by Shawn Mackey
"Angela?" Michael said, clearing his throat.
"I was just about to go to work. What do you need?"
"I think you should come here instead."
"Where? Michael, what's wrong? You're not making any sense."
"I'm at the hospital. Jake was shot last night. It doesn't look good. Please, hurry."
"I'll be right there," she said, slamming the phone. Michael hung up with a sigh of relief. The ordeal would be bearable with her presence.
"Hey, pal," he called out to the police officer. "Got a smoke I can bum?"
"Sorry," the officer responded.
"Thanks for letting me make the call," Michael said. "So, am I in trouble?"
"We checked out the surveillance tapes," he said, letting some time pass before he elaborated. Michael's eyes went wide with fear as he remembered the black ooze. "Your story holds up for now.”
"Where's the shooter?
"Getting patched up before we bring the both of you in for questioning. Don't go anywhere."
"Wasn't planning on it."
Around ten minutes later, Michael watched Angela's car pull into the parking lot. She found a spot near the entrance and rushed out of the vehicle. The moment she saw her boyfriend, she broke into a sprint and called out his name. He took two steps before she threw herself into his arms.
"I'm sorry," Michael said soothingly. "He was shot in the head. They're working on him, but so far I haven't heard anything. We should go inside."
Angela held onto his waist, already sobbing uncontrollably. They barely made it into the waiting room, where she collapsed onto a chair and started wailing. Michael stroked her head in a fruitless attempt to console the grieving woman. Her sobs gradually turned into pitiful whines, then silent tears.
"I want to see him," she said.
"That may not be a good idea. Not in the state he's in now," Michael said. "We can only hope for the best."
"Why did it happen?"
"It was a robbery. Jake acted in self-defense. I just missed it. Before I came back home last night, I knew there was something wrong. If I had been there a minute sooner, maybe it wouldn't have happened. I did give the guy a good beating. He'll be eating from a straw for a while."
"He had a gun," Angela said. "How'd you manage that?"
"Got the jump on him," Michael said.
Angela had calmed down considerably, though she was still a bit shaky. Time passed at an unbearable crawl. Any second, the news of their friend's fate would be announced. The officer posted outside returned and inquired the desk attendant. They exchanged a few words, and the officer went into the emergency ward. When he came back a moment later, Michael shot out of his seat in the hopes of discovering a shred of news.
Another officer walked down an adjacent hallway, turning down to the waiting room with a handcuffed Jimmy. The beating left him with two black eyes and stitches across his cheek. Michael turned his gaze in disgust. Angela watched the two officers escort the prisoner through the entrance. When Jimmy's guilt-stricken eyes saw Michael, he paused for a second, only to be shoved by an officer. When he realized that Angela noticed this brief exchange, Michael was consumed by an overwhelming urge to murder Jimmy. She noticed his rage and stood in alarm.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" she asked tonelessly.
"No," Michael said, shaking his head wildly. "Are you implying that I planned—"
"Stop," she screeched, then shrank back in embarrassment, though the room was empty. She lowered her voice: "I feel sick. I think I'm going to vomit."
"Calm down," Michael said, moving close, but being careful not to touch her. "Let's go outside. I think we both need to take a walk."
He led her to a side exit, figuring it was best to avoid the police for the time being. They would no doubt return to question him shortly. He had no problem telling the story, not withholding a single detail, as long as he was able to tell Angela first. They walked a few blocks in silence and found themselves in a familiar neighborhood.
A decade ago, they had spent a majority of their free time in this area. Many of their old friends lived here. They even passed some of their houses. Unfortunately, this was no time for nostalgia. At the edge of the street, Angela made a sudden turn to the left. Rather than making a full circle back to the hospital, she moved in the opposite direction. Michael's heart raced; he immediately knew where they were going.
In the distance, he heard the sound of water trickling down a nearby stream. Angela walked several paces in front of him, quickening as the bridge came into sight. This spot held an immense amount of sentimental value to Michael. It's where he first confessed his love to Angela ten years ago. Now, she was leading him to the exact spot with a frightening sense of urgency.
The bridge hung over a deep river that flowed into a lake at the edge of town. Other than the memories attached, it was unremarkable. The cement railing was waist high and allowed a decent view of the water below. The stream moved slowly this time of year, leaving those who looked down a relaxing, almost hypnotic sight.
Angela halted at the middle, leaning against the railing. Michael stood by her side, too focused on her distress to enjoy the river. Though the spot provided fond memories, it also inspired a deep sense of dread. Confronting Angela about his feelings was never easy, and worse, she meant to confront him this time. It was awhile before either of them spoke.
"I don't want to go back," she said. "The best case scenario, Jake lives the rest of his life as a vegetable. Then what?"
"We'll take care of him."
"No," she said, closing her eyes. She rubbed them with her sleeve as a tear dripped.
"What do you mean?"
"He'd have to be under constant care. Only a hospital could provide that."
"And why can't we?"
"I'd have to give up my job. It would be impossible."
"I have a lot of free time."
"No, Michael," she said, gritting her teeth. She curled her lips in disgust before elaborating: "You won't be there. Where were you when his father died? You were stealing car stereos. Where were you when he divorced his wife? You were dealing drugs. Or doing them."
"I was clean by then.”
"Yeah, that's right," she said. "You weren't a dope fiend anymore. You graduated to an alcoholic."
"Is that how it's going to be?"
"I'm trying to make a point. All those years ago, when you were so far gone that I honestly thought I'd lost you for good, Jake was there to help you recover. I know I've said otherwise, but I truly thought you were gone. I'm sorry for bringing it up, but you don't understand how hard it was for us. We had to watch you turn yourself into a drugged-up zombie. While Jake was helping you through the withdrawals, I thought you'd never actually recover."
"But I did."
"You can't survive a night without alcohol. And your profession now? How would you describe it, Michael?"
"A way to meet ends."
"So is flipping burgers! And you know I'd still love you. It isn't about the money."
"What point are you trying to make? I'm starting to get sick of all this condescension."
"My nagging stopped being condescending years ago. You've had plenty of opportunities to make a better life for yourself. And for me. I'm not implying that I'm much better! I go to work, I come home, I feed my cat and watch television before going to bed. That life is as plain as it gets."
"Then out with it.”
"I've known you for a long time. The man you are today couldn't hold a candle to the man who told me he loved me all those years ago, right in this very spot. It was the best day of my life, Michael, because I loved you, too. And while I still love you, I despise you even more. It gets worse by the day. In the hospital, when I saw your friend, and I realized what happened, I wished it was you in there instead of Jake."
"If you think I had anything to do with that, you're wrong. Jake was neck deep in trouble. That was his fault."
"I know you didn't have a hand
in it. But the two of you are in separate worlds. He found himself in yours, and even though it wasn't your fault, it's still your world. I can hardly tell the difference between you and the man who shot Jake. I watched you turn from a man with a heart of gold to a two-bit thug. I can't take it anymore."
"I'll go legit. We can move far away from this place and start over."
"That's what you should do. I can't be a part of it."
"So that's it? After all these years, you're just gonna wipe your hands of me?"
"We've been teetering on the edge for a long time. This shouldn't come as a surprise. I know that no matter how many horrible things you've done, you've always stayed faithful and loved me. It's what kept me going. But that's not enough. It only gets worse for you from here on, Michael. Do you really want to drag me down with you?"
"Please, Angela," he begged, embracing her.
His pleading was met with cold silence. She refused to reciprocate the gesture. Her indifference stung Michael more than the long diatribe. He tightened his embrace so roughly, she cried out. Angela flailed her arms in a pathetic attempt to break his grip. He thought, in that moment, if he had let go, there may have been a chance to salvage the situation. This would mean a life without Angela.
Michael tilted his body toward the railing, and with his arms still tightly wrapped around the love of his life, hurled them off the edge. Angela gasped, her throat clenching a silent scream as they tumbled toward the water below. Her body had completely frozen in shock. During the entire fall, Michael's grasp didn't falter. They hit the river, the combined weight sinking them deep into the chilly waters. Angela struggled to reach the surface, managing to break free of Michael's grip.
The black ooze poured from his mouth, nose, and ears. The river quickly turned pitch dark and oily, making it difficult to maneuver. It became so hard to see that Michael found himself reaching blindly for Angela. His hand finally found her ankle just as she was inches away from the top of the water and a lung full of air. He held tight while sinking in the dark muck, intending to drag her as long as their lungs could endure.
Light no longer reflected the dark water. Even in her final moments, Angela futilely reached toward the surface. The water had gotten so thick, their descent almost seemed to stop. Michael was content to drown for an eternity. As Angela's body went still, his vision went blacker than the river and his unbridled contempt ceased.
-
I opened my eyes and found myself lying on the cold pavement. I groggily sat up and saw the streets were crowded again. My senses gradually returned, leaving me in a perplexing daze. Waking up wasn't a sensation I'd been accustomed to, though I was unsure whether I had actually slept. I had certainly dreamed.
It seemed far too real to call it such. But like waking from any sleep, my memory had already grown hazy. It infuriated me beyond belief. For a moment, I was granted a respite from this drudgery. To deprive me of even a shred of these memories left me cursing my own feeble mind.
Had I actually relived past events? Did I know Jimmy at some point in my life? I knew of only one way to find out. Though the dreamer was comatose, I had other ways of prying into his mind.
"Excuse me," I said, tapping one of the passersby on the shoulder. He was a middle-aged gentleman with little to no discernible qualities to distinguish him from the others mindlessly walking the streets. When he failed to acknowledge my presence, I seized him by the arm. The poor fool continued to walk in place, oblivious to my grip.
I decided to resort to drastic measures, which also happened to be the best way to communicate with Jimmy's subconscious. I drove my fist into the man's cheek, sending him sprawling to the ground. I leapt on top of him and continued the barrage. It did nothing to quell my fury, nor did it rouse my victim. He bled like a man, but showed no evidence of pain.
"Who's Michael?" I shouted between blows. "Who's Jake? Who's Angela? Who's Jimmy? You've got to know Jimmy! Say something, you dumb bastard."
I cut my knuckle while opening the poor man's forehead. With a curse, I gave up and let him be. He was already back on his feet, bloody-faced and split-skulled and walking to some unknown location. I wiped my wounded hand on my coat, only to find it already splattered with blood.
The whole situation left me baffled. While I had been privy to Michael's thoughts, I hadn’t wholly controlled his actions. Still, I was more than a simple observer. His feelings had been my feelings. At the time, I took immense delight in Angela's life draining in my death-grip. I was also filled with sorrow as we plunged from the bridge into the river below.
Too many contradictions proved this was anything but a dream: My name wasn't Michael. This was conjured by Lily, who knew a woman named Angela, the unfortunate victim in my dream's climax. Also, it was highly unlikely that I ever knew Jimmy. Michael's scorn was no different than my sentiment before the dream.
But who was Jake? I held a deep kinship with this man. I couldn't shake the feeling that I failed him somehow. Angela's tirade rang in my thoughts. Her scolding seemed too kind in retrospect. But why?
It didn't matter. My greatest fear had been proven false: only the living can dream. To separate myself from the mindless zombies who scurried the streets around me was an empowering thought. It renewed within me the courage to go on. Though I may one day die, it would be as a man. I wasn't destined to disappear like a trivial memory.
The moon faded into a dark circle. My surroundings dissolved into a black mist. The last remaining solid form was my own hand in front of my eyes. As I wandered through the darkness, I found it increasingly difficult to see more than an inch in front of me. Despite the blindness, I trudged along. At the core of this pitch, I would find my nemesis.
The nightmare was reaching its end. Whether this meant Jimmy was on the verge of death or recovery made no difference. I had an appointment with Shadow.
Through the mist, I saw the outline of his figure. As I neared, it became sharper and sharper. Shadow stood, arms folded and hat obscuring his black countenance. When I stopped in front of him, he didn't budge from this position.
"I had a dream," I said.
"As did I," he said. "Looks like we've proven you wrong, old friend."
"I've got no complaints."
"It's strange," he said. "I dreamed I was a man. On his own, he was very weak. But with his friend at his side, this man could have moved mountains. They were much like brothers. Unfortunately for the world, they used their cunning and brute power for their own gain. These men had no qualms toward murder and that sort. They were so skilled they made crime seem like the sport of gods. I was the more squeamish of the two, but my friend was always there to ease my conscience. Together we were one. I could have ruled the world at his side."
"What happened?"
"He killed me over a woman. It was all a misunderstanding. His own insecurities got the best of him. I think deep down, he thought me stronger than himself. Maybe it was true," he said. After a long silence, he asked: "What did you dream of?"
"I don't remember."
He took a step forward and brandished his gun out of anger. In no more than a few seconds, his whole body went lax and then started to shake. His chested heaved up and down as a hideous noise erupted from his mouth. When he whipped his head back, I realized he was laughing. The harsh wheezing sounded like a man whose lungs had long failed, echoing a cackle of the dead.
Yet it was so mirthful and full of joy that I joined him. I was no longer with an abnormal creature, but a fellow man. In that moment, I would proudly declare him a treasured friend.
"This truly was a wonderful night. Here's a gift," he said, reaching into his coat pocket as he knelt. He pulled out a gun and slid it toward my feet. I picked up the weapon and held it at my side, just as he held his. "I'm giving you the chance I was deprived. I would have gladly taken a bullet for him. If only it weren't over something so petty."
"Love tends to make people irrational, and it's rarely petty," I said. "But there's always two sides t
o a story, and your loyalty sounds awfully one-sided."
"You're right," he said. "Then heed my words, old friend: die on your own terms. Decide your own fate."
"That'd be sound advice, if I were a weakling," I said. "You've found someone stronger than you. There's no need to lie to yourself, pal. You picked a fight that's already lost."
"It doesn't end here," he said. "If you already think yourself the victor, then I've won."
As these words left his mouth, he had already raised his gun. I was much faster. My bullet hit him in the chest. The impact left him still as a statue, yet he didn't fall. I warily approached his standing corpse, expecting some sort of trickery. I opened his coat to find his black chest cracked. His body felt as brittle as old chalk. I poked a finger in one of the cracks. It went clean through, the opening creating a dozen more tiny cracks, which made a hundred more, then a thousand. I let out a single breath, causing the entire body to collapse.
I now held an empty coat. Shadow's hat fell on top of a pile of black dust. It was so thin and dry, it seemed to completely disperse when I ran my hand through it. I snatched his hat, and for no explicable reason, put it on my head. A perfect fit.
Before I could admire my new apparel, it disappeared. The black dust faded along with the shadowy city and dark mist. I was surrounded by nothing, utterly alone in the familiar void. I concluded that both Jimmy and Shadow were as dead as Jake and Angela. The whole experience was merely an excursion from the usually drudgery. For one night, my world had been stable. I tasted reality and had had my fill for the time being.
Of one thing I was sure: I was a man wandering the fringe of existence. The type of man was to be discovered. For now, it was irrelevant.
Chapter 8:
Monstrous Vendetta
I found myself in an alleyway, blocked on both sides by debris and up to my ankles in tiny shards of glass. The two buildings were close together, so I tried using both walls to climb up to the shortest pile of garbage. I placed my legs on the left wall and my hand on the right, and then proceeded to hoist myself above the glass. The right wall held my weight for a few seconds before collapsing into a pile of dust, which was enough to cushion my fall, but bits of brick weren’t quite the same as feathers.
