Clouds

by Nate Allen

  Chapter 4

  With cold flesh, and wet eyes, Grant stuffed the letter back into the envelope, finding a plane ticket leaving from Minneapolis, Minnesota airport at 8:00 am Friday the 17th. One minute he had been ready to propose, looking forward to his future. But, now it had been decided for him. He was free until 8:00 am that Friday.

  Slowly, Grant grabbed the wine colored velvet box from his pocket, and opened the lid. It sat snug, just waiting to wear her finger (not the other way around). But, now that his freedom was limited to less than seventy hours, Grant didn't want to propose. What would be the point? She'd say yes, cry, wave him away, and then mourn his "freedom sacrifice".

  His love for her had not died. It hadn't even digressed. Grant still would have done anything for her. The only thing that had changed was everything, including the world. A future that had looked bright was now bleak and dull. Like a blue sky fading to gray.

  All he could do was take two steps, and then sit down on the top step. Everything he had been working toward was ruined. Not just marriage and kids, but happiness. It had taken him years to crawl out of his crumbling rut. Yet with one letter and a command, he watched the walls close him in darkness once again. The process had proved futile, and now the deep chasm and cliff side were growing closer. Grant had escaped, only to realize there is no escape.

  He sat on the top step, hanging his head, and staring at the ring. Somehow it seemed darker and less special now. Grant closed the box, and put it back in his pocket.

  "Typical." he mumbled, shaking his head, and clearing a tear filled throat.

  The day was quiet, the sky was bright-the town progressed through usual routine. But, Grant sat stuck. His mind was replaying his doubts as if they had been recorded. In that moment his contemplation led him to a decision. Nothing was set in stone, but his immediate decision was to leave without a word. It was to avoid her until Friday, leave, and never return. But, could he do that? Was he capable of such betrayal, even if it did have pure, selfless motive beneath?

  More than anything, he wanted to run to her house, grab her by the hand, and propose his everlasting love to hers. Grant wanted nothing more. He wanted to plant his seed, watch it grow over 3/4 of a year, and name it Kali Marie. With only an impulse, Grant stood up, grew a grin, and ran to her house. His car sat in usable condition, but his impulse didn't allow driving. It wanted something special.

  As Grant ran from his house, and into the clutter of homes behind it, thoughts didn't fill his head. Nothing filled his head but the want of something better. It was all he had now. His faith had shriveled up like his father. All he had to hold onto was the hope sitting snug in its velvet box. Maybe he wouldn't die fighting for a corrupted country. Maybe the President wasn't as corrupt as he had seemed.

  All Grant had to hold onto were maybes, small, hopeless maybes. His whole life was based on the concept of maybe. It was the word of uncertainty. A word he knew all too well.

  Finally, after many long steps, heavy beating of a smitten heart, and labored breaths, Grant arrived in front of Chelsea's with sweat running down his face. He took one moment to gather his composure, and then ran up to her door. After knocking loudly three times, her father came to the door.

  "Grant." Mr. Hart bellowed.

  "Sir." replied Grant to the military man. "Is Chelsea here?"

  "No, she and her mother are out." he clenched his jaw, and cleared his throat.

  "Oh," Grant said softly. "Okay."

  "Is there something you want?"

  "Yeah." he paused, in an attempt to gather courage.

  "What?"

  "I have something to ask you."

  "I'm listening." he rubbed his balding skull with fat sausage fingers, while taking a sip of hard liquor from a clear glass.

  "This is completely unorthodox probably," Grant smiled awkwardly, and laughed. "But I want to ask Chelsea to marry me."

  "I'll be honest with you, Grant." Mr. Hart closed his eyes to beady, and flared his nostrils. "You have been good for her. Ever since meeting you, she has been happy. She's so sure w-we blame her for Theresa's death, but we don't. I love her."

  "I know." whispered Grant.

  "I'm a retired military General. I never gave Theresa the love she deserved... If I blame anybody for her death, it's me."

  "I'm sorry, Sir."

  "To get to the point, Grant, I will give you my permission. You're a good kid. Don't prove me wrong. So you ask her."

  "I plan to, Sir, but just today I received draft papers."

  "I may be a retired General from the military, but it all started with the draft to 'Nam. It was hell. I watched my best friend step on a grenade. He showered us in his innards. That day made me the man I am now."

  "Why are you telling me this, Sir?"

  "I'm telling you this 'cause I want you to turn out differently. Promise me you won't let it change you."

  "I can't promise, but I'll try." Grant swallowed his fear.

  "Come back to her."

  "Okay." Grant shook Mr. Hart's hand, and then walked away. Grant had permission, the ring, and a little less than three days. He had many ends to tie into neat little bows before the seventeenth. Not only Chelsea, and a marriage proposal, but the family and friends he would be leaving. Less than three days was not a lot of time to wrap up loose ends. In fact, it was not nearly enough time. Grant didn't only have to tie up loose ends with the people around him, but he had to coax his inner self out to the open. He had to find peace in a hectic, bleak situation.

  His once fast pace had digressed to dragging steps. He walked away from the white house with red shutters, hanging his head. On the surface everything was picturesque. But, that was just the surface. Below the surface that was Grant Jonathan Smith, there sat pain and a renewed sense of hopelessness. He now looked at the world with tainted sight. Everything he saw was irrelevant. The idea of marriage was no longer contemplation. He would marry her. It was all he was sure of at that moment. It was all he had to hold onto.

  Although his head hung low, and his eyes leaked tears, Grant wasn't broken. Instead, he was lost. He was just a child walking in men's shoes. At twenty, Grant was no more a man than he had been at eighteen. The world was rotting from within. War was only a stepping stone for something far worse.

  After another ten steps forward, Grant stopped in place, and took a deep breath. Sometimes the world seemed to slow down, but not on this day. In fact it only sped up, bringing a shrill scream through the clouds. He swung his head left and right, darting his eyes to their edges.

  "What was that?" he asked in a whisper. "Hello?!" he looked around, only to find silence. The chirping birds still sat on their branches, the yelping dogs still ran about, and the few humans out walking still walked. Yet, somehow Grant was nothing but an audience to the world around him. After years of feeling disconnected, it finally was more than a feeling. His mind world and the world he lived in had met, made love, and spurted forth a demented child.

  He took one step forward, and then several more. The shrill cry spread pervasively throughout a darkening sky. It was a cry of desperation, something aimless, but not senseless. It cried for Grant.

  Every time he heard it, Grant cringed, clenched his nerves, and then unleashed tears from tight ducts.

  "I can't help you." he said within gasps. "Lea-leave me alone!"

  "Grant?" the voice softened to a raspy call. "Save her," it dissipated into a black sky. Grant swung his head side to side, seeing Chelsea's house sitting on the corner with a dull streetlight out front. He turned around, finding the creature with a horned head sitting atop a bulky neck with teeth protruding.

  "It's coming!" a deep voice exclaimed. "It's near."

  "D-dad?" stuttered Grant.

  "It's inevitable, kiddo. Follow me." Suddenly, a black night sky faded to a neon white room. The man he had known as father stood in front of him, still the monster with horns.

  "Wa-what?" he sniffled tears dry, cleared his throat, and sighed. "Where ar
e we?"

  "This is the room." the head atop a bloody mouth spoke mockingly. "The room where they cut you open, distribute your innards to those in need, and then hand you over to me."

  "Who are you?" he was scared, yet curious.

  "I live in you." the horned creature touched Grant's heart.

  "No you don't."

  "I am your father, finally complete." maybe the words this monster spoke were true. Grant had started to realize inner monsters. Hell, he had many that had yet to manifest. What if-on the inside-he looked like the creature standing in front of him?

  "You were a great man. Is this what you were beneath it all?"

  "Like father like son, kiddo. Your monster will tear through your skin like mine did. Christian or not, I still had demons to battle." Grant didn't answer. Instead, he stared attentively. It was an abstract monster, with proportions in line, yet unlike any other monster. The horned creature was the result of an angel and a demon having a one night stand. Good and evil clashing, only to find themselves embracing.

  "Why are we here?" he asked.

  "Just look." suddenly, a table draped in a bloody sheet appeared in front of him. "Lift the sheet Grant."

  "What's under it?"

  "Just lift it." It said. Grant studied his father, staring at his lifeless head sitting on top of a bloody mouth that had been his neck. He stared at four thin tongues aimlessly flailing about. He watched a reptile eye peer at him from within a cheek-full of scales. And then finally, Grant grabbed the bloody sheet, and lifted it.

  "Where am I?" he asked, now cold and weak.

  "I told you," his father answered candidly. "This is where they cut you up, disembowel you, and hand you off to me." Grant felt his stomach churning, and his nerves numbing. It was him lying on the table. His left arm was nothing but a nubby shoulder blade; his right eye was hanging out of its socket; his bottom half ended at his knees, and Grant's chest was sliced open. It revealed a motionless heart, rotting innards, and a word written on a piece of paper: TURN AROUND.

  Slowly, he followed instruction, and turned his body away from the table. Midway through his turn he heard his father's soft breathing turn into guttural gasps of air.

  "Who a-are you?" asked Grant softly.

  "Mrk Frong Dore. Cos Legk Nith." It said fast, as if It had recited it.

  "Wa-what?" Grant stopped midway through his turn, gulped fear down with a blink, and then turned fully.

  "I am going to eat you, kiddo." Grant caught a glimpse of the head atop the mouth, seeing red tinged eyes. There was no father left, none whatsoever.

  "Who are ya-you?!" screamed Grant, while shuffling his feet, and running the small of his back into his hollow corpse.

  "One decision," the head talked coldly. "One choice, choose."

  "Choose what?" Grant pleaded ignorance, but he knew exactly what.

  "It's the only choice that matters."

  "I don't believe in this. None of this is real!" Suddenly, the room split open, revealing a bright blue sky, chirping birds, yelping dogs, walking humans, sound-life. It had been meant to make him face the monster inside once and for all. But, one thing about dreams is they can be escaped. All Grant had to do was tell himself that the bright morgue he stood in and the abstract monster he faced were all part of a dream. There were no consequences, and so no reason to choose between good and evil.

  When he opened his eyes, Grant was lying in the grass, using his hand as a pillow. Every dream seemed to leave him wondering when he actually entered dream. This time was no different. The last thing he remembered was taking a deep breath, and then being welcomed with silence. Grant looked around, finding himself beneath a colorful dusk. While he slept, the sky had murdered a rainbow, dismembered it, and spread its pieces about.

  "How long was I sleeping?" he yawned. He pulled out his phone, waited for the screen to light, and then saw the time: 8:52 p.m. "That's not right." he rubbed his face clean of drool, and dried tears. The time only added onto his confusion. When Grant arrived at Chelsea's earlier that day, it had been just minutes after 3:00 p.m. Right then, it hit him that maybe dream and reality weren't something separate. Maybe they were just different versions of the same thing. Time had never passed that quickly with his other encounters.

  After smacking his lips, and yawning once more, Grant looked right. Her house was lit brightly by the porch light, and the streetlight out front. Her small white car sat out front. Grant got to his feet, staggered until finding solid ground, and then walked back the way he had come. Maybe it wasn't the most romantic way to propose, but Grant knew it wouldn't matter. He knew that as soon as he asked for her hand, the words would blurt out like vomit. They would come with no warning. They would come coldly and to-the-point.

  It only took thirty seconds for him to walk those several steps back to her house, pull the ring from his pocket, and knock on the door. He knocked twice, waited for a few moments, and then was answered by Chelsea.

  "Hey." she said brightly. "What are you doing out here?" she stepped onto the porch, and closed the door behind her.

  Grant fell to one knee. He displayed the box, and flipped the lid. "I know we are still young. But, my love for you is years ahead of my age. We met in a cemetery, at our saddest place, and from that found love. I have thought about this since the moment I laid eyes on you. You have always been the one for me." Grant smiled. "Chelsea Elaine Hart, will you marry me?"

  He caught her in a gaze of shimmering eyes. "Ya-yes," Chelsea put her hand out; Grant placed the ring on her finger, stood up, and kissed her. The next feeling he felt was something he hadn't expected. Instead of blurting words of his future to his fianc?, all he could feel was happiness. A poltergeist peace clothed him with a sheath of content. Nothing had changed. He still would be the government's army doll that Friday morning. But, at this moment he was nothing but a man claiming love for a woman.

  Chelsea smiled, and shed tears of happiness. Grant smiled, kissed her, and laughed... only to sigh.

  "What's wrong?" she asked, still smiling.

  "Um," Grant bit his lip, trying to the best of his ability to hide the truth. "I have to tell you something."

  Chelsea's smile faded to a clenched frown. "Wa-what?"

  "I can't lie to you. I wanted to spare you, but I can't."

  "Just tell me." she pushed away. "What did you do, Grant?"

  "Nothing." he hung his head. "I got a letter today."

  The look of betrayal smothering her face drained into worry. "A letter?" as soon as Chelsea asked, she knew.

  "I have to leave." Grant nearly whispered.

  "Why?"

  "Today I-I received my draft papers."

  "No." Chelsea buried her face into her palms.

  "It'll be-" she cut him off.

  "Do you know where I was today, Grant?"

  "No."

  "I was at the doctor. We are having a baby." happiness and sadness were mixed within her words.

  "Typical." it was the second time that day he had uttered that word. Grant looked into Chelsea's blue eyes, rubbed her chin softly, and kissed her once more. "I'll come back."

  "What if you don't?"

  "I promise." he lied. "I will not die. I will come back. I will marry you. We will live a happy life. Right now is just the time to get past Chelsea. But, our day of happiness is coming."

  "Come back to me." Chelsea latched onto his neck with her arms. "Be here for your family."

  "I will." Grant rubbed her wavy reddish blonde hair back. It was his promise to her. A promise he wanted to keep, but wasn't sure he could...

  It had been an intimate night. Wants inserting into needs occurred time and time again. In many ways it was their closest goodbye to one another. Nothing in their relationship had been more intimate, more loving, more needed. But, now that the night was over, more loose threads were in need of tying.

  The morning was early; dew still sat on grass blades, and flower petals. It was Wednesday now. He only had two more days of freedom. G
rant had yet to tell Bobby, inform his boss of obligatory resignation, and ease an oblivious mother and sister.

  "I have a lot to do today." said Grant as he rubbed Chelsea's hair.

  "I know." she nodded. "Does Bobby know yet?"

  "I'll tell him today. It's kinda funny though-at least I think he'll find it kind of funny."

  "What?" Chelsea looked up at him.

  "When Bobby and I were nine, or maybe it was eight-anyway, we watched footage of 9/11 over and over again. Almost in sync we told each other that one day we would 'kill those rat bastards.' I guess I get to g-go kill them." once again, Grant found himself in a state of realization. The night before the gravity of the situation hadn't weighed on him like it was now.

  "Are you okay?" asked Chelsea as she lifted her head from his chest.

  "It's just heavy. I can't imagine being in a group of carbon copies. You know best. I am not very sociable."

  "Neither am I, Grant. But, you're strong." Chelsea kissed his forehead and then crawled out of bed. She dressed in her thrown-about-clothing. Grant did the same a minute later. They both walked through his hall, down the stairs, and to the door. "I'll call you later." she kissed him once more, and then left.

  For five minutes, Grant stared blankly at the door in front of him. It meant so many things. Not only was it him leaving the haven his house had been, but it was him leaving the happiness he had obtained.

  "Grant?" Hannah asked, walking from the kitchen.

  "Hey, Hannah." he turned his head.

  "What's going on with you and Chelsea?"

  "We're getting married."

  Hannah's face lit up as her recently braced teeth shone brightly. "Congratulations!"

  "Thanks."

  "Does mom know?"

  "Not yet."

  "Oh."

  "Where is mom by the way?"

  "Sleeping I think. Why?"

  "Just wondering, I haven't seen her much lately. Really, I haven't seen her much since she started dating that guy."

  "Todd?"

  "Whatever it is."

  "He isn't bad, Grant. Mom is happy." said Hannah defensively.

  "That's good I guess. I'm sorry, Hannah. I just have a lot on my mind."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I've been drafted." he paused. "I don't know if you've learned about that yet. But, this Friday I have to leave and go fight in the war."

  "I don't want you t-to go. We were just starting to get to know each other." her green eyes filled with tears.

  "I know, but I'll be back." Grant was tired of wearing the strong mask. His whole life he had worn masks. But, he couldn't let people see what was beneath them, because not even he truly knew what they would see.