Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2) (19 page)

When he finally came up the stairs onto the porch she noticed a red stain on the collar of his shirt.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding, Paul. What happened?”

“Where?” Paul asked, looking at both his hands and then down at the rest of his body. “I don’t see anything.”

“Your neck. Come here. You must have scratched yourself.”

Paul looked down at his hands again, saw there was no blood under any of his nails, but shrugged and let his wife take care of him.

Sally took a Kleenex tissue out of her purse and began cleaning up the mess. Fortunately, there were only two small wounds, one long thin cut and one nothing more than a scratch, neither very deep. As she dabbed at the cuts, a tiny brown spider dropped onto the shoulder of Paul’s shirt, startling her and making her pull back her hand.

“What’s the matter?” Paul asked.

“Nothing. Just a little spider on your—”

“
Where?
” Paul cried, beating his hands all over his head, chest and back.

Sally knew about her husband’s lifelong fear of spiders. “Relax, Paul, it’s long gone,” she said, trying to calm him.

Sally returned to checking his cuts, but Paul pushed her hands away and stomped off into the house. Two band-aid’s later, the matter was forgotten, and Sally went to fix Paul’s dinner.  He wasn’t the kind of guy that liked to be kept waiting, especially after his little freak-out on the porch. He’d be mad at himself, feeling silly, and Sally knew from experience he’d be looking for any opportunity to prove what a
real
man he was.

Back at the hospital, Aggie had spent the rest of the day in her room, refusing to even eat dinner. She was busy making flowers, dozens of them, her knotted old hands twisting and folding the thin colorful paper hour after hour, carnation after carnation, until the nurses came to shut off her light and gently force her into bed.

Her body was exhausted and she quickly fell into a deep but troubled sleep. Aggie dreamed about a horrible car accident and of a young boy dressed in a blood-drenched baseball uniform trapped and screaming within the wreckage. The dream played over and over, the boy’s pain-filled screams haunting her throughout the long night.

When she finally woke, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the digital clock beside her bed read 4:58 a.m. The sun wouldn’t be up for at least another hour but Aggie didn’t care. She couldn’t stay in bed another minute. She swung her feeble legs down onto the floor, using her wooden cane to climb shakily to her feet. Middle of the night or not, there was work to be done.

Existence #1: Dreamland

Wake up.

You stir, hearing the voice but ignoring it.

Come on; time to open your eyes.

This time you recognize the woman’s voice and bolt to your feet, your heart trip-hammering inside of your chest.

“You came—”

Your words are lost as you open your eyes to something truly amazing. There are flowers
everywhere!
An entire field, no an entire
world
filled with huge, carnations–a kaleidoscope of color spreading out from the small circular clearing you’ve slept in for as far as your eyes can see. It’s an incredible sight, literally taking your breath away.

Are you with me?

“Yeah, I’m here. Where did all these flowers come from? Did you bring them?”

You hear chuckling.

Heavens, no! Some of them, sure, but I think your mind did a lot of this planting on its own. That’s good; it means you’re ready.

“Ready for what?”

Ready to come home, of course.

“But how?” you ask. “I don’t even know where I am, never mind how to get home! What good is a field of flowers for finding—”

Run, boy
, the voice interrupts.
Trust me. Trust yourself!

You look out across the endless expanse of flowers, not sure what to do. Then you remember what happened last night when you touched the original green carnation. Twice you’d come into contact with the flower and both times it cut you open and made you bleed. Would these flowers hurt you as well?

Run!

“I can’t!” you cry back. “I’m scared. They’re going to cut me, just like before. Please, I don’t want to hurt anymore!”

I don’t want you to hurt anymore either. That’s why I’m here to help you.

“How?” you ask, frightened. “How can you stop the flowers from cutting me?”

There’s a pause, then:
I can’t. The flowers are made of paper…and they will cut you. They’ll cut you bad!

“Then why would you want me to run? Who are—”

Shhhhhhhhh, listen. Think about what happened to your cuts.

“They healed.”

No. They didn’t heal; they just went somewhere else.

“I don’t understand.”

In the real world, pain has to be suffered by those who receive it. Not here. Here, pain can open doorways all on its own, and can be shared by those who truly deserve it.

“My father?” you hesitantly ask, a tiny flame of hope igniting within you.

Silence.

Tears start running freely down your face. You let them come this time, let your pent up river flood out in twin torrents.

“I hate him. Always have. And not just because of the car accident. Not just because of my legs. He…he still hurts me. Me and momma both.”

You break down completely, sobbing into your hands for several minutes, but not for a moment are you ashamed of your tears. No, the tears give you strength, give you courage; help wash away the wall of fear your abusive father has built within you.

And this last time?

“I was listening to my stereo up in my room. I didn’t know he was trying to sleep, didn’t even know he was home. He came upstairs and he was so damn mad. I tried to say I was sorry…tried to explain, but he had this insane look on his face. He smashed my radio against the wall then grabbed my wheelchair and shoved me out into the hall over to the stairs. Then he…he—”

I know what he did, boy, knew as soon as they brought you in. Bottom line is you don’t deserve to suffer anymore. Neither does your mother. That’s why I want you to run, Robbie. It’s going to hurt, but you need to run anyway.

Your tears are gone now. So is your fear. Your mind made up.

“Bastard!” you yell, and with just that one word you’re gone in a flash, running like you have winged feet.

The flowers make you bleed with every step, the stems, leaves, and pretty colored blooms slicing and ripping open your tender flesh as easily as barbed wire. Not all the carnations have grown to the same height, some tear at your knees, others at your thighs, hips, throat, ankles, chest, and face. It’s like being attacked by a nest of angry hornets, with no way to avoid their single-minded fury. The pain is excruciating, a monstrous all-consuming inferno, and you run open-mouthed, screaming in agony but it doesn’t slow you down. Your clothes are tattered and shredded, your momentum flaying the crimson-soaked rags free of your body, taking away strips of your skin too, but still you run on. Nothing can stop you now.

The blood drains down your forehead, stinging your eyes like pepper spray, threatening to blind you, to force you to stop, but it’s through this red-blurred vision of the field that you finally spot the door. It’s just a dance of light in the shape of a doorframe, a slight shimmer of motion like the heat haze coming off the road on a hot summer day, but you recognize it for what it is. You lower your head, pump your arms, and run flat out fully aware you’re likely using your legs for the very last time. You don’t care. All you want is one simple thing: to go home.

Existence #2: Reality

Sally would have preferred to skip breakfast and head straight to the hospital, but she knew better than to suggest such a thing. Paul would hit the roof. No, it was better to just put on some coffee, scramble a few eggs, and keep the peace. The sooner her husband ate, the sooner she could go visit Robbie again.

“Your eggs are ready, Hon!” she shouted from the foot of the stairs, knowing Paul was up in the bathroom shaving. “Best eat them while they’re hot!”

It was as close as she dared telling him to hurry up.

Paul responded with a series of escalating screams.

Before Sally could react, her husband appeared at the top of the stairs, naked, his body bathed in blood. He was still screaming, his eyes tightly closed, his crimson-streaked arms flailing around in panic. Sally screamed too, grabbing the banister for support, her legs threatening to collapse out from under her. From where she stood, she couldn’t see the myriad cuts on her husband’s ravaged body, but she didn’t need to for her to understand how grievous Paul’s injuries were. She nearly went to him but hesitated, instinctively knowing her husband was already beyond help.

Paul stumbled; rolling head over heels down the staircase, blood splashing everywhere. Sally backed up out of the way, but Paul’s progression, as well as his screams came to a sudden, sickening stop when his head connected with a brutal
thud
on the thick newel post at the bottom of the staircase.

Sally couldn’t bring herself to take a close look at her husband’s body, much less touch him to see if he might be okay. Instead, she took a moment to compose herself, then went to the phone and dialed 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, Paul was still alive, but in critical condition with a massive dent in his forehead where he’d struck the post. There were no cuts visible on his body and not a trace of blood anywhere in the house.

At the hospital, Robbie woke up gasping for breath, fragments of a bad dream lingering in his sleepy thoughts. He was covered in sweat, and was so tired he felt like he’d just run a—

Run!
The echo of a familiar voice drummed in his head.

His eyes snapped open, a collision of thoughts, sensations, and vivid memories invading his consciousness, remembering everything at once.

Robbie immediately noticed the old woman standing at the foot of his bed, but then his eyes moved down to take in the colorful paper flowers strewn on the bed at his feet. Peripherally, he could see his wheelchair leaning against the far wall, but instead of looking at that old enemy, his eyes were drawn back to the woman. She hadn’t spoken a word to confirm it, but Robbie already knew who this frail little woman was.

“Thank you,” was all he said. The “how” and “why” questions could be dealt with later.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Aggie said. “Everything should be okay now.”

“Is my father dead?” Robbie asked.

“No. Not fully.”

“He’s in the field, isn’t he?”

Aggie looked at her feet; neither confirming nor denying, shifting her weight onto the wooden cane. “Your father can’t hurt you anymore.”

Robbie thought about that for a moment, his eyes roaming the room and finding his wheelchair again. A dark and vengeful anger began to build within him, then an idea so sweet it brought a smile to his pallid face.

“These flowers you made me,” Robbie swept his hand across the pile at his feet. “Can you teach me how to make them? How to
deliver
them?”

Aggie followed the boy’s gaze to the wheelchair.

“You want to send your father flowers?” she asked.

“No…something else.”

* * *

A middle-aged man lies in a coma.

Fell down the stairs, bumped his head.

Ask his wife, standing by his bedside. She’s telling everyone that’s what happened.

Don’t ask his son, though. No, not him, he’s far too busy making giant paper spiders.

STORY NOTES

Coma and paper cuts. Kind of a strange combination but there’s a story behind this unique tale. I have always wanted to get an acceptance into the short story anthology series edited by Thomas Monteleone called BORDERLANDS. To date there have been five of them published and all of them are spectacular. Well, when I heard that Tom was taking submissions for a new volume I was bound and determined to get into the book. Trouble was, Tom is a picky editor and likes his fiction quite literate with unusual, unsettling plots. Standard horror fare need not apply, in other words. So I sat down to come up with something special.

Two days into my quest and the only vision I had come up with was of a young boy sitting all alone in a dirt field. There was nothing around the boy for miles in every direction, which was a strange premise but still no story. I mean, what the heck was this kid doing here? Later that night it finally hit me that the boy was just sitting there because he was lost in the field and didn’t know how to find his way home. Okay. Better, but still nothing to work with there, but then my youngest daughter Emily walked into the room and wanted me to help her with some craft she was making. She used to like me to cut out different shapes and things so that she could color them and stick them on the fridge. Being a dad,  I wanted to help her out, but being a writer I was multitasking, still thinking about story as I was cutting out her crafts. Well, damned if she wasn’t asking me to cut out these pictures of flowers and in my head I was thinking…Lost? The boy is lost. He’s lost in a field. Lost in a field…of paper flowers! Before I finished snipping out the flowers I was thinking about paper cuts and had the entire plot for my story.

I can’t even tell you how many story ideas I’ve played around with that dealt with a boy in a coma. I have story ideas, novel ideas, and even a couple of movie script ideas. The trouble is I never seem to get around to writing them. I keep telling myself I need to research it more so I get the medical details right but that’s probably just a bunch of crap – I’m just good at stalling when I have a topic that really interests me.

Lost In A Field Of Paper Flowers
was the one exception I made. The coma angle fit perfectly with what the idea I had come up with so I decided to just let my imagination go wild and to hell with the medical details. It didn’t matter how the kid was in a coma or how the old lady could communicate with him, I just created a world where that could happen and ran with it. I never did end up getting into Borderlands but that was because the sixth volume in the series never did make it to print. I still like to kid myself that had the anthology continued on as planned, my story would have been accepted but that’s something I’ll never know for sure. What I do know, is that this is by far the best short story I’ve ever written. Not my personal favorite story, and it may not be yours either, but without a doubt it’s my most complex and technically solid effort to date.