WAKING UP DEAD
WAKING UP DEAD
By John Tuft
Charles L. Bedinger woke up dead. Except he didn’t know he was dead. It just seemed to be a normal, regular day. He got up to get ready for work. The same Charles who always looked back in the mirror was there this day, disheveled but still bucking the beard trend. When he showered it was the same old body that he washed. Put on the same clothes. Ate the same breakfast that he always ate. He went out to get in the car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something strange. An old man was sitting in a rickety wooden wagon being drawn by a mottled mule. On the side of the wagon was a hand painted sign: Coming for You.
When Charles arrived at work in the downtown offices of the manufacturing company where he worked in management, parked in the seven-story garage and got in the elevator. He pushed the button for the mezzanine level, but it didn’t stop there. Instead, it continued down. Charles punched the button repeatedly, but it continued its journey. The lights started to flicker, and a scratchy voice came through the speaker, “Prepare ye the way.” The doors slid open, and Charles found himself staring out at a bleak landscape. It was a primeval forest. At least at first glance that is what it appeared to be. Tall trees growing close together, so close they nearly blocked out the light.
Charles stepped out of the elevator, drawn by some irresistible force. Right away he noticed that his feet sank into soft loam. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps. For that matter, the realization slowly spread through his entire body, he could hear nothing at all. Before him was life, growing plants, light, greenery, but there was no sound. Absolute silence. All Charles could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the thumping of his own heartbeat. Not another sound. The sounds of his own body filled all of his senses. The beauty of the forest was being drowned out by his own noise. Panic rose in his chest and the rushing sound of his heart was overwhelming, only increasing his fear, only making his heart beat faster and louder.
Charles turned and ran back to the elevator door. There written in bold letters he read: “You cannot save ourselves from yourself.” Drowning in fear, he pounded on the doors. They silently slid open. He rushed inside and punched the button for the mezzanine again. The elevator doors slid closed and began the ascent. This time the mezzanine level passed by and the elevator kept rising, higher and higher. Like a nine-year-old, Charles started pressing every button, hoping against hope. But to no avail. The cage kept rising.
Finally, it jolted to a stop. Nothing happened. The doors stayed closed. At last, the speaker scratched to life. “All is lost. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Charles began to beat on the doors as hard as he could. “Let me see. Let me see.” The doors silently slid open. Before him there was a raised garden bed. He stepped closer so he could look down on it. Before him, there stretched a fairy garden. Going on and on as far as the eye could see, and then some. Faint cries of joy and excitement filled the air. Charles frowned and stepped closer. The fairy garden was alive with activity. He leaned over to get closer so that he might catch the sounds and understand them.
He made out tiny figures talking and singing, dancing and feasting. The whole scene moved his heart. He was filled with a strange longing to be one of them, walking among them and sharing in such joy. He leaned over closer until his face cast a long shadow over the fairy garden. Panic ensued. The tiny figures looked up at this monster with naked fear on their faces. Mothers grabbed children and bustled them indoors. Men grabbed tiny weapons and shot them toward this looming darkness. Charles startled and drew back sharply. What was wrong? He noticed a swarm of figures in the corner of the fairy garden. The tiny figures were quickly building some sort of monument, or building, he couldn’t quite make it out. Then little flames licked at the edges. Soon a small tendril of black smoke rose. Charles inhaled and the smoke entered his lungs. He coughed and coughed. To the fairy village it was a terrible storm. Devastation ensued.
Charles stumbled away and sought out the elevator. Tears slid down his cheeks at the great loss hollowing out his heart. The elevator descended and finally the doors opened. He was back in the parking garage. Charles made it to his car and immediately drove home. As he turned in the driveway, there at the end of the block was the same old man with the fragile wagon drawn by the mottled mule. With the sign still hanging, “Coming for you.”
Charles L. Bedinger woke up dead. Except he didn’t know he was dead. It just seemed to be a normal, regular day. He got up to get ready for work. The same Charles who always looked back in the mirror was there this day, disheveled but still bucking the beard trend. When he showered it was the same old body that he washed. Put on the same clothes. Ate the same breakfast that he always ate. He went out to get in the car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something strange. An old man was sitting in a rickety wooden wagon being drawn by a mottled mule…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
In memory of my friend, Vanna Fox. Missing you and giving you a hard time about how fast you talked…
