Tequila's Sunrise

had. Everything else in the room remained the same—the drab furnishings, the dim light—but in the ceiling’s place was a purple, wounded sky. Boiling clouds raced across it, but she felt no wind. Although the temperature hadn’t changed, she shivered. The pressure on her bladder increased. She relaxed, and felt a sudden rush of warmth. Then the violet sky split open, revealing a black hole, and it began to rain desiccated flowers.

‘Flowers,’ she thought. ‘There are flowers on the dresser. Ellen brought them.’

Then she wondered who Ellen was.

Dried petals continued to shower the bed, tickling her nose and cheeks. She sighed. The feeling was not unpleasant. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the rain of flower petals stopped—replaced by something else. Her eyes widened in terror. A squadron of bulbous flies poured from the hole in the sky, buzzing in a multitude of languages. Their bodies were black, their heads green like emeralds. They circled the room in a swirling pattern. A flock of birds plunged out of the hole, giving chase. The thunder increased, inside the room with her now. The noise was deafening. The flies scattered and the birds squawked in fright. A black, oily feather floated gently towards her.

She tried to sit up, but her fatigue weighed her like a stone. All she could do was lie there and watch. Listen. Wonder.

Where was she? What was this? What was happening?

She thought again of the flowers. They’d been brought by... who, exactly? She couldn’t remember. Someone. She thought it might be important.

The warmth dissipated. She was cold again. Her fear was replaced by a powerful sense of frustration in both her physical discomfort and her confusion. Why couldn’t she remember anything?

Above her, the sky continued to weep. Now, strands of DNA fell in ribbons, forming puddles on the bed and floor. Life stirred within those puddles, writhing and squirming. The thunder changed into a voice—a deity, perhaps, screaming. It was a terrible sound. She clasped her hands over her ears and tried to block it out. She’d heard screams like this before. Perhaps she’d even made them, at one time. They sounded like the symphony of birthing pains.

A large puddle of liquid tissue had formed on the sheet in front of her, right between her legs. As she watched, something wriggled from the puddle—a one-inch tentacle, about the thickness of a pencil. There was an eyeball attached to one end of the tendril. It stared at her, and as she watched, the pupil dilated.

In the background, the deity was still screaming. She no longer cared. Her attention was focused on the tentacle-thing. The creature groped feebly at her gown, and then pulled itself forward. She slapped her hand down on it, pressing it into the mattress and grinding her palm back and forth. The tentacle squeaked—even though it lacked a mouth—and then lay still. She removed her hand. All that remained of the thing was a pinkish-white blob of mucus. Slime dripped from her hand.

Silence returned. The disembodied screaming stopped. So did the thunder. The flies and the birds turned to vapor. The hole in the sky closed up, and second later, the drop ceiling reappeared.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please... please...”

Then, new voices spoke. A man and a woman.

“She used to love to paint. I thought bringing some of this might help, but she can’t even hold the paintbrush.”

“Yes. Her motor skills are decreasing rapidly.”

“How long does she have?”

“In this stage of Alzheimer’s, it is difficult to say. I’ve seen some hang on for years after the fourth stage has set in. Others go quickly. All we can do is keep her comfortable.”

“I just hate bringing Mika to see her like this, you know? I’m worried about how it will effect her.”

“That’s understandable, Ellen. And while some studies suggest that it’s beneficial for patients, we can’t even really be sure that your mother is aware of the presence of those around her. I know it’s not much comfort, but at least she’s calm and peaceful, for the most part.”

“Who are you?” she moaned. “Where are you?”

She closed her eyes and let her cheek loll against the pillow, wishing the sky would rain flowers again.

“Who am I?” she whispered. “Please...”

The voices disappeared.

At last, she slept.

When she awoke again, the room was dark and cold. She shivered. There were flowers on the dresser, but she no longer knew what they were.

***

***

This story started as nothing more than a fragment. About one-hundred words of it was originally written for one of those multi-author collaboration projects—two dozen authors each contributing to one short story. Unfortunately, the project never came to fruition. I no longer remember who was involved or what the premise was. All I know is that it was never published (if it had been, I’m sure I’d have a contract or a copy of the book around here somewhere).

Anyway, I bought a new computer and I was in the process of transferring my files over to it when I ran across this old, forgotten fragment. I re-worked it into this story. Alzheimer’s has impacted my family in a very personal way. It’s a truly terrifying disease. I find it especially scary because none of us really know what’s going on inside the mind of the victim.

“Fade To Null” has only appeared once before—in my now out-of-print short story collection Unhappy Endings.

BUNNIES IN AUGUST

One year later…

He shouldn’t have come here. Not today. Especially not today.

This is where it happened, he thought. This is where Jack died.

Gary stood beneath the water tower. It perched atop the tallest hill in town, right between the Methodist church cemetery, and the rear of the tiny, decrepit strip mall (abandoned when Wal-Mart moved in two miles away), and a corn field. The tower was a massive, looming, blue thing, providing water to the populace below. Every time he saw it, (which was all the time, because it was visible from everywhere in town) Gary was reminded of the Martian tripods from War of the Worlds. When Jack was old enough to read the graphic novel adaptation, it had reminded him of the same thing.

“It looks like one of the Martian robots, doesn’t it Daddy? Doesn’t it? Let’s pretend the Martians are invading!”

The first tear welled up. Then another. They built to a crescendo. Surrendering, Gary closed his eyes and wept. A warm summer breeze rustled the treetops above him. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to swallow the lump, and found he couldn’t. Sweat beaded his forehead. The heat was stifling. His skin prickled, as if on fire. As if he was burning. The wind brushed against him like caressing flames.

Blinking the tears away, he glanced back up at the water tower and wondered how he could bring it down. He saw it every day—on the drive home, from the grocery store parking lot, the backyard, even his bedroom window—and each time he was reminded of his son. The tower’s presence was inescapable. How to erase its existence—and thus, the memories? A chainsaw was out of the question. The supports were made of steel. Explosives maybe? Yeah. Sure. He was a fucking insurance salesman. Where was he going to find explosives?

He hated the water tower. It stood here as an unwanted reminder, a dark monument to Jack.

This was where it happened.

This used to be their playground.

Weekends had always been their time together. During the week, Gary and Susan both worked, he at the insurance office and she from home, typing up tape-recorded court transcripts. Jack had school, fourth grade, where he excelled in English and Social Studies, but struggled with Math and Science. Gary didn’t see them much on weeknights, either. He’d had other… obligations.

Leila’s face popped into his mind, unbidden. He pushed her away.

Get thee behind me, Satan.