Free Fall / Affliction
by Laila Amado
Free Fall
The track sighs and creaks as the chain pulls the train up the lift hill. The chipped red paint of the last car furrows like the down feathers of a barn owl. The familiar click-clack of the ascent takes me back to the carnivals of the days long gone—the sticky webs of candy floss, the off-tone rhythm of the brass band, the dizzy glitter of the confetti. I release the switch. The train balks at the crest of the hill—a moment of indecision—then the first car takes the plunge and the whole weather-worn cavalcade rushes downward, gathering speed, clanking along the rails at full steam. There is a moment of free-fall weightlessness, and then the first upward curl of a spiral catches them mid-flight, spinning the kaleidoscope of the forest and the empty highway and the scatter of clouds on the horizon. The route is predetermined, and the train slows down on the brake run, a single passenger strapped inside car number three. From the control cabin I can see the checkered pattern of his shirt, the bright blue beanie, and the painted, empty eyes of a mannequin. I picked him on Main Street when there was still enough gas in the car. The last roller coaster in the world deserves a passenger, and it offers better views than the ones he enjoyed from the shattered shop windows.
Affliction
The doctor’s white coat gleams in the moonlight falling through the slanted windows of the hospital wing. In front of him on the narrow bed, a body bundled in blankets shivers and moans. The doctor leans forward, looking down his nose at the pitiful form and inquires of the attendant, “What have we here?”
“Another case of wish poisoning, sir.”
The doctor raises an eyebrow and the attendant falters, rushing into a hurried diatribe. “Students are explicitly instructed not to drink from the wishing well, but there is always one genius who thinks he can beat the odds and become the Master of Desires, the one whose every whim is catered to by the universe and everything within it. The only outcome of this, of course, is getting soaked in the residue of other people’s unfulfilled dreams. The stuff is quite toxic.”
The doctor sighs and stares into the darkness beyond the window frame. Into the darkness, where a simple circle of stones stands around an ancient well. A well so deep that a coin dropped from a young boy’s hand on a hot summer afternoon never reaches the bottom, spinning forever in the murky waters.
He hobbles across the field, frigid rain whipping at his stooped back. The well is just like he remembers it. He pushes aside the lid, shines the torch light down the black shaft. Nothing. Shouts into the unquiet, splashing void, “I want you to give that boy his coin back. Like it never happened, like he never had the stupid idea in the first place. Never came down here with a silver nickel clutched in his clammy hand.” As always, there is no answer.
The doctor sighs, sets the heavy lid in place, walks back towards the dimly lit alleys between the school buildings. Under the first street lamp he stops, shoves his hands deep into the pockets of the grey overcoat. Inside, his fingers brush against a small cold disc. He untangles it from the lining, pulls it upwards, lifting the coin towards the light. The edge is dented, two faces worn as if it spent an eternity rolled around by waves. Closing his fist around the battered silver nickel, he shoves it back into his pocket. Nods to no one in particular.
By the time he gets home, the cold in him is as deep as his bones. Shivering, he runs hot water into a battered copper basin, watches the steam rise. At the kitchen table, he sits down and lowers his feet into the tub wincing at the scalding heat, mutters under his breath, “Master of Desires, my ass…”
Rolling back the white sleeve of his shirt, he inserts a catheter into a bulging blue vein, leaves the rubber hose hanging loose. Dark, pungent liquid oozes onto the tiled floor. He lets it flow until the blood runs clean. Lightheaded from the bloodletting and the hot water, he leans heavily on the table.
“Is it worth it?”
He turns around and sees her standing in the doorway. “What?”
“Reversing these wishes, taking on the toxicity and the burden. You could shape our generation to your liking, find an undiscovered gold mine or two, travel to the Moon and back like you dreamed when we were children, and yet you stay here.”
He shrugs. “Every wish comes with a price—you can’t have everything. Kids will keep sneaking to the well with their stupid coins. Boys. Girls. Alone and together. So, I stay.”
An angry frown tightens her mouth. “Have you ever thought that you may be robbing them of their destinies? You can’t rescue people from their dreams.”
“I know when they cannot survive and you, of all people, understand that I’ve seen the symptoms before. Not all dreams are worth dying for.”
She smiles and shakes her head. Pale light of the moon shines through her quivering, translucent form, falls in uneven patches on the stained floor tiles.
Laila Amado is currently marooned on a small island halfway between Africa and Europe. She writes stories in her second language, lives in her fourth country, and cooks decent paella. Her stories have appeared in 101 Fiction, Enchanted Conversation, Three Crows Magazine, and other publications. You can find her on Twitter at @onbonbon7.
