True Stories of a Fictional Life

Dangerous

It feels like a dream. The haze is a cloud of spiderwebs I can't escape, and it sticks to me, cold and stick and wet. 

I'm walking up the steps of a dirty basement towards the light. It's blinding, sharp like a knife, and unbending. The cobwebs stick onto my dress and in my hair. I know they're on me, but I leave them there and keep walking up those wood steps, warped like a roller coaster, hands holding tightly onto the one railing that still exists. 

I'm outside and in the sunshine before I realize I have no shoes on. I know this when the I head the crunch, crunch, crunch of an insect's death. I look down and look - yes, some poor insect soul has made a Pollock painting on my bare feet, the blood painting drying between my toes.

I am alone. I am scared. But I continue on.

I have no idea where I am at the moment. I think I'm still in Texas - the warm air holds the moisture to your skin like a blanket, and the smell of flowers is buried underneath it. I'm in a compound you know, the kind of compounds you find in Texas - home, shed, barn for the tractor, maybe a hen house and a corral for a horse or two. The buildings all look worn, like a storm of time sanded down the beauty they once had, leaving them to blend into dust. 

I walk through the compound and find no one. I find this strange. Through the fog in my mind, I head shrill laughter, sounds of kissing, moaning, and screams.

So I make my way back to the dirty basement, down the steps. Down, down, further back from the air, the light, the safety of familiarity. I know this is where I came from. This is where I will find answers.

In my experience, if you wake up somewhere, the clues to how you got there lay in the parts of the place you don't remember. And I don't remember this.

I get ten paces in and hit my head on a lightbulb. I reach up to turn it on, the sparks fluttering to life, struggling for strength, and finally pop on. The swinging light gives me enough for me to realize what's going on.

There, underneath a pile of old wooden crates, is the body of a man. He's dead. I mean, stone dead. Dead as a doornail. Dead as the last joke I said. Dead. 

He's covered in dust, a swirl of red clay dust and the dirt from the field above ground. He's still like a statue, his skin cold as marble. His mouth is open in a scream. I close his eyes so I don't have to see the fear.

His clothes are on, ripped to near shreds. I can see it's a field outfit. Military. I scrounge for a name.

SGT. WILLIAMS. USMC.

The name means nothing.

My friend the light keeps moving around, and I can see most of the basement. There's a couple of sleeping bags in a far corner, tucked up against some bookshelves. I can see three, no, four, but I might be wrong. Next to the sleeping bags are a bunch of bags. Closer to the dead man is a dirty couch which somebody has tried to put nice sheets on to cover the smell. I walk over, and the scent of fabric softener, urine, weed, and alcohol makes for an unpleasant taste in the back of my throat. It scratches at me, trying to go down, but I know if I breathe it in, I'll spit it back out.

There's a makeshift table built from crates in front of the couch. I recognize my cardigan, the cardigan my sister bought me when I won a bet. It's the table cloth. On top of the table, there are syringes, needles, cigarette holders, spoons, tubes, razors, mirrors, and lighters. I smile instinctively - I remember that part. 

I snap myself back to reality. Think, Jade! What happened? It's hard to concentrate. All I can remember know is the needle in my arm. I don't remember if I put it there. But I remember being glad as it broke my vein open.

I'm not glad now.

I walk back over to the sleeping bags and notice something I didn't realize before. Three of the bags (there are five, I can see clearly now) are filled with something. Something wet, as I figure out when I bend down to touch one of them. The bags aren't moving. 

I zip open one of the bags, and the smell of wet copper and metal hits me. I drop to my knees, and that sweet-sour taste of bile and regret come up. I remember everything. I straighten up and gather my things. I don't leave anything behind, not even the cardigan, even though it's ruined now. I search for keys, fighting myself for clarity through the fog. 

 Keys keys keys, where are the damn keys...

The dead man under the crates gives up his keys, and I walk back through the basement and out into the sunlight. This time, I'm together enough to see that about half of my dress is missing, and it's holding on by the left arm strap. I hope that the dead man has a coat in his car, because I'm not wearing my cardigan.

I find the car. As I get settled, I see the sky turning dark, making for what I'm sure will be a great storm. I turn the car on, grateful when it starts. I start looking around. I hope to find something to eat. I find only a stale orange and a box of cookies behind the driver's seat.

I rummage through his glove compartment and come across a picture. It's of me. I check in the rearview mirror to be sure. Yeah. It's me. My hair's a mess and dyed red with blood and I have a swollen cheek, but it's me.

With the word "DANGEROUS" written across my face.