Reality's Escape: a collection of short stories

January 8, 2018

Hey! So, I know I haven't been posting every week for a while; I've been pretty busy with rewriting Biatre for my publisher. But this prompt from Reedsy was perfect: it's a continuation of "The Night of January 7, 2018", which was a dream but offered so many possibilities. Enjoy!

"I am a murderer."

His eyebrows rose, but he stayed planted in the snow, making no move to run.

"Didn't you hear me?" I asked. The truth was out now. He should be backing away, calling the police, running for his life. Why did he just stand there, so aggravatingly calm?

"I heard you."

"Then go!" I motioned wildly, towards his home, towards the trees, the sky, anywhere. "Leave!"

"Why? So you can hide somewhere else?" Instead of leaving, he dragged a nearby fallen log to my fire, took a seat, and rubbed his hands together over the blaze. The light reflecting off the snow, even at night, was enough to see his face by: concerned, but not for his life.

I slumped into my spot, ruffled and unsure what to do next. The guilt and self hatred that had sustained me for so long now abandoned me to fend for myself. I tucked my feet in their thin boots beneath myself, sitting crosslegged, and pulled my toque farther over my ears.

"My name's John, in case you were wondering."

"Maybe I wasn't."

"If you weren't, wouldn't you would have killed me already?"

"I'm not that kind of a person!"

"So how did you gain your title then?"

I hunched over, balling my fists into my worn pockets, feeling the flesh through where the holes in the fabric were, refusing to heat my hands with the same fire he heated his. "It was just an accident."

"Okay." His voice was still calm, still gentle, still persistent. "Then why are you hiding?"

I wished that I could scrub his tone out of where it had wormed its way beneath my skin, but again, my voice played Judas. "No one would believe me."

He shrugged. "Well, you are making it kind of hard, especially when you're not giving anyone a chance."

"And what if they did? They'd all swarm over me at the viewing, the singing, the funeral. I wouldn't get a moment's peace afterwards either. I know they'd mean well but they don't get it. I can't handle them. Everyone would be giving me hugs and wanting to cry with me and inviting me to stay at their place and telling me it's okay when it's not and bringing me casseroles and soup and suffocating me."

He waited a bit. The fire crackled. An owl hooted. "And that's why you're hiding out here?"

"Is it too much that I just want to be by myself?"

He cocked his head. "But you don't."

I shot him a glare. What did he know?

"You want someone to dump on. Just one person who will listen for a bit, and then you'll gain your strength again to take on the world."

The owl hooted again, waiting for me to respond, but I didn't.

"Finnia, she used to get like that sometimes."

I pulled myself out of my self-pity enough to distract him from it. "Who's Finnia?"

"Well, she was my girlfriend."

"Was?"

"Car crash."

"Oh."

"I was the one driving."

I looked up then. So we shared titles. His jaw was flexed as he frowned at the fire. Then he stood up and collected three or four fallen branches, brushed the snow off, and stacked them carefully over the flames. The steam rose from them, the tendrils becoming clouds and seemingly wrapping him into another realm.

Then the words came again, just like my first confession. No warning, no grace, no apology. Just betrayal.

"Food poisoning."

The mist and all it contained were silent.

"I cooked dinner. I loved—" my voice caught. "I loved to cook, but I was feeling sick, so I didn't eat. I woke up and watered my flowers, took care of the dog, like I always did. Dad's truck was still home. I sat in my room, I wrote, I read, took my vitamins. Then I went to check on my sister. She used to always be up early too." Sobs took over and I tried to shove them back down.

"What was her name?"

I hated that was. "Her name was Savana." I took a breath. "She was cold and stiff. I screamed, but no one came. Mom, Dad, my brothers, they were all—" I couldn't finish. The lump in my throat choked me. The tears that had stayed deep and dry were now rushing out, and I felt like they would drown me.

An arm draped gently over my shoulders. I shrank away, my gut churning. "Stop it!" I tried to shout, but it came out only as a hoarse whisper. "Go away." I curled into my protective ball, tightening my hands around my knees, wishing that I had eaten too and that this pain, this agony would only have lasted one night. My insides writhed. "Just go away." His arm lifted.

I stayed that way for a long time. The sky was getting lighter before my lungs finally expanded freely, my muscles released their cramped positions. My fire was still going. I was exhausted.

My body was unwilling, but I forced it to a sitting position. My head felt like it was made of lead, my limbs of waterlogged wood. My neck was stiff. I tried to roll it, but something caught my eye. I turned toward it carefully. There he was. He hadn't left.

I was too tired to hate him for it. Instead I stared at him, sitting against a tree trunk a little ways off. His elbows were propped on his knees, feet apart, hands clasped together. His eyes were closed, his lips moving. He was praying.

That was something I hadn't done in a long time. I had been too holed up in myself. Why would I want light if I could hide in the darkness? The light hurt.

"Yes, it does."

I jumped. I hadn't thought that I had spoken out loud, but John had heard me and responded.

He stood up and took my hands, chafing them with his own to get the blood flowing again. It stung, it burned, but they softened. They recovered enough feeling to sense when a drop hit the skin. I looked up. A liquid streak ran from his eye to his jaw, glistening with the light of the rising sun sparkling over the snow.

"I know it hurts," he repeated. "But it's the only way you can heal."