Good Punishment

By Michael F. Mercurio



“So?  Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to actually drink it?”

Tom looked down at his larger, sighed, and lifted the glass to his lips.

“Atta boy,” his friend of fifteen years told him.  Jack was his only friend, in fact.

“You’ve been spending way too much time at home, you know.  Hell, I hardly see you anymore.  And it’s not like you’re working or anything.”

“Yeah…I know,” Tom replied meekly.

“So are you gonna tell me why you haven’t returned any of my calls?  Or do we need to get you liquored up some more first?”

“It’s…like I said in the car.  I’ve just been kinda…I don’t know.  Not myself lately.  Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been worried about you ya know.  The least you could have done was drop me a line or something.”

“What are you, my fucking wife?”

“Man, if you had a wife who looked half as good as me, then I could forgive you for never leaving the house.”

“Funny,” Tom said, taking another sip.  Jack chucked the rest of his beer, then grabbed the pitcher to pour himself another mug.

“Seriously though, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  I just haven’t been feeling well.”
“Yeah, right.  Come on Tom, I’ve known you almost your whole damn adult life.  Stop insulting my intelligence and spill your guts already.”

Jack was always pushy like that.  He meant well, but sometimes he could really get under your skin.  Tom often wondered if it was that very tenacity that was the only thing that kept him around.  Anyone else would have gotten sick of Tom a long time ago – and in fact had.  But whenever Tom got into his depressing, reclusive moods, Jack was the only one who just rode with it.

“Look, I honestly...don’t know.  I’ve just been having one of those weeks, you know?  I guess I don’t really have a reason for it.”

“Yeah, well, if there’s no reason for it, then you should probably just quit your whining and drink your drink with me when I get my days off.  Right?”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sure, after I twisted your arm.”

The two men sat in silence for awhile, with Jack taking more enthusiastic swigs from his mug.  Finally, he piped in again.

“So.  You wanna talk about it?”

Tom shrugged.  “Like I said, I don’t really know what to talk about.  I don’t know why I get like this.  It just…you know, happens.”

“Ever think about going to a doctor for it?”

“What good would that do me?  He’ll ask me to talk, then I’ll say the same damn things I say to him that I say to you.  He’ll say ‘So!  Why do you think you feel this way?’  Then I’ll say ‘Gee doc, I really don’t know.  It just happens.’  Then he’ll ask me about my mother and father, and when we still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, he’ll give me some pills that turn me into a zombie.  So yeah.  No thanks.”

“I see,” Jack said while stroking his goatee.  “Very interesting.  And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tom sighed.

“Heh.  I could totally be a shrink, you know.”

“Yeah, right.  I can just see you offering ‘advice’ to underage teen girls telling them how they should dump their thirty-year-old boyfriends while you stick your business card down their bra.”

“Hey hey!  Why all the hostility?  Besides, it’s not my fault they were damaged.  It’s kinda like when you go food shopping and you get the dented cans, you know?  Discounts man, discounts!”

“You’re a sick man, Jack.”

“To each his own, my friend,” he replied, lifting his glass in toast, then downing the rest.

“What’s even sicker is sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

“Hey man, that’s just normal.  Everyone wants to be me.”

“At least if I had your delusions, I’d be happier.”

“Huh.  Well if it’s delusions you want Tommy boy, I can totally help you with that.”

“What do you mean?”

And with that, Jack was gone.

 

In his place, sitting in the chair directly across the small table from Tom, was a creature the likes of which he had never seen.  Its skin was crimson red, and had festering boils.  It was bald, with small lumps and pronounced ridges on each side of its skull.  And it had wings that were folded in, presumably because it was sitting in a chair.

Tom blinked several times.  He shut his eyes tight, rubbed them, kept them closed, and took a long swift drink of his larger.  When he finally opened them, the creature was still there.  He looked around the bar at the other patrons, but no one else seemed to notice the thing sitting in Jack’s chair.  In fact, the waitress even came by to refill their chip bowl, said nothing, and walked away.

“What-…what the…HUH?!”

In a rasping voice that sounded somewhat like Jack’s, the creature spoke after a small fit of laughter.

“Woa woa now, calm down there Tommy boy.  Heh heh just calm right the fuck down.  Ain’t gonna do you no good to get bent out of shame just now.  Besides, it’s not like you’re gonna remember any of this anyway.”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Tom demanded.  A few customers turned to look at him, but then returned to their patronage.

“Relax Tom, just relax.  It’s still me.  It’s always been me.”

Tom looked at the creature in disbelieve.  “….J-…Jack?!”

“In the flesh!  Well…so to speak.”

“What the…how…”

“Look, just shut up for a bit, will you?  God, your whining is so annoying sometimes.  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap all the time, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“Yeah, well, I figured what the hell.  I may as well tell you again.  It’s been awhile since I had any real fun with you anyway.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t, Tom.  You’re not supposed to.  That’s part of how it goes.  But we’ll get to that.”

“This…this can’t be happening.”  He bolted up and rubbed his eyes fiercely.

“Will you sit the fuck down?  You’re making a scene here, and I don’t want to get yelled at by the others for having a little fun.”

Dumfounded, and completely drained mentally, Tom slumped back into his seat.

“Okay then.  Where were we?  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap, right?  Why even the most mundane things in your life never seem to go your way?”

“Um…uh…yeah…?”

“Well Tom, let me start by asking you a question.  You’ve always tried to do the ‘right thing’, right?  Hell, you’re a regular boyscout.  Ain’t that right?”

“Um…I…guess?”

“Sure you are, sure.  You help old ladies cross the street, you don’t cheat on your taxes, hell, you even go to church once in awhile,” the creature sneered.

“Well…yeah…I guess I do...”

“Okay then Tommy boy….all kidding aside, let me ask you a really serious question.”  The Jack-creature looked him squarely in the eye.  Tom shuddered when he saw its eyes were a solid black.  “What do you know about Hell?”

Tom gasped.  “Are you a demon?!”

“Give the man another drink for figuring out the obvious.  Of course I’m a demon, you ninny.  I thought the wings were a freaking giveaway.  But answer the question already.”

Tom studdered.  “Um…uh…well…I was always taught that Hell is where you go to be punished for doing bad things.  Uh…that’s what everyone’s taught, really.  But…wait…why are you…you know…’here’?  And not…’there’”?

The Jack-creature ignored his question.  “Okay Tommy boy…let me ask you another million-dollar question.  Let’s say someone did something wrong.  Something really bad.  What would the best way be to punish them?”

“Um…send them to Hell?”

The Jack-creature sighed.  “Of course send them to Hell, you idiot.  What I’m asking is, how would they be punished in Hell?”

“Uh…well…everyone usually says it’s all about fire and torture and stuff.”

Jack-creature grinned at that.  “That’s where you’re dead-wrong, Tommy boy.  And now…we get to the fun part.”

The creature held out his hand, and in his palm, appeared what looked like a small action figure.  It stood in silent demand of further explanation.

“I’m gonna show you this little guy as an example.  We’ll call this one Little Ricky.  Now then.  Ricky here is an axe murderer.  He raped and killed…oh, I don’t know.  Let’s say one hundred children and fifty small puppies.”  At that, the face on the action figure turned into an evil grin.  Blood dripped from the palm of Jack-creature’s hand and trickled onto the table.

“Now.  The best way to punish someone like this isn’t with eternal hellfire and all that nonsense.  No, see, guys like this thrive on pain.  That’s just no good.  Not much of a punishment if they’re twisted enough to get off on it.  So!  What we do is…this!”

Suddenly, Little Ricky transformed into a small doll of a nun.

“Um…are you saying that nuns are actually axe murderers?  Er…rehabilitated, I mean,” he quickly corrected.

“No you idiot.  You’re not getting it.  See, everyone has their own separate hell.  You follow me so far?”

“O…kay?”

“Like I said, the best way to punish someone isn’t with fire.  What you do is, you wipe their memory completely.  Think about it!  They would never even know that they’re in Hell!  Then…oh!  Here’s the best part!”  Jack-creature began to laugh uncontrollably.  “Oho, it’s so rich.  Then!  You make them think…are you ready?  You make them think they’re……a good person!”  He began screeching with laughter, pounding his hand on the table.  The nun-doll shattered in his palm as he struck, emitting a blood-curdling shriek of agony.

Tom was a bit slow on the uptake.  He was too distracted by the screaming nun-doll.

“Come on Tommy, keep up with me here!  Don’t you see?  Part of the punishment of being in Hell is not even knowing that you’re already there!  What better way to punish someone than to turn them into someone who is constantly punishing themselves, convinced that they actually still have a shot of getting into Heaven?  They try so damn hard to be ‘good’, when it’s already too late!  It’s pure genius!  Only the Master Himself could have designed it!”

The demon continued.  “As the fool tries his whole ‘life’ to be all good and proper, we keep sending more shit his way.  The better a person he tries to be, the more we knock him around.  And because they’re constantly programmed - by us - to do ‘good’, they keep coming back for more.  Finally, they snap, go crazy, maybe kill themselves.  Then we start the whole thing all over again!  Now THAT is eternal damnation, my friend!”

Tom’s mouth was open as the reality slowly dawned on him.

“You wanted to know why things are always turning to shit on you, Tommy boy?  Well, that’s an easy one!  We turned you into ‘Tom.’  Before you came to us…your name was ‘Rick.’  Is your memory starting to come back to you yet Little Ricky?  No?  Of course not.  It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it did, now would it?”  The demon cackled.

Tom bolted out of his chair, screaming.  “Shut up!  Shut the fuck up!  You lying piece of shit!  I’m a good person!  I’m good!  I’m good!”  He strangled the demon, and the other patrons looked over in alarm.  Even as some of the more burley customers ran to him trying to pry his hands loose, Tom refused to let go.  Finally, he heard a loud snap, as the demon gurgled its last breath.  They pulled him off, but the creature was dead.

Tom looked around at the customers who held him tightly, looking at him with disgust and disbelieve.  “I’m a good person,” he ranted.  “I’m a good person.”

Then, he looked across the table, and saw the lifeless body of Jack – his only friend.

“I’m a good person…” he sobbed.

 

Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio 

A Beautiful Dream

By Michael F. Mercurio


It began with a dream.

Mine, specifically.

I had no idea that I was the one who was doing it. How could I? There was never anything special about me. I didn’t have any particular talents that anyone else had. I was average – below average, if you were to ask some people.

Even now, I doubt I would ever have held any purpose were it not for…it.

It was the one with all the power…not I. All I was good for was sleeping. I would sleep, and it would appear.

Of course, at first I had no way of knowing that’s what was happening.

I won’t even bother mentioning my name or what I do. What would be the point? I’m not important. What I will talk about is what I actually remember. It somehow shared the memories with me, and only now do I find I can fill in the gaps.

It was an average day. Every day was an average day.

Then, it was over. And I went to bed. 

That…is when everything changed…

***

Somewhere in the heart of the city, there is a place called “The Row.” For the people here, it is not the most pleasant of places to live. They don’t reside here by choice, of course. It is a refuge for the downtrodden. Bleak apartments with bars on their windows line the roads in labyrinthine asymmetry. Laundry hangs from ropes for those who lack modern appliances or fear stepping outside to find a coin operated facility. In a similar fashion, shoes can often be seen hanging from power lines.

In this rather depressing dream, I could hear shouting coming from somewhere in one of the alleys. For anyone who lived in The Row – such as myself – this is not an uncommon occurrence. We tended to ignore such happenings out of fear for our own safety.

Like in all dreams however, I had no choice but to be drawn to the focus of the story. So often do our dreams take us to places that we do not wish to visit. Indeed, we are obliged to investigate every noteworthy happenstance – no matter how frightful they may be. It was in this manner that my consciousness brought me to observe what was happening in this alley.

I saw her. She was screaming at her assailant as he tried to force himself into her. In his left hand, he held a knife – which he was pressing to her throat. Blood had already begun to trickle down her neck.

I wanted to look away in revulsion. I have little tolerance for violence - the type of person who would have to change the television channel whenever something graphic came on. Now, this event that I was being forced to witness was simultaneously more vibrant and horrid in my mind’s eye than anything I had ever been subjected to in my life – imaginary or otherwise.

And like in all dreams, I couldn’t look away.

Part of me that was still aware that this was merely a dream, wondered how my mind could have possibly conjured such a scene as this. I had certainly never been exposed to anything like it. I kept my ears and eyes closed to the rest of the city just like anyone else had. The few muggings I did experience in the past were relatively quick, clean and uneventful. What I was witnessing now, terrified me. Not out of concern for myself, of course. I wasn’t really there. I was merely watching the event take place as one would observe a horror movie. No, my concern was for the woman.

This was a concern I never would have held, had I not been actually forced watch the action taking place. It was a dream. I had no sand for which to bury my head in.

A few more minutes of this quickly made the scene intolerable to me. I wanted to scream out of anger, if not out of disgust.

But, as in all of my dreams prior, I was completely powerless – for never have I been the master of my own dreams.

And then…it appeared…for the first time.

____

It is difficult to describe what it was. How do you put words to paper explaining the brilliance of a sun to someone who has never seen one before? It was completely foreign to me, and yet so elusively familiar.

And it was beautiful beyond comprehension. Merely to look at it was to evoke an emotion that had no place in this world – at least not within the range of human limitation.

The assailant looked up in fear at it. The woman, of dark complexion and raven-black hair, immediately ceased her fear, and gazed upon it in wonder.

It spoke to her, without actually speaking.

“Do not be afraid,” it said. And she wasn’t.

The assailant, in his terror, threw his knife at it. The blade merely passed through the seemingly non-corporeal entity. He made to throw the girl to the ground as he fled, but she was held fast by an invisible force preventing any possible injury. As the man reached the end of the alley, he stopped in his tracks, subjected to the same force that protected the girl. Then, in his mind, he witnessed his own life - from birth, up to this moment.

It was an unlikely scene, as dreams often are.

I cannot be faulted for apparently contriving something as heroically cliché as this. Imagination was never my strongest attribute, after all. 

Nevertheless, the would-be rapist dropped to his knees and began sobbing. Moments passed, and he stood. He faced the woman with tear stained eyes and apologized. He didn’t try to justify his actions. He didn’t relay to her the events in his life that had led him to this point. He simply apologized, while openly – and profusely – weeping.

In another person’s dream, the man may have decided to walk into traffic, receiving his just punishment. In this one though – continuing its pattern of improbability – he walked seven blocks to a police station. He then turned himself in, confessing to every past and present transgression. Again, I cannot be faulted for this…well…cheesy development. It happened as it happened. I was not in control of it. At least, I didn’t think I was.

In my dream, somehow I had known his name: Robert Macintyre.

I also knew the name of the young woman who now stood before the radiant entity in her torn clothing.

Kelly Santos looked on her rescuer with awe and wonder. There wasn’t an actual facial expression to be seen, but she detected a smile from it nonetheless. She approached it.

“Thank you.”

“Are you all right?” It asked the question more out of courtesy, rather than genuine inquiry. It could read what her physical and mental status was.

“Yes. What…what are you?”

“I am a [title not comprehended],” it answered cryptically. In my dream, the word wasn’t registering in my head. I don’t think it registered with Kelly either, as she blinked at it in confusion. It was similar to when someone speaks to you in a dream, but you simply can’t make it out, no matter how many times you ask them to repeat themselves. Whatever part of the brain it goes through, it simply doesn’t get processed.

“Take my hand,” it spoke softly.

Without a trace of fear or reservation, she took the hand of the floating…shiny…humanoid…thing. As she stepped close to it, she nearly had to shield her eyes from its light.

“Are you an angel?” she asked.

“No. I am a [title not comprehended].”

“But you look like one,” she insisted.

She could perceive a smile again. Saying nothing, it softly lifted her into the air with the one hand. She felt no strain on her arm at all, as if she herself were flying.

Time is perceived differently in dreams. I don’t know how long it took exactly, but it felt like they reached her apartment in mere moments. Somehow I knew that it was twelve miles south of the alley.

It landed her on her terrace, and she looked at it as it hovered in front of her balcony.

“What is your name?”

“In his mind, I am called [name not comprehended].”

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

It smiled again. “No.”

“Then what-“

It interrupted her. “I am that which someone wishes he was. I am capable of things he could not otherwise do. And I do it gladly – for his sake, and for those he secretly harbors compassion for – though he is afraid to admit his own desire for a human connection. He is imprisoned by fear. It swallows him whole.

“And yet, I am here. 

“He is powerful, though he knows it not – refuses to permit himself the notion, thinking such thoughts to be a disease of the mind. Many people are like this. Many people have this power. And like he, they refuse to allow it unto themselves. But I am a strong one. I will remain for as long as he continues to sleep.”

“I…I don’t understand. Why-“

It held up its hand and said softly, “I do it because he cannot.  And because they cannot."

Kelly looked at the entity for a long moment. She didn’t fully comprehend, but somehow it didn’t matter.

Her mind turned to The Row – with its brooding alleys, and choking hopelessness. “Can…can I tell people about this? They’ll think I’m crazy but…people…they have to know.”

“If you wish.”

“Will…I ever see you again?”

“If you are again in need, and he is dreaming of me, then yes.”

Something in my brain jolted at that statement, as it finally took in the entity’s entire speech from the moment before. Even as I slept, I shivered at the eerie, coincidental connotations my own dream was having. The detail and complexity of it all was ultra-surreal.

Then, it proceeded to shock me further when the entity actually turned to face me. Though I was apparently invisible in all of this, it smiled at me in the same manor that it did with Kelly Santos. To the questioning glance of Kelly, the entity began to fade into nothing, just as I bolted awake from its unexpected address to me.

Sitting up in bed, I panted. Sweat was cascading from me in my non air-conditioned studio apartment.

Like all dreams, the details quickly began to diminish, leaving behind only a flurry of unexplained apprehensions. I shivered, despite the unbearable heat of the mattress I was previously sleeping on.

Never had I experienced anything as deeply penetrating as this.

After an hour of lying on my back, counting how many bumps were on my ceiling, hardly anything remained of the dream – other than a fleeting memory of emotion.

The feeling I held onto was foreign to me, and I clung to it like a drowning man to a life preserver. I couldn’t place a name to it then, for I had never experienced it before. What I can now recall with perfect clarity, I now know it to be something very few people truly hold:

Purpose.

This sense of purpose was only heightened the following morning, as a newscaster on my analog television was interviewing one Kelly Santos.

Then I knew:

From that point on, I would see to it that every night would have a beautiful dream in The Row.

Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013