Tired and worn out by inescapable dreams, wandering down streets without names through a city without light, and drawn, ever drawn, to take that next, unintelligible step forward. It is not so much that it is meaningless, but the fear that it may be meaningful, full of some horrible, alien meaning, that I may be the means, may be being used by some dreadful intelligence devoid of any moral considerations. Still, I walk, the blind following what I cannot see.
Fred is smiling at me, and I feel the vibrations of his voice in my ear, feel my own throat mimicking human noise, making the sounds that need to be made. He smiles and nods, I smile, nodding back, though what we have said, I cannot tell. Another dream has come and gone, and I am still moving forward.
I think there is a gun in my desk. Why it is there, I cannot quite recall, but I feel drawn to it now. Once the morning chatter of the office settles and fades and I know I will not be disturbed, I open the drawer. Hiding the gun in my belt and pulling my sweater over it, I get out of my chair and head out the door.
Daphne, worried face and sincere—over sincere—voice, is telling me something about something. I’m sure it’s important. I make the appropriate consoling noises. I wonder what was wrong, what she had told me, as I walk on. Was it just gossip? Was she asking for help? Did I offer help? My feet are moving under me, and I have no time to consider these questions.
As I approach banks, I tremble, and as I pass them, I sigh. Who or what is the gun for? I keep walking, finding no answer, fearing the answer, fearing what I will do trapped in this strange fugue. I turn a corner, going somewhere I do not want to go, into dirt and grime I do not trust. In an alleyway, a transient, sleeping something off, his face red, his body a skeleton, some remnant of a shag carpet draped over his shoulders, a dog lying beside him. They seek warmth there together, but winter has made the earth cold. That is all. I see him, pass him, and he is gone.
***
I know this one is wearing a mask. His face is almost too human and every movement is strained. A realtor? I think I’ve seen his face somewhere on a billboard before. Lawyer? He dresses like a lawyer ready to play with people’s accidents.
And I remember the gun in my belt; remember, now, why I brought it.
He smiles at me with too many teeth.
I smile back, not revealing mine.
So we’re just smiling, not speaking, not using names.
Whatever it will be, it’s always near him, or he stays close to it. He doesn’t want to give it away, so he’s still, still as a stone, a wrong statue that’s just not quite human. After all this time, though, I’ve gotten good at finding it in whatever form it takes. How long have we been here?
The disruption is near; I can feel the false world trembling; the edges of everything are bleeding into each other. What was the joke we used to tell? The animators have gotten lazy. That was when we all searched, all tried to unmask the monsters.
A horrible sickness washes over me, but I hold it in. I feel my limbs trembling as I approach the smiling thing that is not what it appears to be.
It is a clear summer’s day outside the window, but I remember the drab winter’s sky I walked under and the shivering man and his dog. I remember Daphne hugging her cocoa and the white puffs of Fred’s breath as we spoke. And I remember the gun.
The thing that is not a man is no longer pretending to smile, and when I draw my gun he tries to dive between me and the window. I let him. He jumps and, for a moment, blocks my shot. Then he keeps falling past to the ground. Before he hits the floor, before I even know I’ve done it, the trigger pulls.
In an instant, the window’s smooth face becomes a crumbling mosaic of colorless shards. The spiderwebbing fissures in the glass spread unto the wall, into the room—this world is all glass, a Rupert’s Drop, and I’ve broken the tail. The dream shatters into an explosion of dust as the whole simulation dies.
***
The blurry faces of Fred and Daphne are above me, and I hear our hippie friend snoring nearby.
“She’s awake,” he says.
A hand, a soft hand, grasps mine.
“Stay with me,” she says. “Stay awake.”
I moan.
“My glasses,” I say. “I can’t see without my glasses.”
Warm hands, large, put my glasses in my other hand, and I lift them into place over my eyes. The world becomes clear, and the vague shadows I had seen sharpen into distinct and meaningful shapes. There are the faces of my friends looking down at me, and as I turn my head, I find the stained shirt and unshaven countenance of Rogers asleep in a chair in the corner.
“What happened?” I ask as the white walls and beeping machinery tell me of the hospital I’m in. Sitting up, I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me.
“Hold on,” says Fred. “Careful.” I can feel his warmth there beside me as he puts a hand on my shoulder. “When we confronted Mr. Peters, he tried to run.”
“Peters,” I repeat, slowly, trying to remember.
“He shoved you out of the way,” Daphne adds, “and you went over the railing.”
I begin to recall the scene at the foundry, the “haunted” foundry.
“The doctors say you’re going to be alright,” Fred assures me. “You’re just going to need some rest.”
“Rest…”
“But you shouldn’t sleep,” Daphne cuts in, “not with a concussion.”
“Rest, no sleep,” I sum up, glancing over at Rogers. “Where’s…?” I begin to ask.
“Nurse caught us trying to sneak him in,” said Fred. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
I smile. It had been a long time, or so it felt, since I’d seen my friends.
Tale Told 