As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Read online

  Opening the door, I was prepared to enfold a weeping and grieving woman or child in my arms. I had even managed to steel myself for the horrific discovery that the husband had finally beaten the wife to death, or perhaps in a rare act of self-defense, she had ended his brutality. Instead, I looked upon quiet and calm, beauty in abundance, a snow white figure holding a single rose. Lady Death had passed by all others and had come to stand upon my stoop.

  I cried out, turning away so I could not see her face. Despite my earlier insanity, I did not want to know the color of her eyes or see the curve of her lips. I wanted to run, to find a way to cheat the inevitable. Despair filled me and I collapsed to my knees, my voice raised in anger and misery as I screamed. For I knew, escape was impossible.

  She stood by my side, her gentle hand coming down to sit upon my shoulder as she offered her gift to me. The brittle petals of the rose still held the freezing chill of the winter outside as they grazed my cheek, soaking up my tears. She did not rush me or urge me to stand. Instead, she patiently waited for my return to a functional state.

  It came quicker than I imagined. One moment, I was on the floor sobbing like a child, and the next, I was seeing things clearly. “It’s all a mistake. I’m not dead. I’m still alive. My heart is still beating, and I have watched your journey all night. I am sorry, Lady. I mean no disrespect, but you have the wrong man. I’ve not died.” I stood, still shielding my face from her gaze as I spoke. Feeling relief roll over me in waves, I wanted to cheer. I could not have died. I was sure if I had, I’d have been the first to know.

  She didn’t speak, not a single word.

  Sure she had to see the rightness in what I was saying, I pleaded more. “Please, Madame, you must see I am not ill. Not in the least. I still have a heartbeat, and I still draw air into my lungs. I am young, healthy, and in my prime. I have not died this night. I am really quite alive.”

  Still, she stood in silence, still offering the rose.

  Anger began to replace my happiness that Death had made a mistake, and I yelled at the beige tiles under my feet, “Do you hear me? You have made an egregious error!”

  In response, she gently pressed against my shoulder, turning me back toward the window where I had watched her strange procession.

  The world dissipated, crumpled, fell to ash, and came together once more. In the chair, next to the window, my body sat. Eyes closed in an expression of peace. My hands were folded over the book in my lap, my reading glasses still rested on my nose. I looked asleep, except…my chest did not rise or fall. My color was all wrong, pale and ghostly gray. Most of all, I was across the room staring at myself as if in some sort of strange dream.

  Speechless, I turned back to the lady, searching for answers. The glory in her image swallowed me, numbing my brain and rendering me immobile, except for my eyes. I devoured the glorious sight of her, committing her every trait to memory. I never wanted to close my eyes again; I wanted nothing more than to stare into her magnificence forever.

  She had lowered the hood from her crown and her ebony hair hung in loose waves to frame a face that seemed to glow with the light and warmth of a summer’s moon. As I had wanted to before, I gazed into her eyes and found the color there to be an effervescent glimmering as if the irises were clear jewels reflecting all she gazed upon. The corners of her lips turned upward in an understanding smile, as if to say she understood, and she would guide me through it all.

  Desire to hold her in my arms filled me. I wanted to crush her against my chest and kiss those gentle lips until they were bruised. I wanted to possess Lady Death and make her mine. All these thoughts seemed foreign and strange, but justifiable as I yearned after her pure elegance. I had wanted to hide from her and had cowered in her presence, but suddenly, I wanted to bask in her glory.

  With silent grace, Lady Death raised her hand and offered me the rose once again. This time, I carefully accepted her gift, no longer caring that I had left my mortal shell behind. Her smile grew brighter as our fingers brushed during the exchange, and it was as if the sun had risen on the darkest night. In the lingering moment, there was a great disturbance in the air as two wings, as raven black as her hair, unfurled in a mass of downy soft feathers from her back.

  I made to go down on my knees, so I might pay homage to such a creature as she appeared to be. I wanted to give praise and thanks that it was she, and not one of her bony fingered brothers clad in black, that had come to carry me through the bitter winter’s night to wherever my soul’s final destination might be.

  Her hands found my biceps, and with a tight grip, she prevented my groveling gesture. Pulling me nearer, her eyes peered deep within my own, as if she were seeking out every lie and every truth I had ever told within their depths. I quivered beneath her touch, reminded of the ice and snow clinging to the world beyond my warm apartment. I didn’t dare to attempt to break her hold, fearing I might displease her. And as my reward for whatever she found hidden inside, she bent her head to plant death’s kiss upon my lips.

  I could taste the sweetened chill of her breath as our lips meshed together, and I felt bliss. All my life, I had thought I understood love and passion. I had mistakenly thought I had experienced those things with the woman I loved, the powerful words I put on paper and sold to the highest bidder, and all the things I once thought of as my reason to live. Yet, under Lady Death’s spell, all those things were forgotten. I no longer cared for the motivations I had to survive. I only cared for her­—my reason to die.

  So, you see, I gave into that dark night and that beautiful lady. I surrendered without much of a fight at all, and together, we walked hand-in-hand out into the snow-capped evening. She guided me down the length of Bradbury Street in silence—always in silence. Though I felt some remorse that I had left the ones I love, I was at peace. All the arguments of my youth, immortality, and the injustice of my passing had faded away. The Lady Death carried me home to meet my maker.

  I no longer care for the winter, not because I died on that night in the midst of that devastating storm, but because the winter will always make the silence that much deeper. The snow covering the world only serves to mute the living and lively things. I am lost in a world of stillness, death is silence, and I still had one more story to tell.

  *****

  The woman shifted in her seat, watching as the snowflakes fell.

  The ground had a white smattering already, and the man wondered how long he had been speaking. The compatible silence ensued as, together, they stared up into the gray sky. Not even the snow birds fluttered or chirped. The world seemed wrapped in a soundproof bubble as winter raised its head.

  At last, the woman stood with an audible sigh. Gathering her coat tighter around her, she walked away.

  The man sat alone in the snow, feeling small and insignificant among the thousands of unique flakes that continued to swirl through the winter’s day. To his right, he saw her, Lady Death. Her arms were held out, offering an embrace that would ease his pain, but he stalled. The silence, the unbearable silence, awaited him in her grip.

  He always came back to this place on the first snow of winter, to tell his story to whatever soul may be wandering alone. Though his words never reached their ears and his presence was never truly known, he could pretend. Sometimes the people talked to themselves, just as the woman had, and the words were almost like the comfort of conversation. He clung to those moments that were nearly human companionship, because he still longed for the life that he had lost.

  With a furtive glance to the side, he saw her, the dark-winged and dark-haired angel, still waiting. When he stood, she smiled, waiting for him to come into her arms.

  “Lady Death, I know what you must think, though you never speak a word. I hope my actions do not sadden you. It is true that I regret the loss of my life and I miss the world where I once thrived.”

  Still she did not speak, she never did. Instead, she kissed him softly and led him away, down Bradbury Street. Until the next first sno
w of a new winter, he would wait to tell his story once more.

  Independence Day

  A low moan escaped Victor’s lips, a little spittle clinging to the corner of his mouth as he worked his jaw. His thinning dark hair was matted with sweat from the intense heat inside the storage shed, and his shirt stuck to his chest and pot-belly. His head lulled back against the chair, eyes rolling until only the bloodshot whites showed.

  She’d bound his hands and feet to the chair, using silk so it wouldn’t bruise, but also wouldn’t break. Probably no need for that, Dawn thought. Not like he’s got enough brains left to try to struggle after that amount of Zyhydro.

  Between the oppressive temperatures of an enclosed eight-by-ten space in July and the strange sense of excitement building up in her chest, Dawn felt her own body become slick with moisture. Wiping her hands on her jeans to clear away the moisture before she began, she hummed a song from her childhood. In her mind, this wasn’t really happening. It was a scene to a bad Lifetime movie, and Martina McBride belted out the words to ‘Independence Day’ as the characters played their part.

  “Just a little longer, Vic. Then it will be over. You know, I’ve always loved this night. Forget the political bullshit and all that ‘we love America word vomit’ people spew. It’s really about beauty and destruction. It is a revolution every time a ball of gun powder and fire becomes something colorful and bright.”

  Sauntering over to roughly pat his cheek, she tried to force him to wake. She wanted him lucid, if only to know why he would die on this day. His lids fluttered and another low moan croaked outward, and she drew back her hand, hitting him hard. The smack echoed in the empty bin, a crack of lightning to match the thunder in her brain.

  “Wake up, Victor! Wake up, now.” She struck him once more, loving the feel of the pain zinging through her nerve-endings. Pain was good, it was a reminder never to trust or love too much. It was a constant warning that tragedy could strike at any time.

  Finally, his eyes rolled back down and tried to focus. In the light of several camping lanterns, she could see her image reflected in his pupils, so large that the inky blackness almost completely swallowed the powder blue.

  His lips moved, he tried to mumble her name, but the drugs were working well—too well. She’d hoped he’d at least be conscious enough to know that’d this was the last battle in the war of hearts they’d been playing for too long. He’d won many, but this was the end, and she’d claim victory at any cost. Checking her watch, Dawn grazed her fingers across the swollen black eye and busted lip that marred her normally plain face.

  “Today is Independence Day, Victor. Do you remember our first? I do. We were so in love. Not one of those bright bursts in the night sky could have compared to the fireworks I felt when you looked at me. But that was many years ago, and all those old fires have burned out. We are going to celebrate the end of all this fighting. There have been so many casualties and necessary evils in this game, but I always told you I would destroy you before I’d let myself die this way. You thought I was weak, and I knew you were stupid, so here we are.”

  Another glance at her watch, and she saw the time was at hand. Dawn leaned down, pressing her lips to his in a sweet farewell kiss. As she pulled away, she gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger, parting the way for the M-80 she placed between his teeth. Firmly holding the powerful little firecracker in place as he attempted to push it away with his tongue, she laughed.

  “Now, Victor, be a good boy. The fireworks will be starting soon.”

  In the distance, the first strings of the National Anthem began and she closed her eyes. The sound of explosions and music made her sway, and she felt the night as it had been years before. A smile curved her lips again as she remembered the spectacular sight of the colorful fire raining down over the river and the sweet smell of gun flower and roses in the night air.

  No. No one would ever hear his screams.

  “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered and let the sounds play on.

  As the finale began and the night filled with the blasting sounds of freedom, she slipped the lighter from her pocket and lit the fuse. Seconds later, his face became a smattering of bloody torn flesh. Blood and fire, that was all there was left in her heart.

  The pain had stirred him from his drug induced state of mind, and Victor cried out in astonished torment. His body struggled against the restraints, even as confused agony filled his unfocused eyes. The last thing he saw was Dawn’s silhouette standing in the open door, lighter in hand, and a smile on her swollen face.

  She bent, lighting the fuse at her feet, and shut the door.

  In the last seconds of his life, Victor screamed for the mercy he’d never given her. The fire seemed to travel in slow motion—up the small gray line to the mass of explosives strapped to the chair—and he followed it with his eyes. In the seconds before his weak consciousness became an inferno, he understood he would not survive.

  Without remorse, she walked away, and Dawn tilted her head up. Above her, the sky was filled with beauty. Behind her, she could hear Victor’s destruction. In a voice not hindered by fear or sadness, she sang out, “Let freedom ring.”

  Tangled Webs

  The dreams and fears that we conceive

  Can be found in the tangled webs we weave

  In those desperate threads is where we leave

  All the things our shattered minds no longer believe

  One thread is silver, how it shines

  One thread is gold; that one binds

  One is thin, so it can stretch far and wide

  One thread is fat, to cover what we must hide

  One thread is darker and the other light

  To show us there is no wrong and right

  They come together and break apart

  So much like my own vicious heart

  Drift Back Home

  The fine mist of rain as I drove home was just enough of an annoyance to have me flipping my windshield wipers on every now and again. Twenty miles to work and back does not seem like such a long drive to most. For me, it seemed an eternity. With all the nuances of my life running through my head faster than the traffic around me, I longed to just get home and fall into my bed.

  Mile marker seventy-four popped into view, and I sighed heavily, letting the careening demands of my world take over. The car had broken down again, forcing me to drive my husband’s beat-up, gas sucking pickup truck. A six-year-old car was supposed to run better than that, but that was just my luck. The kids needed school supplies and new clothes, which I knew were going to cost me at least five hundred. The rent was late, and it didn’t look as if I was going to be making it anytime soon. The internet was already off, and if I didn’t pay the bill within the week, they would charge me an outrageous reconnect fee. Worst of all, I only had twenty-three dollars left in the bank.

  I felt like weeping. My desire to get home began to ebb away. I didn’t really want to see my family and explain to them why they couldn’t have all the things they asked for on a daily basis. Yes, it was my own fault. When the money situation had been better, I gave them everything. Never wanting them to know need as I had when I was a child, I spoiled them. The money was gone though. We were broke, and they hated me some days because they were too young to understand why.

  I was feeling pretty sorry for myself by the time mile marker seventy-six popped into view. With only four miles until I would make the turn off the highway and head home, the dread filled me. I stared out the misted windshield like a zombie—my mind drifting to back when I was a kid. During that time, I had run away in any situation that became difficult. I had fled from my parents, from foster homes, from juvenile facilities, and from the real world.

  I let myself consider running from my adult world, but the thought ended abruptly. I could never turn my back on my children. I loved them too much. Though the constant demands of life had brought me to my knees, I could never walk away from the people I cared so much about. Sighing, I pictu
red my family, and wondered how I could have ever contemplated such a thing.

  Glancing up, I saw the familiar sign that read Sandlen, MO – One Mile, and something caught my eye. A pair of work boots sat at the base of the metal support poles. It was not strange to see shoes on the highway, but something seemed off to me. The boots did not look as if some littering motorist had thrown them out. They looked posed. The leather carcasses stood side by side in the misty afternoon, like two soldiers abandoned and discarded. The neatness and care in which they had been positioned spoke a million words.

  I forgot my troubles as I spent the rest of my drive idly wondering about the boots. I couldn’t help but contemplate how they had come to be there. I let the questions roll through my head in a disjointed one-sided conversation. Did some hitchhiker find himself a new pair and leave them there for the next man to come wandering by? During the spring, I-55 was a favorite route for many nomadic people. Did some good samaritan place them there, knowing drifters often used the road? I pushed the uglier thoughts from my head about how else shoes ended up alongside of the road. After all, they had been perfectly arranged.

  The musing was a nice break, but it came to a close when I walked in the door of my house to see supper not started, bits of paper littering every inch of the floor, and my youngest screaming in pure rage at her older sister. I quickly hushed the fighting siblings and began my traditional round of kisses and inquiries as to how their days had gone as I cleaned up the paper and dug in the bare cabinets for something to cook. The night was hectic and my troubles grew with the stack of bills that had come in the mail, yet my mind returned often to those two seemingly, insubstantial boots setting by the exit sign.

  Traveling the highway the next morning, I didn’t think of them. I was worried about my clothes. The dryer was on the fritz and my dress clothes were still wet. I was forced to drag some ill-fitting mess from the rear of my closet and felt ridiculous. I had several tough customers coming in that morning and was sure my boss would be popping in the office that afternoon. A headache threatened my frontal lobes and promised to turn in to a migraine before I ever made it to the bank to pick up the morning bags before opening.