Authors: Kristi Brooks
The wind rocked the rusted 1978 Chevy pickup as Roger pulled up to his house. The bruised sunset met the flat
Oklahoma
horizon and feathered out across the sky, parts of it so dark it appeared to be heralding a summer full of tornados and chaos. He
’
d thought about moving somewhere else when his mother died, but on days like this, the subtlety and beauty of
Oklahoma
called to him, and he knew that he could never leave.
Roger got out of the truck and ran his hand over its rough exterior as he looked up at his house. The house had been his mother
’
s only real possession. Although it was in the same type of dilapidated state as the truck, he could no more bring himself to sell it then he could move out of state. The exterior paint was flaking off in large chunks, and it was in desperate need of new flooring and paint inside as well. Every few months he took on a new project in a desperate attempt to keep it from falling down around him, but it never seemed to hold back the inevitable tide of time.
Sighing, he opened the gate, the hinges squealing in protest. He immediately made a mental post-it note to get the gate oiled after dinner, but he knew that it would be lost amidst his other reminders before then. However, there was something on the kitchen table that was even more intimidating than his latest rounds of home improvement projects.
It had been waiting for him in his mailbox at lunch, its rose-covered envelope belying its true nature. They hadn
’
t spoken to each other since that horrible night in the car three years ago. It was hard for him to believe she would want him anywhere near her after the horrible things that had been said then.
Kristi Brooks
Bear, his only faithful friend and companion for five years, bounded for the door as soon as Roger opened it, jumping up and putting all his weight on Roger
’
s chest, demanding to be petted. Roger scratched him behind his ears until he was content enough that he let Roger cross the threshold and enter the house.
After a dinner of microwaveable Salisbury steak and ramen noodles eaten while leaning against the kitchen counter, Roger grabbed a six-pack of beer and headed towards the living room. If anyone doubted Roger
’
s bachelorhood, all they had to do was look in his living room. The stark white walls held no decoration, and a crooked entertainment center stood opposite of the black and tan plaid couch and matching rocker.
He flipped on the television and twisted off the cap on his first bottle. Bear stuck his head through the doggie door and softly padded towards the couch, pausing to sniff the beer before lifting his head and issuing a low rumbling whine at Roger from the back of his throat.
“I know boy, I know.” Roger stroked the top of Bear
’
s head and thought of how sad it must be that the dog knew what a six-pack of beer sitting next to the couch meant. “I promise this won
’
t last long.” He put his two fingers of his right hand against his forehead, imitating the salute from his old days as a boy scout. “Scout
’
s honor this time. I wouldn
’
t be doing this anyway if it weren
’
t for that,” he said, pointing to the table where the invitation still lingered.
With that, Bear grumbled and settled himself on the floor, watching Roger for a few more minutes before placing his head between his paws, feigning sleep. Roger tilted up the bottle and drank, hoping that he would end up on the other end of oblivion.
***************
“You
’
re not going to be pleased if we have to bring him here, are you?”
The two figures sat on the flip side of Roger
’
s world and looked back at him with such intensity that it was almost possible to mistake them for some kind of grotesque, new age sculptures. The only exception to their stillness was the slight flicker of their eyes as they followed him, intent on studying every move.
A faint silver glow covered their harshly engraved forest green faces as they peered into an ornately designed five-foot tall mirror. The older of the two figures leaned heavily on an old, twisted walking stick that stood two inches taller than the top of his wild crimson and silver-streaked hair. His face was full of deep and unforgiving creases.
This one
’
s name was Firturro; the younger was his apprentice, Tigaffo.
Tigaffo was still looking at Firturro, waiting for an answer. His face was far less worried. Instead, it was open and eager, full of youthful curiosity.
“No, but the council believes it
’
s necessary because Roger has not responded to anything concerning the direction of his life. It is our duty to reach him, and he is refusing.” Firturro sighed while he repeated the Obawok mantra concerning undirected humans, his great malformed shoulders heaving underneath his royal watcher
’
s cloak.
Roger Fulright was presenting quite a problem. If they brought him into their world, he was going to have to do something no other human had managed to accomplish: live. Those humans the council decided to bring through the division and into their world were never strong enough to make it out again. Their weakness was part of the overall reason they were brought here, and ultimately, it was what condemned them.
Firturro turned his violet eyes away from its slick surface. The council was waiting for their report, and Tigaffo was right; he wasn
’
t going to be happy with their decision. For the first time since Firturro had been named a watcher, he was purposely not going to tell the council everything. If he were to tell them the truth, he would have to mention the fact he believed this one was different, that this one would be able to live, and that would feel like a betrayal to Roger.
As long as he
’
d been Roger
’
s watcher it had been obvious that something was different. There were times in Roger
’
s life when he almost seemed aware of Firturro
’
s presence. Tigaffo and the council tended to think rather poorly of Roger, looking upon his drinking binges and disregard for the normal human goals and accomplishments as a sign of a self-destructive person. But Firturro knew better. If Roger survived the test, Obawok society would drastically change, and this created a conflict within him. It was not one he looked forward to resolving.
Instead of waiting for more of Tigaffo
’
s questions Firturro turned and headed towards the great chamber where the council was waiting to demand Roger
’
s participation in the Mezoglike. Tigaffo trailed after him, leaving the soft glow of the mirror to illuminate a vacant wall.
It was
2 a.m.
when Roger finally awoke to a continuous and heavy pressure on his abdomen telling him of his immense need to piss. He peered at the room through half-lidded, half-drunken eyes. He sat up, struggling to find the remote so he could turn the damn TV off. During a drunken moment of uneasiness, Roger had turned to MSNBC so he could measure his life by the bad acts of others. Now the talking heads didn
’
t seem like such a good idea. In fact, they were annoying him, and the volume seemed to be exceptionally loud to his already ringing ears.
After a few minutes of fumbling he found the remote wedged between his ass and the back of the couch and managed to hit the off button. Roger lay back down and stared at the ceiling, knowing that real sleep was completely lost. His head was throbbing in a continuous rhythm with his pumping heart.
“Damn invitation,” he muttered under his breath as he forced himself to stand up and stretch. He didn
’
t want to move, but unless he wanted piss running down his jeans and into his couch cushions there was no other choice. Besides, sooner or later he was going to have to brush his teeth. Those white beacons were his constant reminder that he was nothing like those rednecks he had gone to high school with. He comforted himself with the fact that he did have some standards as he tried to take his first step from the couch and almost fell over.
After he managed to stagger into the bathroom, Roger stood just inside the doorway, his arm cut off midway by the absolute darkness of the small, windowless room as he fumbled for the light-switch. In order to reach the switch he had to lean into the doorway and feel around the corner. Roger didn
’
t mind entering most dark rooms, but the bathroom was an exception. He hadn
’
t been able to enter a dark bathroom for a long time.
The switch clicked on at the same time that the bulbs burned into his eyes. As soon as that happened, relief flooded through him and Roger went straight to the toilet, sighing as his muscles relaxed in steady time to the stream of hot urine leaving his body.
As soon as he was done, Roger turned around and looked at himself in the mirror. He rubbed a hand down his tired face and across his day old stubble. He hadn
’
t made an effort to do anything constructive since he
’
d gotten the invitation; in fact, he was still in his dirty work jeans and shoes, his shirt the only thing he
’
d had enough energy to strip off.
The wedding had not been something he
’
d wanted to hear about, much less be invited to, and even now the thought brought a sour taste to his already dry mouth. Roger began to brush his teeth in harsh, jerky strokes, purging his mouth of everything but peppermint and blood.
Bear trotted to the bathroom, his nails clicking across the floor until he came to rest by the door, his head slightly tilted as he looked up at Roger.
“What
’
s the matter, boy?” Roger asked through a mouthful of toothpaste. He smiled and a mixture of sticky soft toothpaste ran down his chin in a foam bubble. He leaned forward, putting one hand against the mirror to brace himself as he went to spit the toothpaste into the sink. He was wiping his mouth off with his left hand when he noticed that his right hand wasn
’
t moving.
He jerked it back as hard as he could, but it stayed put. It was stuck to the mirror.
Roger stared at his hand and then at his reflection, unsure of what to do next. When he saw his eyes, a tremor ran through his body so fast that his teeth clacked together.
They have to be your eyes. Stop being so paranoid.
The ghosts of his memory were coming out of their graves on their own, howling and shrieking through his mind. For a second he was on the verge of remembering everything, of understanding his entire life, but that faded as the mirror began to close its cool, confining grip over his hand.
The grip on his wrist tightened the more he jerked. No matter what he did, he could still see his hand sinking into the mirror. Silky glass slid up and over his flesh, its ice cold touch sending chills up and down his body until he was nothing but a giant patch of gooseflesh. Then there was nothing, perfect dull nothingness as he was pulled into an unseen abyss, until there was nothing left but a bloodless stump left. Roger
’
s body went completely slack as he glided into shock.
It
’
s just a dream, Roger, just one long, fucked-up dream. That
’
s it, that
’
s all there is to it.
Roger heard Bear growling, and he immediately turned toward him. Bear
’
s fur stuck out in spiky chocolate tufts and stretched across a bundle of tense muscles, his lips pulled back to reveal a horrible snarling smile. The worst part was the way his eyes gleamed with a combination of fear and hatred that Roger had never seen in any animal before, much less loveable old Bear.
When he turned back to the mirror, he found that he had put his left hand against the glass, and now both of them had sank through its metallic coated surface. A roar of confusion tumbled through his head, and somewhere in the background he could hear Bear barking frantically.
Bracing his thighs against the sink, Roger leaned back, every muscle straining against his skin until he was sure they were going to pop straight through his skin. It was no use. The more he fought, the more his body was drawn in. It was as if he
’
d been caught in mercury quicksand. The mirror was only a breath away and both of his arms were now cut off at the shoulders. He watched, his chest heaving with exhaustion and tight with worry, as the mirror reached towards him with a calm, icy fist. It was like watching water in reverse. Instead of sinking in with gravity, it was steadily making its way towards him. The numbing, glassy surface pressed against his face, tightening around each of his pores before sliding across his face and around his neck.
As soon as his head crossed the silvery threshold, Bear
’
s increasingly frantic noises no longer existed. It wasn
’
t as if they had been silenced, but in the pitch-black world he was now in, it was possible to believe there had never been a Bear at all. Even though he couldn
’
t see anything, he could feel his hands when he pressed them against his face, and he found himself oddly grateful for he fact that he
’
d at least come out whole on this side.
In one last attempt to free himself, Roger tried to pull back through to the real world, to Bear and even to the horrible wedding invitation. As he did, the passageway closed in around his airway. His mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air, but instead of relief, each breath constricted his throat further until his lungs burned with as intensely as lava. Roger felt the fight drain from him as he gave up and leaned into the darkness. The cool air rushed in, and he gulped at it furiously until he felt that he had finally regained some kind of control.
Oh, did little Roger hurt himself? Is he gonna cry like a little girl cuz the mirror got him?
A voice in his head that resembled the long gone Jimmy Bowen taunted him, laughing at the situation and at Roger. The fear had been replaced by something more sedated, a calm ebony world that wound its way around him like a ribbon of night.
The satin surface tightened against Roger
’
s skin, suffocating his pores and momentarily gripping him around the waist before letting the rest of his body slide through unharmed.
Once his entire body had passed through, he sat on a ledge of empty space and took a deep breath. He couldn
’
t see back through the mirror. There was nothing, only darkness. Roger curled up in a ball, gripping his legs until his knees brushed up against his chin. The cold had begun to feel like a layer of mud that pressed against every inch of his skin, its thickness suspending him in the darkness.