Flight
Beep ... beep ...
The lines on the paper always seemed to appear there of their own accord, as if they had always been hidden just beneath the surface, dark strokes and fainter brushes tucked within the fibers, waiting to be called forth by the gentle rasp of the pencil as it wandered over their hiding places. A whorl came to life there, beneath the series of curves that had taken shape just above them, as natural and fluid as if they simply belonged.
Beep ... beep ... click!
Of course, Nick new that the lines on the paper did not simply come alive like that, knew that they were not an inherent part of the paper before him. He knew that their source was his imagination, the whim and fancy of some less stressful part of his mind that was allowed to shine, directing his hands in fluid, easy motions. It was here, on the paper, that his mind was allowed to free itself, unshackled from the worries of the world around him, if for but a moment. Still there were times, like now, where the creativity came in bursts, such a natural flow of creative force that it felt like he did not even have to try; simply feeling the pencil between his fingers, the gentle pressure on the paper, and it happened.
"Hello? Hello? Is this customer service?"
"Yes." He didn't always know what he was going to draw when he began, either. At first it was little other than the gentle sweep of a lush landscape, soft cotton clouds taking shape over them. Then there was the sweeping curve of a strong wing cutting through the gossamer, slowly growing a sleek but powerful body attached to it. Ah, a dragon.
"Well it's about time, do you know how long I've been waiting? I keep pushing the one key, pushing the pound sign, entering my account number, but it's always that gosh-darned computer voice telling me to push some more numbers! A person could wind up spending the whole day ..."
The voice of the elderly woman was distant, even though it rang from the headset that he had strapped loosely to his ears, and was soon forgotten. Nick found himself engrossed by the shape of the creature that was emerging from the tip of his pencil, a second wing outstretched in proud fashion, a stately beast gliding effortlessly over the farmland that undulated beneath him. In a way he found it ironic that he should become envious of the beast his mind conjured up, a creature soaring over the fields where farmers and animals toiled, yet had not a care in the world except to feel the wind at his wings. What he would not give to be able to soar above as well ...
"... Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes." The answer was disinterested as well as dishonest.
"Good, because I was beginning to wonder. Did you get the part about those strange charges? I want to know what's going on, I realize it's not much money to some big bank like you but when you're on Medicare and always wondering if you're going to have enough for the medications ..."
Without moving his eyes from the image, he reached over and pulled a green marker from a cup at the side of his desk. Meant for highlighting and not art, the color was garish and unfitting of the creature taking shape before him, yet even the strange neon greens somehow became right.
"... so what I really want to know is what you people intend to do about this situation, I'm just an old woman so I'm sure you don't care but if I have to call the local news man ... they are on your side, you know, they'll investigate ..."
"Yes," he interjected, before the woman's irritated - and irritating - voice began to fade into the distance. The act of creation was becoming a joy in and of itself, a distraction that absorbed every ounce of his attention. Again the pencil was scooped up in his fingers, the tip wandering over the shape of the dragon in the image, quick little strokes granting him a set of horns, talons upon his feet, a sinuous tail that waved into the air behind him. Nick smiled to himself as careful shading brought a well deserved sense of dimension to the dragon, his outstretched wings now billowing as they caught the air, lifted him above the world below, carried him far beyond the concerns and the tedium of the world below ...
His reverie was shattered by the impact of a heavy hand slamming down on top of his paper, short, stubby fingers clenching at it and smearing the carefully placed shading. The effect was sudden and startling to the point that his breath caught in his chest forcing him to sit up straight and gasp for air.
"Roberts! What is this?" Looming over him, reaching in from behind him and clutching at his paper was John Michaels, a short, balding, irascible and overall unpleasant man who had somehow ingratiated his way into the position of team leader; a pseudo-boss, an invented position that technically held no more power or authority than any other member of his team, one that yet satisfied the hunger of power for those who failed to earn the genuine article.
Michaels may have had no real power over him, but still had the ear of his manager; Nick would still have to explain himself. "It's a drawing."
"A drawing? Fantastic!" The unpleasant little man barged his way partway into the cubicle, bodily pushing Nick away on his rolling chair and snatching the drawing up, scrutinizing it in as crude a fashion as he could contrive. "What is this, a flying lizard? Fantastic! Just the sort of thing we pay you to do around here, isn't it? Draw, that is? Because this is a drawing center, not a call center, right?"
"No," he responded with an unsettled frown, reaching out to retrieve the drawing. "It's a call center."
Michaels snatched the drawing to his chest, crumpling it in a way that made Nick cringe. "A call center. Tell me, then, Roberts. While you've been busy drawing you've been in idle mode for ..." he paused, leaning forward and tapping a clock on the screen that was read 6:06 in bold red letters. "Six minutes. Six minutes since the last call ended."
The silence in his headset confirmed the answer; the old woman on the line must have grown tired of waiting for a response and simply hung up, and six minutes had passed without his notice. "I must have gotten distracted," he replied in a halfhearted tone, still trying to rescue his drawing from the man's grubby hands.
"Less distraction, more work. That's what keeps this place running," the pudgy man retorted, pulling back again before wadding the paper up between his hands. "You don't exactly have the best stats on this team, Roberts. And really, I should be reporting you to the team manager for this. But let's make a deal. You put away the crayons and keep your idle time to under a minute, and we'll just pretend this little incident never happened, eh?" He smirked, an unpleasant expression on his rotund face, flicking the wadded up drawing into the wastebasket next to the desk.
Nick followed the arc of the wadded up paper through the air, cringing again when it landed into the pile of trash accumulated in the wastebasket. "I'll get right on that."
The hand that had just tossed the drawing into the trash reached up and clapped him on the back of the shoulder, but the gesture did not come across as anything remotely resembling sincere. "Glad to hear it Roberts! Now let's get those numbers back up!" He offered another insincere smile before he turned on his heel and walked away.
For a moment he could do little but scowl at the unpleasant man as he plodded away, before he turned back to his desk. He flicked the mute button that was attached to the headset, and stared into the computer screen for a long moment, his eyes fixating on the flashing red button that was urging him to accept another call. "Right on that," he repeated with an exhausted mutter, clicking the button as he reached down to fish what was left of his drawing out of the trash, unfolding it as best he could. The graphite had been smeared, the even lines marred. The paper's crumpled surface gave the entire scene a surreal, unnatural look to it, but the dragon still soared above the cares of the world. "What I wouldn't do ..."
Another voice spoke up, but it still wasn't from the headset - it came from his left. "Dude! The man is a fucking asshole!"
He tilted his head a little and looked at his teammate to the left, Todd. Todd was a stereotypical sort of underachiever - always coming in to work wearing wrinkled clothes and sandals, and often as not his longish hair was unkempt. Today was no exception to that rule, as Matthew looked up at the mop bobbing up and down over the cubicle divider. The faint, pungent odor of weed tickled his nose. "Todd, did you come in to work ... stoned ... again?"
A wicked looking grin came as a reply to the question, and the bobbing of that mop of hair became more furious. "Just don't tell asshole back there, eh? Oh! Incoming!" He ducked back in to the cubicle and started yapping at a customer that must have just connected. Matthew could only shake his head, partly in amusement, and partly in wonder. It was amazing how much they let Todd get away with, but he somehow had a way with people, and could convince practically anyone to buy anything he was trying to sell over the phone. It was a gift, and it let him get away with a lot.
Nick's own gift was one that went unappreciated. Halfheartedly again, as if resigning himself to the ignominious doom of a call center employee, he slid the mutilated drawing to the side of the desk and looked back up at his computer monitor. The big red digits next to the word "Idle" were beginning to flash as they exceeded ten minutes, the sort of infraction that would show up on an end of the day report. With a sigh, he clicked the button to take another call.
Beep ... beep ... beep ... click!
"Customer service, my name is Nick ... how can I help you?"
"Hello? Hello? Customer service?"
By some terrible stroke of luck, the same woman had connected to his desk again. He sighed heavily, shaking his head, but tried to keep his voice upbeat. "Yes, this is customer service. My name is Nick, how can ..."
"Is anyone there? Hello?"
"Yes, ma'am, I'm right here, now if you would ..."
"Hello? Hello? Not again ... oh, for ..."
Suddenly the woman's voice was replaced by the grating sounds of numerous keys being mashed, a cacophony of tones sounding in his headphones. Cringing, Nick reached for the volume control of his headset, and then realized that the mute button had still been selected. "Ah, shit," he muttered, flicking it back off. "Ma'am? Ma'am, I'm right here ... please stop ... please stop pushing the keys ..."
The cacophony soon came to an end, but to no avail. The call was again disconnected, and the idle timer began to tick away on his screen. He would have to log the call as incomplete, once again. That, too, would show up on his end of day report. His next meeting with the manager would not go well. Letting out a heavy sigh, he let his head hang forward a little as he shook his head. The uneasy sensation at the pit of his stomach remained.
"Hey, dude, chill out. Just ignore Little Napoleon there, he probably doesn't get any, you know, and this is his only way to get off."
He cast a slightly baleful glance up at Todd, shrugging his shoulders a little. "Yeah, but ..."
"Whoa!" Todd leaned back, his healthy mop of hair seeming to lag his motions slightly and give him the vague appearance of a bobblehead. "You feelin' all right man?"
Nick furrowed his eyebrows a little. "What do you mean, I'm all right ..."
His coworker shook his head vigorously. "Uh-uh. You don't look so hot, dude. You're looking kind of ... green ..."
He was willing to chalk up the uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach to little more then anxiety at the encounter, but he had to admit that instead of calming down it seemed to be getting worse, his guts beginning to twist in his belly, a tension creeping up the back of his neck. "Ugh ... maybe you're right ... maybe I should go use the restroom ..." he paused, looking around him a bit cautiously.
Todd seemed to pick up on the hesitation. "Oh, don't sweat it man, you got the time. Napoleon's probably off fapping in his cubicle after that little power trip, so you got a few minutes."
"That's disgusting."
His coworker grinned at him toothily. "But true."
Nick nodded and tried to smile in response to the humor, but managed little more than a crooked grin. He stood slowly from his desk, clutching the cubicle wall to steady himself as a brief wave of dizziness overtook him, the entire floor of the office building he was trapped in wobbling in his vision for a few seconds before it steadied. The sense of nausea was growing within him; he did not bother to put his computer into away mode, letting the idle clock tick merrily away behind him.
Fortunately it was not far to the men's room, just around the corner and past a few rows of cubicles. Quiet conversations impinged upon the edges of his perception, apologetic explanations and eager sales pitches and saccharine-sweet small talk meant to soften the hardest of the customers they had to deal with. It was a strange and unending song, the melody of the call center that rose and fall but never went completely silent, not even during the night shift, when those men and women who chose to sacrifice a more normal schedule for a few dollars more showed up.
As quiet as it was, it somehow now seemed loud to his ears. No one noticed as he stumbled past, lurching his way toward the pale blue door with the stick figure on it. He pushed his shoulder against the door and it swung open heavily, letting him into the cold, quiet confines of the men's room. He stumbled toward the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing a little in his face before looking at his reflection in the mirror and cringing. He did look unwell; his eyes were sunken, dark rings having formed around them, and he did have an unhealthy green cast to his features.
The almost imperceptible flicker of the fluorescent lights did little to help, the tiny variations in brightness suddenly making him feel dizzy. The disquieting nausea that had been rising in his stomach suddenly rushed up toward his throat with a bitter vigor, and sent him scrambling for the nearby stall. The door was kicked open, and no time was given to closing it and locking it behind him; Nick simply threw himself to his knees, clutching at the sides of the porcelain bowl in front of him and leaning in, letting the contents of his lunch pour out with an angry, sudden retch.
The scent of it was acrid in his nostrils, causing his eyes to water as his stomach again heaved. The entire contents of his stomach had already been emptied and the subsequent waves brought forth nothing but pained, dry heaves, each one causing his stomach to tense and writhe within him, leaving him to groan helplessly in succession.
What probably lasted a few seconds felt like hours to him, as he felt the strength sapped from his body, forcing him to clutch at the toilet to keep from collapsing to the floor. Satisfied that the heaving had come to an end, he turned and sat limply on the cold tile floor, his back resting against the toilet, his chest rising and falling as he worked to regain his breath. The effort of throwing up was surprisingly exhausting.
At that moment someone else had stepped into the restroom, announced by the quiet creaking of the door. A few steps were heard against the tile floor, followed by an audible sniffing sound. "Ugh! Come on, buddy, how about a courtesy flush ..."
The man, who he did not immediately recognize, stepped in front of the open stall with a disdainful look on his face, but as soon as he glanced into the stall where Nick was splayed out, the look on his face transformed into one of shock. "Fucking Jesus!" he shouted, practically jumping backward before making a hasty retreat.
"What was that all about ... ugh," he groaned to himself, letting a little wave of dizziness pass. He realized that he could not remain splayed out on the bathroom floor like this, and he was feeling thirsty. Slowly, gingerly, he began to pick himself up, using the side of the bathroom stall to pull up on, to steady himself against, until he reached his feet. Another brief wave of nausea passed over him, mercifully vanishing as quick as it came. Head downcast, he shuffled his way over to the sink again, turning on the cold water and splashing it back into his face. The brisk coolness of the water felt good on his skin, and he repeated with another splash, running his fingers backward through his hair.
When he reached for the faucet again, he was shocked to see generous locks of brown hair tucked in between his fingers.
With more than a little panic, he looked up at the mirror and looked frantically at his hair. His hand shaking, he reached up to comb it through his scalp again, horrified to see large clumps of it simply pulling away from his head as if it had never been attached. "What the fuck ..." He eyed the clumps of hair in the palm of his hand when another sight sent a shock through him - the skin on his fingers was beginning to look strangely wrinkly, and had taken on more than a passing green hue to it.
"This ... what ..." confused, he glanced at his own reflection, tugging at the clumps of hair as they fell from his scalp. He let out a startled little cry when his fingers passed over a strange lump in his skull, and then another. Brushing the falling hair out of the way, his eyes widened as he realized what they were - two tiny little nubs of horns.
Again he let out a yelp of surprise, stumbling back away from the mirror, nearly falling over in the process. Tearing his eyes away from his warped reflection, he shuffled over to the door. Leaning against the frame, he pushed it open slightly so he could peek outside.
No one had come to see what the commotion had been about - life looked like it was proceeding as normal. Cautiously he pushed the door open further and eyed the path to his cubicle. Convinced no one was looking, nor would they have any reason to look, he suddenly bolted from the restroom, running as fast as he could, wheeling around the corner and making for the sanctuary of his desk. He was moving so quickly that he nearly crashed into it, tucking himself into his chair and reaching for his headset, fumbling to get it back over his ears, his other hand reaching shakily for the mouse to take the next call; the computer was already flashing a dire 24:46.
Then he heard what he knew he would hear, what he feared he would hear. Heavy footfalls, the plodding sound of someone with shorter legs but a more portly stature, quickly moving in his direction. John Michaels' irritating voice cut through the air. "Roberts! Roberts, what is going on ... I've just been informed that you've been playing some kind of sick prank in the men's room .. and you've been idle, idle for ..."
Fat fingers clapped onto his shoulder and pulled him around. The unpleasant man's face was screwed up into a righteous fury, already turned bright red and beginning to work up a sweat in anticipation of the managerial anger he was about to unleash. But as soon as the chair had been swiveled around, as soon as he had come face to face with Nick, his jaw went slack. The man's eyes popped open as wide as saucers, and he took a tentative, shuffling step back before he shook his head and let out a shrill, terrified scream, before going rigid and falling straight back with a thud.
He stared incredulously at his fallen "superior", completely unsure of what he should do, when he heard a voice sound out from behind him. "Whoa, dude! Little Napoleon went out like a light ... what did you do ... whoa! Holy fuck, dude!" He cringed and tried to turn away as Todd emerged from his cubicle, his own eyes wide and his mop of hair bobbing about him in surprise. He expected his coworker to scream, cry out, run away, but the man merely stood there with his jaw agape. "Whoa, dude ... you're like ... that's some good shit I smoked!"
Nick turned and looked at him with a blank stare. "You think ... you think this is your high?"
"Fucking awesome!" The stoned man merely grinned at him, bobbing his head with his mop following along. "Laid out that little fuck like the weasel he is! Awesome! Dude ... you're fucking like, a dragon, or something!"
With a strange flash of realization, he swiveled in his seat and snatched up the crumpled picture from the side of his desk. Though much of it had been smudged and marred, the form of the dragon soaring through the clouds was still sharp enough to be unmistakeable - save for the head, which was beginning to look suspiciously like a human head. Like his head. The paper was clutched to his chest, and he let out a harsh breath. "I've got to get out of here."
"Aww, come on man, this is the best thing that's ever happened around here, you gotta stay and ..."
He shook his head, standing up and looking around. Like a town of startled groundhogs, several of the employees had stood up so they could look over their cubicle walls in the direction of the commotion. When he stood and looked in their direction, several of them responded with startled gasps, and more than a few cried out. Most immediately ducked down into the relative safety of their cubicles. "Oh, shit, shit ... shit. No, I've got to get out of here ..."
Todd nodded with some kind of drug-induced sense of understanding, his jubilant features suddenly becoming very sober and grave. "Oh, dude, you gotta do what you gotta do. Fly free, dragon-bro, fly free ..."
The farewell struck an odd chord in him. Snatching up his picture he bolted for the far side of the floor, paying no heed to his computer, left on and waiting, paying no heed to the shouts that followed behind him. More than one employee, unaware of the situation that was going on about them, nearly stumbled into him - or he nearly bowled them over in his haste to escape. More than one screamed in abject fear as they threw themselves to the floor out of his path.
It seemed to take forever for him to make it to the stairwell, but it came upon him suddenly and unexpectedly, so much so that he nearly wound up throwing himself down the stairs. He managed to stumble and hop his way down the broad stairwell, passing a disinterested woman on the way who regarded him with only a disinterested gaze before continuing her way up toward the second floor. Her reaction somehow unsettled him, startled him, and he lost his balance - tumbling down the last several steps, coming to a crumpled pile on the landing.
Picking himself up, he made his way straight for the exit. He had neither the time, nor the presence of mind, to dig out his security pass to open the doors, and kicked open the emergency exit, setting off the noisy klaxon behind him, the rest of the doors swinging open to allow what must have been a panicked office out into the warm summer air. He did not wait to see if anyone was following behind him as he took off running across the parking lot, making his way to his car as fast as he could.
Nick skidded to a stop as he came up to the little red coupe that he drove, reaching for the handle and tugging up on it dumbly before he remembered the keys. Still shaking and fumbling with the strange sense of fear and excitement that was welling up inside of him. He realized that his hands could barely fit into his pockets, and as he extracted the keys he glanced down to look at them. The fingers of his hands had become strangely swollen and odd looking, and he was beginning to grow a set of claws on the ends of his fingertips. Gasping, he lost his grip on the keys, sending them clattering to the ground beneath the door. Cursing his luck, he leaned over and started fumbling for them, finding his fingers had become strangely clumsy - it took him several tries before he hooked the keys, managed to separate them, find the right one and unlock his door.
Stuffing himself into the little coupe was also proving to be unusually difficult. He found that he no longer fit correctly in the seat, his head bumping against the low-slung roof of the car, his legs feeling long and awkward as he stuffed them beneath the steering wheel. The drawing, still clutched in one hand, was hastily tossed into the passenger's seat before the door was quickly pulled closed and locked. He took a passing glance at the sketch, splayed out in his seat, to see the dragon's head was more and more resembling his own - and its forefeet looked more like fleshy human hands. Gasping, he fumbled with the keys again, almost dropping them before he managed to get them in the ignition, fire the car up, and escape from the parking lot with a squeal of the tires.
He could feel his heart thudding loudly in his chest as he steadied his grip on the steering wheel, trying to keep the vehicle from veering around the roadway too much. It was, luckily, only a short little drive out of the parking lot to the freeway, but as luck would have it he managed to hit the one stop light that was in the way. Anxiously he glanced into the rear-view mirror, seeing no one coming up behind him. The few cars that were traveling in the cross direction seemed to pay him no heed, either, but Nick still found himself trying to shrink down in his seat, make himself somehow less visible.
At last, the light turned green again. He fumbled with the gearshift, the car responding with an angry little grinding sound before he was moving again, a little chirp of the tires as he got under way. Another anxious glance was cast behind him, trying to see if his fumbling had caught any unwanted attention, but it was, at least, just the early afternoon; lunch hour had ended for most people, and rush hour was still yet to come. Traffic on the roadways was light, and as he steered up the ramp, getting his car up to highway speeds, he saw that traffic on the freeway itself was light. Glancing cautiously down at the speedometer, he watched the needle climb all the way up to 70 before he let it level off. It would only take him ten minutes to get to his exit.
"Ten minutes," he whispered to himself, squinting into the distance. Ten minutes, and then another ten over surface streets until he was safely back at home, twenty minutes before he could hide away from prying eyes. He had a feeling they would be the longest twenty minutes of his life.
Hardly two or three passed, however, before he began to feel his head pressing uncomfortably into the ceiling of the car, as if it were shrinking around him. He knew that could not be happening, and a hand went up to feel at the top of his head, find what he somehow knew was there - the little pair of stubby horns had grown and were starting to dig into fabric, forcing him to slouch in his seat. To make matters worse, his feet had begun to feel numb and cramped, his toes crunching against his shoes. He cast a furtive glance over at his drawing to confirm his fears. The dragon's feet in the image were blurring away, beginning to resemble simple human feet. The torso, as well, was changing, both in shape and color, becoming thinner, shorter, and a more pink fleshy color.
With a groan, Nick pressed his hand against his stomach. His jeans were becoming tight around his waist. He didn't have to look to guess what was going on.
Suddenly, the cheap fake leather of his shoes burst, his thickening toes poking out of the tears. He could not help but to take a look down, gasping when he saw the big, sharp talons sticking out of his shoes and wriggling. Unintentionally he jerked his leg, as if he might pull away from those talons, and almost got his foot caught up in the brake. The car lurched to the side as it almost went into a skid, his whole body tensing up as he grasped the steering wheel and held on tight. It only took a second or two for him to regain control of the car, feeling his feet on the correct pedals, but it was long enough to get him panting and cursing. "Shit ... shit shit ... come on, just give me fifteen more minutes ..."
He would not get his fifteen minutes. As soon as he had managed to calm down from the near incident, the baleful wail of a siren rang in his ears and made the pit of his stomach knot up nearly as painfully as it had back in the restroom of the office. He glanced up into the rear-view mirror, hoping he might see an ambulance screaming along the freeway, maybe a fire truck, but his worst fears were confirmed when there was the unmistakeable sight of a white police motorcycle, reds and blues flashing angrily at him, rapidly approaching.
It was at that instant that he also happened to look at his own, strange, disfigured face in the mirror, a pair of slitted, reptilian looking eyes gazing right back at him. He was not sure what made him feel worse, the policeman coming up on him, or those eyes.
The cop stopped just off his bumper, siren blaring loudly at him, but Nick knew that he could not stop. "Oh, please, come on come on ... this can't be happening ... not now, come on, just ... just go find something else to do." He found himself hoping beyond hope that the officer might get some kind of urgent call over his radio, maybe some kind of convenience store holdup, anything more pressing than some idiot abruptly swerving on the freeway. He felt sorry for wishing that sort of thing might happen, but wished for it all the same.
For a mile the policeman continued right behind him, nearly a whole minute before the cop began to gesture angrily to the side of the road. The implied command was beyond question : pull over. Nick shook his head sadly. The ceiling of the car was beginning to push more urgently upon the back of his head, beginning to force him to hold his head sideways so he would fit in the car. His feet ached at the sensation of his shoes continuing to squeeze around them and burst in inconvenient ways, and he was sure the buttons on his pants were soon to follow. He had more important things to do than pull over, and found himself quietly begging, on the verge of tears. "Please ... just let me get home ..."
Another mile had passed; he was only a few minutes away from his exit. The officer, undeterred but obviously growing impatient, swung out around him and twisted the throttle, coming up alongside the car in half an instant. Nick cringed for the inevitable as the policeman cocked his head, looking straight at him, and opened his mouth as if to say anything.
The policeman's mouth, however, hung open for an uncomfortably long moment. The dark aviator shades that the cop wore made his eyes inscrutable, giving him a strange, uncanny expression as he continued to stare into Nick's car with his mouth agape. Nick looked back at him and shot him an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. For several seconds the cop merely kept up pace with the car, staring right back at him, before his jaw slowly closed. Turning his head to look forward, the policeman gently let up on the throttle, losing ground on the car. Nick looked back into his rear-view in shock as the motorcycle continued to lose speed, fading in the distance, the siren going silent before it began to pull over to the side of the road and out of his view.
Still shaken from the encounter, Nick focused on the road once again with slightly blurry vision. He couldn't blame the cop, of course. He had no idea how he would have reacted, either, if he had come face to face with someone who, for all intents and purposed, had the head of a dragon. Except for the fact that he was that person.
His exit came up only a couple moments afterward. Once off the freeway, he went out of his way to avoid the main streets, turning off on to the quiet, residential side streets that would have little if any traffic, giving him the best chance to avoid any further confrontations. While it took him an extra five minutes to cover the distance, it was worth the trouble. With a sense of relief, he pulled up to his house without so much as coming across another soul.
Still shaking as he cut the engine and pushed the door open, he nearly spilled out onto the street as he did so. His frame had bulked up considerably, as he thought, and his pants button had come off at some point during the drive. His thighs had swollen, too, and the denim was beginning to tear in random spots. The last thing Nick wanted was for his pants to fall completely off while he still was outside, so he hastily squirmed his way out of the car, turning to slam the door shut behind him, when an intense, brilliant pain shot up his spine and sent him reeling forward.
Gasping, trying to keep his balance, he turned around bewildered to find out what had happened, going slack-jawed when he realized that he had grown a tail at some point during the drive, and it had somehow snaked its way out of the back of his pants when they had torn in the back. The end of it was still in the car when he tried to slam the door, and it still ached profusely as he let it slide all of the way out of the car. Bewildered, the stopped long enough to reach back in and retrieve the crumpled piece of art from the passenger's seat. Sure enough, the dragon's tail had simply vanished. There was little left of the dragon in the drawing at that point, save for parts of the torso and the wings. He knew it was merely a matter of time; his shirt, already stretched tight around his swollen torso, was beginning to bulge oddly in the back.
Nick turned on his heel and took a few steps toward the house when the brief sensation of relief he had felt melted away. He had somehow not noticed his mother's car sitting in the driveway, or at least had failed to make the connection in his mind. He should have remembered that she came home early on Thursdays. If she was in the living room, or anywhere near the front door, when he opened the door ... the thought made him shudder.
Still, he knew he had no choice. Squaring his shoulders a little, Nick began to march steadily up to the front door, grasping the handle and pulling it open all at once. His eyes were not adjusted to the darkness inside, but he did not wait for his vision to clear up before he shut the door behind him and immediately began to run toward his bedroom. There was no sense in trying to be stealthy and careful at this point; either she would see him or she would not.
By some stroke of luck, she did not. Anxiety was already beginning to squeeze his chest as he made for his bedroom door, pushing it open and darting inside. With a sense of finality he slammed the door shut behind him, backing against it and breathing a deep, loud sigh. The unsteady shaking in his core caught up to him, and his legs gave out; Nick collapsed into a heap on the ground, leaning back against the door. He felt his body begin to shake, his breath coming out in a low rattle as he found himself on the verge of tears. What the hell ...
"Nick? Nicholas honey, are you all right?"
His mother's voice hit him like a ton of bricks, and suddenly he felt panicked. Opening his eyes and looking around wildly, before he realized her voice had come from behind him, behind the door. She must have heard him come in, slamming the door behind him, and had come to see what was wrong. The door handle was already beginning to rattle as she tried to make her way inside. "Nick?"
"Mom! No!" He gasped as he barked out loud, relieved to hear his own familiar voice coming out of the less than familiar mouth. "Don't come in ... I'm naked, I'm changing!"
It was enough to get her to stop rattling the handle, but he could still hear her standing just on the other side of the door. "Honey, are you feeling all right, you sound a little ... hoarse. What are you doing home, already?"
She had all but invented an excuse for him, and he ran with it. "Uh, just a little out of sorts, Mom. Might be coming down with something, figured it wouldn't be a good idea to stay on the phones ... sent me home for the day," he said, eyes wide, hoping she would buy the excuse.
There was a moment of silence before she answered. "Well, that was a good idea, coming home," she said, a little more quietly. "Do you want me to bring you some chicken soup or something?"
"NO!" He shouted it out with a bit more force than he meant to, cringing. "No, Mom, it's all right. I, uh, got some stuff at the drugstore on the way home ... I think I'm just going to lie down and take a nap, okay? That should help me feel better."
"Well, okay sweetie," she called through the door, sounding somewhat mollified again. "Just let me know if you need anything, okay?"
"Okay, Mom," he said. He felt like he should be sweating, but as he ran a hand over his forehead it came back dry as a bone. Looking at the scales on the back of his hand made him shiver.
He could hear her shifting, taking a few steps down the hall. "You get some rest honey, get better," she called out behind her, before she walked away, the soft sounds of her footfalls dying off as she left the hallway.
Nick was safe. He leaned his head forward, breathing out a long, unsteady sigh as he was, finally, allowed to relax, or at least as much as he could in the situation. In the relative silence of the room, he could hear the quiet little tearing sound from time to time as the threads of his clothing gave way, shreds of his shirt beginning to droop down over his shoulder. The sole of his shoe gave a quiet thud as it detached from his nearly destroyed shoe, the fake leather fluttering off his talons and thick, scaled toes.
"What the hell ..."
He sat where he was for a long time, until his clothes had taken all they could and had finally come apart, falling into heaps of threads and scraps around him. He was aware of the wings growing behind his shoulders, scraping against the door behind him and forcing him to lean forward to make enough room. Despondently, he looked at the paper that was still held in his hand, unfolding it gently over his knee. The dragon in the drawing was gone; instead it was a picture of himself, flying through the clouds with his arms spread out wide. It was a ridiculous image.
He still could not bear to get rid of it, though. Clutching it tightly in his left hand, he forced himself to stand up and walk slowly over in the direction of the bathroom that was attached to the room. Just inside was the mirror, where he could see the reflection of his silhouette growing as he got closer, the outline of a dragon, horns and wings and all. Still, it was somehow not real until he flicked the light on and got a good look at himself, for the first time.
It was exactly the image he had drawn on the paper - or at least, the image of that dragon if he stood upon two legs like a man. Green reptilian eyes shined back at him from the mirror, looking over the scales that now covered his body, the powerfully built form and pair of slender, graceful wings that were now folded carefully behind him. In other circumstances the image might look compelling, even beautiful in a way.
At the moment, however, Nick could not feel anything except for fear. Reeling at a sudden wave of nausea that rocked his body, he stumbled backward and away from the mirror, clutching the door to hold himself up. The dizzy spell did not last long, fortunately, and soon he was able to stand again, with his back to the mirror. He could not face that image again. "What ... what am I going to do?" He asked the question of the drawing in his hand. Unsurprisingly, it did not answer back.
His eyes lit upon his computer, tucked in the corner, and an idea came to his mind. Crossing the space a little unsteadily, he pulled the chair out of the way and tried to sit down. It was uncomfortable and awkward, as he kept nearly sitting on his tail, his wings not wanting to fold correctly against the backrest, but finally he managed to squeeze himself into the seat in such a way with his tail dangling off to the side, his wings partially unfolded so the seat was between them. Gingerly he pressed the power button to the monitor, giving the mouse a little wriggle, waking the computer up from sleep mode. The mouse was small in his hand, and his grip on it was awkward; it took a frustratingly long time to get the mouse pointer over to the IM program and switch his status to online.
It did not take long for a chat window to pop up. Jeffrey, one of his friends from back east, was already home and logged on. Hey, Nick! What are you doing home this early?
He stared at the screen for a long moment before he thought of how he would reply. What would he say? How would he say it? The urge to talk to someone, to try and tell someone about his predicament was growing in his chest. His hands reached for the keys to type out his message : ouw'l naver bwerliave what ujhqpp4ned ...
Try again? You're not drunk-messaging again, are you? :)
Nick growled, a sound that surprised even himself and made him jump a little in his seat. He tried again, more slowly, pecking the keys out one at a time with his talons. It was awkward and frustrating, at best. Sorry. You'll never guess what happened.
A moment passed before there was a response. Well my guess is still drunk-messaging, but that doesn't explain you being home early. Didn't do something dumb and get fired did you?
There really was no good way to explain it, he realized, no good way to try and brace his friend for what happened. It would sound absurd for him to just come out and say he'd somehow been transformed into a dragon, but it would sound equally absurd for him to try and lead into it with anything else. With an almost agonizingly slow speed, he began to peck out his response. It took so long, that his friend sent another message first. Still there? Didn't pass out on the keyboard did you? Waffle-face alert!
Again he growled in his throat, but pressed on until he had his entire message was typed out. I don't know how it happened ... having a terrible day at work ... had a run-in with that jackass at work again ... but something happened, I started to, well, change ... I know it sounds unbelievable but ... I've turned in to a dragon, a real, living, breathing dragon ...
There was a long pause before a response appeared. Hah! Okay, dude, now I know you are drunk-messaging me! No more liquor at work!
I'm serious. He frowned at the screen, realizing how absurd it must have sounded.
Ooookay. Guess they sent you home, they have a no-dragon policy at work? :)
It was clear that Jeff was not taking him seriously. He began pecking out another message, slowly, taking up too much time till another message appeared on his screen. Well, uh, I'm going to grab a bite to eat ... make sure you drink plenty of water, so you don't get a hangover. Later dude!
Before he could manage to peck out a message, Jeff's online status switched to offline. Growling again, more loudly, he balled his hands into a fist and banged them against the keyboard, causing it to bounce and skitter across the desk. "Goddamn it! This can't be real, this can't be happening ..." With a defeated sigh, he banged on the keyboard again and leaned forward, resting his head on the desk.
Nick never heard his mother coming down the hall; it was only the sound of the handle being turned and the door being pushed open slowly. "Nick, honey, I just got done making a batch of chocolate-chip cookies and thought you might like ..."
He turned his head and looked back at the door with a panicked expression just as her voice trailed off. The door was half open, and she was standing there, holding a plate with three cookies on it and a little glass of milk. She stared at him, her jaw agape, unmoving for several seconds before a little tremor began to make itself visible in her arms. Then, all at once, the plate tumbled from her hands, spilling the cookies to the floor. She began to scream just about the time that the plate itself bounced once against the floor, the glass shattering and sending the milk spattering in every direction. Before he could react, she turned and fled down the hall, screaming in terror.
"Mom!" He tried to jump out of the seat after her, but he had wedged himself in it in such a way that it clung to his behind when he tried to stand, catching on his leg and sending him careening forward. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, the chair breaking in two behind him and collapsing to either side as he scrambled back to his feet and tried to follow after her out the hallway. "Mom, wait! It's me, Nick!"
If she heard him she gave no indication. She screamed all the way down the hall, and did not stop as she turned the corner and bolted for the front door. He pursued her as far as the living room, stopping at the door, poking his head out and watching his mother run faster than he had ever seen her move, running down the street screaming bloody murder. "Mom," he called out, dejectedly, as once again he found himself losing strength in his legs. The door slowly swung back closed with a quiet click of the latch as he collapsed to the floor, rolling on to his back and beginning to weep.
How long he lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling above him through tear-blurred vision he did not know. The little wedge of sunlight that peeked in through the curtains, burning a fiery yellow color against the far wall, had marched its way along to the far side of the room, letting him know time was not standing still. The distant sound of sirens began to register in his ear, one, then another, then more, a strange cacophony that wailed ever closer, followed by the squealing of several sets of tired. There was only one logical conclusion. His mother had run to a neighbors house, screaming, crying about some kind of monster that had broken into their house and hidden in her son's room. They had called the police. The police could only conclude from such a panicked, wild statement that they had suffered a home invasion, and that her son was being held hostage.
The phone began to rang. At first he did not move, lying on his back and watching the little wedge of light off in the far corner of the room, listening in the distance as another pair of sirens began their wailing, sad song in the distance, growing ever louder as it got nearer. Again the phone rang, the insistent ding-ding-ding repeating itself five times before it would click over to the voicemail. The caller was persistent, and did not give up; they dialed the number a third, a fourth, and then even a fifth time before he found the energy to stand up.
Nick felt that the world was moving slowly as he made his way to the phone, his body moving in some kind of exaggerated slow motion, like he was trying to walk on the bottom of a pool over toward the phone. Even the urgent ding-ding-ding of the phone slowed down, growing deep and growling at him as he approached, standing there and gazing down at it in a daze. The little red LED light flickered on and off, signaling another ring. Slowly he reached down and picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"My name is Sargent Johnson. I'm with the police. We know you have a hostage. Let's not do anything stupid ... I'm sure we can negotiate a peaceful solution to this problem. We don't want anyone getting hurt ..."
"No, I'm Nick," he said quietly, almost in confusion at the voice barking at him on the other side of the line.
There was a flurry of activity in the background that he could hear, among them his mother's panicky voice yapping about her little boy. The officer's voice came over the line to him again, calm and commanding. "Son, now, just relax. The police are here to help. We want you to ask the men who have got you what they want ... the house is surrounded, but we won't shoot as long as they surrender ..."
He shook his head, as if the policeman could see. "No, you don't understand. It's just me. No one has me."
The officer clearly did not believe him. He supposed the man assumed that his would-be assailants had forced him to answer the phone, forced him to lie, perhaps holding a gun to his head and instructing him what to say. "Nick, I want you to tell them, to let you out of the house. As soon as you are out, they can come out, slowly, surrender, and no one will get hurt. If there's something they want, tell them they'll need to get on the line ... I'm a negotiator ..."
"You don't understand," he repeated, shaking his head and frowning at the receiver. "No one is in here with me."
The officer continued to speak, but he dropped the phone and let it fall to the counter with a little clatter. The man's voice continued to bark from the phone, continued issuing some kind of orders, but Nick was no longer interested in hearing; the man was simply not listening. No one was listening. There was no one he could tell, no one who would understand.
"What do I have to do?" The question was asked of no one in general as he turned and looked at the door. The cops had told him to come out of the house.
He had to do it.
Still in something of a daze, still moving slowly, he made his way to the door. He felt like he was swimming still, the thoughts running through his head slowly, making their way through the morass of the conflicting emotions bouncing in his skull. He looked down at his taloned hands as he stood at the door. "What am I now?"
The door was pushed open slowly. The day was waning now, the sun low in the sky and making him squint as he stepped out and made his way toward the driveway, not stopping until he was fully away from the house.
The sunlight was warm on his scales, warm and somehow comforting. He was surprised at how many police cars had showed up; he had expected maybe two or three, but as he slowly turned he realized there were no less than six. It seemed like an overreaction to the ravings of a wild woman on the phone, but apparently they had taken her quite seriously. A monster had her son.
Slowly, he scanned the crowd that had amassed. Police officers stood in front of and between the patrol cars, each of them with a handgun trained on him. He spied the one that must have been Sargent Johnson, an older looking officer with a phone to his ear. Behind the officer and a small knot of police, his mother stood there, along with a crowd of neighbors who had shown up to see what was going on.
Every single one - his mother, the neighbors, the policemen - they all stared at him, mouths agape.
Nick took another step forward, opening his mouth to speak, when he felt like he had been struck in the chest with a baseball bat. The force of it pushed him back, staggering, his right hand going to his chest. It came away red with blood, the loud report of a gunshot rattling in his ears and echoing down the street.
Everything seemed to slow down even more, go absolutely silent, as he regarded the blood on his hand. He glanced at his chest, at the big gaping hole that was already beginning to seep blood down the scales of his chest. He lifted his head and looked at the police officers arrayed before him, one with a smoking gun and a shocked look on his face. It must have been an accident.
Then the ground rushed up at him. To his surprise it did not hurt when he landed face first on the concrete driveway, bouncing once before he stopped, lying there motionless. It was strange, how he did not feel any pain, lying there with his face pressed against the driveway. From this angle he could see his chest, see the big gaping wound that was now beginning to drip blood profusely onto the ground beneath him. The delayed sound of a scream pierced his confused, muddled consciousness; it was his mother.
Somehow he found the strength to push himself back up, get to his feet. His head was dizzy, and he staggered backward a few steps; a sudden breeze had made itself felt, catching at his wings and making them unfurl a little, pulling him backward like little sails. Catching his balance, he glanced forward again at the police officers staring in his direction. All of them were putting down their firearms, several of them turning to stare at their compatriot who had squeezed the trigger, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of confusion. Then he could see his mother, twisting and screaming, fists flying in the air as she tried to fight her way between the knot of officers who tried to hold her back. "Nicholas!'
He looked back down to his feet then, and what he saw shocked him to the core. Just at his feet, where he had been lying, he saw ... himself. It was not the dragon in the mirror, though, it was Nick the way he had always been - mousy brown hair, plain shirt, baggy jeans, splayed out face first on the concrete. An ugly exit wound marred his back, just between the shoulders, and a dark crimson puddle was quickly spreading from beneath his chest.
That paper was still in his left hand. Somehow, he had clutched it the entire time. The crumpled, half-smudged, yet somehow still visible drawing of a dragon, soaring through the clouds, far above all of the cares of the world.
"What ... what am I now?"
The breeze he felt picked up again, with more force, buffeting his wings and forcing them to spread to their fullest extent. They caught much of the wind and nearly picked him up off his feet but he remained there, glancing back up at the scene in front of him. His mother had somehow pulled free from the knot of police and was running, her hands flailing, in his direction. He watched with a sick, helpless sensation as she fell to her knees in front of the body, screaming his name, sobbing.
"Mom ... Mom? I'm right here ..."
He reached for her, tried to take a step forward, but the wind would not permit it. It filled his wings, tugged him back, tried to pick him up off the ground. He watched helplessly as the police began to move in, one of them trying to pull his mother up off the ground. In the back of his mind he realized they were just doing their job; they did not want the scene of the accident to be contaminated. But they couldn't really keep her away, could they?
"Mother?"
Again he tried to reach for her but this time the wind had him. He could not deny it as it tugged him skyward, losing contact with the earth. Fearfully his wings beat behind him, enough to launch him upward, unsteady and uncertain. He glanced back down at the strange scene beneath him, his mother being pulled unwillingly from his own still form. He wanted to go to her, comfort her ... wanted to go back down to where he lie there in a pool of blood ... but instead, the wind tugged him, his wings beat instinctively and drew him higher into the ground.
It was a warm, comforting wind. As he found himself pulled higher, higher, he could no longer make the scene out beneath him. The streets receded into black ribbons, the sea of rooftops a scattered mosaic of browns and reds and grays ... and he drew in a deep breath of air. Soon he felt his wings cutting through the clouds, and he was soaring, soaring above the world beneath him. Nick's eyes closed as he let his wings stretch out, propelling him forward through the clouds.
Somehow, he knew he would see her again; he would see them all again. There would be a time for sadness, a time for joy. The air carried him higher, higher, till the world below faded into a quiet, unconcerned blur, and he let his eyes close one more time before a soft, slightly sad smile crossed his features. Now was a time for nothing more than flight; it was time to soar above the cares of the world below.