Reality's Escape: a collection of short stories

Lights Out, part 4

Liz had awful dreams. First she was getting chased by an ogre, then she was breaking in to someone's house on a dare, then she was climbing a hydro pole to get away from a bear that looked like Uncle Geoffrey, then she was flipping breakers on a Nazi war ship. And in between them all, she had a vague sense of lying somewhere hard and cold.

"Excuse me?"

The voice jolted through her like electricity. Her muscles contracted as she instinctively tried to sit up, but her head smashed into something and a cardboard box fell down on top of her. Reality crashed into her at the same time. She scrambled to her feet.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I don't know what got into me. I must be going crazy. How could I have done something like this? What was I thinking? I am so, so sorry... I don't know—"

"Shh."

Irritation at being shushed like a child helped temper her outburst.

The man, probably about mid-thirties, held a steady gaze. "There now, it's all right. What were you doing down here?"

Liz didn't know what to say. The truth was ridiculous. Any lies would land her in jail.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him. A woman about his age stepped in and stopped, surprised, when she saw the intruder.

"Mike, who's this? What's going on?"

"I was just about to find out."

The woman stepped up beside him. "Well, interrogations are properly done in better lighting. Let's go upstairs."

Mike motioned Liz to walk up the stairs in front of her. The elderly couple at the top— Mr. Gerhart and presumably Mrs. Gerhart— gasped, but upon the short explanation given, cautiously led her to the living room. They all sat down.

Mr. Gerhart leaned forwards, hands clasped. "What were you doing in our basement, young lady?"

Liz would rather have died than answer the question. She considered holding her breath till she fainted. Was there a shovel around? A hole to hide in sounded nice.

But she looked up. She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I wanted you to read my work. I ran into you and stuffed it into your bag, then climbed through your window and flipped the breakers so you would have nothing else to do."

"Ahh."

There was nothing else, just that one syllable. Liz ducked her head then and shrugged. "That's it." She felt so stupid. What else could she say? 

"I'm not sure what to do with this," Mr Gerhart finally admitted. "You proved a lot of desperation and not a whole lot of common sense. I'm not sure those are good qualities in a writer."

Liz would have cried if her tears were not already spent. Nonetheless, there was a dry lump in her throat, so she just sat there, staring at a spot in the carpet.

"Was this premeditated?"

"No." The word made its way out of her clogged throat. She shook her head and coughed. "No, I don't know was I was thinking."

"At the same time, it shows a lot of passion, albeit misdirected. I will offer you a deal."

The spot on the carpet blurred out of vision as she tried to process his words. "I— I don't deserve a deal. Just don't call the authorities. I didn't mean any harm, I was just... I don't know."

"We won't be calling the authorities. Hear me out. Do you have any family you could contact?"

She nodded. "My parents."

Mr. Gerhart reached for his wife's hand. "I'd like you to call them and go home for a while. Spend time outside. Don't write for a while."

"But— I can't— I can't not write."

"Journal entries. That's all. Here's my card." He took one out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "Let us know when you get home. Two weeks from then, I'll call you. In the meantime I'll read your work. Deal?"

Liz fingered the card numbly. "You... you would do that?"

"This once."

"Thank you."

The older woman— Mrs. Gerhart— asked, "Do you need a ride back?"

"No, I'd like to walk." Liz stood up. "But thank you. Thank you so much."

They showed her to the door. She set off towards the Brown's house. The summer evening breeze, even tainted with city, was still refreshing. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled.

"Mom?"

"Hey, Sweetie, what's up?"

Her mother's voice crashed into her like an ocean wave of relief. "Mom, can I come home?"

Her parents listened quietly while Liz poured out her tale of shame. They waited while she took turns explaining and berating herself, and when she was finished, they pulled her into a tight hug. Liz felt tears spill down her cheeks as she relished being loved. They let her go too soon.

"But how can you guys take me back?"

Her dad smiled. "The Father always takes back the Prodigal Son, no matter how many times you read the story. You're still our daughter, and nothing can change that. We'll always take you back."

They tucked her into bed and turned out the lights.