by A.R. Rivera
Cobwebs
When things go wrong in my life, they go really, really wrong. Like the day Carrie died. She didn’t just die, she died way too young, and in front of me, right after I’d argued with my mother over watching her while I did my chores.
Furious, I cursed them both inside my head and then lost them in quick succession. Carrie went that same morning, lying on the patch of grass I was cutting. Our mother stayed on, dead inside. A walking corpse until she left Dad and me.
Then he was killed. The last thing I said to him was a lie. Come back for the box, he’d said. I promised I would, right after I got off work. Then I forgot.
When I first started working at Aamhed’s store, a woman came in to buy a bottle of cough syrup. I didn’t really pay attention, except to notice that she was short with noticeably gray hair and apple-shaped in the wrong way.
I was behind the counter watching the rainstorm splatter the parking lot. The dirty water was splashing up onto the concrete step out front. I was thinking that customers would track the muck inside and I didn’t want to mop again.
When the round woman came to the counter to pay, I never looked up. Never made eye-contact or even thought about it as I scanned the single bottle of cough syrup. She paid in cash and didn’t reply when I asked if she wanted a bag.
The non-answer grabbed my attention. I only caught a glimpse of her face as she snatched the bottle of cough medicine and turned towards the door. Her cheeks were pale, slightly wrinkled, and drenched with obvious tears. Her expression held nothing. Not a puckered cry-face or even a frown; just a deep, expressionless gloom. I never saw a set of eyes so helpless, so miserably empty in all my life. And she was still carrying on with mundane errands. I wondered, briefly, what the medicine was for and as the day progressed I forgot about her altogether.
Here, in the long depressing night, I clearly see that woman’s blank face and wonder where she is, if she’s better now or worse.
I wish I could apologize for treating her the way that she felt—invisible—because I know now what it feels like to go unnoticed. I’m the invisible one in this empty place.
I never used to understand people whose moods were determined by the weather. Specifically, ones prone to depression in the winter. Not until now. I don’t think it’s the time of year that depresses them. It’s the lack of light. Dark is great if you need to hide, but when you need to see, your blind.
With the fire at my back, I decide all of this ruminating is useless.
Closing my eyes, I pray for a deep, dreamless sleep.
I’m standing in a lush field with waist-high grass bordered by encroaching forest painted in vivid emerald green.
Beyond the immense tree tops, glowing white capped mountains reach high into the horizon. The open sky overhead is amazing: a black velvet expanse specked with a billion points of brilliant light, shining down on me. I marvel at the simple glory and wonder at the distant reaches beyond comprehension.
From the edge of the burgeoning tree line a boy runs into view. He’s small and thin, wearing animal skin pants and a wide, beaded plate over his chest. The ornament jumps as he moves, showing the native jewelry is too large for his frame. Moonbeams leach the color from his skin, but not his hair, which hangs down over his shoulders like a dark curtain.
I want to move his direction but something I can’t see keeps my feet stuck.
Closer and to my right, I spot another man; his skin leached of color, too. He’s shirtless and hunkered in a squat with his back to me. A laundry basket rests at his feet. I watch him lift a rumpled white cloth to a long clothesline that appears near his head. As the man stretches the sheet towards the line, the cloth transforms. The fabric he’s holding morphs into a large, metal ring. He magically hangs the circle on the line and turns around.
My breath falters. It’s him—my dad.
When I call his name, my father cups his hand behind one ear. I call out again, “Dad! Dad, what are you doing here?” But a great wind blows, stealing the sound away. I’m worried he’ll disappear before I tell him what I know and start yelling as loud as I can.
He still cups his aged hand behind his ear like nothing I say is reaching him over the gusting wind that’s gaining strength.
The boy is still a ways off and I don’t know why, but I know I can’t move from my spot until he arrives, so I stay focused on my dad.
Dad’s got an odd smile as he takes another cloth from the basket at his feet and morphs it to another ring and hangs it on the clothesline, essentially hooking it in place alongside the others. I’m mesmerized by the instantaneous, magical way the objects change from one form to another. The enchanting metal circles attach to the never-ending rope extending north and south as far as the eye can see. Dad points at the circles, speaking words of explanation that make no sound above the roaring wind.
“I don’t understand,” I complain, trying to move closer, but the boy is moving too slowly.
As my anger builds, so does the noise. I thought it was the wind, but it sounds more like thunder. I look around the open field for clouds in the breathtaking sky, but find neither one. The sky is still there, but it’s dull now. No clouds, no jeweled stars. When I look behind me, the mountains are gray. The forest is covered in dust, the trees turning black, as if consumed by invisible fire.
There’s nothing else to see besides my father and me and the boy slowly closing the distance. My dad keeps working, hanging the rings on the rope, pointing as if giving instructions with a great, ridiculous grin.
When the boy finally nears me, I can move. He follows as I make my way to Dad. But when I reach the laundry line full of metal rings, he isn’t there.
I turn to the pale boy. He’s very young, maybe nine or ten years old. He looks around, wild and anxious, raising a knife to my chest.
Thunder becomes deafening, blistering my ears at the same time the native boy screams a hellish sound and thrashes at me with the knife.
