Escaping Life

by Michelle Muckley

  He opened the breakfast cupboard, but not in search of food. There was little time for breakfast; it was already five-forty-five and if he didn’t get a move on he wouldn’t make Check-in. He could eat at work anyway. He had been late on his first day, and the idiot manning the Check-in desk had revelled in docking him one hour’s pay before he had even started. That bastard, Will thought, remembering the incident. Breakfast seemed to be part of the working day for many of those he worked with, a sort of morning summit during which he and his colleagues could allocate the day’s work. Well, that and to decide just exactly how the job’s worth at Check-in had pissed them all off that day already. He was in fact still in search of a plaster. The yellowish-green edge to the wound on his hand was still visible, and it was currently looking quite pliable from its time in the water. He knew the scab wouldn’t make it through the day, but the search for a plaster was proving quite fruitless. Five-fifty. He would have to leave, minus the plaster, and just hope that the wound would dry out on the way to work.

  Two

  His footsteps resonated on the floor like the slow and steady pace of the second hand on a clock. He cautiously moved forward, making progress over the black and white floor tiles that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a sanatorium. There was an old man to his left, sat motionless staring at him. He could barely see his face, and he didn’t recognise him. What was he doing here? He had no place. He could see Dr. Carter’s office in front of him. The door was ajar, and there was smoke coming from inside, billowing out in swirls of transparency. He approached, and could see Dr. Carter sat at the desk, cigarette in one hand, whisky in the other. There was a file on the desk. It had a name on it, but it was too dark to see whose it was. He wanted to push the door open wider so that Dr. Carter would know he was there. He tried. He tried to push the door. It was stuck, as if locked in an open position, one which would not permit entry.

  “No, I don’t want to go any further,” he pleaded. “I want to talk to Dr. Carter. I have to talk to Dr. Carter.” There was nobody listening and Dr. Carter could not hear him. He paid him no attention. He pushed harder against the door, budging it with his shoulder. The door pushed back against him, and the more he pushed the more resistance he felt, until eventually he heard the solid thud as the door closed.

  “No, I don’t want to!” he screamed, as he tried the door handle again.

  “Whatever’s the matter Daniel?” He turned, reassured by the soft Irish accent. The old man had disappeared, and the black and white floor had been replaced by soft pink carpet. The frail old lady sat in her chair, repeating her words and nodding in the direction of the door.

  “No, I can’t do it. The door is closed anyway. He can’t make me.”

  “It’s OK.” She pointed to the door that now stood open. He could feel a light breeze on the back of his neck, and he turned to see the door wide open, the smoke clearing. “Just do as your father tells you.” There was nothing behind him now as he looked back for his mother. No carpet. No black and white sanatorium tiling. Where had the girls gone? There was no other way, and only blackness behind him. He could see Will waving at him, beckoning him towards him. The breeze was cool, and he could see them unpacking the bags.

  “Come on slow coach! You’re ages behind us!” He could see that Will already had his red shoes on. He wanted a red pair too, but he hadn’t been allowed. His father looked at him, and he knew he was taking too long about it.

  “Get a move on, boy,” his father said. His words sounded formal and to the point. He wasn’t joking with him. He realised that he was carrying a rucksack, so he took it off, placing it on the ground. His hands were smaller than he remembered, skin soft, as he let them brush through the long grasses that fluttered gently in the breeze. They were smoother, and tanned. He opened his bag, took out his lunch box, and found his harness.

  “Come on, hurry up!” his father bellowed. He was getting annoyed with him. He hurried to put on his black shoes and fasten his harness properly as his father had shown him a hundred times before. He looked up, and he could see his father checking Will’s harness. Will walked over to him as his father walked towards the rocks. Will didn’t say anything. He just held out his hand. Daniel placed his hand in Will’s, and felt Will squeeze it a little, interlocking his fingers with Daniel’s own. He looked at his face. He was smiling at him.

  “It’ll be fine - don’t be nervous.” He couldn’t be nervous with Will holding his hand. He was his best friend.

  Dan’s father handed him the rope. He threaded it through as he had been shown, and as he had demonstrated time after time the night before.

  “I don’t think I want to do it,” he said. He looked at his father, fear filling his eyes. He could hear the wind, and felt the grit against his skin. Maybe his father hadn’t heard him. He repeated his words, louder this time.

  “Daddy, I don’t think I want to do it. Let Will try.” His father clipped the rope into his own harness, and screwed the karabiner tight. His father looked at him. Dan’s hands were on the rocks already, but he didn’t want to do it.

  “Daddy, I don’t want to.” He didn’t say anything. He looked at Will, who smiled nervously at him. Will had seen this before and wanted to reassure his friend.

  “Daddy, I………” he started, but he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

  His father grabbed his arm. It hurt, and he could feel his grip tightening against his bones. He pushed his hands against the rocks higher and higher, the grit scraping his knuckles, bringing blood to the surface. His lips were quivering, and the tears started to trickle down his face.

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Fox. I don’t mind,” Will offered, urgently trying to rescue his best friend.

  “No, Will. This little waste of space has to learn how to be a man,” his father said, never once taking his eyes off him, and never once blinking.

  “Now climb!” he bellowed. As his father reached for his other arm Dan snatched it away from his impending grasp. He felt the searing hot fluid swilling across his arm, his ageing hands returning, jumping up in front of his eyes as he woke from his dreams to the pain. His mind was back at his desk, his body quickly following. It had been a long time since he had fallen asleep like this. He snatched a tissue to mop up the coffee which was seeping into the pages of notes in front of him. “Shit!” he whispered under his breath. His hands were shaking; his breathing still hard and laboured as he wiped the beads of what he would tell people was sweat away from his cheeks, his actions that of the twelve year old boy that he no longer was.