by A. P. Fuchs
To her right, her father stood with his back to her, hands raised, the baggy sleeves of his green sweater bunching around his elbows. At an angle across from him, a figure in a black hood and robe held him in the sights of a sleek black rifle. The mysterious figure bore an unsettling resemblance to Death.
Purple clouds tumbled and twirled above like fluff in a dryer. Thunder rumbled both far off and also near.
"Dad!"
He didn't seem to hear her. Maybe he wasn't allowed to turn around? Maybe the figure in the black robe would shoot him if he did?
White rope. It was more of a sensation than a thought, but the image of a white rope came to the surface of her mind.
Glancing to her left, she saw a dark purple stone box pushed up against the outside railing. The box was about a half-foot shorter than the railing, but the white coil of rope on its top made its total height a good six inches above the railing, if not more.
Black handle. Another sensation, another knowing of a kind.
Disregarding the consequences of what she was about to do, Sharon ran toward the rope and grabbed the black handle that sat in the coil's middle. It was only when she stood on the railing and looked down did she realize what she was doing. The endless abyss of swirling purple and gray cloud below made her head swim.
Light headed, certain she was going to faint, Sharon fought to stay coherent. A ways behind her, over her right shoulder stood her father, hands still in the air. His balding head caught the light of a jagged slash of lightning that shot through the sky, then just as quickly disappeared.
The figure in the black robe---it was closer to him.
Okay, here we go, she thought. She did this before. Many times. At least, she thought she had.
Sharon ran along the railing, away from her father. The rope unraveled a good fifteen or twenty feet before it went taut. The moment the rope tugged on its bond to the purple box, Sharon dove off the railing's edge, hoping her grip would hold on the handle. Immediately her body jerked to her right and fell, hot wind blowing her hair back. Reaching the base of her downward arc, she shot upward, her body quickly sailing toward railing-level. Still rising upward, she passed the man in the robe and her father, and when the rope hit the pinnacle of its swing, she twisted her body to the right so she was facing them. She leaned over to the left as she descended. Her shoulder ached, but she swallowed the pain and ignored it.
With the skill of having done it countless times before---from other "runs" through the obstacle course that was the Spinning Room---she pulled on the rope and jolted herself down its length, grabbing the rope where it was still taut.
Legs outstretched, she swung in and knocked the cloaked figure to the ground. The shiny black rifle went off as its butt-end hit the ground.
Her father fell, blood spurting from his chest.
* * * *
Aunt Clora aimed the gun at Sharon.
Move! Sharon screamed inside and darted past her. The gun went off and Sharon ducked instinctively. The bullet grazed her shoulder, tearing up a chunk of the white nightgown she wore. Wait, red sweater, right? she thought. The realization of difference in apparel quickly faded.
"Come back here!" Clora yelled after her. The voice was distant, melodious, and seeming to come from somewhere ahead of her instead of behind.
Lightning slashed the sky in zig-zagging lines. Thunder rolled along the purple and gray clouds.
Digging her bare heels into the marble floor, she pressed on, already envisioning the tinted window about to appear on her right.
"Mom!" she said and ran even harder.
Stopping before the window, she found it difficult to breathe as she frantically tried to figure a way in. Banging on the glass with the undersides of her fist, Sharon hoped the sound would distract the man in the blue outfit---Blue---long enough for her mother to get away and not endure whatever he had planned.
"Watch out for the one in red!" Sharon shouted through the glass.
Her mother glanced over at her, smiled sweetly, her aged eyes reading, "I know what I'm doing."
The short man in the red suit---Red---entered the room and joined his friend. Before long, her mother fell from view. A gush of red streamed upward, splashing the window.
"No!" Sharon's cries were quickly silenced by a devastating boom of thunder.
Next time, she thought. Next time.
She ran.
The desire to redeem herself burned a hole through her heart. She saved herself from her aunt, but let her mother die. Her father was the only one left. She knew what was going to happen. She just couldn't remember if she knew how it was going to happen and how she could save him.
He died last time, right? she thought. She couldn't remember. Memories of efforts to save her parents ending in failure kept her thoughts in a foul mix.
Sweat trickled off the baseline of her hair, down her neck, and rode the contours of her back and pooled at the waistband of her jeans.
Look out for the man in black. The pace of her thoughts matched that of her stride. Man in---
And then she saw him. Spikes of lightning zig-zagged so close to the smooth marble railing that Sharon was certain the figure's black cloak would burst into flames. He stood near the railing, the clouds crashing, thundering, booming behind him.
Now that would be a blessing. I wouldn't have to---The white rope! There, beside the dark figure.
She poured on the speed and, a moment later, a sudden flash of gray followed by a rush of black as her face slammed into the marble floor. The sound of impact ran through her head from front to back then hung above her ears. Hot pain sliced the front of her ankle, then the back, then the front again. She felt like she had just stubbed her toes, too.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she slowly got up, her head still bowed and her fingertips bracing her on either side, keeping her balanced. Standing straight up, she winced as she carefully set her left foot down.
Parting the brown hair that hung over her eyes, she screamed when she saw her father on his knees before the man in the dark cloak. The rifle---now silver---was to her father's head and with the next bang of thunder the end of the gun barrel sparked a bright yellow star, the color quickly replaced by a glistening upward spray of deep red.
* * * *
Her left foot was fine. There was no headache or ringing originating from inside.
I wish I could see Aunt Clora well before she tries to kill me instead of this stupid gray pillar that hides everything beyond each curve, Sharon thought.
The stone pillar that was part of the path she followed was enormous. Its curve was so slight that it felt like you were moving in a straight line when running next to it.
What if she ran alongside the railing instead of beside the pillar? Would it make a difference? She might get a better view of her aunt.
Crossing over the reflective gray-speckled, marble floor, she brought her hands up, already imagining the bang from Aunt Clora's gun.
She ran, an impending feeling that she had to get to . . . someone . . . soon or the worst would happen. Far off, where the railing began curving inward, a flutter of white . . . cloth? . . . materialized.
"She's waiting for me," Sharon said. She's waiting . . . waiting for me.
The flowing white material moved rhythmically in an unfelt wind, growing closer.
Her thoughts ceased and her legs brought her nearer to the woman about to kill her.
She's waiting for me. The thought was a welcome noise in a too-silent mind. Waiting!
Sharon crossed the floor again, back to the pillar. She slowed to a jog then stopped completely. It might work. This whole repetition of events felt like a game, but Sharon couldn't recall what game she was playing or who she was playing it with.
Keeping herself as close to the wall as possible, she slowly stepped forward. Not too far . . . not too close, either.
"Wait," she whispered. Stopping, she swallowed the lump in her throat.
Moments crept by and her legs
grew jittery. Have to hurry and run. You have to hurry and---No! Don't do it. Stay put or move slowly, but do not run! The words inside her head carried the firm voice of her mother scolding her when she had done something wrong.
The white fabric of her aunt's dress crossed back over to the right. She would be there any moment, gun poised, ready to kill.
Sharon crept forward, trying to make her body one with the wall.
Aunt Clora's shoulders and hips were clearly visible now, on the other side of the curve far ahead. The rest of her would soon follow.
When she's halfway over, before she can see me---Clora's gorgeous red hair hung halfway down her arm. Only half of it was visible.
Sharon ran back across to the railing at an angle, keeping as close to it as she could, restraining herself with everything she had from looking over the edge. But she looked anyway and was lost to the paint-like swirls of purple, indigo, gray and blue. There was nothing down there yet there was everything. Its depth ran for miles and her body ached to jump over the edge to see where it might lead.
About to succumb to its pull, Clora grabbed her.
"Bye-bye," she said in a plucky tone. She brought the gun to Sharon's head.
No! It's not supposed to happen like this! I escaped before. If I did it once I'm supposed to every time, right? Her head ached with confusion.
The instant Clora cocked the gun Sharon ducked low, grabbed the arm with the gun and pulled her aunt to the railing, slamming her aunt's gut against it. Quickly, Aunt Clora twisted, her back pressed against the railing. Wasting no time, Sharon put her hands above Clora's breasts and pushed quick and hard. Aunt Clora toppled over the edge. Sharon broke her momentum forward, palms to the rail.
Clora didn't scream as she fell and disappeared into an inviting pool of moving purple, gray, blue and---
Sharon moved onward.
Okay, get Mom, then Dad right after, Sharon thought. Moving past Aunt Clora took longer than I thought. So much for my plan. She doubted that any other she would have come up with would have worked either. Just run.
The metallic taste of stale saliva ran over her tongue. Her lungs hurt, but only at their bottoms, like a sharp stick was being driven into the lower part of her ribcage. Her mother would be coming up on the right any moment now.
"Gotta have more time," she said. Her words came out choppy as she ran. It was better to say some of her thoughts out loud than keep them in. It helped keep her head clear.
Glancing over her left shoulder, she checked to see if Aunt Clora had somehow found her way back up and was following behind. All she saw was the long, slightly curved wall that was the pillar in the middle of this Spinning Room.
Spinning Room. That felt somehow right. This was a spinning room, wasn't it? The path spun around the pillar and---
A crack of thunder shook the ground. By her right foot, the one closest to the pillar, was a fine black line---a crack of some sort. Despite not wanting to lose time, she forced herself to slow down and eyed the line that separated the pillar from the floor. The blending of the grays of the floor and the wall made it nearly invisible.
Placing a palm on the pillar's smooth surface, she slowed her jog to a brisk walk. Heat brewed beneath her palm as she trailed it against the wall. At the speed she was walking, her outstretched arm should have bent at the elbow as her body caught up to it. But it didn't. Her right arm stayed straight even when she picked up her pace.
She had to get moving. It took so long to get from one "event" to another.
Bursting into a fast run, she charged toward the glass window, hoping she hadn't wasted too much time while she figured out that the floor was spinning---however slowly---around the pillar like a washer around a screw.
How am I gonna save Mom? she thought. The glass that separated her and her mother was thick, a Plexiglass of some kind. She had nothing to break it with.
I'll never get out of here--- "---unless I save her," she said.
Every ten or so feet, the railing far to the left was separated by stone posts, part of the finely-detailed railing's design. Upon further inspection, the rail appeared old in parts, worn away and cracked at different connecting points, weathered from years of abuse from the storm that raged ever-on around this place.
I wonder . . .
Hope filled her as she crossed to the railing, stopping by one of the dividing posts. The shape on the top of it resembled the smooth, bulbous piece of wood that would sit on top of a square block at the end of a banister.
Wrapping her hands around the back of the sphere, she pulled with everything she had. It wiggled, but nothing more. Planting first her right foot, then her left against the railing, hands still behind the sphere, she pushed her legs outward, assisting her arms.
She grunted, straining to break the top of the post free. Thunder crashed, its sudden sound causing her to jump and apply that much more strain on the post and railing. The railing snapped and her legs shot over the edge; she smacked her tailbone as she hit the ground, her crotch slamming into the post. She yelped and pushed against the post---hoping it wouldn't break---to get the better part of her legs away from the endless nothingness of the cloud-swirling sky.
Panting, she lay there, sweaty and tired. She had taken too long. Her mother would be dead by now. So would her father.
* * * *
Sharon, muscles fresh, lungs full of energizing air, tore along the wall, confident she would save her parents this time.
Just like before, she lured her aunt over to the wall, ran around her, only having to dodge one shot before taking off toward her mom. This time, knowing the room was spinning around the pillar made her run all the more faster. She kept her eyes peeled for the post she had tried to free last time she underwent this strange challenge. The posts were all alike and all seemed to have a weathered look where the railing joined up with them on either side. To find the same one . . . . And did the posts reset themselves, too, each time she had to start over? Things changed here in the Spinning Room. First her sweater was red then changed to---what was it, again? And the figure in the black cloak's rifle had turned from black to---She couldn't remember, but knew in her heart things altered slightly with each run through the course.
Save them first, she thought. You have a bit more time. Be careful to not go over the edge if the railing breaks again. She went to the nearest post, set her hands behind the bowling-ball-sphere at its top, planted her feet on the railing and pushed/pulled with all she had. Feeling it move, she rocked the post back and forth.
It broke quicker than last time. Well, the railing did. The post still stood there, but that didn't matter. Parts of the railing flew over the edge; other chunks skittered across the smooth marble floor, crashing into the wall-like pillar across the way. Sharon quickly got up and ran to a piece of stone about the size of a football.
She would save her mother this time. She was certain.
Ahead, she saw the dividing line where the wall blended from marble to glass. She slowed down and, only a foot or so away from it came to a complete stop. This was perhaps one of the few times that being left-handed worked to her advantage. Using her hips for power, she twisted back, gripped the stone and hocked it hard. When her hand was just over shoulder height, the stone's true weight came alive and Sharon's arm sunk. The stone sailed through the air and with a low boomsh landed against the window and shattered a hole about three feet around.
The tall man in the blue jumpsuit glared at her. Her mother jumped back as glass slid across the ground and gathered around those gaudy gray sneakers she always wore.
"Mom, run!" Sharon shouted.
Her mother froze. Any moment the short man in red would come in.
Setting fear aside, Sharon dove at the jagged hole she created. Spikes of glass tore at her shirt and pants, blood dampening her skin. Other pieces of the serrated hole broke, widening it, a few shards sticking into her skin. It didn't hurt as bad as she thought it would, but as she got to her feet, the skin on her thig
hs and arms stretched as they extended and hot slices of pain danced along the leaky slashes.
The short man in the red jumpsuit came into the room, gun ready. The taller man in blue lunged for Sharon's mother. Moving quickly, Sharon grabbed her mom by the shoulders, spun her away from the taller man and, with a grunt, pushed her toward the hole in the window. Arms flung out wide, head bowed forward, her mom landed against the glass back first, shattering the remainder of it as she fell through.
"Go, Mom, go!" Sharon shouted, tears streaming down her bloody face.
Her mother lay there, groaning, rotating her hips slowly from side to side, as if something inside was broken.
A blue-sleeved arm wrapped around Sharon's neck, pressed downward and forced her to her knees. She grabbed at the forearm that squished her windpipe. Its grip would not loosen. The shorter fella rounded in front of her, squatted down and held the gun to her head.
Straining to look to her right to see if her mom was okay, Sharon's heart filled with relief when she saw the place where her mother had lay just moments before was empty.
She---she must've---Her thoughts were cut short when the man in the red jumpsuit cocked the trigger. The other man squeezed her throat harder.
If he breaks my neck, so be it, she thought. But---Jerking herself forward, she reached for the gun. What felt like a golf ball-sized rock slammed into her windpipe. When the man in red pulled away, he lost his balance and fell backward. Sharon grabbed the gun and fired one slug into him. Another blue arm came round on her left, the tall man's bony hand going for the gun. Leaning to the left, she brought the gun over her right shoulder and forced the barrel against the right side of the man's chest. The blue arm on her left dropped the moment she pulled the trigger, warm blood splashing the back of her neck.
Her father was next. If she saved him, she would be free.
Come on, Dad, hang in there, she thought. He had to. She was tired of running around in circles, lost to some repetitive obstacle course that, for all she knew, didn't have an end. Even now after her recent victories, she toyed with the idea of quitting and, when the cycle started over again, bow at Aunt Clora's feet and hope for a bullet to the head. Yet the cycle would still probably renew itself.
