fiction by marco etheridge

Bardo

A woman and a man observe the scene from behind a one-way mirror. The view is of a rustic veranda. The floor of the veranda, the roof, the railing that surrounds it, are all dark wood that resembles teak. Everything about the place seems very old and very well maintained.

Sloping eaves of the same dark wood shade the open-air space. Five rattan chairs are arranged in a rough semicircle at the center of the veranda. Three of the chairs are occupied. A young Hispanic woman sits alone, the thumb and forefinger of her right hand moving rhythmically and methodically. Across the circle, a small, Caucasian woman is speaking to a tall, Black man. The man’s head is inclined toward the woman as if listening intently.

An overgrown garden slopes away below the veranda. Palm trees sway over a small river flowing past the foot of the sward. The air is warm. A midday sun illuminates the landscape. Feeling the warmth, the sun, seeing the exotic flowers, one could imagine Mexico, Thailand, or even the Philippines. But it is not any of those places.

The room behind the mirror is cool and dark. The man and the woman are dressed in identical, loose-fitting, beige linen. Their feet are bare against the plank floor. The man is tall and lean, his face vaguely Asian. The woman is shorter and no less lean. Her face is brown and smooth, with roots in the subcontinent. Their thoughts pass between them without need of words. 

— All appears to be well, Brother.

— All is indeed well, Sister.

— Two of our guests have moved on. You will have another arrival today.

— Yes, a male guest is arriving today. I believe he is already being admitted. 

— There will be another new guest in two days’ time. There is a concern that he may be a troubling presence. You are aware of this, are you not?

— I am aware, Sister. Perhaps you would help me with this guest once he arrives.

— Thank you, Brother, I would be honored to help you. In the meantime, I will go to the new guest.

— I await your return.

 *

Grace Brancome’s small body curled within the confines of a rattan chair. The chair creaked as she leaned into the comfort emanating from the man sitting beside her. His head hovered over hers, inside an envelope of intimate space. Grace’s pale skin and silver, spiked hair contrasted with the man’s dark brown face. The white-gray patches at his temples seemed to glow in the heavy shadow of his jet-black hair. They both wore saffron, linen blouses and pants. Grace spoke while the man nodded his head.

“It’s like my memory is slipping away, Thomas. It’s as if someone is drawing a gauze curtain across a window. Each day the curtain is thicker, and I remember less. Tell me, please, why did I do what I did?”

Thomas Dunnings smiled, reached out a large hand, and laid it on the woman’s thin arm.

“Grace, I think forgetting is one of the reasons we are here. It’s happening to me, too. It seems like every moment I spend here is etched in a clear, white light. At the same time, the past is fading away. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to struggle against that process.”

“But I have these nagging thoughts that I was sent here because I did something wrong, that I somehow betrayed Annie. Please, tell me, just one more time.”

Thomas looked at the heavy planks at his feet. Then he raised his eyes to hers and began to speak.

“You were very brave, and you have no reason for doubt. In that horrible moment, you had to choose between your students and Annie. You didn’t hesitate, and that saved the lives of those kids.” 

The woman laid her hand over his, leaned back, and smiled.

“Yes, I think I remember now. It’s so good to have you here with me.” 

Grace turned her face to his, her eyes bright.

“Last night I had a dream about Annie, or maybe it was a vision. Annie was in our bedroom. She was sitting up in our bed, crying, hugging one of my pillows. She was so beautiful, Thomas. I miss her so much.”

“Yes, I know those dreams. Everything else fades away, but I can see my wife and my kids as if I were in the room with them. My Harriet was beautiful. She brought our three children into the world. I know folks say that childbirth ages a woman, but with each birth, she became more beautiful in my eyes.” 

Thomas raised his hand from Grace’s arm and rubbed his eyes. He looked across the circle of chairs to the young woman sitting opposite. Grace followed his gaze, and saw Maria’s beautiful profile against the lush backdrop beyond the veranda. 

“Maria, are you well? I apologize; we are ignoring you.”

The woman turned in her chair, her face sad and serious. Her skin was the color of almonds, framed in a mane of sable hair. The dark silk of it fell to the saffron blouse that she wore.

“There is no reason to apologize, Señora Brancome.” 

“Maria, for the hundredth time, please call me Grace.”

Maria Torres nodded at the older woman, biting her lower lip.

“I will try to remember. It is difficult for me, you understand. My father and mother were very old-fashioned people. Everyone had to be addressed with the proper title.” 

“Then call me Tía Grace. It’s much less stuffy than Señora.”

Maria laughed and there was music in the still air.

“Then with your permission, Tía Grace and Tío Thomas, I will tell you what I was thinking. You see the beautiful garden, the quiet river. I want to walk there, but it is impossible. The stairs lead down to the garden. There is no gate, no lock, nothing to stop me. But when I try to take the first step, I forget why I am standing there. Then I find myself back in this chair, without knowing how I got here.”

“I sit here and see that everything the nuns and the priests taught me was wrong. My head and my heart see this clearly, but my hand does not. My empty hand still tries to count the rosary beads. My rosary was very old. It was my grandmother’s from the time before she was married to my grandfather. I hope that someone finds it in the rocky desert. I tried to hold on to it, but it fell from my hand. My fingers would not work anymore. My last memories are the hot stones baking me, empty water jugs scattered around, and my rosary.”

Thomas’ deep voice filled the space between them.

“What about the others? Why did they abandon you?”

“It was the Coyote who tricked them. I stepped in the wrong place, into a hole in the rocks. Everyone heard the crack of my bone. Two of the men carried me to a small mesquite tree. They laid me in the shade. The Coyote pretended to make a call on his phone, but it was a lie. He did not call anyone. He told the others that someone would come for me, that they must hurry, or the border patrol would catch them. I was traveling alone, without family or friends. No one wanted to be caught, so they believed the Coyote’s lies.”

Grace stirred in her chair.

“Why were you traveling alone?”

“My grandmother was the last of my family in our town. I cared for her until she died. Then it was time for me to leave. I was in a hurry to live my own life. I had cousins in El Norte, but I could not ask them for a ticket, so I traveled to Nogales and found the migrantes.”

“That is how I ended up under the mesquite tree. Someone had made a small shrine in the branches. At the base of the tree were many plastic water jugs. All the water jugs were empty. The patrols pour it out onto the ground. The mesquite tree, it drinks up the water. I died there the next day, under that little shrine.”

Maria’s tale was interrupted by the heavy creaking of wood on wood. They all turned toward the sound. Five, small doors were set into the interior wall of the veranda. Past these, near the steps that led down to the garden, a wide, double doorway pushed open.

A woman and a man appeared in the doorway. They were silent, clad in beige. Before them, they pushed an old-fashioned, rattan wheelchair. 

A small man sat in the wheelchair. His olive skin contrasted with the saffron linen of his blouse. The wheelchair made soft squeaking sounds as it rolled across the plank floor. 

The trio reached the circle of chairs and stopped. The attendants took one step back, bowed slightly, then straightened themselves. Their movements were fluid and practiced. The woman smiled and spoke.

“Greetings to our guests. We hope that you are well. We bring a new guest to join you. This is Abid Kahlil Nassir. Please welcome him as you yourselves were welcomed. We will leave you now.”

The two bowed as one, then turned away without another word. Their bare feet padded across the floor of the veranda. The heavy, double doors were pulled closed as they passed through.

The man in the wheelchair looked at them with solemn eyes. He was neither young nor old. Below the short sleeves of his linen blouse, his hands and forearms were thin and ropy with muscles, acquired by years of labor.

Thomas rose from his chair and crossed the small space. He lowered himself into an empty chair next to the newcomer and held out his hand. 

“Welcome, Mr. Nassir. My name is Thomas Dunnings. This is Grace Brancome, and this young woman is Maria Torres.”

Abid’s face seemed puzzled as he reached for Thomas’s outstretched hand. He held the hand in his as he spoke.

“You speak Arabic well, Mr. Dunnings. The people who brought me here speak Arabic also. How is this possible?”

 “I don’t speak Arabic. I speak English. Miss Torres speaks only Spanish, yet we all understand each other. I can’t explain it. It’s just one of the strange things about this place. And we aren’t formal, so please call me Thomas.”

“Very well, Thomas. Miss Grace, Miss Maria, I am pleased to meet you. My name is Abid.”

Both women greeted Abid in return. He looked to the dark ceiling as if searching for something. Then he spoke again.

“This common tongue would be a great gift to the world. I think there would be less suffering. It would certainly be so in my country.”

What country did you come from, Abid?

“I am Syrian, or I was. I am not sure now. There is not much left of Syria, you understand. The war has taken most of it. The war ruined our home and destroyed our bakery. That bakery was in my family for three generations. Then men with guns took my son for a soldier.”

“We fled north to another city. It was said to be safer, but it was not. My wife, my beautiful Fawad, she was killed by a missile. Who knows where it came from, this missile, or who fired it. The war destroyed the buildings, along with the plumbing, the electricity. There was no air-conditioning, no running water. People built latrines in the alleys. I was sitting in one of these latrines, relieving myself. Excuse me, ladies. The last thing I remember was a huge explosion. The world disappeared in a flash of light and thunder and fire. Now I am here.”

Thomas shook his head. Abid released Thomas’s hand.

“I could wheel your chair a bit closer, Abid. Then we could all sit together.”

“Yes, please, that would be good. I am sorry for the trouble. You are fortunate not to need one of these contraptions.”

“We all arrived in wheelchairs. By the second morning, we were all up and walking. I’m sure it will be the same for you.”

Thomas rolled the chair into the center of the circle. The others moved their chairs to form a tight knot. The murmur of their conversation floated across the warm afternoon air.

*

“Look at you! You’re up and walking like a young man.” 

Abid smiled as he took a seat next to Thomas. The antique wheelchair sat abandoned on the far side of the veranda. Maria and Grace stood together at the wooden railing, looking out over the garden. The two women leaned against each other and the railing; a tripod of support.

“Thank you, Thomas. I feel very rested, but that should not be so. I slept only a very little. It seemed that I spent the entire night in a waking dream.” 

“Yes, I think it’s the same for all of us. My dreams have changed as the days pass. At first, they seemed like movies of my life. Then the focus of the dreams seemed to narrow. Now I only dream of my wife and children. It’s something to do with this place.” 

“That is a question that troubles me. Yesterday, when we talked, I heard Miss Maria’s story and yours, but not that of Miss Grace.”

Thomas looked to where the two women stood, their figures intertwined shadows against the brilliant sunshine. He turned back to Abid.

“Grace has been here the longest. Maria arrived after I did. My memory of the past is already fading. Grace only remembers the people she loved. She cannot remember the events of her life. That is what happens here.”

“Thomas, I have this sense that Miss Grace did something very powerful. I cannot explain how I know this, yet the knowledge is there.”

“Yes, there is a strange kind of empathy here, a link that makes words less important. I’ll tell you Grace’s story, but I think it could be harmful for Grace to hear it repeated.”

“I understand.” 

“Grace was a high school teacher. She taught for many years. I think she found the exact profession she was meant to have.”

“These high schools, they are like our upper-secondary schools in Syria. The students are in their teenage years, yes?”

“Yes, they are teenagers. One of Grace’s students was a troubled young man. He was expelled from the school. The next day, he came back armed with a pistol. This young man began shooting at teachers, students in the hallway, anyone he saw.” 

“The boy burst into Grace’s classroom. He aimed the pistol at Grace, but she stood her ground. She tried to reason with him, but he was beyond reason. The boy shot her three times. As she was dying, she saw two of her students tackle the boy from behind. Grace bought the lives of her students with her own.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of muffled shouting. The shouting grew louder as the wide double doors were pushed open.

The same female attendant who had brought Abid appeared in the doorway. Her smooth, brown face was serene as if she did not hear the angry threats spewing from the fat man who sat in the wheelchair before her. The fat man was not serene. His heavily jowled face was flushed an angry red.

“Do you people know who I am? I’m an important man. Very important, do you hear me? When my people find out where I am, they are going to bomb this place flat as Kansas. We can still cut a deal. You let me go and maybe I’ll go easier on you.”

The woman pushing the wheelchair did not respond. 

The angry man saw the others on the veranda. He paused his tirade long enough to scowl. With his hands waving as if to ward off insects, he began protesting.

“Where are you taking me? I don’t want to be near those losers. Push me over there where I can have some space. You better treat me right if you know what’s good for you.”

Without a word, the woman in beige altered her course. She stopped the wheelchair at the near end of the veranda, rotating it to face the back wall. She stood in front of the red-faced man, her hands folded at her waist.

“Why are you standing there like an idiot? I’m thirsty. Bring me some water. I already told you once, you’d better start treating me right or there will be hell to pay.”

The woman’s voice, when she spoke, was calm.

“I believe you will find that drinking water is ill-advised.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe, you freak! Bring me some water, right now.”

The woman lowered her head and closed her eyes.

“Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me? I said bring me some water, dammit.”

“Yes, I heard. I am seeing to your request.”

Before the man could respond, the male attendant appeared pushing a small serving cart. On the cart were a crystal pitcher and a single water glass. He wheeled the cart within reach of the angry man and then stood to one side. Wordlessly, the woman moved to join him.

The fat man resumed his bellowing.

“That’s more like it. You two better do what I say, or you’ll be sorry.”

He snatched up the pitcher and sloshed water into the glass. He raised the glass and drank like a greedy child. His eyes bulged wide as if he had been struck in the back. Water spewed from his mouth, a fountain that sprayed out and down onto the wooden floor. The glass fell to his lap, the remaining water spilling over the saffron linen trousers he wore.

“You poisoned me, you bastards.”

The man’s words slurred to silence as his head lolled forward. Vomit and drool dripped down the front of his blouse. 

The woman and man walked across the veranda, bare feet silent against the planks. They approached the others, stopped, and bowed as one. The woman spoke to them.

 “Greetings to our guests. We hope that you are well. We bring a new guest to join you. This is Alton Benning. He is troubled, but perhaps you will welcome him as you yourselves were welcomed. We will leave you now.”

The two bowed again and walked away. Pushing the serving cart before them, they left the veranda. 

Grace and Maria left the railing and walked to the circle of chairs. The four sat in silence for a moment before Abid spoke.

“Thomas, is that who I think it is?”

“It has to be. I don’t think there could be two of him in the world.” 

Grace was staring at the man in the wheelchair, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Should I recognize this man? You all seem to know him.”

Thomas turned away from the slobbering figure.

“Yes, Grace, we recognize him. Don’t trouble yourself with it. He isn’t worth remembering or wasn’t. He was a very powerful man, and very dangerous.” 

“And a very noisy man, apparently.”

“Yes, Grace, he was very noisy.”

As if sensing their recognition, Alton Benning raised his head. Strings of saliva and vomit swung from his jowls as he spit words at them.

“What are you looking at? Get over here and help me. I need some dry clothes.”

Before anyone could respond, Grace was on her feet. Her mouth was set in a thin line. She marched across the wooden floor.

“No, get away from me you ugly, old broad. I want the other one to help me, the cute one. Wait, what are you doing? Get your hands off me. Stop it, you crazy bitch!”

Without a word, Grace was behind Alton’s wheelchair, pushing it rapidly across the planks. The fat man left off his shouting and clung to the arms of the chair. Grace stopped in front of one of the five doors in the back wall of the veranda. Stepping around the wide-eyed man, she pushed open the door. She gave the wheelchair a shove, rolling it into the darkened room. It was still rolling when she pulled the door shut with a slam.

Her face was grim when she rejoined the others. They stared at her in amazement.

“Maybe not the welcome our hosts intended, but I couldn’t take any more of that braying.”

Abid smiled and nodded his approval.

“Well done, Miss Grace.” 

The others chimed their agreement. From behind the wooden door came the sound of muffled shouting.

*

Maria sat down beside Abid and Thomas. The two men were looking down the veranda to the broad, wooden steps that led into the garden. 

Alton Benning stood at the top of the stairs. He took one step forward, hesitated, then shuffled about in a small circle. He completed his rotation only to find himself back in front of the rattan chair he had started from. The man looked about as if confused, then sat down in the chair. 

Thomas turned to Maria.

“He’s been trying all morning. He won’t give it up.” 

“At least it keeps him quiet. I don’t want him disturbing Tía Grace.”

“Is Grace in her room?”

“Yes, she is resting. Each day she spends more time in her room and she speaks less.” 

Maria nodded toward the end of the veranda.

“And this Benning, has he said how he got here?”

It was Abid who answered her.

“He was muttering about it yesterday, something about being poisoned, that someone had drugged his cheeseburger. Then more ranting, the same as before; when his people found him, someone would pay. Oh, and he thinks Thomas is a gang leader.”

Maria looked shocked. The two men chuckled at her reaction.

“But Tío Thomas, you were a professor. How can he think that you were a gang leader?”

“Yes, Maria, but I was a Black university professor. I think that’s a contradiction in Benning’s vision of the world.”

“But it is so unfair! A teacher shot by the police.”

“Abid blown apart by a missile, you dying in the desert, Grace dying in her classroom, where is the fairness in any of this? A Black man driving a Mercedes at night; a stupid policeman, young and frightened.” 

Thomas sighed, shook his head.

“I used to lecture about this from the podium. I remember all those young eyes looking up at me as I spoke about the undeclared war on people of color. I was speaking the truth, but I was also speaking my truth. That struggle was a huge part of my life. It is the same for anyone considered an outsider.” 

“Sitting here now, it’s like I’m looking through a prism. Everything is refracted into primary colors, simple and pure. I still see my wife and my children as they are standing in a bright, shining light. The struggle and pain of the past are fading away. I don’t know what will happen next, but I think I’m ready to move forward.”

A harsh voice cut across Thomas’s words.

“Don’t listen to his crap. If a cop shot him, he deserved it. He was up to something, that’s for sure. Just look at him, will you? Shit, I’m wasting my breath talking to you three. An illegal, a terrorist, and a gang leader; it sounds like the start of a sick liberal joke. Add in that radical dyke bitch, it turns into a nightmare.”

Benning lurched upright to make another attempt at the stairs. He took one firm step forward and stopped, gazing about as if trying to remember where he was. Giving up, he slumped back into the chair. The rattan groaned under his weight.

*

The woman and man watch the scene on the veranda from behind the mirror.

— All is not well with our newcomer. I do not remember any guest clinging so tightly to the past.

— I do not believe he possesses the slightest awareness of where he is. All his desire is bent on returning to the former. His attachment to memory should be passing away.

— You speak the truth, Sister. What is to be done?

— A decision has been made. There will be no more newcomers in this cycle. Perhaps when Alton Benning is alone, he will become more aware. Until then, the cycle will run on.

— Very well, Sister. May I ask for your assistance in this matter?

— I would be honored to assist in any way that I am able. 

*

Grace Brancome sat on the edge of the bed, watching Annie move about the bedroom. Grace watched her lover reach to straighten a framed picture on the nightstand. She saw her beloved’s hand for the marvel that it was, as if seeing it for the first time. She loved those fine bones, the delicate fingertips, the way those fingertips arranged the photograph just so. Grace felt Annie’s fingers caressing her own skin, one final, fleeting touch.

The air shifted and stirred. The vision of Annie faded away. A small woman dressed in beige linen stood beside Grace’s bed. She smiled and held out her hand.

“It is time, Grace Brancome. Are you ready?”

Grace took the woman’s hand, returning the woman’s smile as she rose.

“Yes, I am ready.”

Gently, as friends strolling in a park, the woman led Grace out of the room. Beyond the darkened veranda, a full moon illuminated the garden in a silver glow. Hand-in-hand, the two women walked barefoot over the plank floor. They descended the wide stairs into the pearled moonlight. 

Two shining figures moved down the slope of the garden. They were etched in light; silhouettes becoming smaller and smaller as they neared the gleaming band of the river. At the edge of the river, they faded from view.

For a single breath of time, the night was absolutely still. Then a lone figure could be seen walking slowly up the shining grass. The woman in beige climbed the stairs of the veranda, padded silently across the plank floor, and disappeared through the double doors. 

*

Three rattan chairs were pulled into a tight, half-circle. Thomas sat between Maria and Abid, smiling out over the sunlit garden. Maria’s voice floated through the still air.

“And you will be gone soon, like Tía Grace. Abid and I will be the only ones left.”

Abid tilted his head toward the end of the veranda.

“Benning will still be here.”

The fat man stood at the farthest end of the veranda, one hand resting atop the wooden railing. He seemed to be testing it, pulling and pushing the unyielding timber. Benning moved to another section, repeating the process. Maria shook her head.

“Yes, Tío Abid, but he does not count, so it will just be you and me. Why are there no newcomers?”

Still smiling, Thomas reached for Maria’s hand.

“Maria, you and Abid are very good company. All will be well.”

Abid ran a thumb along his jawline.

“Thomas, there were others here before you, yes? Then we came after; Maria, me, then him.”

Abid jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Thomas raised his eyes as if looking for an answer.

“Grace was here before me, and two others, then Maria arrived. I think there were five of us. Then, one by one, they were gone.”

“So, you will be next and then Maria. I will be left here, alone with Benning.”

“I think you’re right. It seems that something has changed.”

Maria frowned.

“It has, and the reason for the change is standing right there. Look, I think he is trying to fall over the railing.”

Benning leaned his girth over the teak railing, then bobbed back into the shadows as if pushed. He tried again, rocking like a child’s toy on a wire.

A laugh burst from the circle of chairs. 

“What is so funny, Abid?”

Abid shook his head, his eyes twinkling.

“I was just thinking how hard it will be for Benning, stuck here with only a terrorist for company.”

Maria’s face was shocked. Then her laughter joined that of Thomas and Abid.

*

Alton Benning’s feet slapped against the teak planks as he paced the veranda. He hesitated when he reached the wide stairs leading to the garden. He turned his heavy body and retraced his steps. He paused at the circle of chairs; all empty save one.

“Hey, Mr. Terrorist, how’s it going?” 

“I am not a terrorist.”

“How do you know? You don’t remember anything. Maybe you just forgot. You ever think of that?”

Abid Kahlil Nassir looked out over the garden, ignoring the man standing behind him. He heard a chair leg scrape against wood. The rattan creaked under Benning’s weight as he lowered himself into the seat. He leaned forward, his hands waving in the air as he began to speak.

“Okay, I know we got off to a rough start. Abid, that’s your name, right? There’s just the two of us now, Abid. Maybe we can help each other, you know what I’m saying? You help me get out of here and I guarantee I will be a damn good friend to have. I could open a lot of doors for you.”

Abid’s brows were furrowed as he turned to face Benning.

“I do not wish to get out of here.” 

The fat man waved his hands, as if the words were mosquitoes.

“Sure, sure, but you’re just saying that because you don’t want to go back to that shithole country of yours. I understand, that’s just common sense. But what if I could guarantee you someplace better? The two of us working together, we might be able to escape. Help me get out of here and you’ll be set for life. How does that sound?”

Benning thrust his head further forward, a gleam in his eyes.

Abid nodded his head, a slight smile on his lips. Benning held his hands before him as if they contained the entire world. The hands dropped quickly when he heard Abid’s reply.

“It sounds like an empty promise. I may not remember much, but I remember the worth of empty promises. I am happy here, happy and at peace. I do not wish to escape or to help you escape. Your words are the words of a dead man, empty and meaningless.” 

Benning’s face flushed an angry red.

“Dead? What the hell are you talking about? You let these freaks brainwash you, just like those other losers. I thought you were smarter than that. These weirdos might have you fooled, you simple bastard, but they sure aren’t fooling Alton Benning. You can go straight to hell, Mr. Abid Terrorist. I’ll get out of this on my own. You can just sit here and rot, which is what you deserve.”

Benning grunted as he struggled to push his bulk out of the chair. He stomped to the back of the veranda, as far as he could get from Abid and the garden. The fat man leaned over the railing, scowling into the thick jungle just out of his reach. 

Abid Kahlil Nassir looked out over the sunlit garden. He saw an image of his beautiful Fadwa walking up the green slope. His son walked beside her, alive and well. Perhaps he would see them again; really see them. He would place freshly baked bread on the flour-dusted counter of a small, village bakery. Would they know his hands, or look into his eyes and smile? 

*

The attendants stand side-by-side, observing the lone occupant of the veranda.

— It is very strange, Sister. He acts as if nothing has changed.

— Yes, Brother, it is unusual, but it is not without precedent.

— A decision has been made, Sister?

— A decision has been made. He will not pass on. While this is as it should be, it saddens me. This has not happened since you came among us.

— No, Sister, it has not. I was aware of the possibility, but this is the first time I have seen a guest remove themselves from the human cycle. As you said, a very sad thing. The time allotted to this guest closes tomorrow.

— Indeed, Brother, and I will be here to assist you.

*

Alton Benning sat alone in a single rattan chair, as if on a throne. The other chairs had been pushed against the back wall in a haphazard mess. He muttered to himself, stabbing his hands into the air as if to make a point to an imagined audience.

The midday sun streamed down over the garden. Palm fronds swayed in a warm breeze. Benning’s attention seemed riveted on something just in front of his chair.

His muttering was interrupted by a heavy creaking of wood-on-wood. The fat man scowled, turned to face the wide doorway.

The two attendants appeared. They pushed an empty, rattan wheelchair before them, rolling it up to a glowering Benning. The man and woman took one step back, bowed as one. The woman spoke.

“Greetings to our guest. Your time here is at an end. We are here to escort you. Are you ready, Alton Benning?”

“Ready? What kind of crazy question is that? Of course I’m ready. You keep me cooped up in this nuthouse for seven weeks and then you ask me if I’m ready to leave?”

The woman paused before responding, her face calm.

“If you are ready, would you please sit in the wheelchair?”

Benning lurched to his feet. 

“Those other losers, you didn’t take them out of here like this.”

He waved a hand at the wheelchair.

“That is true, but you are not going where the others have gone.”

Benning smiled, nodded his head.

“Right, I get it, you people finally figured out what a big mistake you’ve made. Big mistake, that’s for sure. I knew it, I told you, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

The woman remained silent, motioning again toward the empty wheelchair.

Benning made a face, raised his hands in the air.

“Sure, sure, anything to get this over with. Just like a hospital, right? They wheel you in, they gotta wheel you out. Okay, you freaks, here we go.”

He took two steps forward, turned his back on the attendants, and lowered himself into the wheelchair. He raised his feet from the plank floor, placing them in the footrests of the chair. He swiveled his head to look at the woman, a smirk twisting his jowled face.

In that instant, Benning’s body went rigid. The smirk vanished, replaced by a visage of wide-eyed terror. His hands froze in place, white knuckles gripping the arms of the wheelchair.

Under bulging eyes, his mouth moved wordlessly, puckered like a fish out of water. When the words finally came, they were stuttered and gasping.

 “Wait, no, I . . . I changed my mind. I want to stay here. No, stop, please.”

The woman began to roll the wheelchair across the planked floor. The man walked beside Benning, calm and unsmiling. A low moan hung in the still air, followed by waves of uncontrolled sobbing that rang out above the squeaking wheels. The man made a slight motion with his hand and the sobs were cut off as if with a knife.

Bare feet moved silently over wooden planks. Alton Benning, rigid and silent in the wheelchair, was pushed through the maw of the double doors. The heavy wooden doors swung closed behind them. 

The sun gleamed on the wide steps of the silent veranda, and down across the green sward of the garden. The air was still. Palm fronds hung from the top of curved trunks. And beneath the palms, the river flowed on. 

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in more than seventy reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s volume of collected flash fiction, Broken Luggage, is available worldwide. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor and layout grunt for a new ‘zine called Hotch Potch.

Author website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/