Isolated

Isolated

by S.J. Walker

S.J. Walker has published many short stories in dark fantasy, including 7 with Dragon Soul Press so far, among others. She has also sold stories to podcasts including Thirteen Podcast, Creepy Podcast, No Sleep, Flash Fiction Podcast, etc. She’s currently working on her debut novel.

 

I peer through my blinds from my apartment window, overlooking the scenery that looks like my hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. It even sounds like Charleston with cars driving by on bustling streets, the chattering of pedestrians, and the occasional clip-clopping of horse hooves against cobblestone, pulling tourists in carriages. But I can say with absolute certainty that this godforsaken place isn’t my home. It’s hell.

When I jog down the stairs of my second-floor apartment, and step outside onto King Street, I’m greeted with the familiar, fresh smells of spring, lilac mixed with some horse manure. A display of Palm trees stretch along the road in front of colorful, historic-looking buildings. For a second, I almost believe in the deception that this is real, that I’m alive and home. Then I remember that anyone I touch disintegrates instantaneously.

I huddle amongst pedestrians at a stop light who are waiting to cross a street. I shuffle to get as close as I can without actually touching anybody. After spending an agonizing week here, I already miss companionship and human connection. Occasionally, I accidentally grace someone with the tip of my elbow and the person explodes at the mere contact. There is no blood or anything gory like that. The people I touch simply shatter into pieces like shards of glass against the pavement. What’s even more disturbing is that no one surrounding the scene ever reacts to it. Instead, they continue looking onward, waiting to cross the street so they can head towards their destinations like nothing is wrong. The following day, I’ll recognize the people I’ve destroyed, and they are somehow fully restored, continuing their routines as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened to them. I am convinced that this place is designed to make me lose my grip over my sanity.

Like I’ve done every day since my arrival, I try again to grab someone’s attention. I stand in front of a random person on the sidewalk to block him. I wave my arms at him frantically like a lunatic.

“Hello! Can you see me?!” I cry. “My name is Joshua Hudson! Please notice me!”

The person simply ignores me, checks his wristwatch before circling around me and continuing down the path. My nostrils flare. I react by racing after him and poking his back with my forefinger. I feel oddly satisfied when his pieces collide with the sidewalk. It’s not murder because he’ll be revived by tomorrow.

Everyone here acts like I don’t exist. Yesterday, I even tried walking outside completely naked, and no one batted an eye. This must be part of some elaborate dream that I can’t wake up from… Or maybe it is an experiment run by aliens to see how long I can manage without going absolutely crazy.

Fueled by my continued frustration, I catch the sight of a couple walking while holding hands on the other side of the street. Why do they get to hold hands? It isn’t fair! I cross to them, feeling like a mad man with a stride reminiscent of a caveman or a gorilla. Cars pull to a stop to let me pass. Still, the drivers act like they see past me. They don’t press on the horn. I extend my hands towards the couple and watch them explode into pieces. If I don’t get a hand to hold, neither should they! I stare down at their remains and think, what am I doing? I’m becoming a monster in this place.

When I return to my apartment and sit on my bed, I wrap my arms around myself. My hands are the only ones I have. I yearn for touch. I crave it like a drug addict going through symptoms of severe withdrawal. I rock while holding myself, weeping like a baby. In the mirror on the wall across from my bed, I see my reflection. There, in the glass image, is a disheveled, grown-ass man who hasn’t shaved in a week, crying while cradling himself.

Pathetic.

I contemplate my last memory before I ended up here. I was in a car accident, that much is for certain. Inside a taxi, my driver turned left on a green light, thinking the road was clear. I lost consciousness right after a collision with a truck. Likely, I’m probably dead. It is difficult to accept that this is my fate. How long am I expected to remain here?

I’ve tried to escape this place a few times. I shattered someone as he was entering his car, took his keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. I drove the stolen car as far as I could, hoping to escape the city. I spent hours trying to leave. No matter how many different roads I take, I am always led back to the main entrance of the city on an endless loop. I realized in dismay that there’s no way out of here.

…

Around noon I visit a small coffee shop around a nearby corner. After staring myself down in the mirror, I had decided to clean myself up. I stroke my smooth, shaven jawline, feeling fresher. I had a long, hot shower and dressed in a collared shirt and jeans. The bell rings as I step inside the shop but none of the customers react to my arrival. Though they talk amongst themselves, the cashier doesn’t acknowledge my presence either. I leap over the counter and serve my own cup of coffee, grabbing a croissant from the shelf in the process. At least I don’t have to pay.

I climb back over and look for a place to sit and eat. I choose a table where a woman is sitting alone. The woman has her nose in a book with a coffee in hand. She wears a collared pink shirt and jean skirt with flip flops. Her toenails are painted pastel blue to match her fingernails. Her hair is blonde and pulled back into a high ponytail. She doesn’t recede when I pull up a chair and take a seat across from her.

“Hi. I know you probably don’t notice me, but I’m Joshua. It’s nice to meet you.” She doesn’t look up, but I keep talking anyway. “You’re very pretty. I hope you don’t mind me sitting here.”

I pull a bite from my fluffy croissant, swallow, then take a sip of my coffee to help flush it down.

“I guess I deserve to be here,” I tell her. At this point, I start to feel like I am in a booth in a Catholic church, and she is the priest taking my confession. “I know I’m not a good person. I’ve never been involved with my daughter. She might be like seven now, maybe eight. Honestly, I don’t even know…”

The woman’s eyes continue scanning the pages of her book, completely oblivious of me.

“I never paid child support,” I continue. “I made my money through… ‘unconventional means,’ mostly selling stolen items…. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it. I was a thief, okay? It’s not something I’m proud of.” I glance at her again, as if I am trying to assess her reaction over my words, but she still looks unfazed. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I inhale a deep breath through my nose and then release my hand upon exhale, placing it back on the surface of the wooden table, gripping my coffee cup.

“Back in that taxi, I wasn’t planning on paying the driver. I was going to skimp out on the bill,” I confess, chuckling darkly while thinking that the man didn’t deserve to be paid for getting us into an accident anyway. The laughter fades quickly when I realize she’s still not paying attention.

“What do I have to say to make things better? How can I get out of here? I’m confessing my sins. What else can I do? Should I confess in a church? Is that the answer?”

I grab my croissant and take another bite. I stare directly at her, hoping she’ll at least glance in my direction. I lean forward across the table and deliberately start chewing loudly with my mouth open.

Still no reaction.

I swallow and lean back into my chair. I feel anger boiling inside me. After another sip from my coffee, I slam the cup down against the table. I grab my croissant and throw it at the woman’s face. She doesn’t even flinch. There is ice in my tone now when I speak.

“You know, you look like the type of woman I use to date. I made so many promises to women like you. I told them they were the only ones for me and that I wanted a relationship. They’d then let me slide into their beds and I’d refuse to call them again. Now I probably can’t even touch you without you breaking like glass!”

After blowing up on her, I immediately regret it. I huff out a breath but then look down at the table, tracing the lines in the wood with my thumb. I’m ashamed of my short temper fuse. I momentarily close my eyes and shake my head. My voice softens when I speak again.

“I took it for granted. Touch, I mean. The experience of being with a woman… or anybody.” I sigh again before continuing, “Now, I’d give anything for a simple hug or a pat on the back. Isn’t that just sad?” I let out another dark chuckle with my newfound, morbid sense of humor. The laughter takes on a sudden life of its own and I force myself to contain it. Get it together, Joshua, I tell myself. Be cool.

I am alerted when the woman suddenly closes her book. She stuffs it into her bag beside her and straps it around her shoulder. Then she stands up with her coffee cup.

“No, please don’t leave,” I say, but my plea is ignored. I lunge after her. I grab her arm to pull her back when she suddenly blasts into fractured pieces.

“NO!!!”

Then it happens. I crack. I collapse to my knees in this public place, and I let myself cry like a wailing infant. I can’t keep the crazy bottled inside. I am a man transforming into a barbarian.

…

Today starts my second week here in this hell hole. I sleep in my bed as long as I can. Unconsciousness is much better than enduring my increasing insanity. At some point though, the morning sun shines so brightly that my blinds can’t keep my bedroom dark enough. Soon, the light flickers through my eyelids and I can no longer deny that it is daytime. I sit up with my back against the headboard, wondering how to spend another day in this cruel joke of a world. That’s when I hear a strange voice coming from the street below. I mean, I hear people chattering outside all the time, but not like this.

“Hello?! Can anyone see me?” she asks. “Please, tell me where I am!”

I hear a noise like shattering porcelain, and I jolt in shock. I’m only accustomed to hearing that sound when I am the cause of it.

“No!” the same female voice squeals in horror. “Not again! Why does this keep happening?!”

I jump to my window and peer through a crack in the blinds. I see the remaining pieces of another glass person scattered across the sidewalk. Hovering over them, is a woman who is spinning around, looking scared and confused. I feel a spark of excitement at the possibility that she is a real person like me, that maybe I’m not alone here anymore. The others are always looking ahead, walking with intent like they know where they are going. She is not. My heart is in my throat, hope lifting me by the chest. I immediately grab a robe from my bedroom closet, slip it on and dart out of my apartment, rushing down the stairs.

“Hello!” I shout once I’m on the sidewalk, waving to her in a fierce gesture. She flashes her surprised eyes to me.

“You can see me?!”

“Yes!” my voice picks up with eager excitement. “And you can see me!”

“Yes,” she returns, relief evident in her tone.

We walk speedily towards each other, closing the gap until we are about three feet apart. I want to wrap my arms around her, sweep her up in a tight hug, but I stop myself. I’m afraid she’ll shatter into pieces like the others. I don’t want to break the only person who can see me. Also, what if she thinks I’m a lunatic, hugging a random stranger?

She pauses when I do and we just stand there, assessing each other for a moment. She is a pretty, petite girl, wearing a floral dress and white flats. Her auburn hair is long, flowing in natural curls past her shoulders. She has freckles sprinkled across a dainty, upturned nose, and rounded cheeks. Her green eyes are large, wide, and focused on me. It is the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in the last two weeks, someone looking directly at me, rather than merely looking in my direction through a blank lens.

I wonder what she thinks of me. I feel my chin, remembering that I haven’t shaved in a few days. I’m horrified to feel the scruff. I must look like a homeless person since I’m also naked beneath a robe. She doesn’t seem bothered by my rough appearance. Her eyes only contain a spark of relief, mirroring what I feel in mine.

“What is your name?” I inquire.

“I’m Piper. Piper Callaway.” She has a voice like an angelic, southern belle.

“Hi Piper. I’m Joshua Hudson.”

“Joshua, how long have you been here?”

“Two weeks,” I answer grimly.

“What – what is this place?”

“I still don’t know,” I answer honestly. My voice croaks embarrassingly when I say, “I’m just glad to finally meet someone who can actually see me.”

My eyes swell and I almost feel like crying but I hold it in. A lump has formed in my throat as I work to swallow it. I have to clear my pipes to flush it all the way down and I almost sound like I am choking while I do it. My social skills are painstakingly rusty at this point.

“Are you okay?” she asks me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” my voice is rough while I am speaking, “just emotional, I guess. It’s been a very long two weeks.”

“I don’t blame you. I just got here, and I already feel like I’m going crazy!”

“I think this place is designed to gaslight us,” I tell her.

“Why does everyone break when I touch them?” she points to the pieces of a body on the ground a few paces behind her.

“I don’t know. They just do. But they come back to life the next day,” I explain.

“Weird…Will you break if I touch you?”

“Do you… want to try it?” I ask, extending my wide, hairy arm out towards her. She looks at it, considering. She blinks then taps the tip of her forefinger against my bicep. I should feel somewhat disturbed that she was quickly willing to do that, to risk breaking me. I allow her some slack, figuring that the reality of this place probably hasn’t kicked in for her yet. Meanwhile, my body reacts with a joyful tremble.

Touch. Real, human touch.

“Please do that again,” I urge. She takes a step closer, rests a gentle palm around my wrist. Her warm skin feels amazing. A moan of pleasure escapes my breath and then she releases. Oh, no, I couldn’t contain my crazy.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say.

“You really have had a rough two weeks…” she appraises me warily.

“Miserable,” I agree, speaking the word a bit too harshly.

“Are we in hell?” she suddenly asks, and the question takes me aback.

I freeze for a second. I stare down her hand on my wrist, evading her curious gaze. I can’t answer that question, at least not aloud. If I speak the words, I will be acknowledging my fear about this place. That there’s no end in sight. That I’m potentially stuck here for all eternity. I can’t do it. The darkness of the reality would be too intense to soak in. I inhale a shaky breath then exhale.

“I make it through each day, only by thinking that being here is somehow impermanent,” I manage to choke these words, which I realize doesn’t provide her with a satisfactory answer… It’s all I’m able to surmise.

“How long?” she wonders. She looks worried. She should be.

An eternity? The question looms in the air between us.

“I wish I had answers for you, Piper. I really do. But honestly, I have no idea.”

…

I ran back to my apartment to change into decent clothes, jeans, and a white collared shirt. While up there, I took the time to shave, slap on some deodorant and clean up a little. I feel a lot better, fresher when I run downstairs to rejoin Piper outside. She flashes a small smile when she sees me, and I rejoice from the expression because it is for me, directed at me.

“You clean up well,” she says.

“Thanks. Sorry, I would have invited you up to my apartment, but I was worried you would be uncomfortable about the mess,” I explain.

“It’s okay.” She seems somewhat absent, looking off to one side. I follow her gaze and notice a pile of pieces from a shattered person near where she stands on the sidewalk.

“I hope you didn’t go too crazy while waiting,” I add. “This place can do that to you.”

“He passed me, and I accidentally hit him with my elbow,” she explains. “I still find it weird that they do that. Are you sure they come back to life?”

“Yeah, they always manage to restore themselves,” I reassure her. I tap her shoulder comfortingly, but it doesn’t seem to alleviate her tension. Her eyes are wide, bulging as she glares down at the man’s remnants.

“This is going to take some getting used to,” she says.

“I’m still not completely used to it,” I admit.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” I suggest. I pull her arm to nudge her away from the man she just shattered. She has a lot to work through inside that petite skull of hers. I can tell. This place is a lot to take in for anybody.

The way the sun kisses my skin from a cloudless sky, I’d never guess at first glance that I was in a place like hell. It’s beautiful outside with that charming southern vibe, people greeting each other politely as they pass each other across the sidewalk – each other, not us. The beat of the city is friendly, uplifting though we are external to it. I feel a heightened sense of positivity, a fresh pep in my step with Piper keeping in stride beside me. Her presence makes this place almost tolerable – almost. She still looks rigid. Her chest hitches. She walks with one hand to her temple, the other holding her elbow.

We stop in a restaurant and take a seat at a booth. Since the waiter doesn’t notice us, I steal two meals from a table of customers. As usual, they don’t react. I grab a plate of cheese ravioli for Piper, a steak for me.

“How do they not notice you taking their food?” she asks me.

“They never notice,” I answer her simply.

“That’s so strange…”

“You’re telling me,” I scoff. “Bon appetite!”

We unravel our silverware from napkins on our table and dive in. The food is hot and delicious, sliding smoothly down my gullet. I pause after a minute when I notice that Piper has stopped eating and she is staring down at her plate.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure what to make of this place,” she explains.

“Yeah. It can drive you crazy. Trust me. I know.”

“I don’t think I have much of an appetite,” she says.

“Do you want to walk around outside for some fresh air?”

She nods and, like a gentleman, I stand from my seat and offer my hand to help her up. She takes my hand, grateful, but something in her expression looks deeply saddened. I understand because I remember that feeling of being scared, hopeless and overwhelmed when I first woke up here.

“Joshua,” she says, “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home to Charleston. To the real Charleston.”

“I know,” I tell her with a heavy sigh, “me too.”

Once outside, we walk in silence as I can see she is still trying to mentally register where she is. We pause at the pineapple fountain in Waterfront Park. The water droplets fall in sparkles, glimmering under the rays of the sunshine.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to a random, folded piece of paper on the ledge of the fountain. It is a little moist from its proximity to the falling water, but not too soggy. I grab it and unfold it between my fingers to read a note scrawled across it in messy handwriting. I read it aloud.

“For one of you, this is your chance to get out of here. Take the knife next to this note and use it. One of you will be free and return to your regular life in the real Charleston, the other will stay here indefinitely.”

I look back to the ledge, but I don’t see a knife. Then I look to Piper and immediately feel uneasy. Her eyes have changed noticeably from a melancholy green into an ominous black. She is stiff and pale. In her hand, she tightly grips the handle of the 8-inch butcher’s knife. I drop the letter and hold my palms out facing her defensively.

“Piper, wait a minute. Let’s talk this out. I don’t think the note means what it is implying.”

“I think I know exactly what it means. If I kill you, I get to go home.”

“It didn’t explicitly state that,” I say, taking a step backward from her. “Piper, hold on. Don’t do anything rash.”

“I get to go home,” she squeals right before she lunges toward me, wielding the knife. I dodge her first attack and start running. She chases after me in pursuit. While enjoying a peaceful day at the park, people don’t realize the chaos that ensues beneath their noses. While sprinting, I crash into a pedestrian who turns into one of today’s casualties. My sneakers crunch over the person’s pieces. I briefly glance behind me as Piper sprints towards me with fierce determination in her black dagger eyes. She may be shorter than me, but she is fast. She whips across the field of the park and, no matter how hard I push my legs to keep running, she is only a stride behind me.

I clash into some more random people enjoying the park. They slow me down. I fall onto their remains. The shard edges of glass slice into my skin. The real pain comes when Piper drives the knife into my back. I wail in agony.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, sounding surprised. “Real blood. You’re not breaking into glass.” She almost sounds like she derives some form of sadistic pleasure from her actions. The next words out of her mouth confirm my chilling thought.

“I like this.”

She stabs me again, this time in the back of my thigh. I howl like a wounded animal.

“Who are you?!” I demand under my breath, the immense pain coursing through my veins.

“I guess I didn’t tell you about my life before I came here. I’ve killed people before. Though, I must admit, this is my first time killing in broad daylight in a public place.”

She chuckles darkly then bends down by my head, points the tip of the bloodied knife between my eyes.

“Piper, please stop,” I plead with her, but I know it is useless.

“I’m going home,” she sings, and my vision suddenly blackens.

…

I wake up in a haze, noticing florescent lights along a ceiling. I look around at the teal walls of the room that resemble a hospital. I hear the beeping of a heart monitor beside my bed.

“He’s awake,” someone says. She approaches me, dressed in a nurse’s uniform.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Hudson?”

“You can see me?” I murmur.

She looks confused by my question but answers me anyway.

“Of course, I can see you. How are you feeling?”

Everything hurts.

“I’m okay…”

“You suffered a car accident in a taxi. You have wounds along your back, the back of your thigh and a nasty gash between your eyes,” she explains. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Is the driver alright?” I ask.

“Yes, he’s recovering just like you.”

I sigh a breath of relief. If I’m home, if I’m really home, I’m going to make changes in my life. I’m going to call my ex-wife and plead with her to be involved in my daughter’s life. I’m going to get a real job. I’m going to pay child support and do whatever it takes. I’m going to make sure I don’t end up back in that… place where Piper is probably waiting for me, seething.

“Please tell me, where am I?” I ask the nurse.

“Charleston, South Carolina,” she answers. The real Charleston.

I’m home, I think with relief. Thank God!