Is This My Fault?

You had opened the door. He was standing there in an ugly black tuxedo with a boutonniere wilting as you speak. But it probably had been wilting for a while. You don’t think he did anything else in his life important. Except try to get you to like him.                 

“Too bad.” You reminded him. His smile lingered, but your eyes were rolling. “I don’t like you.” You were about to shut the door when he told you he wasn’t trying to like you—he was here because he knew you thought he was dead. You shrugged. You couldn’t care whether he told the rats in the gutters he was alive. You just weren’t interested in him. And that was that.

You slammed the door and waited for him to leave. But you sensed—with growing irritation as your long, star-studded nails dug into your clenched palms—that he was still standing there, waiting for you to jump into his arms and accept him as your husband, fiancé or boyfriend even. You won’t. You wouldn’t. You don’t care. You wouldn’t care. You don’t know why you had cared. Why you wasted your time.   

You opened the door and just muttered, “You can go now.”

“But you thought I was dead.”

Of course. His retort.

You sighed, your heavily evergreen beaded tawny hand clutched firmly on the brass doorknob. You wanted to vanish, to leave with him knowing he didn’t belong to such a woman like you. But thinking he had been dead, you didn’t want—deep, deep down—to just leave him. You’re not someone who would just ditch people. You’re loving, kind. Friendly. Dutiful. You just…

You pursed your lips and threw open the door. “What do you want?” Crossing arms, you held each elbow in a palm. “Why are you here?”

He snorted and shook his head. “You know why.” The man scuffled a black, assumedly polished dress shoe on the finished asphalt and took a step.

“You’re about to step in the wet cement.” You called.

He snickered again but stopped with his lifted foot pointed downwards at the cement like a hunting dog’s paw when smelling the wind and visually tracking its master’s bird of prey. But this man was no dog. He was a weirdo. You even remember your senior picture day. Now, thirteen years later, he was even weirder. You didn’t need to know any more.  

“Guy?” You dashed outside, your bare feet scratching the rough steps but then halting right in front of the wet cement pathway separating you two. He opened his mouth when he saw your bare feet, but you cut in.     

“I know, I know. Just get some shoes on.” You turned your head away as he continued, saying he was going to say that you should be careful. “About what? Not stepping in the wet cement?”

“No!” His persistence drew you back, almost begrudgingly. “I just don’t want you to get stuck.”

You threw your head back and laughed. “Stuck?” You reached out and grabbed his cuffed wrists, him asking why you were suddenly kind to him even when you had killed those times you could’ve invited him in. “Well,” you pulled him across as he stepped dramatically over, “I’ll help you over this cement.”

“And then invite me in?” He hooted, shuffling both feet around to face you. You just looked at them, mind blank.

“No.” You shook your head and then bolted into the house. Crashing through the door and then opening a wooden cabinet, you grabbed a plastic container of pictures and then scurried back to the man. Suddenly, your hands shot out right in front of you and your brushed, low ponytail kissed the wet cement. Or rather it smacked a millimeter into it, and then you heard loud, instigative laughter from above. You instinctively tried using your hands to push yourself up to punch the guy but immediately felt stupid—they sunk in so your arms looked handless. Using your feet, you tried heaving yourself up. But try as you might, you couldn’t push hard enough to lift your evergreen hand bracelet out of this frightfully embarrassing situation. “Help—please?” You begged him.      

Suddenly, you were in the air, and then your soles pounded the white concrete behind the cement. “We’ve got to move!” He grabbed the box of pictures you were going to show him because you found yourself wanting to reconnect over those long-lost years. You wanted to get back together—although you didn’t love him and never would even if you two were the last people on earth. “Come on!” He yelled, frantically beckoning you on.

“What?” You inquired, a little oblivious. “What’s going on—” Then you heard a whining, grinding sound as a monstrosity of a bulldozer beeped and rolled extremely slowly towards you. You yelped and then scampered out of its way. It lowered and then dumped a huge mountain of slimily cement-grey cement into the ditch of a narrow pathway trenched in front of the sidewalk in the asphalt driveway.

“Amanda!”   

“I’m coming!” You rushed over to the man, his hand grabbing yours as you both hurried through the cracked, splitting door that creaked more than the bulldozer beeped.

“I got the container!” He stated the obvious as he held it out to you amidst your eye-rolling sighs. You both were in the living room, standing in front of an ugly mustard-yellow leather couch and an ugly wooden side table. You looked at him like he wasn’t making any sense, and repositioned your arms so your palms held your elbows again.   

“Why’d you bring me in here?” You questioned.

He shrugged, throwing his palms up. “The quicksand—”

You slowly closed your eyes. “The wet cement.”

“Whatever!” His eyes bulged, but yours rolled to the ceiling. But of course, he ignored this gesture and continued. “We need to get out of here. You see that cement?” He pointed out the window, but you were already looking.

“Yeah.” You turned back and half-closed your eyes. “W—“

“We need to escape!”

You slouched on your hip. “What’s the problem?”

“Mandy!”

He was ballistic. Over nothing. Over wet cement. What was he even talking about? It was just a sunny day outside in the neighborhood with construction workers filling a ditch. It wasn’t like green slime rained from purple clouds. Or an orange orangutan dominated the empire, desiring to destroy the world all because of his selfish self. It was like it was just an average day with average people doing average things. It was just an average—

A light crash swung you around. He was searching with a hand like he was trying to find his dropped glasses. “Here.” You hurried around the wooden table and relocated the half-empty plastic container onto the table. You shook and scraped off the majority of the wet cement and fell to the floor to slide some pictures from underneath this furniture. Once you had peeled the spider webs and dust bunnies away, you plopped them onto the white top and looked at the still searching man obviously not understanding that he only had to get two more pictures. You smirked and slid a toe around, pushing the pictures in circles and away from him so he had to scramble to get them. Snickering became complete hilarity until the man panicked, shooting his hand out, grasping them and swiping them up to slam them on to the table, his eyes bulging. Utterly confused, you stared at him, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”    

He bit his lip. “Amanda.” He sighed up at you, and you quickly snatched a look out the window. But nothing terrifying was going on.

“At least not now.” As if he could read your mind.

“I’m supposed to be dead. You thought I was dead. Now I’m alive, and they’re after me.”

You scrunched your face together after eyeing him suspiciously. “Who is?”

He jabbed at the outside. You tried to imagine what cement monsters or construction demons could be infesting the world outside this shabby place in order to get to your friend. After a dry explanation, he then clutched the container like a precious object of his and then headed for the basement. Barging through the door, he beckoned with an arm, and you scampered over, stomping downstairs until he hopped up on the rail. You found yourself doing the same.

Sliding tempted you to scream “Wheeee!” and just ride along. You wanted to just relax from the stress of him randomly spazzing and panicking. He had started already whipping out pictures like a magician whips out a card in front of his guest.

“Oh!” You gasped, pushing yourself off, leaving dry cement spots on the wooden rail. When the guy started elaborating that you couldn’t leave the handprints there, you almost fired back, “Are you—” But the guy shoved a picture in your hand. You looked over it, studying the wet cement into the asphalt driveway’s ditch. Then you bent your head forward and stepped back, covering your chest with a hand and gawking. “That’s…!”

“Yep. It’s right outside.” You both locked eyes. “We’ll have to move. We can’t stay here.” He threw the picture back with the container’s others, and you ran away into the pitch darkness. Pestering him about how he obviously knew exactly where we were going, the sound of him jumping and then coming loudly down on metal flooring rudely interrupted him. It was telling you that you just had to follow.                

Suddenly, a beacon of white light like that of a stage light for a solo performance appeared. You didn’t know where the light came from. “What are we doing?” You slowed down, gulping hard. “What are we doing here, exactly?”

“Amanda.” He closed his eyes. You scrunched your face and then thought about it, realizing.

“Let’s go.” You shook your head and walked calmly past him but noticed he stood stock-still. Stubborn as a donkey, maybe, absolutely refusing to move. A Duchenne smile formed.     

“Ow! Ow!” He laughed, jerking away from your punching hand. You threw your hands in the air and said, “Well, you weren’t leaving.”

“So you want me to leave. Besides, we’re safe here.” He flicked his eyebrows up and down, and you gave a rigid smile. He turned away, the stupid grin still wiggling between his round, should-be flushed cheeks. He wouldn’t quit. Maybe you should let your guard down again. Besides, he wasn’t a complete stranger. You both met back in early middle school, you dashing up to him and asking him where your homeroom class was. He just shrugged. Cute.

But this time, he wasn’t. He was infuriating. But he dropped the container and repeated convincingly, “We’re safe here. The light is our safety zone—”  

“I thought they were coming for us!” Your eyes bulging now, you grabbed his white, starched sleeve and tugged it. But he stayed rooted to the ground. You let yourself care about something else, calming down. “What is this?” You turned to him, but he didn’t look at you.                

“Well,” he said seriously that bordered on funny although you didn’t want to admit it. “We’re here.”

“What do you mean?” You probably sighed all your confusion and frustration and lividity away. Well, not away but enough for this moment. “Guy, I just…I’m sorry. I—”

“Sorry?” He spun on a heel, turning right towards you. “You don’t need to be sorry. Just come over and slow dance with me.”

“Slow dance?” That wasn’t in his nature. You stared at him and furrowed your brows. “Dance…?” You repeated slowly, wondering.

“Yeah!” Before you knew it, you were right in front of him, his hands holding yours, his shoes tap dancing rhythmically to some beat. If there was a beat, which there wasn’t.

“There’s no music.” You stated, but the man nodded his head softly.  

“I got it.” He positioned your hand so you both stood before each other like a couple about to dance together. Then he started singing, softly, and then normally. You smiled a little, stepping along with his shoes, careful to shift them before they came down on your toes. But then you moved your body to the song, spinning around and twirling about. Being pulled and let go and then pulled again was actually fun. No one was there to watch you. No one mocked or pointed. Just you and him. You rested your head against his shoulder. You slow danced, you closing your eyes.        

He slowed down and you almost grit your teeth—you didn’t want him to stop! You looked up at him and he asked what was wrong. “Don’t stop!” You pleaded and grinned when he just told you that he was getting to a slow part. He sang it for a while and then swung you around, singing louder and moving quicker. Twirling and spinning and then coming back against him, your smile grew big and proud, knowing you’d never get a moment like this again. So you lifted a foot and rotated yourself on the ball of your left foot as he took your raised right hand and pulled you to him. Stopping, you flashed a grateful smile and hugged him.      

“Thanks.” You whispered. You slow-danced again, shoes moving simultaneously with bare feet. When he stopped swaying, you stepped back and freed your hands. “That was beautiful. Thank you!”

The hands and bracelet were checked. “The cement. It’s gone.”

“When you danced, all the cement stuff is gone—”

“For now! But we’re here!”

A growling, arrogant voice echoed a little off the walls, causing you two to flee the spotlight. While you ran, you asked your friend where you were going as you scampered around a wall and then dashed down a flight of stairs. Entering another hallway of black and blueness with very little light, you skidded to a halt.

“No!” His eyes bulged. “We have to keep going. The reason why we were able to dance is because of the spotlight. It washed off the wet cement I pulled you out of.”

“How far does this place go?” You looked ahead to a tunnel you entered —all black and blue. No lights except those lighting the corners of the front and end of this weird contraption. Were you going through a construction site? What was going on? Was this a maze of some sort?     

You inquired, but no answer came. You just chugged on.

Soon, you had run through the tunnel thing and were going through these—

“Wait!” You slammed yourself to a stop, and he jammed his shoes into the ground, rolled forward and then spun around while getting back up and rounding around. “This is a trap. I sense it. We need to get out of here.”

“Those cement wolves. They’ll get us.”

You listened, but you didn’t hear them. You gestured in the opposite direction. “They’re not coming because we’re running. Because we’ve stopped, they’ll be onto us. But if we keep moving…” You surveyed the very dim place. Locating a piece of glass, you ran over and picked it up. Tilting it, you noticed something about the glint—lining it with other glints, you saw a bird. “Hey,” you told the guy as it flapped its wings and snapped its beak. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”              

“Huh?” His dark silhouette came closer. “What’s going on?”

“We’re coming!” roared the eerily intimidating voice, closer now.    

“Let’s go.” The man grabbed your free hand, and you raced again through the tunnels and over rocks and under bridges. The whole time, you tilted and moved it, the bird that was made of refracted light clucking its beak and then suddenly flying out from the glass. You watched in awe as it escaped its own place of confinement.   

“Guy. Let’s escape. Let’s… here.” You bent down, running your free hand under some stream water, a handful of pebbles coming along for the ride. Casting them randomly so the wolves would think you went in separate directions, you told the man to stop. He did.   

Showing him the formerly glinting glass, you moved it so it reflected your faces. You looked at each other. You looked at the glass. You saw yourselves. “Trapped in the mirrored world.” He explained, scratching his head. He swallowed hard and wrung his hands. “We need to save ourselves.”

“How are we going to do that?” Your glass self wrung her own hands and shook her head, asking the guy what they were going to do. The man just blinked at the ground and shrugged. Then he looked at you, but you cocked your head because you couldn’t see how he felt.

Then he sniffed, and you could just see some tan against a hint of other tan. “Guy? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Some white whipped away from you, and you knew he had jerked his head away. You bent your head apologetically.  

“Sorry.” You muttered. But you felt your hand lighten, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the guy as you studied the jagged mirror. Your mirror selves were panicking. You were almost crying, but he was trying to calm you down. But you wouldn’t listen. You started to sob. His face was contorted in anger but then he yanked you into a hug, admitting he was petrified as well. He also disclosed he didn’t know what to do or what you should do. What we should do.          

“That’s how I feel.” The real guy’s voice quivered.

You don’t know what to say. You just breathed, “Yeah.” And then hugged him, hoping this gesture would help. It did, but he shuffled away, stepping past you. You pursed your lips and stared at the blackness below you. Then you sniffled, too.