and Julia wondered what each one contained.

She thought about hospitals.  She thought about the nurses, and specifically the phlebotomist that took her blood.  She had stuck Julia with a needle, filled the tubes, bagged the tubes and sent the tubes to the laboratory for study.  Julia was no stranger to that.  Every year Julia made a point to have a complete physical that included blood work.  

Her heart sank.  She closed her eyes tightly, refusing to cry this time.  The idea that her blood may be in some of the these tubes made her nauseous and she ran her fingers over her arms again, this time searching for a bandage.  Her left arm was clean.  Her right arm also had no bandage but when she pressed the inside of her right elbow she winced slightly in pain.  

Horrified, Julia turned to the corner, leaned over and with a painful heave, emptied the contents of her stomach on the ground.  It wasn’t much.  It tasted like bile.  Her eyes watered, this time not from sadness.  Her nose began to run.  She stood there for a while, leaned over with her right arm extended out, bracing her up from the wall.  She clenched her eyes tighter, more furious than ever.  She tried not to think of what was taken from her or what could have been placed inside her.  Her right hand tensed against the wall, curling her fingers to scratch down at it as she pushed herself upright.  Wiping her mouth and nose with her sleeve, Julia checked her body again for injury.  She was even more thorough this time.  She felt no tenderness or harm anywhere else.  

She assumed she had at least been drugged and considered that her blood may have been taken.  She could not imagine for what but she assumed it was possible.  She thought of the cart again and the small puddle of vomit she’d created in the corner.   She approached the cart again, and decided it should be moved in case she needed to maneuver later in the unexplored void that was the area of the room.   

She tried to move it again, using more force than before, figuring she could place it in the corner, and cover a potential trip hazard.  She pushed harder than before and whatever had been causing the wheels to stick gave way with a sharp and quick squeak that broke the thundering silence in the room and terrified Julia again.  In a panic, she huddled over the cart, gripping the sides with her hands to stop it from moving and to prevent that awful sound from happening again.  

When she leaned over the cart, her shirt grazed one of the vials.  It fell over, hitting the shelf with a light clink that was followed by the louder and deeper sound of the tiny glass bottle rolling across the shelf.  Julia instinctively hugged the cart from above, pressing her body firmly against the top of the cart, her feet nearly off the ground.  The wire rack holding the vials bent and twisted under her weight but her plan worked, the vial stopped rolling and again there was silence.

She thought of all the time she’d spent here, wondered again about the whisper and worried that perhaps she could be seen though she could not see.  

Then Julia felt something cold on her chest.  It was spreading slowly.  In an instant she knew it was liquid and correctly guessed it was from one of the recently displaced vials from the rack.  She closed her eyes and tried not to move knowing that getting up meant making more noise.  It was silent.  Her mind raced with what could have been in the vials that was now on her shirt and on her skin.  She tried to comfort herself by imagining it was only her blood and therefore couldn’t hurt her.  Her stomach felt sick again at the thought of her displaced blood being the best possible substance to now be dampening her shirt and her spirits.  She took a deep breath and clenched tighter onto the cart.

It was at this moment, that three very distinct events occurred, one right after the other.  The first was the most direct response to Julia’s increased pressure on the cart.  In defiance of the recently established quiet, one of the tubes, confined by the twisted metal of the wire supports around it, cracked.  While the sound was not particularly loud, it was more noticeable than the few low groans of the metal cart, now supporting Julia’s entire body weight.  Julia did not move or change her position, choosing instead to wish away the sound and any further glass disturbances.  Her wish fulfilled, there was no further breaking of glass beyond that one tube.

However, as Julia was about to experience relief from her granted wish, the second distinct event unfolded.  She felt a sharp pain in her stomach, near the spot where the mysterious liquid had previously stained her.  She bit her lip to keep from screaming in pain.

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.  

Using some of her strength, that which not currently dedicated to the task of silencing her scream and controlling the noise of the cart she kept moving, she lifted her abdomen slightly, hoping to move away from the broken glass and slowly begin to release herself from the cart.  She had hoped for relief from the sharp pain in her stomach but that did not subside.  Most of the glass beneath her shifted but she could feel that one piece was still very much touching her and was currently inside of her.  She could not tell how large of a shard was now embedded in her skin, nor could she determine the depth.  She told herself again that if it had anything on it, it was likely her own blood.  It was when she re-planted her feet firmly on the ground that the third event shattered the delicate serenity of her careful plotting and movement.

A low groan followed her shifting weight from the center of the cart to the edge as she planted her feet.  The groan grew louder and deeper and in an instant the cart buckled and collapsed.  In the chaos, Julia heard the sharp threatening sound of every vial and glass tube scattering and shattering in the dark abyss around her.  Despite how fast the incident was, Julia’s experience was in slow motion as if every crack and drag of glass was it’s own symphony of terrifying alarm.  Some of the glass objects didn’t break but rolled in all directions.  The event took only moments but destroyed any sense that Julia had tried to imagine that she might be unnoticed.  

Julia had rolled to the right of the cart when it crashed and was now just sitting on the ground, some distance from the familiar corner, and now in unexplored territory.  She quickly reached for the damaged cart and flung it quickly into the corner, figuring there was no need to be silent for the time being.  

Feeling sure that the cart was in the corner, covering her vomit, she reached for her stomach.  Her shirt was soaked.  Whatever the mysterious liquid was from before was now mixed in her own warm blood.  With her right hand she slowly inspected the site of her injury.  The shard stabbing her in the stomach was a longer large portion of the tube.  Her fingers, now slick with blood and possibly some other substance, fumbled for the end of the shard, trying to pull it out.  

When she had a firm grip, she slowly began to pull.  While the shard wasn’t very deep and Julia was certain she hadn’t hurt anything internally, her stomach continued to bleed.  Julia wasn’t sure if the nearly four inch shard of glass was the only piece to pierce her skin.  However, the pain subsided when it was removed and Julia was satisfied with not exploring the wound for further pieces of glass.  However, while she was not gushing blood, it was certainly enough blood that she felt she needed a bandage of some sort.  

Julia looked around despite there still being no light in the room.  She nervously unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing and removed it, now sitting topless in the strange room.  She felt along the shirt for the hole the glass shard had made, placed her finger inside it and began to tear a long section of fabric from the shirt.  A tattered square about eight inches on each side was as good as she could do.  She put the shirt over her shoulder and folded the square before pressing it firmly against her stomach.  With her free hand, she searched the floor around her for any other surprises and shuffled back against the wall.  She kept firm pressure on the wound, wishing she had a way to secure it to herself so she could have the use of both of her hands.  

The wall felt cold on her bare back.  Julia leaned forward, pulled the shirt from her shoulder with her free hand and carefully re-dressed herself in what was left of her garment.  Satisfied that she was covered, she leaned back against the wall, comforted slightly by the warmth of the foreign clothing between her and the cold surface.  Her stomach twinged in pain as she moved again but she kept firm pressure on her wound.  

She looked in the direction of the corner and felt for the cart.  She only had to lean slightly to the left to find it.  Julia imagined about a 10 minutes had passed since she left the corner.  In all that time she’d only moved about five feet.  She leaned further back, rested her head on the wall and sighed.  

Julia was no longer trembling.  Having had her hand pressed firmly on the makeshift bandage for quite some time she was convinced the bleeding must have stopped.  She took her hand away and gently removed the bandage and slowly began to explore the site of the injury.  She could feel dried blood but was sure the bleeding had stopped.  It was tender but the pain was bearable.  

Folding the bandage in half and reapplying it to her stomach, Julia stood up cautiously so as to avoid reopening her wound.  She let out a deep sigh.  She was feeling more confident than before, perhaps due to the previous excitement being unmet by whatever it was she was afraid may be watching or lurking.  She faced the wall and tucked her bandage into her pocket with the vial she had stolen from the cart.  Continuing her search pattern, she used both hands and her feet as she had before.  

Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten

She remembered the opposite wall was very long.  Twenty four steps from the foot of the bed.  Thirty two steps in total length.  She kept counting.  It was at 19 that she came to the next corner.  This one, like all the others turned inside, not out.  

She had counted ten steps from this new corner before her fingers touched a raised area on the wall.  Julia’s heart immediately began to race as she frantically ran her fingers across what she was sure was a door frame.  She felt around the door.  It seemed to be a standard size and shape and felt metallic.  Julia thought it might be an exterior door.  She became excited at the possibility that beyond this door was the outside world.  A world of sunlight, cars, phones… people.  She reached for the doorknob.  She found it on the left side of the door.  It was cold and solid.  There was no lock on her side but the knob did not move.  It didn’t turn and felt as though it were locked from the other side.  She put her body weight into the door and pushed, hoping to pop the lock without making a lot of noise.

The door moved only slightly, but did not open.  Julia sunk to the floor.  Her hands fell to her sides as she leaned against the door in defeat.  From the beneath the door, Julia felt a warm air on her hands.  In her excitement she hadn’t noticed the change in temperature on her bare feet.  The air was not moving fast but felt warm and inconsistent as it passed under the door.  She lowered her head to the ground, placing her face in front of the small opening under the door.  The warm air gusted in at various speeds, some enough to move her hair.  Julia breathed in.  The air seemed fresher and more dry than the dank air she had been breathing.  There was some kind of dust in the air and she couldn’t inhale much before she began to cough in spite of her fear.

She tried to stifle it as best as she could but she had to cough.  The first muffled cough caused a sharp pain in her stomach where the glass had stabbed her.  She reached for it instinctively and the second cough was loud and echoed in the room.  She closed her eyes tightly and tried to focus on not coughing.  Her hand felt slightly damp.  The cough had opened her wound.  With one hand on her wound and the other holding her bandage over her mouth, she coughed more and let her breathing return to normal.  She took some deeper breaths and switching hands she placed the bandage back over the wound and propped herself up against the door again, resting her head below the doorknob.  

She felt tired.  Her anxiety had been so high for so long that she hadn’t realized how tired she really was.  She considered for a moment the possibility that it might not be morning yet and that there may be light once the sun came up.  She hoped that piece of metal behind her was all that separated her from the outside world and that maybe when morning came, the sunlight would be visible from under the door and give her a better idea of where she was.  

She peered under the door, hoping for a sign of light or life but found nothing but more warm air and dust.  Turning away from the door she laid her head on the ground and closed her eyes, pacified for the moment that she might soon be safe. The warm air and the thought of the rising sun comforted her.

 

On a strangely yet powerfully lit stage danced a myriad of medical personnel.  They all wore scrubs, vibrantly colored and form-fitting.  There was music or perhaps there wasn’t.  There was a rhythm for sure, but the tone was neither gleeful nor somber.  It just was.  There was a mist about it, gray and random.  The dancers moved in harmony to the “being” of sound and misty movement around them.

With perfect choreography, the first group of nurses, clad in yellow, performed flawless aerials as those in forest green elegantly surfed crimson medical carts pushed by stronger nurses in brown.  Blue trapezing surgeons swirled in from above on large rings.  Their backs were flanked by flowing brilliant white lab coats.  While they spun above, the green surfers began to fling glass vials from pockets and sleeves, seemingly endlessly as they performed center stage.  The vials sparkled in the light like prisms in the sun.  And in the air, the vials remained, spinning in perfect synchronicity but not falling.  Rather, they were floating.  They spun and then floated a slow and delicate descent towards the marble floor.

All at once the vials made contact and instead of resting softly as their journey would have implied, they exploded.  Tiny misshapen shards took all positions at once, their instantaneous travel marked only by the threadlike trails of blood now spilling from every dancer on stage.  And then time stopped.  All were frozen in space and in the horror of their prop’s explosive wake.  No longer was there music.  No longer was there sound nor harmony or any semblance of order.  There was chaos.  Frozen chaos flanked by beautiful ruby curtains destined to remain open on this macabre scene.  A diorama of brutality so intricate in detail that every scratch, every tear of flesh was perfectly accented with blood.

The brilliance of the light remained the only constant, though it shown through the violent shards, now coated in blood, igniting the stage in a brilliant display of Merlot and Noir set ablaze by blinding light.  The frozen dancers maintained their poses, now surrounded and penetrated by what could have easily been mistaken for red laser sights had one not seen the prior explosion.

The prolonged instant began to regain pace with time, though very slowly and not in unison.  The wounded moved first, faster than the glass and blood trails around them.  Their concentrated expressions were now gone and replaced with fear and pain.  They moved slowly, clutching at the holes in their bodies and the injuries to their skin.  The blood trails moved next, even more slowly than the dancers.  Blood streaked downward from every line, coating the floors and walls and replacing the wine-colored light with tangible suffering.

The light faded as the dancers fell, now in sync with the shards and blood.  The curtains closed and there was total darkness.  It became warm… very warm.  And then hot.  Burning and searing.  The air became thick and rancid of burning wood, flesh and embers.

Julia began to cough.  In her first waking moment, she had forgotten where she was.  In the next moment she was angry for still not knowing where she was but merely remembering her short tour around this unknown space.  With no light nor apparent changes to her surroundings, she couldn’t determine how long she had slept.  Under the door there was no light.  The sporadic pulses of warm air continued.  She reached for the door knob again.  It remained still as always, despite Julia trying to hang her full weight from the small round protrusion.  She let go and grabbed at her stomach feeling the sharp pain of irritating a wound.  Her fingers remained dry.  The bleeding had long-since stopped and the delicate scab that had formed seemed more solid than it had before though still very tender.  She put her back against the door as she sat.

Julia was angry.  She had hoped, and for that she was angry at herself.  Realizing at once that her situation had not changed she slammed her elbow backwards into the door before laying her face in her hands.  She would not cry though her body shook now in fury more than distress.  There were few options for her now.  She knew that.  She could retrace her steps back to the bed and what she was becoming less and less convinced was a whisper, proceed into the unknown area of this place with random steps or strategic tracing… or she could wait.

She felt she had already waited, though unconscious when she had done so, and her adrenaline would not allow her to sleep again.  She also felt certain that nothing about the path she had taken thus far had changed.  Perhaps a vial or two had changed positions, collided with some unknown object in the void in front of her, but nothing so significant as to warrant a retreat.

Retreat.

With a sad acceptance and defeated resolve, Julia stood and felt the wall beyond the door.  Again, Julia counted her steps as she did.  Only two steps this time and a new thing in her life emerged.  Heavy.  Denim.  Or maybe plastic?  It swung slightly when touched as if hanging.  A curtain perhaps.

A window!

Julia frantically batted at the cloth, again hoping for hopes sake and this time not for an unlocked door, but a window.  A window of glass as frail and brittle as her emotional state.  She thought of the cracking glass tube and the shard she removed from her stomach.  She scratched beyond the hanging thing and found cold wall where she had prayed a window might be.  She reached further beyond the thing, thinking perhaps another may hang nearby.  Nothing.

As her hope faded, so too did her frantic search.  She inhaled deeply, preparing for another sigh into the abyss and suddenly she clutched at her chest as though she were choking.  The air around this hanging thing was foul.  Whatever this was smelled of smoke and mold.  Julia stepped back, closer to the door and cleared her lungs as best as she could.  She began to feel anxious, more so than before, almost as if under attack by the smell.

Smoke.

Her heart raced, and she felt a cold wave overcome her.  Again, clutching at her chest, she found herself struggling for air though not choking.  She was panicked.  Having never had a panic attack before, Julia’s mind raced with thoughts of heart failure.  Her chest ached.  She thought of the vials and the soreness in her arm where surely a needle had been.  Her hyperventilation brought her again to the floor, head between her knees and rocking.  She was dying.  She could feel her lungs collapsing and despite knowing in her heart that the world around her was a mystery, she knew it was menacing and had come for her in a pitch black tidal wave of all her fears combined.

The smoke.  I can’t breathe.  It’s hot.  Smoke.  I’m dying…

Julia fainted, rolled to her side and began to breathe normally again.

 

The demon had found her.  It had come from the darkness, it’s long thick wings now beating against the air as fire raged around it.  There was light from the fire.  Somewhere from behind this wretched beast was fire light broken by falling debris.  The creature moved in on her, quickly and without hesitation.  Smoke swirled behind it as the thing’s black wings caught the air like sails against the wind.  She could not move.  She could barely breathe.  It had come for her.

The creature was grabbing for Julia’s face.  Through smoke the thing was without contrast making it impossible to recognize.  It smelled horrible and as it drew closer so did the intensity of the odor.  Its face was close and through the random light Julia saw the twisted and mutilated features now moving as the thing’s mouth opened.  Hot foul smelling breath hit her face and she managed one desperate act of defense with her right hand, slapping the monster before it restrained her arm.  She could see its teeth moving towards her.

There was pressure on her head and then the air cleared of smoke and of heat.  The thing no longer had Julia, but she knew the creature lingered somewhere in this new place.  She could not see it for she was now blind, but she could smell it.  Old filth and smoke.  Unmistakable scent of the demon.

She tried to scream yet there was no sound.  More pressure.  This time on her skin.  Cool.  Damp.  Caressing.  It may well have been comforting had Julia the motor skills and vision to identify what was happening to her.  Pressure again, this time on her arm, followed quickly by pain.

Nothingness.

 

She stirred.  Panic began to rise again but curiosity for the winged thing of her dreams held it at mild anxiety.  Julia stood, closed her eyes and slowly breathed the air around her.  Faint hints of charred air grew stronger as she leaned towards the not-curtain.  Her breathing quickened but defiantly she reached towards it, determined to identify the thing that had incapacitated her through mere existence.

It was cool, rough and dusty in places.  There were seams and folds like no curtain she’d ever known.  Reaching up she felt where it was hanging.  A hook was embedded into the wall and from this hook hung what Julia believed was a large cloak.  She took it down, moving it slowly to be sure it was not attached to anything else.  There was a shifting in the fabric from something inside.  Julia examined the article and concluded this was a very thick and very large coat.  It had pockets and straps.  Searching the pockets, she found wads of thin, dry paper.

She unfolded a piece, hoping to make sense of it in the dark and was not surprised when she was unable to do so.  In another pocket she found something much more interesting.

Keys!

Her heart raced again at the prospect of unlocking something that may lead to her freedom.  Perhaps one of these keys operated a vehicle that could take her home quickly and safely.  Her inquisitive ponderings subsided when she realized she hadn’t yet discovered a lock into which she could insert a key.  Nevertheless, she took the vial and bloody cloth from her pocket and replaced them with the keys.  She wrapped the vial with the cloth and gently placed it next to the keys.

Considering this for a moment she contemplated the unknown of the space around her.  Would she find other items of potential value to her in her methodical wanderings?  Would they all fit in this one pocket?  The thought of wearing the heavy coat scared her.  Despite the chill in the air and upon the surfaces she had come across, the warmth this coat could provide may not compensate for the fact that it clearly belonged to someone else who had at one time, or another had been in this same room… and could have potentially been the one who imprisoned her herein.  She tried on the coat.  As expected it was much too large.  The sleeves fell beyond her finger tips while the bottom touched her knees.  The collar was also large and just as sturdy as the rest of the garment.

Julia thought of the cart again and the glass that had impaled her.  She imagined that sliver of glass would have a much more difficult time puncturing this coat than it had her skin.  Despite the smell and her own apprehension, Julia kept the coat on and leaned against the wall once more.  The lack of cold was immediate and comforting.  Julia closed her eyes again and considered her position in relation to all of the steps she had taken.

She knew she had left a bed behind her and walked about 5 paces to a wall.  To the right of that wall she knew there were nearly 8 steps before the wall met a corner.  Beyond that, she hadn’t explored.  Instead, she had traveled back to the spot on the wall opposite the bed and moved to the left, roughly 24 steps.  Again she met a corner and turned left, walking another 40 steps where now there sat a properly destroyed medical cart covering an unknown amount of her stomach contents.

From there was another left turn and around 19 paces to another corner.  Ten steps from that corner brought her to the  door and her new layer of clothing.  It was difficult to picture the space around her.  It wasn’t a square.  And unless she confused her steps along the way, it wasn’t really a rectangle either.  It seemed like more of an “L” shape at this point and that was assuming that beyond the hook on the wall was 20 or so paces to either a corner turning right or a wall separating her from the strange bed and distorted sound she hadn’t heard in a long time.

For a moment she wished she had paper and a pencil to map out her position and then rolled her eyes upon remembering the total lack of light.  For her sake, she prayed her memory and sense of direction would withstand.

It was about five steps when she was again confronted with change.  Another corner, another left, another piece of a now very confusing puzzle.  She didn’t stop this time and instead continued down the wall.  Three paces and yet another change.  This one was familiar.  Another door frame and yet different than the first.  Very different.

The frame, on this wall, did not house a door.

It’s another fucking room.

Feeling around the frame she determined it was nearly as deep as her arm from her finger tips to her elbow.  Carefully reaching beyond the frame she felt nothing.  The air felt the same.  On either side of this new opening was no switch, hook or other artifact.  From here she found only more questions and uncertainty.  Remembering the area surrounding the bed and regretting not having explored it in its entirety, Julia opted not to enter the new space and continued down the wall.  Ten more paces of nothing and then the wall simply ended.  It remained as thick as the entrance to the previous room and did not corner into a new wall.  Keeping one hand on the wall and reaching out with her other hand she tried to reach for the opposite wall, convinced she had been there previously.

She felt nothing.  She imagined if she were correct, that the wall across from the one she was touching was a place she had been before and that she would not be able to reach it without losing contact with her anchor.  Julia considered the possibility of releasing the wall and forging ahead to prove her theory.  Anxiety crept over her like a cold rain as she imagined the void in which she would find herself.  Closing her eyes and controlling her breathing, she started to feel dizzy at the notion of having no bearings on the world around her save the cold concrete floor beneath her.  Surely the wall she was so firmly attached to now would remain in the same place.  Surely if she were wrong about her position she could easily return to the feigned safety of the familiar.

Surely she was in no space to be sure of anything.  Leaning forward, her fingers now barely contacting the recently-ended wall, she tried again to reach across.  Something inside her desperately needed to know what was there.  Something begged her not to follow the ended wall to the other side and forge ahead.  Something pleaded within her to have some certainty in her uncertain situation.

Her fingers, now merely grazing the aura of the wall descended and rested, with her arm, at her side.  Julia existed on an uncertain platform in the vacuum of eternity feeling pulled in every direction and none at all.  The air around her was still and cool.  She was a singular point in a vast and infinite space.  Moving in any direction other than where she had been would lead her to something or nothing and she would never know which unless she did so.  She felt her head swaying slightly and considered her own balance as she reminded herself she was on firm ground in a finite space with a reality surrounding her that at least proved she existed in a measurable area.

Julia knelt to her knees, felt the ground around her and laid down.  With her feet, she found the wall she had recently abandoned and for a moment felt grounded and safe.  With her arms she reached forward, longer now than she had been while vertical and firmly touched the opposite wall.  She couldn’t be sure it was a place she’d been but she felt confident that it was likely less than 20 paces to the left if she wanted to revisit her last meal or the remnants of whatever had stabbed her earlier.