Bladed Wings (3 page)

              “Give up.”

              “This isn’t real,” Timothy repeated.

              With a sigh fit for an Elizabethan tragedy, Cipher launched the tips of his tentacles, both aimed for Timothy’s throat. Desperate for protection, Timothy threw up his hands. The tentacles cut through his forearms. Two quick stabs and they pulled back. “Give up,” Cipher said again. Timothy tried to step back, but there was just the one exit. All he could do was back himself into a wall. But he didn’t have a plan and maybe another few seconds would offer him some brilliant answer.

              “I—” but his answer scuttled when the tentacles struck again. All he could do was block them with his arms. Agony flared up and he felt the skin tear. Cipher was cutting him up one slash at a time. His arms burned, stung, and bled like nothing else he felt before.

              “Give up!” shouted Cipher, his voice loud and scared. Timothy heard it that time.

              “Why?”

              “You can’t win. You are weak!” It was anger, anger to cover the terror.

              “But you’re strong?” he asked with a nod at the demon’s feet.

              Cipher glanced down. His feet stretched the ground like he was heavy enough to bend the linoleum. But it kept going and they both realized Cipher had started to sink. The floor would swallow him. “Give up now!” he shouted again, his tentacles wrapping around washing machines.

              “This is a dream,” Timothy repeated, praying he was right. “That means I’m in control, so you’re going to get sucked down into the floor. That’s what’s going to happen because it’s my dream, my mind, and I control what happens here. Then I’m going to wake up.” He spoke with the confidence he didn’t feel. At least his voice didn’t shake.

              Inch by inch, Cipher sank further and further into the floor. Too tired to do anything else, Timothy pressed himself against the wall, watching and waiting. Cipher fought and thrashed, growling with frustration. He dug his fingertips into the floor, but he didn’t slow. Second by second, more and more of his body disappeared.

              Cipher roared and fought until his arms were gone, then his neck, then his mouth and he went silent for that moment until his eyes disappeared. When nothing remained, the demon was gone and even the hole disappeared.

Alone, Timothy decided this had to be a dream.  Now he could believe it. The cuts weren’t real. He wasn’t really exhausted. This was a nightmare. He took control, because someone wanted to kill him. Okay, so he’d never been in a dream this realistic, but it still wasn’t real. His life couldn’t be this interesting. It was post traumatic stress, or he still had to work out his feelings about that morning.

              But he didn’t wake up, not at first.

              Instead he dreamed about the laundry room again. The least exotic place in all the universe, it felt bright and white, scrubbed clean with fluorescent lights. And he seemed normal, just a guy in college. His shoes were the same gray sneakers he wore that morning. His black slacks were still pants. His shirt was a shirt. He even had the pen he accidentally put in his pocket at lunch. His hands, arms, legs, stomach, and every other part felt normal too. There were still the cuts, but that was the only proof Cipher ever existed.

              A few more seconds and Timothy noticed a flicker of movement. He looked at his hands and he saw it, the snakes of shadow crawling along his skin. They moved with the grace of shadows, yet they didn’t disappear when confronted with the light. When they didn’t hurt him, Timothy gave up, tucked his head against his knees, and tried to disappear into the black of normal sleep.

Two

That morning, Timothy woke up and his palms flew to his shoulders. He expected wounds, flares of pain from fresh scabs. His fingertips reached those patches of skin, and he exhaled, relieved and feeling silly for expecting a dream to actually hurt him. He was safe. No one hurt him. Nothing happened. When he got up, dragging his blankets across the floor through the morning cold, he saw himself in the mirror. He looked the same. It was a dream. Yesterday with the church freaked him out and his subconscious turned that into a nightmare. A psychology major would have appreciated his explanation.

              Half way across his room, Timothy noticed the clock. It was only four. Groaning, he rolled back onto his bed, still tangled in his sheets. He tried to clear his thoughts, but even wrapped up in his tortilla of blankets, he couldn’t clear his head. By four thirty he knew he couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t be able to get away from the churches, demons, and dreams that ran through his head. There weren’t any answers in his bed, so he rolled up.

Perched on the edge of his sheets, he thought about what he should do. Part of him wanted to tell someone. He could tell his roommate, call his parents, or maybe go see a therapist. At best, he’d get some drugs. At worst, they’d shove him into some nice psychiatric facility with lots of plants and a day room where everyone played checkers and made macaroni art. Talking about this would be mean quitting his life, giving up on his education to enjoy whatever medications were popular.

No, for the moment Timothy would assume he wasn’t insane. One set of hallucinations wasn’t enough. Instead he searched around for something to do and laughed. He realized he was out of clean clothes. For the last two weeks he had put off doing his laundry. Piling everything into his plastic basket, Timothy figured a chore would be mindless and easy. Besides, it would be healthy to go to the scene of his nightmare. He’d go down to the laundry room, and it would be the same bright space filled with washing machines and dryers. No demons. Nothing scary. Nothing weird. He put on some clothes, gathered his laundry and headed out.

              Hustling through the morning cold, Timothy tried to think about anything but the chill as he scrambled across the parking lot. He saw his breath with each step through the shadows. Parking lamps glowed like yellow suns, but there weren’t enough to illuminate the whole lot. Through the glass doors to the laundry room, he hopped up and down, rubbing his hands over his shoulders. Inside it was warm as one of the dryers thrummed loud and welcoming. This was normal. Being cold was normal. So he was sane. He could be pretty sure he was sane. No hallucinations and then he stopped when someone stood up from behind one of the machines.

              “Hi,” Jenny said with a smile and a wave. Timothy stopped. He couldn’t believe she was there. But he saw her. He saw her brown hair that curled at the tips, the curve of her lips when she smiled at him. It was the kind of smile that spread across her whole face. As always, she wore her signature top: a charcoal gray sweatshirt with a Hufflepuff insignia over the corner her chest. The badger was yellow and faded, but she wore it like a model or a princess. Timothy guessed she would’ve been beautiful in a gym shorts.

              “Hi,” Timothy said, taking steps back because he still wore flannel shorts and a t-shirt with at least three holes. He couldn’t be there. She couldn’t see him dressed this way. It didn’t matter that she already looked right at him. He was on irrational autopilot now. Backing for the door, he dropped his clothes there, and he ran. He actually sprinted back for his apartment feeling like a seventh grade idiot. It got worse when he slammed his front door shut, put his back against the wall, and realized he’d have to go back for his laundry. He hit the back of his skull against the drywall and chanted about how dumb that was.

              He didn’t let the hour stop him from knocking on Jeremiah’s door. Timothy pounded until he heard someone swear off and crash onto the floor with some more curses. A few more seconds and the door swung open. Jeremiah, not a morning person at four forty-five, demanded, “What?” Hair tangled, he had his blankets wrapped around his shoulders like he couldn’t give up the thought of really leaving his bed.

              “I’m an idiot.”

              “What?”

              “I’m an idiot. I ran. No, not an idiot, a coward, wuss, pansy.”

              “Okay,” and Jeremiah tired to shut the door.

              Blocking it with his palm, Timothy hoped Jeremiah wouldn’t just slam the door on his hand, “C’mon man, I need some help.”

              “What time is it?”

              “Almost five.”

              “In the morning?” Jeremiah asked. “There’s a five in the morning now?”

              “Dude, you’re not that tired.”

              “Screw you too.”

              “That doesn’t even make sense,” Timothy said. “Look at it this way, I’m not going away until you give me some advice.”

              “Fine,” Jeremiah conceded. “What happened?” He walked through the door and fell into one of the lounge chairs in their living room.

              Timothy sat on the opposite chair. Squishy and crushed it gave beneath his weight. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “I saw her.”

              “Who?”

              “Her.”

              “Who her?”

              “Jenny. Jenny her. What other her is there?”

              “At five,” Jeremiah said, “it might be the Queen of Freakin’ England for all I know.”

              “No, I saw Jenny.”

              “Fine then. How’d you screw it up?” Jeremiah asked. Then he smirked, maybe waking up, “You had to have screwed up, otherwise you wouldn’t care enough to wake me up and possibly cause me to kill you. Because we both know no jury in the world would convict me. Prosecutors would have a better shot against a pair of puppies trying to squeeze into the same slipper.” Arms stretched over his head, he yawned long and hard. “What’d you do?” Now he planted one check against his fist.

              “I’m screwing up.”

              “Yes.”

              “I’m screwing up, because I’m not doing anything about her.”

              “There seems to be an obvious solution to inaction.”

              “But I don’t know what to do.”

              “What do you want?” Jeremiah asked. “It seems like an easy question, but have you thought about it? Have you said it out loud?”

              “I…”

              “No,” Jeremiah interrupted, “You’ve never said it out loud. To be honest, I was kind of surprised when I was right. I see you mooning at the neighbor girl and I think you’re just interested in the—let’s say the shape of her jeans. Instead you keep doing it and it turns out I’m right.” Now he laughed, “Great isn’t it? How I’m right even when I’m not trying.”

              “So what do I do?”

              “What’s your goal?”

              “I want to get to know her?”

              “Get to know her?” Jeremiah laughed, “What are you? Victorian?”

              “Victorian?”

              “Never mind. It’s a lit major thing.” Jeremiah leaned back, the grin gone from his face, “So what is your goal, your real goal?”

              “I want to be with her?”

              “How? Be specific.”

              “That’s not specific?”

              “Peh, no,” Jeremiah sneered. “Are you looking for something spiritual? Intellectual? Carnal? Romantic? Platonic? Do you want a friend? Someone you can share gardening tips with? What do you want? What is the return you hope to enjoy after some degree of effort?”

              “Romance.”

              “Interesting.”

              “What?” Timothy asked.

              “Most guys wouldn’t use those exact words. Kinda girly, but whatever.”

              “So what do I do?”

              “Tell me your goal.”

              “I want a relationship with her.”

              “Okay,” Jeremiah explained. “Now you need to figure out what you have to do.”

              “How?”

              “What are the obstacles in your way?”

              “She doesn’t know me.”

              “And?”

              “And I can’t talk to her?”

              “There’s something else.”

              “What’s that?”

              “She has a boyfriend.”

              “Is he more attractive than you?”

              “What? How would I know?”

              Shrugging, Jeremiah guessed, “I don’t know. Maybe study what our culture says is attractive in a dude then compare him to yourself and see who scores higher. But then I guess that’s not the important question.”

              “What is?”

              “How are you going to get rid of him?”

              “How can I do that?”

              “Murder, bribery, manipulation, deception, kidnapping,” Jeremiah ticked through his options. “There are lots of ways if you’re willing to do what it takes.”

              “I have to do something immoral?”

              “Only if you want to win.”             

              “That’s all you’ve got?” Timothy asked.

              “Hey, don’t wake me up at five in the freakin’ morning if you want moral advice.”

              The rest of the day went normally. From sunrise to sunset, there were no hallucinations or anything else that might imply Timothy’s mind had melted like a toy soldier stuck in a microwave. He went to work, passed out mail to the cubicle drones he hoped to one day never become, got something to eat, and went to his two night classes. He listened to lectures, got bored, and started doodling in the margins of his notes as teachers told him about Peruvian art and the best way to outline a speech. Class got out, and darkness had settled over campus, but nothing strange happened so Timothy called it a victory.

              Yesterday was a fluke, he decided. His hands balled in his pockets for warmth, Timothy walked across the campus. He tried to hunch down as much as possible, ball up to hold onto every bit of warmth. His coat was thick and lined with plastic polymers and faux fabrics, but it didn’t help every time a wind washed over his face.

              He glanced at his watch, trying to figure out how fast he should walk as he passed under the trees lining the sidewalk. After all, he didn’t want to get to the shuttle stop too soon or he’d have to wait there in the cold. At least when he walked his muscles warmed a little. That thought felt important until someone reached from behind him, a damp cloth in hand. It smelled like chemicals.

              The hand was small, Timothy realized, the wrist too. Without thinking he tried to drop down, then kicked out, jumping a few feet only to fumble another two steps. In the next second, Timothy turned back, looking for a threat. But he didn’t expect this girl. Despite the cold, she wore a blue tank top and denim shorts. Dressed for summer, she didn’t seem to notice the cold. Her wavy blond hair blew with the breeze. Her lips were bright with the kind of makeup designed to make guys think she was cute and innocent.

              “That was rude,” she said, one hand flat against her hip, the other holding the cloth.

              “What?” Timothy felt his cell phone in his pocket, but she didn’t look like much of a threat. Then again, anyone crazy with a gun would be a dangerous, but she just had a cloth. “Who are you?” He didn’t run since she was thin and small. This had to be a joke, he guessed. The running would come later.

              She ignored him, “Morgon, he’s going to be difficult.”

              At first Timothy had no idea what she meant until he heard the thud from behind. Timothy twisted around to see a chest standing at eye level. Timothy only saw Morgon’s face when he tilted his head to look up those extra three feet. This guy had to be at least eight and a half feet tall, and he wasn’t lanky or thin. His muscles were thick and bulging—comic book bulging. Green eyes half squinted, Morgon tightened his lips with the disdain of someone about to smash an ant.

              Timothy ducked and ran.

              The giant lunged down to grab him, but Timothy was an inch faster.

              Swinging his arms for extra speed, he sprinted for the shuttle stop. His backpack bounced against his back with every step. Reaching for his cell phone, he fumbled to keep his speed even as he heard Morgon’s steps behind him. A quick glance and there was that huge guy, only a few feet away, reaching out with a meaty hand to grab him.

              Timothy leaped to the side, avoiding the meaty hand and losing a lot of speed, but it wasn’t so bad because Morgon’s momentum kept him moving and forced him right past Timothy. No time to enjoy that tiny victory, Timothy ran again. He dropped his backpack, deciding that twenty pounds of textbooks on folklore and effective communications wouldn’t be useful.

              Without that weight, he had better balance and got a lot more speed. Timothy tore down the fifty yards of sidewalk that would lead to the shuttle loop where most of the public buses pulled up. It was late and there wasn’t anyone around. Timothy grabbed his cell phone and started dialing 911. Numbers in, he was ready to hit send when a rock slammed into his fist. Pain and heat shot up his arm as the phone fell from his fingers, crashing into the pavement.