Dreams

by Wesley McBride

  Here.

  The old man looked at him for a while before reaching out and taking the bottle from him, staring at it like it was something he hadn’t held in some time.

  Why?

  He thought.

  I don’t know. Maybe I figured you could use it more than me. I don’t really want it, to be honest.

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Walked away. The old man smiled and swigged from the bottle. He hadn’t tasted it in a long time. An old man with similar dirty shoes. Again, the rat didn’t move from his spot, just looked up at him briefly before going back to his meal. As he went up the steps, the halogen light flickered briefly, went dark, then sparked back to life, though he didn’t notice. Inside he drank a glass of warm water, got undressed and went to bed after replacing the box and its contents back in their place. He had no dreams that night, no night terrors no hallucinations. His first restful night’s sleep in a week. That thing. That thing that was there and not there at the same time, that had watched him and haunted him would not visit him that night, wouldn’t show him what he didn’t want to see.

  It wanted to.

  The sun cut through the grime on the window in bursts and shadows that danced slowly across the wall off of the foot of the bed like constellations in the night sky. He hadn’t seen the stars for years, since bringing his wife and son to his parents’ cabin. Although he didn’t know that. It was the August before he passed away in the night of the car accident. Passed away under the bridge. Drowned. He curled up, hugged himself tightly. He stayed that way until the stars had moved across the wall and faded from his eyes into the darkness of the carpet. Fireflies retreating at dawn. Finally, he relented to the heat. The ash that he had failed to shake free from the blankets clung to the sweat on his body. He sat up and rubbed his face, looking down at his hands. They looked older. He stood, grabbed clothes from his dresser and the floor of the closet. He would do laundry today he thought, go to the laundromat a block away with the missing ceiling tiles and red stencilled letters on the front window introducing an unpronounceable name but cheap soap dispenser. He walked to the bathroom, towards the pre-planned water filled sink and the dirty towel he could use to wipe the streaks off of himself. He closed his eyes as he stumbled along, still groggy from an actual sleep, long enough to misstep and collide his left foot with the edge of the open bathroom door. He cried out as pain instantly shot up his foot and the barely healing wound that circled the webbing of his toes tore open deeply, sponging blood onto the floor as he hobbled into the bathroom and down to the linoleum.

  Mother Fucker!

  His teeth clenched tightly, grinding against the urge to reach out for his foot before the initial wave had passed, tears forming in his eyes, completely un-numbed like he was the first time. He held his breath, letting out a struggled sigh when he exhaled. He studied the wound through glassy eyes, glaring. Fresh blood was rivering down the top of his foot nearly to the heel. Pain giving way to anger now. The cut itself had torn open. He couldn’t tell how deeply but the dark dried scab parted revealing the refreshed wound between.

  Goddamnit. God. Damnit.

  The words barely escaping his mouth, a whisper, not being said but being pushed out in a hot breeze. He reached and opened the drawer. Pulling out the only clean rag. He had left the tube in his bedroom. Pushing himself up, using the tub and the toilet, he laid the rag on the floor and stood on it, slowly turning red while soaking. He looked in the mirror. Pale. The bruise under his eye was more yellowed now. The cut on his cheek black. Darkness under his eyes, his cheeks and temples lined with burst blood vessels. He began to cough. He snatched and drank the glass of water he had left on the counter the night before, quickly, desperately before the coughing passed. Pulling the towel off of the curtain rod, he dabbed it into the sink.

  He stood outside. The wind had picked up today. He stared into the garage. Months before he had gotten a flat tire while leaving work and failed to get it repaired or buy a new one. Now, as he looked inside, he could see he wouldn’t be driving that day. The front right tire was deflated. He imagined that it was because of the swerve he had made a few days before. Defeat. He thought about staying home, not going to see his sister. He briefly thought about picking up the bent piece of eaves trough that he just now noticed was actually two pieces bent together and punting it through a window. That thought had almost won. His foot throbbed underneath the layers of cloth and sock. He thought about the last bottle on his counter. He lit a cigarette and began to walk down the alley, the wind tunnel. He saw the empty green bottle leaning against the brick wall as he passed, half buried in ash already, having accomplished its purpose, now tossed aside. As he crossed into the street he entered a ghost town, save for the eyes of those who watched he was too preoccupied to notice, staring at him from the apartment windows. He felt uneasy. A pain in his chest pushed in as if he had just been running and then subsided. He spit and dug ash out of his nose and rubbed his fingers together. For some reason, he thought of the green stain under the ash and the eaves kicked into the back of the garage.

  It was after her first two weeks of university that she phoned home crying late one night. She had told him before she left that he was nervous about being alone, about knowing no one and living with strangers. She had a problem with anxiety, something that always caused her to shy away from people, even their parents at times, but never him. He drove nearly a quarter way across the country that night only stopping at a grocery store sometime in the morning. He never told her he was coming, just showed up at the university, got her room number from the front desk and surprised her at her door. He made her favorite breakfast, their grandmother’s sweet barbecue sausages and French toast, even invited her roommate’s out to eat with them. He could tell that after two weeks his sister still didn’t really know these two other girls. It was a quiet, simple conversation, one-word answers, despite his efforts to summon longer ones. That night, he got them all to go out bar hopping with him, on ‘the strip’. Once they’ve had a few drinks, they’ll get louder. They did. On the walk home, there was laughter and he thought he could remember giving one of the roommates a piggyback ride when she got too tired to walk. He woke up on the couch in the morning to his sister and one of the others eating leftovers and giggling about the professor and complaining about at a class they didn’t know they shared. He pretended to sleep a little while longer. To give her time. Those two remained friends as far as he knew, though he hadn’t asked her about the old roommate for a while. He wondered about her. When he left that afternoon, his sister told him she loved him, hugged him. He could remember her smile. He could remember winking at her. Their little symbol when they both knew what was up. She winked back.

  He stopped at the store on his way. The green metal siding advertised their hours and the great deals you’d get for points you’d receive for buying their gas but was betrayed by the rust that was consuming the edges of each strip of tin and the grime that had built up on the window. He pulled on the first door but it was still locked, the other opened. He entered and walked to the newspaper rack. There were government budget cuts to education, there were 12 dead in Mexico border violence, there was a deadly crash on the highway. He scanned the stories that bordered the headlines. A sport star disgraced, a dog saves owner’s life, what the warnings signs are to tell if his child is a drug user. Nothing about the fire. He felt dizzy and his eyes watered a little. He rubbed, turning towards the cashier, her face melting into a horrible grimace as she oozed towards him, mouth ready, wide, dripping black and clawing out towards him. He twitched, startled backward into the newspaper rack. He grabbed at his shirt collar and lifted the inside to his eyes, rubbing away the blur for a second and looking back up, ready. The cashier looked at him in a way that told him he may have appeared to her like a lunatic.

  Sorry.

  She said nothing. Stared. He bought his cigarettes and again chose the wrong door before exiting. He lit a cigarette as he walked past one of the signs that
told him not to paste on all four pumps. He imagined it exploding.

  Pppkkkkooowwwwwwwwhhhh

  The uneasiness never left him. It didn’t grow stronger, just more sickly as it moved from his chest to his stomach. He had been preoccupied until now but his foot was throbbing again. He was still blocks away. He could feel the warmth and stickiness of fresh, coagulating blood building up in his sock, the fibres of the clothe becoming sharper with each step, pushing into the wound. The ash, the wind, seemed no better, no worse, yet different. The sky was yellowish grey. Grey clouds swam above him, torrents and whirlpools. It was beautiful he thought, yet absolutely terrifying. Otherworldly. The methane skies of Venus. The same feeling of dread started to come over him. He lit a cigarette and began to walk faster. For a very short time. The pain in his foot made him switch to walking on his heel now. Hobble. He could see the parking lot in front of the hospital. A car, old and rusted, first one he’d seen on the road in days blew past him, sending a wave of ash covering him like a splash after a storm. The car swerved left down another street, screeching the corner at speed. He crossed the road into the parking lot still hobbling, though now slowing. He calmed now and started to feel foolish. The parking lot was nearly bare. Maybe these people, these sick and dying, had relatives as bad as him. The hospital walls were grey with ash, windows dark. He made his way up the wheelchair ramp, rather than the stairs, up to the pale blue doors that were the main entrance. He stood at the door clutching the rounded metal handle.

  A greying man pushed his way down the corridor. He seemed lost, clutching the metal rod that suspended what seemed to be an empty IV drip whose tube was filled with a yellow liquid, bile, and lead up his forearm and disappeared under his sleeve. The receptionist was missing again, though she had left stacks of files and papers on the front desk as well as a filing cabinet open. He rounded the corner towards the corridor he needed. The floor was colour coded with lines and arrows to direct you to your destination though they had faded terribly since he first came here. Since she first got sick and started to come in for her treatments. He opened the steel door to the stairwell. He regretted not taking the elevator, as it was impossible not to use his toes to climb the steps upwards. His footsteps echoed. Into another corridor. He hoped she would be awake this time, responsive. He hoped to see her eyes again. Give her a wink. He stood outside her door for a moment before turning the knob and entering. Fresh folded white linens sat upon the naked bed. The flowers, the picture frames, the stuff she requested be brought from her home, the CD player she still kept for years because she refused to buy an mp3 player, gone. The machines that had been monitoring her, feeding her, medicating her, all gone. The heavy curtains closed once again. He stared around the freshly sanitized room, knowing what it meant in the back of his mind but refusing to let himself say the words internally. He began to shake, his eyes and mouth wide. He almost collapsed. The weight of a thousand memories came flooding over him, threatening to collapse him. A nurse suddenly entered, slamming the door, paying him no attention, only the bed. She began to shake out the sheets, the light blue blanket on top, make the bed. He stared at her. He couldn’t see her face but her hair was a tangle of grey and black.

  Excuse me?

  She kept making the bed.

  Hey, he said softly, excuse me nurse?

  She turned to him. She had almost black eyes that sat, bursting, on her unnaturally pale, thickly makeuped face. Thin red lips torqued into a smile framing corroded teeth. Her light blue scrubs stained in the front with red and burgundy and maroon. She said nothing, only smiled.

  Where is she?

  Where is who, my dear? Her smile never leaving while she spoke.

  What do you mean where is who? Where the fuck is my sister? The woman who’s been in this room for months? Where is she?

  She stared back at him, her head seemed to wobble a little as she continued her forceful smile back at him. She said nothing, only blinked.

  Tears were forming now, hotly making a path down his cheeks.

  What is wrong with you? Where is my sister?

  My child is dead. A familiar voice from the doorway as the nurse slowly swivelled and turned, eyes forward as she did. His father stood in the doorway. Wrecked, he shuffled into the doorway and let himself fall into one of the armchairs in the corner. He wore an old t-shirt he would normally only wear in his garage or in the garden and jeans that has long since been presentable. His face was grey and red from grief, his eyes black and red from sleeplessness. He slowly looked up at his son, tears welling in his eyes. He looked back at his father as he backed himself against the wall and slowly slid down the wall onto the floor, chest heaving, trying not to be overcome but unable to stop the tears. He began to sob.

  When?

  Last night.

  He thought of his decision to not go over there yesterday afternoon. His stomach ached now and he closed his eyes tightly until he could see nothing but darkness. He opened them and looked at his father who had his head in his hands now, body moving in rhythm with each heavy, silent sob.

  Dad. I’m sorry, he said, but received no reply. He stood up.

  Where’s Mom? Where were you two the past couple days I went to your place. Still his father did not look up, only sobbed. He went to him and stood in front, putting his hand on his father’s shoulder. Eventually, his father stood as well and embraced him. Shaking. He could remember what it was like for him and now his father’s grief threatened to overcome him as well. He could feel it radiating off of him. His father gripped him tighter now and stopped shaking. They hadn’t been close in a while. He wished this could last a while.

  It should have been you, he whispered, hugging him tighter now. He thought he had misheard. He kept hugging back.

  It should have been you, his father said again, digging his fingers into his son’s back before shoving him backward towards the wall.

  Look what you’ve done! His father growled at him, pointing towards the bed, this is your fault!

  Dad, what the fuck! he cried, looking towards the bed. He stopped. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes wide and glossed. This felt familiar. A nightmare he had had before many times. The smiling nurse, the sheets and blanket, gone. A boy. Motionless. Leg casted and raised. Stomach heavily bandaged over dozens of stitches and pale bloodless skin. Arms scraped raw, stabbed with synthetic veins, finger attached to a clip. His neck surrounded by a white plastic brace. And his face. Tube running into his toothless mouth, above a broken jaw. His crushed nose covered and protected. His eyes black. His head, shaved, broken, bandaged, with screws protruding and orbited by a steel halo. Machines surrounding him. After it all, unthinking and unwakeable from inhaling cold water. He became mad at the sight of his son. He ran over to the dying boy, screaming. This is how he had left, years ago. He cried uncontrollably, held his son, careful not to move him but squeezing. He turned his head and put his ear to the boy’s chest, closed his eyes, listening for a heartbeat. He stayed there, feeling the boy’s lungs being inflated and deflated on command, but unable to stifle his howls long enough to sense a beat. He looked up to the boy’s face. It was still. Except for the eyes, they twitched with what he thought were dreams. He had hoped that meant that somewhere, deep inside, that his son wasn’t gone, that his mind wasn’t traumatized. The continued, rapidly moving, bouncing, until they flashed opened. Slowly, they scanned over to meet his.

  Monkey? he choked.

  His son said nothing. Only stared back at him through familiar eyes. As his tears fell on the boy, they began to sink and puff into his frame like rain into ash. He felt his son’s ribs start to weaken and snap. He stood up as the boy’s face sank into the cot, his stomach, his arms and legs quickly greying, crumbling, beginning to blow away, becoming dust, until all that resisted were his eyes, still staring at him, accusing him, until they too turned to dust. He screamed.

  NOO, NOOO, he screamed, over and again, unable to make sense of what was happening until his father grabbed him from behind an
d turned him. His face was distorted, pocked with black pits burned deep into him.

  This is YOUR FAULT! His father’s words vibrating inside him. He pushed him up against the wall now, his fingers, again, digging into him, gouging his shoulders.

  YOUR FAauulllaaaaa. His words falling apart just as his face was. Terrified, he turned his face away. He could feel the hot breath on his face, the taste of sulphur in his mouth as he screamed. He twisted, pushed, trying to get away, throwing his father, this thing and himself onto the floor. It howled as it collapsed into the floor, shattering like a glass against the linoleum, pieces of itself ricocheting around the room until the shards turned to dust leaving only the echo of the howl that reverberated inside his head, growing louder, unbearable. He pushed himself back against the wall, covering himself with his arms. The neon lights toyed with him before burning out, leaving him alone in the darkness of the room.

  His heart was racing, trying to escape. He felt his way along the hospital floor to the doorframe. He lit his lighter as he peered around the corner but it only blinded him more and he quickly let go of the trigger. He didn’t think of staying in this room only escape. He felt his way across the hallway, terrified of what was in the darkness, until he felt the ribbed baseboard on the opposite wall. Slowly, he groped his way along, each shuffle, each baby step a moment of uncertainty followed by relief as he found solid ground once again. He counted the doors as he crept, trying to decide how far along the hall he was, which door was his. This one. Did the stairwell have a knob or a handle? He pulled down on the handle and the door creaked open. He lit his lighter again. A woman, bent into the corner under the hospital bed, eyes stitched shut yet sensing his presence growled and lunged at him like a dog baring her teeth. He pulled back on the handle to close the door dropping his lighter in the room as he did. Elbows unsteady, he crawled on to the next door, the will to escape overriding the will to give up. He felt a knob. Quietly, he turned it. Still no lights in this room. His hands led him across the floor, guided him until he came to what felt like a metallic rise in the floor. Relief as he gripped the first step. He began to make his way down, holding each with purpose until his palm ground into something slick and wet causing him to fall forward onto his face and tumble and slide down the rest of the steps, hitting the door below hard.