fiction by cecilia rose dillon
The Obsidian Mall
Well, I’m here again, I think as I sink into the kind of half-lucid consciousness that only exists within dreams (or maybe a really good acid trip if you’re lucky). The mall is as it always is when I end up here, dark and shining as if it had just now been newly cut and polished for me; its entirety made from gleaming obsidian by whatever part of my mind had created this space. Here and there clusters of square, sharp-edged pillars surround massive formal crystal chandeliers that form pools of light that bleed out into the rest of the space and lend their eerie, green-white fluorescence to the slick walls, floors, ceilings, windows, and pillars of the cavernous space. Within some of the circles of light, there are benches, the odd mid-quality rubber plant, and maybe even a fountain if it’s somewhere the builders of the mall thought needed a focal point. People sit on those benches and there are children playing in the open space between the shops, but I cannot hear or see them. I only hear the sharp click, click, click, click of the metal plates on the underside of my tap shoes, followed presently by their echoes as I cross the floor in the direction of one of the many shops that dot the never-ending, broad hallways.
The shops are distressingly normal, a Cinnabon is staffed by an annoyed teenager who pops her gum while staring blankly out into the hub of the mall. I know instinctively to avoid her; although, I can’t see or hear her or her gum. The shop I’m heading to is the clearest lit. The white of its walls contrasts sharply with the obsidian of the mall itself as they shine through the shop’s floor-to-ceiling, crystal-clear windows. The space inside isn’t particularly large, a circular room roughly forty feet in diameter with white walls dotted by mounted racks of endless amounts of sun-bleached clothes that are fashionable yet affordable—at least by the company’s standards. There is a shop attendant and even though I can see him, he is not distressing about the black apron he wears over his white uniform, which appears to me only as a void.
“Did you need something, ma’am?”
I look around, nervously seeking out what might be interesting to this dream version of myself. For some reason, I know not to say I’m just browsing. Jacques here wouldn’t like that. He must smell something on me that tells him I’m not a serious customer because he turns his nose up at me and frowns as he waits for me to speak.
“Uh—” I look around frantically, trying to be attracted or at least interested in anything on the walls. “What about that?” I ask finally, pointing to the upper row of clothing racks.
There, dangling among the other items, is Ryan Gosling’s jacket from the movie Drive, which I’ve always thought was pretty cool. It’s displayed backside out, and I can see the embroidered scorpion shuffle its legs restlessly, surely tired of being confined to this jacket on this sparkling-clean wall.
Jacques sighs and I watch as the last crumb of humanity he’d been hanging onto slips from him, though all he says is, “Of course.”
I watch as he begrudgingly heads to one of the walls to fish around for one of those hook things that I’ve never known the name of that retail workers have for high racks. The jacket is higher up now, though. Actually, most of the store is higher up now. The circular space has extended, reaching up and up and up until it has become a tower, until the ceiling is no longer visible and the sheer number of quasi-stylish, white silk blazers has become overwhelming. I am suddenly afraid.
“No, actually—uh—never mind!” I blurt, “I’m just browsing.”
Jacques turns, his eyes blazing with literal fire as he is filled with the urge for revenge upon my worthless, troublesome self. I do not run but simply browse. He can’t hurt me as long as I’m browsing. The clothes have clustered even more thickly now. This space has become unbearably cramped as Jacques and I are slowly compressed by a wave of mediocre pastel textiles. I push aside pantsuits and graphic tees as if they were jungle trees and I a machete-wielding explorer, and I burrow farther and farther, trying in vain to find anything in this hell world that I might actually like. Do I even like things? Have I ever worn clothes? I can’t remember. Suddenly, I break free of the vines of acid-washed jeans that have braided themselves into chunky ropes of bleach-scented denim in an attempt to bind me. The space I find myself in is small, and it’s scored by an unobtrusive soundtrack of elevator music, which chimes through tinny speakers.
“The Girl from Ipanema” chimes down upon me as I cautiously step my way across the densely packed nylon-fiber, grey utility carpet of this faux Claire's. Earring displays dot the space, spinning idly as if a child had just run through and turned each and every one before any of the employees could stop her. Maybe there had only been one person on staff that day, and now she had to escort this child to Guest Services where a sickly, sunken-eyed mall worker would herd her into some sort of corral for young girls; a mall worker who is still in the process of dialing into the intercom and asking through crackling speakers for the mother of the little bastard to please come collect it. Perhaps that would explain the vacant Formica counter and cash register. I wait and listen to hear the intercom system crackle to life, but the moment doesn't come.
This Claire's is the same as all Claire's. It has shelves of glossy, white-painted fiberboard on each wall and each shelf is laden to the point of overflow, with fashions that—despite the fact that it is 2020—date themselves to around 2003. I wonder when Claire's will realize that it hasn't updated anything in nearly twenty years. I idly consider a pair of gold elephant-shaped stud earrings but return it to its sluggishly spinning display after reminding myself that I immediately lost the last one I bought. Finding nothing of interest in this cluttered, empty space, I move toward the exit.
I'm back in the endless network of glossy black, cavernous hallways now. The store I exit from is not the same one I had just left, and no sign of Jaques' cylindrical establishment hangs in the near surroundings. The Cinnabon with its unamused teenager still lurks across the way, though. I head in the direction of one of the oases of light.
The oasis I've chosen is blindingly bright as I enter it, but as my eyes focus, I can see that it is one of the larger ones that contains a fountain. This fountain used to be in the now mostly defunct mall where I had spent much of my youth. I want to say that I was a mall rat, that I was one of the cool kids who would go there to gossip and drink sodas from fragile wax paper cups, but no. Typically, I was just there for the bookstore or maybe GameStop if my allowance had been good to me that week. This fountain had been removed from that mall. I don't really know why. Perhaps it was too costly to maintain, but since it had been removed so early in my memory of the place, I suspect that the mall's management just hated anything that was good. They had used the cavity left behind as a sort of town square that hosted the likes of Santa and even the accursed fursuit of one Mr. Easter Bunny—who would one day spin his head around a full one hundred and eighty degrees, ultimately (if accidentally) leading to my fear of the vacant dead eyes of mascot suits that maintains to this day.
This fountain had not been removed. Instead, its three tiers trickle gently into the glittering pool at its base. There are four three-seater, black iron garden benches that have been bolted into place at regular intervals around the fountain. On either side of each bench, there rests the rubbery kind of plant that lives in a wicker basket—the kind that confuses me, so I can never quite tell if they're real or not unless I try to break off a leaf. I think these ones are fake. Sitting on one of the benches is an owl who is roughly ten feet tall. He is slouched, sitting with his wings extended over his knees as if he is quite tired, and wears a crown. I walk over to one of the plants and bend a singular leaf, which then snaps in half to reveal its true nature. Darn.
"This is the way of all things," says the owl.
I eye him with mild concern (Who just wears a crown?) but decide he's no threat and take the seat on the other end of his bench. He is rather tall, which means he and his feathers are rather wide, so some of the sleek fawn-colored feathers that line his wings brush against me with the texture of toothbrush bristles when he breathes. Neither of us speak and I am concerned that it may be my fault, so I do.
"What're you doing here?" I ask.
"I am waiting," he says.
This answer appeases me, and I decide to wait with him for whatever is to come next.
When I look back toward the fountain, I find that it’s gone. In its place is a plastic set of white picket fences, flowers, and white benches. On the central bench sits the Easter Bunny. His head is rotated, and a small hatch on the back of it has been opened. Beyond the pink plush doorway, there is nothing. An empty, black void stares back at me from where the cartoonish character's face should be.
It doesn't scare me this time.
Cecilia Rose Dillon is currently pursuing her Bachelor’s in Creative Writing at Columbia College Chicago. A resident of the south suburbs of Chicago, Dillon spends her time writing, foraging in the forest preserve where she lives, and caring for her spouse and many, many fur-children.