Dreams

by Wesley McBride

  Dad? His son asked. He looked at his son. His blonde hair flat from sleep. His tired blue eyes looking up at him, just waking up after hours of dreams that came to an end. He looked back towards the highway. The white lines smudging into a continuous chipped and blurry streak. He looked at his hands gripping the steering wheel as he drove. The radio was on but he didn’t recognize the song. Pull over you idiot. Not again. The alcohol on his breath momentarily stung his eyes as he drove.

  Almost home, bud.

  They weren’t. He knew that. Only twenty minutes prior he was picking his son up from baseball. Now he had only minutes to think, minutes to have memories and thoughts and ideas. Hopes and dreams. Maybe a day to live. Look at him fucker! He placed his hand on the boy’s knee and squeezed but never looked over. A truck up ahead. A truck he would have noticed had he been sober. It had broken a timing chain earlier in the day and had been left where it died. He could see it fast approaching. His eyes grew heavy and he blinked with purpose. Please, I don’t want to see this. He had had no memory of the accident only saw pictures, only watched the boy die in a hospital bed. But he knew what happened. The vehicle began to slowly drift towards the shoulder of the road. He couldn’t fight it. He yawned, causing his eyes to water right by the truck now. He rubbed his eyes, causing him to pull the vehicle even more onto the shoulder. Rumble strips on the side of the road catching his attention. He opened them up just in time to see the accident. His car collided with the truck forcing both into the guardrail. The sound of crunching metal and broken glass filled the void around him. His son, not wearing a seatbelt, launched forward. His head hit the windshield, not going through but punching the safety glass out an inch before he collapsed onto the seat. His neck broken in two places. The truck caught a gap in the guardrail that led to a truck stop causing it to abruptly stop and flipping the car over end onto the roof before sparking flipping into a small creek, forcing it to a stop on the rocky bed. A green bottle popped up from the back seat and struck him in the back of the head. The steering wheel in front of him had been bent towards the dash from his forehead. His face swelled and he could feel the warmth of blood in his hair. His son’s legs were protruding out from behind him, the rest of him crumpled and bleeding from his eyes and ears and nose. Light from the truck stop shimmered silver across the rivers of blood that flowed. He tried to pull the boy back into his arms but didn’t have the strength. He pulled at the seat belt that had held him in place, dropping him awkwardly onto his neck. He could smell oil. Oil and sulphur, he thought. He shuffled towards the boy, pushing himself forward and sliding through the broken glass. He closed his eyes again.

  He didn’t know where he was now. Nowhere. Inside his own mind, his own memories all he could see now, lost in the darkness. Not awake but not asleep, more a dream than anything, playing the movie of what he had been told. They had laid there, undiscovered, until the morning. A dairy farmer with mud covered boots and overalls had discovered them during that small period between total darkness and sunrise. He had been lucid, he had been told, walking around, smoking until the paramedics had arrived, muttering nonsense, occasionally shouting for his son. He had broken his arm and suffered a concussion. His son was much worse. In addition to his neck, he had been bleeding inside his skull for the past eight hours. Mostly, he had slumped, his arm slipping from where he had been caught on the arm rest. He had drooped into the water only ten minutes before. They had rushed his son to the emergency room in the first ambulance and sent a second one for him. His first memory afterward, when he finally snapped back into reality, he was talking to a police officer. She had asked him about the green bottle they had found in the car, that had been tucked under the seat. He had denied drinking that night. Twelve hours had passed since the accident. The officer never did a breathalyzer test. Had she, she would have found remnants of the bottle left in his system, enough to prove that there had been a lot in his system prior to the crash. He would have gone to jail he thought. Instead the officer let him leave the room, to go see his son in intensive care, finding him in the place he had last saw him so many times before in his dreams, where he had last saw him yesterday before he had gone back to being just a memory again. He was dead minutes later. He admitted to his wife after months of anger and accusations. She was gone a few months after that. He felt a pull, a jerking sensation dragging him back. If crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, what does that make me? He was back in the alley, still running towards home, never having left, never having been in the car he had crashed drunk so many years before. He slowed to a trot now, then stopped entirely a few feet from the steps, wondering what he was doing in the alley. He turned and looked back at the brick building. It was intact. No smoke. No fire. No corpse with its intestines slopped into the gutter. No sign of what he had just experienced. He remembered the thing. It had been a monster, no, a demon, he thought. He looked at his hand. No fresh wound. A red mark though. He slowly walked into his home, slamming the door behind him. Not caring about what might be waiting for him. He was numb. He lit a cigarette and sat on his couch. The gun’s cocking mechanism jabbed him in the lower back; awkwardly he adjusted but did not remove it. He looked out the intact window and began to breath heavily. A flash came through to meet him, more lightning he thought. I am hallucinating. He began to try to reason to himself. I am hallucinating. What did I look like? Did I just run down the street, yelling things about demons? He felt the pain in his hand, saw the real mark. Lightning flashed outside again. That was real. No rain. Had he drove? He went to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle off of the counter, taking a long pull from it and went to return to the living room when he saw the box on the floor. His stomach churned. The golden liquid from the green bottle disagreeing with him. His mouth watered but he stifled it. He took it and placed it on the table. He put the butt out on the table and lit another cigarette. He reached into his pocket and tried to pull out the rolled card, thinking about what the priest had told him. The Pastor who he was now sure was never there, a dream that you remember small clips from. He produced only lint and bits. I need a doctor. He pointed the gun towards the door and then towards his bedroom door. He clicked the safety on.

  He thought about examining his foot again. It hadn’t bothered him for a day but now that some of the panic and confusion had left it hurt again. He didn’t want to see how bad it was. Instead, he limped to the bathroom. He had black streaks on his face from the ash but his wounds hadn’t changed. Maybe his foot hadn’t either. The towel was still in the sink, still damp. He turned the water on and filled the glasses again, turning it off before it soaked the towel again in boiling water. He rubbed his face with it, scrubbing himself red, before taking his shirt off. He looked emaciated, skeletal. Each rib, both collar bones a little monument to his week long struggle. Nope. Longer. To his anxiety and fear and torment. It was Thursday morning, he thought. Maybe afternoon. He rubbed his armpits and chest with the towel before wrapping it around his neck and slowly working it down his back with both hands. He’d go to the doctor he thought. He wondered. Would she be there this time? He moved his face into the shattered part of the mirror and stared at himself. He put his shirt back on. As he went to leave, he saw it. An intact cell phone, on the floor, near the door. He didn’t pick it up.

  He had blamed her, he thought. Their father. His parents had gone to the lake with friends as they often did, only this was only the second time they had been allowed to stay home alone. She was a year older than him, she was in charge. She had been much more sheltered than him, daddy’s little girl, and she was just now finding out about sex and drugs and being cool. She had decided to have a party that Friday. Enough time to clean up before Sunday. Enough time for pot and paralyzers and shots to leave her system she had told him. You’re such a loser he had told her. She had wanted a small party but it quickly rose to around twenty kids. Teenagers. Thirty maybe. Fifty would be closer, and their dad’s dog, Rooster, who was locked in their parents’ room for the night. Inside
dog, basically blind. She and some of her close friends had been drinking while he was out. When he had returned, with his friend, his sister was drunk, laughing, playing drinking games with cards around the kitchen table. Some game involving a pyramid of cards he didn’t know about yet. The ceramic bear was on the table as well while a very drunk redhead was pouring shots of vodka into its broken off, hollow head. It was fairly tame he now thought, though he could smell the weed and cigarettes that were being smoked throughout the house. He had seen his opportunity quickly upon arrival. Without his sister seeing him, he had snatched a half bottle of something off of the bookcase near the entrance to the kitchen, and some beers that had been left on the floor, and went to his parents room with his friend to watch TV. He had had a beer before but never hard liquor. He was careful to keep Rooster in the room when they entered. But later, after the bottle had disappeared, he had felt sick. With reasoning only known to him at the time, he had decided he needed to go outside to vomit rather than do it in his parents on suite bathroom. Logic of a 15-year-old. He had run out the door while his friend laughed at him, throwing up a bit on the hallway wall as he ran, then again on the bushes out front that lined one side of the driveway. Rooster had followed. He had saw the dog wag slowly down the street but didn’t stop him. He returned to his room and became sick once more on the floor before spinning his way through skateboard posters and hockey logos and centerfolds and eventually to sleep. He had awoken to yelling. He didn’t get out of bed immediately, only later when it dawned on him that it was his parents yelling. Home early. Power outage. He had vomit on his shirt he had worn yesterday. He quietly changed into pajama pants and a different t-shirt, careful to cover the small puddle on his carpet with his clothes, clean side up, and left to question what was going on, why was there yelling. The home was fairly clean he had thought. There were no longer cans or bottles on the kitchen counter, the table, the living room, all thrown out into the neighbour’s garbage bin the night before. What his sister hadn’t counted on inebriated the night before was the lingering smell of the party that she thought would have time to air out. She hadn’t noticed the beer cans someone had left on the far side of the couch and on the TV stand. Nor had she noticed the bit of her brother’s vomit on the wall, or the two cigarette burns in the carpet which she might have been able to explain away had she been given time rather than being ambushed in her bed. Worst of all, Rooster was missing. But not for long. Later that evening, he had gotten a call from a stranger, reading their number from the silver, bone shaped tag around the neck of a white dog with reddish patches on his head and neck. He was dead, found on the side of the road by someone who didn’t think it important enough to stop. He had admitted to seeing people there and while he lowered the number to an acceptable amount of people attending he had denied any involvement in the activities. She had blamed herself; someone at her party had let her out. He kept his secret.

  I’m sorry. he whispered to her.

  I’m sorry, he whispered to himself.

  Ashes blew into his face, a heavy hot gust. He had an audience.

  His eyes burned and he was blinded, coughing, sneezing out the ash. He dropped to his knees and rubbed his eyes, making it worse, then slowly better. Ash clung to the tears that tried to rinse his eyes. He stood and turned his face towards the buildings, into a window framed by brick, giving him slight respite from the wind and ash. He could see again, though blurry. The sky was deeper now, dark clouds of ash islands in a sea of dark blood being lit by flashes that lit them, brilliantly unnerving momentarily. Ashes no longer drifting down but seeming to rain harder now. He had only walked for a few blocks and forgotten where he was going, maybe nowhere, when he noticed them again. The people, staring out their dusted windows, watching him, watchers more than before. A woman in a blue dress about 40 next to a child wearing what appeared to be the same dress. A younger man suited in a set of dress blues and cap and an out of date moustache. Two little boys nearly the same age, holding hands in little bowties. A younger couple, also holding hands, in matching colours. More. All were ready. For what he didn’t know. All were waiting for a show. All dressed as though they had just came from church or whatever. Better yet a funeral. He slowly turned on the sidewalk, there were more further down the street. He backed into the street now, looking up into the building he had been walking under. More people. All with same expression. Where he had seen sadness now noting. Nothing, yet hatred. As he spun back around, he felt the pistol slip down further into his waistline. Fuck. He had forgotten he had it on him. Get home, put it away. Whatever was going on he couldn’t be here. He began to run towards the alley as the gun nearly bounced out of his jeans. He caught it, running with his finger on the trigger, scared to have it on the street but taking comfort in its security. As he got to the alley, he turned back towards the street, still walking, his jeans catching under his heels, trying to stumble him. Still watching. He thought he recognized the woman who he had seen have her neck torn through the hazy glass. He kept the gun ready.

  You can get out, you know.

  He slowly dragged the gun through the ashy air and pointed. It was the homeless man who had been there for almost a week. He lowered it slightly. There was a dog, he thought. He kept backing up towards his door.

  What? He breathed the words, forced them out rather than speaking them. As he spoke, he again recognized the man. Wearing the same shoes…the flannel! He had the same one in his closet. More. His eyes, Just now noticing a cut on his cheek hidden by weeks of beard. The old man shrugged.

  Kay. He paused. Do I know you?

  The man stared at him over his greying beard and weather leathered skin.

  It can get better. I’ve seen you. I knew you once.

  He kept walking backwards, away, at the still open door to the garage, but slower. Silent.

  It’ll be better.

  He stared at the man. It came. How he knew. How his voice, his face, his shoes were familiar. He was staring at himself, though weathered and destroyed in this life it was himself. He tried to speak. He stopped. He felt a pressure in his chest. No. Not now. He tried to fight but it pulled him. The light above the garage glowing brighter. He decided. Fuck you. I choose. It smiled.

  He walked to the doorway. They watched, the others, the mourning, watched. Him. On the couch. Gathering supplies and walking, stumbling to the garage. Looking up, he could see himself study the screw that held the eaves to the side of the garage. He watched as he went to the truck and placed the bottle and glass inside. Two pieces. Putting weight on the top one, the screws came out easily due to time and weight. Drag them to the garage. One on the tailpipe. Open the window, get in, close the eaves in the window. He watched himself purposefully push green pills out of a silver sleeve and place them on the ash free dash. A glass filled with yellow liquid. Green bottle nearby on the floor of the white truck. He watched himself push the pills into his other hand that hung like a spoon slightly below the edge of the dash, then ladle them into the glass. He watched himself. He realized what dream, what nightmare, it wanted him to see. He swallowed the sour contents of the glass then picked the bottle up from the floor. Drank. Give it time. The thing relished. He could feel him laugh as he watched the nodding, the attempt to sleep.

  No.

  He closed his eyes. Tried to drown it with silence. He watched himself. Pushing on the door inside the truck, fumbling, losing strength, then gaining it.

  Fuck you.

  He fell out of the truck, the door giving way, landing on a piece of mud that had come loose from the truck earlier and had become hard, cutting his cheek. He crawled into the light, around the tire. He watched himself push fingers into his mouth.

  Try again!

  Third attempt. A green pool. Again. More. Then nothing.

  It laughed at him. Not enough.

  He watched himself stand, stumble, grope the concrete, stand again, leave the door open.

  He followed. He was welcomed. He watched as he pushed his hea
d against the carpet, trying to stand, instead crawling, against the wall, unable to navigate his way to the kitchen without its aid. Shuffling against the corner until he broke free to the kitchen. He didn’t have words. It kept smiling, laughing, ready to pull him under, able. He watched himself lose his steadiness on the small piece of carpet in the kitchen, pull on it, trying to drag himself up, before he curled into the brown carpet and go still.

  You can’t have him, he said. It waited, knowing it wasn’t over. He stared into the darkness. Then a knock. Mom, knocking on the open door, always kind. She poked her head in, then entered.

  Hello?

  I can’t talk now, Mom.

  He watched as she slowly entered the home. Careful to not disturb the ash on the carpet too much, upset at the condition of the place, a mother’s love. She walked towards the kitchen. Stop he pleaded. He followed her gaze. It was him. Himself, a beggar, a preacher, all him. She cried out, tried to wake him, trying to pick him up as she last had when he was eleven, then stand. His face, pale, fresh blood no longer flowing but pooling into red swamps inside him, blue eyes slightly open, clutching a brown carpet. Not violent yet not peaceful. His mother’s screams turned to thunder, as the room became dark, red, breathing again as it prepared, ready to take him. He didn’t take his eyes off his mother’s as she turned out of the room, and out the front door to call his father. He sunk. He knew. He could feel her sorrow, her loss. Gripping the gun tightly he looked towards his doorway from the alley. It stood there, daring him. Begging him. The darkness, the abyss of hatred that was the devil himself. The flashes of lighting grew more frequent, the ashes, the dust grew heavier, a hurricane. A storm. He walked to the door. Looking. Black. He stood, turning towards the alley now. Watching the storm. He didn’t cry. Just watched. It grew angry. It spoke inside him, tried to destroy him, make him destroy himself. He didn’t. It grew angrier. The winds whipped at his face. Ash and dirt stung his eyes sour in his mouth, the winds growing until he thought it might drag him away into the darkness, sanding his knuckles and scorching him, filling his lungs with fire and needles. A voice rose inside him. Not it’s or his own. Something else. Saying nothing, yet knowing what it wanted him to know, hearing what it wanted him to hear. In a moment he knew.