Bye Daddy

By Michael F. Mercurio



He was completely frozen – full on, total lockdown mode.  And the more he thought about getting up and going out, the worse his panic became.  It was impossible for him to even accomplish anything around the house when he was like this.

His wife, per usual, berated him for it.

“Will you at least take care of the dishes?  They’ve been sitting in the sink since yesterday.”

“I will.  Later,” Stan replied.

“You said that yesterday,” she stated with exasperation.  “I have to get to work, and then pick up Liddy from school.  I expect them to be washed by the time I get home.”

“Yeah.  Fine.”  The forty-one year old tried desperately to continue staring at the television, refusing to look at her.

He hated himself.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she mumbled, and headed out the door with her keys in hand.  Stan cringed when she slammed the door.  Then, he continued to stare numbly at the television, not really watching it.

Rarely did he ever really watch it.  It was simply an action to convince his mind that it was preoccupied, so it wouldn’t wander to other things.  Things like what he was, what he should be doing, and what he wasn’t doing.  When he thought about things like that, the tighter he locked up.

Yesterday, while his wife was at work, his mother had come over.  At her behest, he had made it as far as the door.  He even opened it on his own.  That was as far as he had gotten, however.

Per usual, she pushed her way past him, and nagged him about how he needed to get out of the house more.

“I hardly ever even get to see you, you know.  And it’s getting harder for me to come around these days.  But look at me!  Even at my age, I still manage to get out of the house!”

“Yeah Mom, I know.”

“You can’t stay locked up in here forever you know.  Even at my age, I go out every day.  The key is to stay active!”

“Yes Mom.  I know.”

“When was the last time you washed up a little?  You look like a mess.”

“I just…haven’t been feeling well.”

She rushed over to him and put her hand on his forehead.  “You don’t feel like you have a fever or anything.  Is it about Janet?  Are you depressed?”

“No Mom, it has nothing to do with Janet.”

“Well then, what is it?”

“It’s nothing Mom.  I just don’t feel well.”

“Well lie back down then.  I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Mom, don’t do that.  Janet will be home soon with Liddy.”

“So?  They can eat too.  Or how about you cook for them?  It’s not like you’re working.”

Stan winced at that.  She was getting under his skin, no matter how tightly he tried to close everything off.

“Mom!  Look, I said don’t worry about it, okay?  I can cook my own goddamn dinner in my own goddamn house.  You don’t have to come by every day to take care of me, or my marriage!”

He regretted saying it even as he started it, but it was like a floodgate that he just couldn’t hold back.  As a result, it came out much louder than he intended.  The look of hurt on her face was immediate.

Saying nothing, she turned and walked out the front door, slamming it behind her.  He winced at that, too – just like today.  It seemed wincing was becoming a permanent facial expression lately.

Later that day, spurred on by white anger at himself, he gave it an honest attempt.  Like always, he made it as far as the door.  He had it open, and managed to move one foot outside his sanctuary.  Almost immediately, the openness of the world outside flooded him, and he began to shake all over.  He felt as though he were on the edge of a cliff, with one foot hovering mid-step to his death.

He quickly closed the door, hyperventilating.  He made his way to the couch, sat down, stared at nothing for a few minutes, and finally broke down, sobbing at the empty house.

Today wasn’t like yesterday, fortunately.  Sure, in the back of his mind, both his wife and his mother hated him.  They screamed inside his brain, insulting him – calling him names like “loser” and “bum.”  But, he was able to numb it today.  He found that it was getting slightly easier to disassociate himself from reality, so that he wouldn’t have to think, and he wouldn’t hear the disparaging voices.  Any sudden movement on his part however, and something would break through – contracting his insides even further. 

Alone, sitting on his couch, he felt like a prisoner in his own home, with invisible guardsmen watching him from the shadows.

He jumped up, closed all the curtains, and made sure all the lights were on.  The openness of the place wouldn’t bother him if he could see every contour of the walls.  Then, he returned to the couch, and closed his eyes while he waited for his wife to return home with their twelve-year-old daughter.

Then he quickly popped them open, because the nothingness behind his own eye-lids scared the crap out of him.  He wasn’t getting much sleep these days.

Hours passed.  Where was she, anyway?  School would have been let out for awhile now, and she’s never late picking up Liddy.  No one had called.  Maybe she finally got fed up with him and took Liddy away to a hotel.  He would get a Dear John letter in the mail tomorrow and it would say something like “You’ll never even get this letter you idiot, because you never leave the fucking house to check the mail!  I’m leaving you!”  Thoughts like this ran in circles in his mind as he rocked back and forth slightly on the couch.  At the same time – as most thoughts often occurred to him, and he had trouble figuring out which one to look at when there were more than five of them together – he wondered if such an event would really bother him.  As he disconnected himself further from everything, he wasn’t sure if he would even feel anything if she did try to leave.  Or if his own mother walked off a cliff.  And he hated himself for that.  And then the thought of a “cliff” got mixed in there somehow, scared him, and the whole cycle repeated itself as he began to rock faster on the couch.

And then the door finally opened.  Janet poked her head into the living room.  “Honey?”

He looked up in surprise, awkwardly trying to compose himself, mainly for the sake of expecting his daughter – the one person he had left who his brain hadn’t yet written off as a lost cause.

He cleared his throat and stuttered nervously.  “H-hey.  Welcome home.  Late getting out?”

“Well, not exactly.  Listen, can we talk for a second?  I have Liddy waiting out in the car.”

This was it.  He just knew this was the part where she would say “I’m taking her and leaving you because you’re a fucking forty-one-year-old loser who can’t even leave the house without freaking out.”

“Um….yeah.  Okay.  What’s up?”

She closed the door behind her, and came over to him, sitting down on the couch next to her husband.  She gently patted his knee and began.

“I…I don’t want you to be mad.  But, I think you need this.  It’s been going on a long time, and we’re all worried about you.  I…I got you some help.”

Some help?  He blinked, confused.  He was still fixated on the “I don’t want you to be mad” part, and just assumed that she was telling him that she was leaving.  Then, as the disassociation settled in, he processed the rest of what she had said.

“What do you-…?”

“I…spoke to a therapist today.  It was kind of a last minute thing.  I was on my way to work, but at the last minute I decided to call out.  I was surprised, because I was able to get ahold of someone right away.”

“Wait, a therapist?  What, for me?  Janet, you know I hate that kind of-“

“I know, I know.  But, honey…you’ve been getting worse.  A lot worse.  He’s waiting in the car right now with Liddy and your mother.”

“My mother?!  Did she put you up to this?!”

“No Stan, she didn’t.  In fact she said, and I quote, ‘My son doesn’t need his head shrinked by some quack.  He needs to grow up and get off his ass.’”

That sounded like his mom alright.

“Janet, I-“

“Stan,” she interrupted him.  “We’re worried about you.  All of us.  Your agoraphobia is costing you everything.  Don’t you want to live your life?  To see your daughter grow up?  She had a soccer game a week ago, and you couldn’t stand the thought of sitting on the bleachers under an open sky.”

It was true.  The very prospect scared the crap out of him.  In his completely illogical mind, there was nothing to stop him from being sucked up into the sky, never to be seen again.  Especially from the top bleacher.

He put his head in his hands, and quietly cried – utterly humiliated, doing it in front of his wife.

She held him and rocked him.  “Shhh…shhh….it’s okay.”

After a few minutes had passed and he calmed down, she said “Stay right here,” and walked out the door.

Shortly after, there was a knock at the door, and a large, balding man poked his head through it.  “Stan Larson?”

Embarrassed, Stan responded, looking up.  “Um…yeah.  Come on in, I guess.”

The man entered, closing the door behind him.  Shaking Stan’s hand from behind the couch, he introduced himself.  “My name is Brian Callen.  I’m a licensed doctor.  ‘Head Shrinker’, if you prefer.  That’s what your mother called me, anyway.  Charming woman,” he said as he smiled.

“Um…yeah.  Sorry about that.  She can be a little…”

“Ah, no need.  We actually had a very nice chat.  She’s refreshingly down to earth.  Loves you to pieces too, you know.  Mind if I sit down?”

Stan gestured, and he sat on the opposite side of the couch next to him.

Crossing his legs, he continued.  “They all do, actually.  You’ve got an incredible support system.”

“Are they…?”

“They’re all in your wife’s car.  I told them I wanted to talk to you first before they come and see you.”

“Listen…um…Doctor.  I have to tell you, all of this is more than a little embarrassing for me.”

“Oh pashaw.  Would you be embarrassed if you had a cold and had to take some cough medicine for it?”

“Well no, but this is a bit different.  And it’s not just you being here that embarrasses me.  It’s everything.”

“You mean like being forty-one years old and not being able to work because you can’t leave the house?”

Irritated, Stan replied “Yeah.  Something like that.”

“Look, Stan- can I call you Stan?”  He continued before he could respond.  “Stan, it may surprise you to know that your condition is pretty common.  Forget the age thing, forget the job thing, forget the pride thing.  It happens to some people, and sometimes there’s just nothing you can do about it.  So stop blaming yourself for everything.  It isn’t your fault that you’re agoraphobic.  Just like it wouldn’t be your fault if you caught the flue.”

Stan blinked at him, confused.  “Aren’t you a shrink?  Aren’t you supposed to say things like ‘Well that’s interesting.  How does that make you feel?’ and not really say anything at all?”

“Hmm.  Interesting.  And how does that make you feel, Stan?” he joked.

Stan chuckled, despite himself.  Even as a complete, introverted basket-case, the infectious eccentricity of the unorthodox man somehow managed to get a smile out of him.

“Okay.  So I’m agoraphobic.  Now what?”

“Now, we call the rest of your family in here, they each tell you how much they love you, and then together we push your ass out of the house.”

“Wait, what?!  Um…!  That’s all a little fast, isn’t it?  I mean…I thought therapy sessions were supposed to take months!

“Well Stan, normally it would.  But your wife’s insurance policy isn’t covering this, and she doesn’t have a lot to work with.  SO…we’re going to get you back to ‘normal’ as quickly as we can.”

Was this guy serious?  It sounded insane.  No real therapist would try to rush something along like this.  My god, Stan thought.  He really is a quack!  And both his wife and his mother were on board with this!

“Okay Stan, just wait right there.  I’ll go tell your kin that they can come inside.  That is unless, you want to go on out there and tell them yourself,” he joked in poor taste.

Stan was beginning to like this man a lot less.

As “Doctor” Callen shut the door behind him, Stan panicked.  He couldn’t believe what was happening.  Somewhere in his mind, he knew that none of this was really a big deal.  All he had to do was step outside.  It’s not like it would kill him.  What was he panicking about?  But they were practically shoving him out there.  And his mind was screaming at him not to let them.  Outside:  Bad.  Inside:  Good.  Maybe they were all against him.  Maybe they were all secretly plotting his demise.  Even his daughter Liddy, who gave him hugs every day and told him she loved him.  Maybe all of them were out to get him.

He forced himself to make the room stop spinning, and got a grip – reminding himself that he wasn’t always like this.  There was a time in his life when he used to always go outside.  The trees and sky were welcoming, and other people he walked past were not all turning their heads toward him, grinning mischievously like they wanted him to die.

My god, he thought yet again.  I really do need help.  And so, he figured the best thing he should do is just shut up and trust his family.  After all, by right, his wife should have gotten fed up and left him by now.  Instead, he broke down in front of her like a simpering pussy, and she comforted him.  Obviously, she loved him and wasn’t trying to kill him.  She didn’t think of him as a pathetic freak like he did.  Maybe if his agoraphobia wasn’t making him such an insomniac, he wouldn’t be as paranoid and self-loathing as he was now.  As he analyzed it further, he couldn’t help but be amused by the “chain” of things wrong with his brain, one thing causing another, causing another.  What was that song about the woman who swallowed a fly?  “And then she diiiied...” he nearly sang out loud.  He stopped himself because the ending scared him, and suddenly the relevancy was lost in the myriad of thought.

His train was interrupted by his wife finally walking in, followed by sweet Liddy, followed by their mother, and finally followed by the unorthodox doctor.  For some reason, his mind decided to focus on the doctor bringing his portly frame through the door, rather than the sudden, unexpected family gathering.  He had to keep himself from laughing out loud at the large man.  That would have been embarrassingly rude.

He looked sheepishly at his loved ones, and then Liddy came up to him and hugged him.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hi Kiddo.  How was school?”

“It was okay.  How are you feeling?”

“I’m much better now, sweetheart.  But um…there sure are a lot of people here now.”

She giggled.  “Yeah.  Mom wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, she sure did.”

“Well then,” started the doctor.  “Now that that’s out of the way, shall we get to work?”

Janet looked at her husband, and then at Doctor Callen.  “Um…Doctor?  Isn’t it a little soon for that?  He’ll s-…I mean, he’s a bit fragile.”

“I agree with Brian, Janet,” his mother stated flatly.  “I think it’s high time we straighten him out right this second.  It will do him a world of good.”

“But...!” Stan protested.

“Now now, Stan,” said the doctor.  “Your family here loves you, and they only want what’s best for you.  And remember, I am a licensed doctor.  So trust me when I tell you that no medical harm will come to you by stepping outside your house.  What you have is completely in your mind.  It’s not your fault by any means, but you do have the ability to overcome it.  Think of your daughter.”

Liddy, standing in front of Stan on the couch, looked at him.  “Please Daddy?  I want to be able to go out and do things with you…just like we used to!”

That broke the camel, or whatever it was that Stan’s brain was riding.  “O-okay honey.  I’ll…I’ll try.”

His wife smiled at him, helped him to his feet, and hugged him.  “I know you can do it, honey.  I believe in you.  All of us do.”

His mother chimed in, “We’re proud of you, Kid.  We’re proud of you, and we love you.”  The forty-one year old winced at that, but forced a smile.

Taking a deep breath, he conceded.  “Okay Doctor.  Just…do me a favor and…I don’t know.  Hang onto me or something?”

“I can only open the door for you, Neo.  It is you who must step through it,” replied the obese doctor, lamely trying to quote The Matrix.

“Doctor…where did you say you got your medical degree again?”

“Night school.  Don’t worry about it.  Out.”

Stan sighed.  The “doctor’s” bad humor notwithstanding, did put him at ease somewhat.

He took another breath.  He opened the door himself, despite Callen’s movie quote.

The sun was setting, and it would be dark soon.  The open air from the door hit Stan in the face, and made him shiver.  It wasn’t cold, but he shivered nonetheless.  He closed his eyes.  Bad idea.  He opened them.  Not much better idea.  Okay, don’t look up.  Whatever you do, don’t look at the open sky.  He looked down at his feet.  He took a tentative step forward.  And then another.  He held onto the guard rail of the short steps leading down to the pavement.  His shaking hand made the metal rail rattle.

“You’re doing it, honey!” his wife exclaimed.

“Go Daddy!” his daughter joked.

He reached the bottom step, gritted his teeth, and forcibly wrenched his own hand away from the railing.  Finally, he took another step toward the open street, a full foot away from the four concrete stairs.

He breathed.  Then forced himself to look forward, then turned his head back toward his family.  He was visibly shaking, but he did it.  He was outside.  “O-okay,” he stuttered.  “I’m out…side now.  Um…Can I come back in?”

“You’re doing great, Stan,” the doctor boomed.

“Good job, Kid!” exclaimed his mother.

Sighing, Stan took another step forward, and then faltered.  He began to shake uncontrollably.  “Okay, um…that’s enough I think.  I’d like to go back inside for a bit.”

He looked behind him and his family was standing outside with him, smiling.

“Just a little further, Daddy.  You can do it!”

Emboldened by his daughter, he took two more tentative steps forward, then three, then four.  Finally he was across the street.  “I did it!” he shouted.  He looked back and saw his family on the other side.  They were all smiling at him with joyous approval.

At least…he thought it was joyous approval.  It was a little hard to tell from across the street.  He thought he saw…no, that can’t be right.  It was probably the setting sun shining in his face.

He began to walk back toward them, and then stopped.  What the-….huh?!

His left foot wouldn’t touch the ground for some reason.  His wife grinned, and the fat doctor put his meaty arm around her.  His right foot failed to touch ground as well.

“H-hey!  HEY!!” Stan shouted in confusion and fear.  He began to rise off the ground.  He watched in horror as the doctor kissed his wife’s cheek and she grinned maliciously.  His mother grinned.  Even Liddy, his little girl, had a sickeningly evil smile pasted on her face.  They were laughing at him.  He began to rise further.

“Bye Daddy!” Liddy called out to her father, and waved to him as he was sucked into the sky.

He screamed.

And then he was gone.

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

A Story About Nothin'

By Michael F. Mercurio


Eighty-two year old Marcus sat beside his best friend of more than six decades.  The heart and blood pressure monitor beeped slow and regularly, as air hissed into the tubes attached to his mask.

At eighty-seven, Clay would be dead soon.

“You wanna go another round,” Marcus asked him in a raspy voice.  He held the deck of cards in shaky hands.  He had dropped a few earlier, but luckily the nurse had come by to pick them up for him.  He took that opportunity to take a quick peak at her rump as she bent over.  She gave him a scowl, but then pretended to wiggle her butt at him with a half-smile.  Such exchanges had been their routine for a little over a month.

“No.  You always…cheat,” Clay answered in short breaths, elongated by his southern drawl.

“Fine by me.  I was getting tired of beating your sorry ass anyway.”

Clay was able to manage a grin through the air mask.

Marcus busied himself by looking at the wall of the hospital room.  It was dark because the curtain was pulled closed, blocking off the light from the hallway.  At one in the morning, there wasn’t a whole lot of noise coming from that wing, and most of the other patients in the adjoining rooms were asleep.  But Clay always had trouble sleeping in hospitals at night.  “How can ya sleep when all ya do is lie there all day anyway,” Clay once demanded with irritation.

Marcus knew that wasn’t the real reason the night bothered him so much, but he also knew not to press his friend on the subject.  During the day, he was kept awake by the noise of people.  At night, he was kept awake by the absence of it.  And for Clay, being awake in silence was a lot worse - especially when his mind drifted, and he couldn’t tell if he himself was still there anymore.

“Hey.  Marcus.”  Clay spoke haltingly, and with a sudden change of expression that interrupted Marcus’s inspection of the wall.

“What?”

“I’m…uh…”

“You’re what, you old coot?”  He made a mock gesture of putting his hand up to his ear.  “Speak up.”

“Tell…anyone…and…” he said in between breaths, “and I’ll kick…your ass.”

Marcus grinned, but it probably would have looked more like wincing to anyone who might have seen him do it.

“Yeah, right.  Think you can take me on,” he asked with a bit of phlegm caught in his throat.  “Tell anyone what, dumb dumb?”

Clay was silent for what seemed like a long time.  Finally, he responded.

“I’m…scared.”

Marcus held his tongue for a minute.  Then, he asked needlessly, “Yeah?  Scared of what?”

“What…if there ain't nothin'?  Nothin'…at all?”

Marcus leaned in a bit, as far as his stiff back would allow him.  “Hey.  Hey now.  You listen to me.  A billion people can’t be wrong, right?  You worry too much.”

“What if…” Clay persisted.

“…what if a billion people are just scared?”


Michael F. Mercurioeo  year old Marcus sat by his friend'
Copyright 2013

Guardian

By Michael F. Mercurio




Jason Horton loved comic books.  As a kid, he read them with religious fervor.  “Why can’t I have super powers like that,” he would often sigh to himself.  To the slight annoyance of his parents, he would frequently zip around the house with varying sheets and linens draping over his back, usually knocking down glassware and other breakables.

Jason’s dad would look at him and shake his head.  “When are you ever going to grow up, son?”

His mother would then admonish, “You leave him be.  He’ll grow up too fast as it is!”

“He’s going to live in Fantasy Land his whole life.  Is that what you want?”

And so it went, back and forth.  Jason never paid attention to either parental figure though.  He was too busy flying from the coffee table to the foot rest.

At night, in bed, Jason would sigh to himself, per his routine.  “Why can’t I have super powers?”

Jason never quite grew out of that “phase,” as his mother called it.  Throughout high school, he was still quite dissatisfied with his non-powered state of existence.  So much so, that dwelling on the subject – which he often did – would put him into an existential funk.  His love of comic books and video games were more of an obsession at that point – not allowing for any interests in other forays of life.  He grew immensely depressed of his own limitations as an ordinary human being.  On the bright side, this constant withdrawal into himself allowed him to develop a keen sense of introspection, and even a degree of philosophical intellect.  This was what allowed him to question his own dissatisfaction. 

“Why am I always thinking about this?  Why do I always feel like I’m supposed to be something better?  Why can’t I just be happy being a regular human being like everyone else?”

It was this introspection that finally led him out of what he considered to be a very dark tunnel - or rather, in his mind, a very bright tunnel – much like when you stare at the sun for too long.  Eventually, he was able to force himself into a state of normalcy.  He put away his books and games, developed a social life of sorts, and even eventually got married.

Now, at age 30, Jason Horton had a wife and three daughters.  While slightly henpecked, he was mostly satisfied.  Or so he thought.  His mind would drift at times back to his recent childhood, but he would quickly shut it down and remember his father’s chastising words. 

“Right.  I’m an adult now.  No more of that.”  And then, he would be happy again.

And so it went, as he drove to his cubicle job day in and day out.  Sometimes his mind would falter while sitting in his eight by ten workspace, but the rapid pace of the monotonous job snapped him back with each ring of the telephone – five minute intervals and not a minute less were allowed at [unimportant company name].

“Thank you for calling [unimportant company name], my name is Jason, how can I help you today,” the run-on question/statement would flow from his mouth without effort.  Each problem and each complaint different, and yet the same, would be solved with the script pasted on the cubicle wall which he had long ago memorized verbatim.

Today, for the first time in four years, the caller threw him off.

“Hello, Jason Horton.  I’m here to help you today.”

“Um…I beg your pardon?  I don’t mean to be rude, but how did you get my last name, Ms…?”

“You don’t remember me, but you have always called me Lunetha on this plane.”

“I…see.”  Jason was slightly amused.  This wasn’t the first crank call he had received in his days at [unimportant business name], and they were always a pleasurable break from the monotony of his job.  The amount of pleasure he received from such breaks disturbed him slightly in fact, whenever his keenly honed introspective nature had a chance to analyze it.

Today however, there was something else that buzzed inside of him besides the joy of breaking up his  routine.  Not prepared to let his mind even begin to walk that path, he stuck to his script.  Not the one in front of him, but rather the one he used to get through his whole life up to this point.  Growing up, that’s all he thought anyone was ever really doing – following a script.  Or maybe it was just him.  Whatever.  This wasn’t the time for those types of thoughts.  Get a grip Jason.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m not familiar with that name.  Did someone refer you to me?  May I ask who it was that gave you my extension?”

“Jason, it’s time.  You’ve been away long enough.  I know more than anyone that you’ve needed your rest, but it’s time to get back to work.  We need you.”

This was such an odd conversation for the young man, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t quite know how he was supposed to respond.  Usually, like the paper in front of him, he had everything planned out long before any discourse was initiated by anyone he encountered.  It was this “social analyzing” which finally made it possible for him to make a few friends, and even a fiancée back then.

“I-…I’m sorry.  I really don’t understand.  Is there something I can help you with?  Or…wait, who did you say this is again?”

“Jason Horton.”  The strong, female voice stated on the other line.  “I apologize, but we do not have time for this.  The restoration of your memories will have to wait until later.”

And with that, Jason felt yet another buzzing in the back of his brain.  A sense of disconnection with reality sent him reeling into a sudden anxiety, and for a brief moment he thought the laws of nature might abruptly cease to work.  Down would become up, and he would be sucked into the sky, never to be seen again.  None of his senses could be trusted, and nothing was as it seemed.  This illogical panic made him dizzy, and he reached for a drink of water from his Styrofoam cup which he fully expected to transform into a reticulated giraffe for no apparent reason.

What the hell was wrong with him?  And what the hell was wrong with this woman?  Right.  Crazy person is making you crazy.  You don’t think like this anymore.  You’re an adult.  Time to hang up now.

And before he could hit the disconnect button, the laws of nature did in fact change.  He was no longer sitting at his cubicle.  He no longer had a plastic earpiece that was missing its foam covering and digging into his canal.  He felt as though he was floating.

No, literally.  He was floating.  And there was nothing around him at all, save for a strong looking woman dressed in a colorful garb.

“Hello old friend,” she said with a kind fondness in her voice.  “It truly is good to see you again.”

“Wha-…who-…WHAT?!”

“Shhh…Jason…Jason, calm down.  It’s alright.  Here.”  And with that, she pointed at his head.  Strange writings flew through the air, and “entered” his baffled brain.

“There.  It’s not all of it, but it’s enough to keep you from going off the deep end.  Now do you remember a little?”

“Wait, you mean….I really am….?”

“Yes Jason, you really are a hero.  A Guardian rather.  That is what we’re called.  Is it starting to come back to you now?”

“No…I mean….not exactly.  But…I remember…when I was a kid…I would read, and play, and….”

“And that always seemed more real than your real life?”

“Yes!”

“That’s because it was, Jason.  You were sent there into that form so that you may rest.  The last battle you waged took almost everything from you.  It was a miracle you survived.  But then, you’ve always been that good.”

“I…I what?  I still don’t understand.”

“Listen, we don’t have much time.  Everything that happened before isn’t important.  I can give you the rest of your memories back later.  Right now, Gamma Plane needs its Guardian back.  And that’s you.  There’s no time to waste.”

“Gamma….?  Is that like another world or something?  Like in Purple Avenger #17 when Doctor Hughs-“

“Yes Jason, very much like that.  It is good that you remember your comics.  After all, we originally placed them there to train future Guardians and guide their moral center at a young age.”

“So…wait…when I read comics as a kid, it was…training?”

“Well, re-training is more appropriate in your case.  The others let you live out a normal life again so that you could recuperate from your battle with the Dark One.  Which brings us to why I was sent to retrieve you.”

Floating in this null space, Jason blinked in confusion at his colorfully dressed benefactor.  It was only then that he realized he was wearing a similar garb.

He should have been completely overwhelmed by all of this, but something about it all just seemed to ring true with him.  Why else would he feel so out of sorts his whole life?

The woman calling herself “Lunetha” briefly explained to him his role as a Guardian, and that of the Dark One.  The Dark One had apparently returned to Gamma Plane, and only Jason Horton was powerful enough to stop him.  He alone was attuned to Gamma, after all.

Along the way, Jason would have to deal with the strife left in its wake before he could challenge it directly.  This typically involved a series of good deeds - employing enthropy to entropy throughout the plane.

And so, off he went.

 

***

He materialized back in his office, to the shock of his fellow co-workers – no doubt because he was no longer wearing his company-approved white collar shirt and tie.  Jason’s radiance dumfounded everyone, and he incorporeally flew through the closed window on the opposite wall and re-materialized on the other side as his former fellows looked on in a perpetually perplexed state.

He then proceeded to make his rounds.  From on high, he spotted a classic mugging, and flew down to the assailant at blazing speed.  He knocked the criminal into next Tuesday, and the former victim thanked him profusely.  No time to bask in adulation.  Off he flew again.

Next on his unfaltering mental list of entropic events was the traditional bank robbery gone awry.  Hostages and SWAT were involved.  This certainly would not do, and so Jason teleported himself inside, made the guns unfathomably disappear from their owners’ hands, and sure – what the heck – transported the hostages away from evil in the blink of an eye, while the would-be robbers materialized behind bars in the nearest prison for good measure – much to the confusion of the current residents of already occupied cells.

Let’s see, what other heroics needed done this day?  Ah yes, a cat in the tree.  Zip.  Problem solved.  The little boy looked up and thanked him, as was only polite.  Even the police came to congratulate him.

Surely, after these deeds were complete, it was time to face the source of chaos in his world.

 

***

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for him at this point, Mrs. Horton.  Your husband suffers from a deeply psychotic break, brought on by many untreated years of delusional grandeur.”

“But…I don’t understand Doctor!” she sobbed.  “He’s always been so…so normal!”

“Bear in mind these delusions come from a repressed longing that he has held onto since childhood.  In cases like this, there is very little warning until a number of years into adulthood…by then of course is too late.  Mrs. Horton….please, listen to me.  This isn’t your fault.”

Jenifer Horton was in tears while her three daughters colored and played with the sliding maze toys on the floor.  “Will he…will he ever come out of it?”

The doctor gently put his hand on her shoulder.  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Horton.  And…please understand.  Even if he wasn’t too far gone by now…the things he had done…there’s simply no way he would ever be allowed to go free after...well….after everything.”

At that, she wailed uncontrollably, while her girls looked up at her questioningly.  She nearly fainted the first time she heard the unspeakable acts he committed.  Indeed, she did not stop vomiting then for almost forty-five minutes when the news footage broke in during her ritual morning of talk shows.

In some sort of mad fit, her husband had apparently stripped naked at work, and then proceeded to jump through a nearby window, leaving blood and broken glass behind for his bewildered co-workers to later clean.  Fortunately, the building was single-story.  Unfortunately, he then proceeded in this manner to an elderly couple taking a leisurely stroll down 5^th Avenue.  The old woman had asked her husband of fifty years to briefly hold her purse for her as she dug into her pockets for a hard candy. 

The kindly man was then beaten to death by a naked, bleeding savage.

Next, the deranged lunatic stormed into a savings and loans building, somehow got ahold of the security guard’s gun, and shot and killed everyone inside with its high-capacity rounds.

He fled the scene just as the police arrived, and they chased him through a residential neighborhood where he then inexplicably climbed a tree.  The body of a child was found with him when they fired a round into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

As much as the public wanted him executed for his astoundingly heinous crimes, the law required him to be locked away in an asylum instead - which is where Mrs. Horton was now crying inconsolably in front of her daughters.

“I just…” she sobbed.  “I just still don’t understand.  How?!  How could he have done those things?!”

The doctor sighed.  “Ma’am…I don’t wish to oversimplify this, because the conditioning behind it is really quite complicated.  There are also possible chemical imbalances to take into consideration.  But…how can I put this…”

“You see,” he continued.  “Sometimes when a person wants to be special their entire life, or is told they’re special, they grow up dissatisfied with how their adult life has turned out if the end results have not met their life-long expectations.  Now…this is completely normal in most cases.  But some children…become…fixated on this.  They develop a sort of ‘chosen one complex’.  In this type of individual, a mother telling her child every single day of his life that he’s sure to become president of the United States is completely detrimental to the healthy upbringing and happiness of this child.

“Jason…wants so badly to be special that his mind has created this fantasy world in which he’s the hero.  Anything that comes into conflict with that fantasy is met with brutal violence.”

Jennifer sobbed.  “He was always special to me!  What about me?!  What about our little girls?!”

“Mrs. Horton,” said the doctor softly.  “We have counseling centers set up at this facility for grieving families in situations such as yours.  If you will allow me, I would very much like to arrange for you and your daughters to be…taken care of.”

Jennifer sniffed once.  “Y-yes Doctor.  Thank…thank you.  I think I would like that.”

“Of course.  Nurse?”  He motioned to the member of his staff.  “Would you kindly take Mrs. Horton and her girls to…room 6?”  He said the name of the room with a strange emphasis which did not register with Jenifer, but did so with the nurse.

“Yes Doctor.  Right away.”  The nurse smiled.  Cheerfully.

As she escorted the damaged family to their new room, the Doctor then smiled to himself.  Even chuckled a bit.  And then broke out into full blown laughter.

He walked down the hallways, whistling…all the way to the door which incarcerated Jason, and phased through it.

“Ah…Jason…Jason…Jason.  My good friend, Jason.  It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you like this.”

Jason was slumped in a corner of the padded cell, rocking back and forth, muttering about saving the day or some such.  A bit of drool at formed at the edge of his mouth, and eventually fell to his strapped wrists.

“You know Jason, at first I was afraid.  Did you know that?  Can you even conceive of such a thing?  Me?  Afraid?”

He leered over him, and kicked Jason savagely as the strapped wretch continued to rock and mutter to himself – lost in some kind of drug induced fantasy world that wasn’t dissimilar from his childhood.

“And now…not only have I beaten you…the Gamma Guardian…but I’ve taken your lovely family from you as well.  I’ve taken everything from you.  What do you have to say to that?”

Jason continued to mutter to himself as another batch of drool prepared to leave his slack mouth.  The Dark One kicked him again.

“Personally, I don’t see why you care for them at all.  I mean…to you, they were never even real to begin with, were they?  You wouldn’t mind then if I….had them to myself?”

Jason stopped muttering for a moment, and his head slowly rose as the Dark One cackled maniacally towards the door exiting the cell.

Its parting words to him were: “I don’t know which one of us is worse, Jason my boy.  Me, for doing what I’ve done and what I’m about to do…or you, for not being strong enough to stop me.”  And the cackling then continued down the halls as it left him.

Then, Jason Horton stood.



Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio

Skydancer

By Michael F. Mercurio


The voices in her head berated her.  A constant stream of negativity and self-admonishment persisted in informing her that she had no place performing the M’atahd, despite how many years of her life she had spent in both preparation and giddy fantasy throughout her childhood.  And then, when the moment finally came upon her, she froze completely.  The crowd watched her intently, and she could do nothing but shudder in her insecurity.  Finally, she fled the open field, leaving behind the murmurings of the crowd.

Running through the darkening woods, she came to the stream she knew so well.  There, she sat by the water’s edge and began to softy cry at her own ineptitude.

She soon felt a strong and familiar hand on her shoulder.

“Why did you leave, Ashanta?  I was so looking forward to your performance this evening.”

The voice was deep and resonating, with the soothing effect that could only come from her father.

“I…I can’t, Father.  I’m too scared.  A-and I hate it!  My whole life I’ve wanted this, and now that the time is upon me, I can’t do it!”

Q’una wrapped his arms around his daughter and embraced her as she shook.

“What is it that frightens you so, child?  The M’atahd is your birthright.  It is a time of joy, not of trepidation.”

“I…I know.  But…all of their eyes are on me…and…what if they don’t see the colors?  And what will happen to me after?  I do not wish to leave!”

“You speak as though you won’t return to us.  Everyone returns here, and is better for the experience.  And as for the colors…”

Q’una turned her around.  Lifting her chin, he looked at her squarely.

“Ashanta, I have seen your colors.  They shine more brilliantly than any the World has yet known.  And once you are finished, they will create such beauty in Otherworld.”

She was silent for a good moment.  Finally, she sighed in fatigue, as if a portion of the burden shecarried fell off of her shoulders and rolled into the stream behind her.  Night was approaching quickly, and the glowfish would soon leap at her ethereal troubles, thinking them to be a food source.

“You…say that with such certainty.  I think what scares me more than anything else, is proving you wrong.  I do not wish to disappoint you.  And I do not wish to be made a fool of in front of our entire village.  That would no doubt reflect poorly on you.”

A scowl crossed his face at that.  “Nothing you do could ever disappoint me, short of just that: doing nothing.  If you truly worry about my image, then do what is really in your heart – what you were born to do.  And do this without regard to how others see you.  That is all I ever require from you, daughter.”

With that, he added, “You are a Skydancer, despite whatever fears you hold this night.  Tonight is your turn for the journey.  Embrace it, for you have earned it.”

And then he stood.  His word was final, and echoed what she herself already knew.  Without another exchange between them, they walked together back into the valley.

By then, it was already quite dark.  On that starless night, the conditions for a skydance could not have been better.  The crowd hushed as they saw the two figures emerging from the woods.

Addressing the audience, Ashanta apologized.  “Forgive me for my abrupt departure earlier.  I was not certain if I was quite ready to perform for you, and my doubts got the better of me.”

The spectators nodded in understanding.  Q’una smiled at her, and took his place among them.

“I am ready to begin now.  Father, if you would please start again?”

As before, Q’una spoke in a booming voice that reached the entire valley.  Despite having already heard the introduction, the villagers were once again enraptured by it.

“We are gathered here today to bear witness.  My daughter Ashanta is of age to perform the M’atahd.  Let all she touches bear the light of her life.  May Otherworld teach her the meaning of beauty.  May that beauty be brought back to us.  This is our cycle.  This is our M’atahd.  But this is her dance.  May Otherworld know the name:  Ashanta!”

As before, the villagers chanted her name in support.  “Ashanta!  Ashanta!” they shouted in unison.  Instead of fleeing this time however, she began to slowly rise.  A few inches at a time, and then a few feet, the ground separated itself from her.  They continued to chant as she approached the skyline.  Finally, she came to a stop, and an expectant hush came over the crowd.

A few silent moments passed.  And then she began.

Slowly, she outstretched her left arm.  Her fist uncoiled, and a soft, blue light illuminated the sky directly adjacent to it.  The light slightly pulsated, as a musical note echoed throughout the valley.  Then, the light faded, and the note stopped.  The sky returned once again to black.

Looking below at her audience, she became dizzy.  Stage fright, combined with a fear of heights, did not make this an entirely pleasant experience.  The knowledge that a single note could be heard everywhere at once – every gesture and every mistake visible for miles – made her nauseous and feel faint.  Nevertheless, she gritted her teeth and tried to focus.  Stretching out her right arm, she repeated the process – this time, producing a brilliant green color, and a note on a higher octave reverberated against the night sky.  This too, faded.

Finally, she stretched both hands, and the colors and notes harmonized in a dramatic fashion.  The notes and colors sustained.

Thus, she began her dance.

She pointed.  She kicked.  She turned.  With every gesture came a flash of color and a note – her own body used as both a paintbrush and a musical instrument.  The audience below her chanted her name wildly in joy:  “Ashanta!  Ashanta!” they cried out.

Her body twisted.  Colors and sound emanating from every appendage created a kolidiskopic symphony the likes of which could only be captured by the paintings of madmen who would dismember their own ear in a futile attempt to convey the light behind their eyes that only they could see.

Finally, in a climax of color and sound, Ashanta exploded the night sky.  The spectators cheered maniacally.  “Ashanta!  Ashanta!” they chanted throughout the valley.

And Ashanta disappeared.

***

 The Boston Symphony Orchestra had quite a crowd that night.  Tickets had sold out almost immediately when the show at the ampetheater was first announced. 

Anyone with a musical background knows that in any orchestra, no one component of it is more important than any of the others.  It is the entire ensemble that makes it what it is.

Truth be told however, the main reason this orchestra had become so popular lately was due in no small part to its newest conductor. 

She had taken the classical world by storm.  Even as early as six years old, she had been considered a prodigy by many.  Growing up, new age gurus referred to her as an “indigo child.”

Now, at thirty, she had reached the pinnacle of her career.  And she was feeling nervous.

“Five minutes until curtain, Miss Ashantanoa.  Will you be alright?”

She smiled, despite her tremor.  “I’ll be fine John, thank you.  I just wish these jitters would go away.  Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m supposed to be here.”

He grinned at her.  “Look at it this way, ma’am.  No matter how it goes tonight, it’ll be an experience.”

He added, “Something to write home about, eh?”

Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013