Chained Down

 

The young man awoke with a start. His eyelids opened as he lay flat on his back. He squinted at the sun hanging high overhead but was wondering why it didn’t feel as warm as it should have. The ground was flat and hard, covered with dust almost like he was inexplicably at the bottom of a lake that had dried up years ago. It took more energy to get up than he had anticipated. There was a chain wrapped around his waist. It didn’t restrict his movement at all. He barely noticed it was even there until he got to his feet and felt the weight of the links of steel clinging to his waist. Try as hard as he might, the chains refused to move. It was as if they were some living entity, a steel anaconda refusing to let go of its prey.

“They ain’t budging,” a voice said from behind. “Believe me. I’ve tried.”

“Who are you?” the young man asked.

“Now, that’s a real good question. But ain’t that the darndest thing? You see, I can’t remember for the life of me.”

“Are you a cowboy or something?”

“I reckon. What about you? Do you remember who you are?”

“Well that’s a stupid question! Of course, I--” the young man paused, “actually now that you mention it I really don’t. That’s just crazy.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“So where are we?”

“At first I thought we were in Hell. There’s no denying this isn’t the world of the living. It’s a desert with no warmth, no life. I figured I was paying for some sin I had committed when I was alive. And son, I have my fair share of sins to pay for. I might not remember my name but this place doesn’t let me forget that I’m a murderer.”

“Are you serious? You’ve killed a guy?”

“I’ve killed plenty of people. I fought alongside Stonewall Jackson hisself. But that’s not the death I’m paying for, son.”

“Did you kill a guy for cheating at cards?”

“What kind of crazy person does that?! No, I killed the man who stole my family’s land. I regret it, I do. But I was a young man who let his head get hot before his heart got warm. That’s no excuse though. I made a mistake and I’m here paying for it. What about you, son? If I’m right, you’ll at least remember your sins. This place won’t let you forget.”

“I was shot. There was something in my hand. It was a paper bag; a small brown paper bag full of money. The liquor store! I robbed the corner liquor store. I guess that store owner was a better shot than I thought.”

“So you’re a thief?”

“And you’re a murderer.”

“We make a fine pair.”

“What’s the deal with these chains? I know I didn’t die with them on. They feel different.”

“Look closer at them. They’re not exactly made out of steel. At least not the same steel you or I am used to,” the murderer nodded towards the thief’s chains.

The thief saw a shadow fall on the texture of one of the links. Upon closer inspection it seemed the shadow did not fall on the link but was a part of it. A mysterious glow beckoned. The thief looked closer and there were the last moments of his life being played out like a movie. It was as if moments of his life had been captured in a chain link and used to bind him to this strange place. One was of his first big score, another of the day he stole candy on his first day of kindergarten, and each link made for every moment he had stolen something from someone. He imagined the murderer had a link for every life taken on the battlefield. Just then a wailing shook the very air.

“What the hell was that?” the murderer asked.

“You’ve been here longer than me,” the thief answered. “I was hoping you knew.”

“Well, let’s go check it out.”

The thief and the murderer found the source of the wailing. Initially, they thought it was a rock. But they found it was a mound of chains. And at the top of the mound was a head of a man. They weren’t sure that he was alive until he started moaning again.

“Are you okay?” the thief asked. The face contorted, acknowledging their presence. While the wailing stopped, this mysterious man continued to groan in discomfort. The face seemed frozen in perpetual fear.

The murderer approached this man and looked closely at one of the links in his endless length of chain. The chain seemed to consume this mysterious figure who barely resembled a man at all anymore. But if the shriveled skull sticking out of this pile of memories and steel was once human, the murderer imagined it looked like the face in the one link that caught his attention. It was a face of hope and of promise of a bright future. The eyes were both exhausted and indescribably elated. It was a look the murderer was once familiar with. This moment was the birth of his first born child.

The thief saw a link containing the memory of the same face, again happy and nervous. This person took out a velvet box and in it a diamond ring. It wasn’t anything special. There were no special inscriptions, no indication that it was a family heirloom. It was just what this man could afford. There was no special plan just him and the woman he loved. He got down on one knee and showed her the ring. Her “yes” was a mere formality to what her tear-filled eyes and stifled smile had already answered.

This contorted face seemed to melt into a kind of sadness as the murderer and the thief stepped back a bit to awe at the sheer size of the old man’s chains. The murderer nodded in an unspoken understanding as he and the thief walked away to some indefinable nowhere.

“I don’t get it,” the thief commented. “I thought these chains were our sins, our biggest regrets in life. I would have killed to have moments like that.”

“Looking at all those memories, I reckon may actually have.”

“So what’s the deal?”

“They way I see it you and I have committed sins that have cursed us into perdition or purgatory or wherever the hell we are. Those are the sins that we’re used to hearing about from preachers. But we hardly ever hear about the sins we commit to ourselves. The times we think we’re protecting ourselves but in the end just end up hurting ourselves. No, son, those ain’t sins like you and me have done. He had dedicated an entire life to a sin of regret.”

The thief and the murderer wandered the barren wasteland never once looking back at the life of a man who never was. Neither could imagine a worse hell than having to re-live, for all eternity, the dozen lives that could have been.

Dress Shopping

“How about this, dad?” little Lucy asked as she draped the small dress over herself. The hem dragged gently across the floor collecting dust made more noticeable by the deep black color of the fabric.

“It’s a bit long, sweetheart. Don’t you think?” Roger Thornton answered with his arms crossed.

“I think we can get it shortened.”

“Maybe, but you’re at that age when you might just sprout an entire foot taller over night. Then we’d have too short a dress. And I’m not having any of that.”

“You’re silly, daddy,” she said as a smile melted across her face as quickly as it disappeared. “We can have it so it’s only shortened temporarily. They don’t have to cut anything, see? They just roll it up a bit and sew it and if I need it longer they can make it longer.”

“How’d you get to be so smart? I didn’t think they taught that in school.”

“They don’t. I learned it from mom.”

Lucy and Roger looked at the dress thoughtfully. Roger wasn’t as good as his daughter at pretending to know what he was looking for.

“Well, I like this dress best. And we know that we can have it tailored. But what do you think?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Just lovely?”

“Very elegant? I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in it once it’s all fixed up and adjusted for your height and everything.”

“Elegant? You make me sound like an old woman. Do I look like an old woman in this?”

“I’m not good at this stuff. You know that, sweetheart. I just meant to say you look very mature. Almost like you’re ready to leave home and start a life on your own without me. I guess, in that sense, I don’t like it. But other than that you look amazing in it; just like your mother.”

Lucy lifted the skirt up to where she thought would be a good length. Her eyes were fixed at the mirror but nothing that was reflected in it. At that moment, she didn’t feel that there was anything in her reflection worth looking at so she just stared at that silver glass for a second or two.

“I’m going to need a new pair of shoes to go with this,” she finally said.

“You have plenty of shoes already.”

“I said ‘new’ shoes,” Lucy insisted, “I’ve got nothing that would look good with this dress. Can we go to the shoe store afterwards?”

“Sure, honey,” Roger sounded exhausted, “But don’t you think your Aunt Edith would be better suited to help you with things like this? I’m not really qualified—”

“You’re doing great, dad,” she said, flashing that smile at him. “Besides, Aunt Edith would hate this dress. You’ve seen how she dresses. It’s late August but she’s still going to make me cover up entirely, all in layers if she has her way. She’d make me pick out another dress and give me one of her old lady shoes.”

“Be nice, Lucy,” Roger said. His voice was exhausted but that seemed to be the first familiar phrase he uttered that morning. “This is hard for everyone, your Aunt Edith included. If you don’t want her to help you that’s fine, but there’s no need to be snarky about it. Worst case scenario: we could always ask someone in the shoe shop of their opinion. I’m sure they know more about shoe fashion than I ever will.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea! I would have never thought of that, daddy,” Lucy said as she handed her father the dress.

“The only problem is the fact that they might just try and sell us the most expensive pair they’ve got.”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss.”

“Cynic.”

“Cynic?”

“The word you’re looking for is cynic. I’ll stop being a cynic but I won’t stop being a sourpuss. That’s just who I am.”

“Well, sourpuss,” Lucy said. “Let’s get this dress and head down to the shoe store.”

“Okay,” Roger answered, “But remember that we can always come back here tomorrow. I have to go to the airport and pick up Aunt Edith and a few others later tonight. Then later this week I have to drive them all back to the airport.” Roger bent over as he sat, his head between his knees, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Lucy walked over to her father and rubbed the back of his neck with her small, delicate hands.

“We’ll be okay,” Lucy said, “I know we will.”

“Let’s buy that dress,” Roger responded, “and we’ll rush on over to the shoe store.”

And that’s exactly what they did. Lucy didn’t find a pair of shoes she liked but Roger did manage to head to the airport on time. Lucy insisted on coming along.

I'm Ready

 “You’re not ready,” he said to her. He was tall and slender and had the handsome features that one would think only existed on oil paintings of medieval nobility.

“I am so ready,” Tricia responded. She had no idea who this man was but the feeling in her gut is telling her otherwise. Trusting in him just felt as natural as conversation.

“You don’t even know what it is you’re meant to be ready for.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m ready.”

“You’re not.”

“What’s your deal, anyway?”

“I’m just here to tell you when you’re ready and to tell you what to do afterwards.”

“Afterwards? After what?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not ready yet,” they say in unison.

“Is it because I’m a girl?” Tricia asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that why you don’t think I’m ready, because I’m a girl?”

“Don’t be absurd! I know you’re not ready and being a girl or not has absolutely nothing to do with it!”

“Is it because of my age?”

“It is not because of your age.”

“Then what is it?”

“Once you’re ready to know, then you will know.”

“Where are we?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’m going to take that as an ‘I don’t know.’”

“I know precisely where we are but I need to know if you do.”

“Should I? I mean—” Tricia stopped and looked around. She took a deep breath as if that gulp of air was somehow more familiar than the others she had taken since meeting this mysterious figure. “It’s familiar. But…”

“But?”

“I can’t quite remember,” Tricia shivered, “That’s strange. A chill just ran up my spine. Did you feel that?”

“I can’t say that I did. Are you afraid of something?”

“It’s not that kind of chill. It’s almost as if it were nighttime during the winter. But I can see the sun. I can feel it beating down on my skin and yet for an instant I felt cold. It’s odd.”

“So you don’t remember how you got here? How about where you came from?”

“No…” she walked down the street and looked down either end of it. There wasn’t a single car or person in sight. Curious, she attempted to cross the street but before the sole of her shoe could touch the asphalt the mysterious man asked her a question.

“You’re not ready. But you’re nearly there.”

“To cross the street? Man, I’ve been crossing streets for years. I hardly think I need your approval of my street-crossing abilities!”

“Where did you come from to get to this point?”

Tricia’s eyes darted back and forth. Her shoe came back onto the sidewalk as she walked back to the grass where she was just standing moments ago. A great joy overcame her. She smiled. She wanted to hide it but it was too late. It was just plastered on her face and her eyes welled with tears but she had no idea why.

“Why am I so happy all of a sudden? This doesn’t make any sense!”

“You tell me. Why are you so happy? What’s running through your mind this very instant?”

“The sun. I can feel it beating down on my skin…”

“You’ve just said that.”

“No, this is different. This is so very different. It’s shining in my eyes. My older sister is playing with me. I’m a baby. Oh, my God! Our first trip! I’m remembering our first trip!”

“What first trip?”

“My dad, my mom, my sister and me would take these camping trips each summer. We started going when my sister was 5 and when I was 2. Every year we would go camping just before school started. It’s so vivid, like I’m there all over again. What’s happening?”

“You’re getting ready.”

“Getting ready for what?”

“Concentrate. You’re nearly there.”

“Wait,” Tricia could feel another memory stirring. Her head felt as if it were no longer her own until she closed her eyes. She felt herself settling into a memory, her latest memory. “I’m in—”

“No,” he stopped her, “You’re nearly there. This is for you and you alone to experience.”

Eyes still closed, Tricia sat down in the grass but could swear she could feel the vinyl fabric of the car seat beneath her. She could feel the seat belt strapped across her and the car gently bounce as her rambunctious older sister bounced beside her in the back seat. Why didn’t I remember this earlier, she thought to herself. She could feel the heat emanating from the window. It was summer but the blasting air conditioning of the car was quick to remind her it was only summer outside. Tricia could feel the deep furrows in her eyebrows. She remembered. She remembered that this was her last camping trip. She didn’t want to be there.

It had been close to fifteen years of camping trips. She had started a new life of sorts in high school with new friends, a new look, a new attitude. Tricia was barely the Tricia of old. Her older sister was finally off to college, returning only for this one last camping trip since the previous year was spent touring campuses. The memory of her parents seemed so real but she couldn’t see their faces. They never looked at the back anymore, why would they? Maybe she was mad at her parents for making her go when she wanted to spend the last days of summer vacation with friends. Or maybe she was mad at her sister for having fun on what would possibly the last time they would have a trip like this. Maybe it was the last time they would be sisters. But in all likelihood it’s all of the above.

It was loud. When that other car veered onto oncoming traffic that was the one memory that Tricia remembered the most. There was a loud crashing sound. The sickening crackle of breaking glass permeated crunching of metal upon metal. And just barely, Tricia could hear and even smell burning rubber. She opened her eyes with a start. When her vision adjusted to the bright light she saw the stranger looking at her, hand outstretched.

“My sister! My parents!” Tricia exclaimed.

“It’s only you that’s here.”

“But I didn’t get to say—”

“Most people don’t. And that’s not my job.”

“Are they going to miss me?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

“I’m really going to miss them.”

“You can come down every so often if the separation becomes too much. I’ll escort you myself the first few times.”

“Will they be ok?”

“That’s really up to them. It’ll tear them apart as these things do. It’s up to them to work at being a family again, to put the shattered pieces back together.”

“But I still won’t be there.”

“I’m sorry. Would you like to see them?”

“Not right now. Just… I think it’s time to go.”

“It’s time to go where?”

“You know exactly where. I’m ready.”

Sid's Muse

Dear Steve,

I am sending you this email to let you know that I have indeed received your emails and texts and phone calls reminding me of my impending deadline. You have been my trusted publisher for years and I assure you that I will have a draft of what I am working on sent to you on time. This predicament I find myself in, however, may affect the length of said draft so if it seems uncharacteristically shorter than usual then it is only in the interest in meeting the deadline. After all, I wouldn’t want you to worry about the relationship I have with my muse.

Always,

Sid

“Muriel!” Sid yelled as he dragged his eyes from the computer monitor, “Are you around?”

“Just got in, sweetie!” Muriel responded as she swung open the front door.

Sid ran down the stairs and took her bags and placed them on the floor.

“Oh my!” she said surprised by the writer’s new found energy. “What has gotten into you?”

“My deadline,” he answered, “I just told Steve I would have a draft sent to him by the deadline which is fast approaching. It’s just a few more days!”

“And?”

“And?! What do you mean ‘and?’” Sid said, his eyes wide and his shoulders slumped. “You’re a muse! I thought you’re here to inspire me!”

“My dear sweet Sid,” she said. Her voice was soft and sweet with just a touch of flirtatious air about it. She wrapped her arms around Sid’s neck and looked him right in the eyes, their noses just an inch apart from each other. “You’re a talented enough writer to get a draft to Steve, surely. I mean I’m not meant to stay with you forever. That’s not what muses do.”

“Haven’t I spoiled you enough already? You use my credit cards, I take you out to dinner and dancing, you practically live here. It’s gotten to the point where half the neighborhood thinks we’re married!”

“Oh, bless!” Muriel smiled a sardonic smile. “But I thought you enjoyed my company, sweetheart.”

“I do,” Sid said melting away and falling back on to the sofa. “I really do but it’s frustrating living with a muse and not having any inspiration, especially when that inspiration pays for the roof over my head.”

“Oh, I know,” Muriel said in a patronizing town as she ruffled his hair. “Poor thing. How about you take me to dinner? It’ll be just the thing you need. You’ll have a clear head, a full stomach, and I’ll get to show off this lovely dress I bought today”

Muriel pulled an elegant dress out of one of the many bags Sid put on the floor just a few moments earlier and draped it in front of her, dancing about Sid. She somehow managed to find a smile somewhere on Sid’s worrisome face.

“Okay, dinner,” Sid answered finally, “And then you have to help me.”

Muriel looked at Sid and sat on his lap, tilting her head to one side and smiling softly as she looked deep into his eyes.

“Ok fine,” Sid answered, “Dinner and dancing. But then—”

“Straight home to write, I know,” Muriel leaned in and kissed Sid on the cheek, “This is why I stay with you. You just get me.” She took her bags upstairs and Sid could hear her humming some nondescript song. The ceiling creaked and Sid knew she was dancing to the tune as she put her new wardrobe away into the closet.

“Steve better get used to these short stories,” Sid thought to himself, “I love Muriel and everything but at this rate I’m never getting that novel done.”