The Counterfeit Read online

terfeit

  By Nate Allen

  Copyright 2016

  Paradise

  1

  The last thing I remember is hearing the sound of gunshots. But, the context of it escapes me. I think I was running away from somebody. Yes. I’m starting to remember. I was hiding. I owe a lot of money to—what’s his name? Biggs someth—Oh, I don’t remember his name. But, I remember he is a round man, easily two hundred and fifty pounds, and much taller than myself.

  When I borrowed the money I meant to pay it back. I had a plan to give him back all I owed, plus interest. But, I am a stupid man. My plans never work. They backfire every single time.

  And now I am trapped in a body that can’t move, lying in a hospital bed. I can’t turn my head to see if anyone is here—I’m sure I’m alone. My wife left me. She went out and found better. It didn’t take long. I was a pathetic excuse for a husband. Luckily, we never made it long enough to have children…

  I am aware of the machine beeping next to me. But, it’s muffled, as if I’m hearing it from under water. The only thing I can see are the black dots on the ceiling tiles above. This is my life now. And there seems to be no end of it in sight. The machine’s steady beeps tell me one sad thing: I am in stable condition.

  I remember how afraid I was when my final plan started to fall apart. I was terrified at the prospect of death. But, then as it became clear that I wasn’t going to escape, I started to find peace. The idea of just not existing anymore wasn’t scary. And if there is an afterlife, I feel that the good I’ve done outweighs the bad. For how pathetic and small of a man I am, I have always tried to do right.

  I was ready to die. What I wasn’t ready for is this. They may come and finish the job. Or they may realize that this is far more torturous than death.

  “Andrew?” the voice isn’t muffled like everything else. It almost sounds like it is here, in my mind. The clarity of it is calming. It almost sounds like Angie’s voice, before everything fell apart, when we were still in love.

  I close my eyes to find her, but it’s just darkness I see. “Where are you?” I ask from in here, the only place where I still can speak.

  There is no answer. It was just a cruel trick of the mind, something to make me think I may be wanted. Of course I’m not wanted. There is a reason I am alone. There is a reason Angie left me to begin with. I couldn’t provide for her. I was, as she said, “dead weight”.

  I gambled when I wasn’t working. I broke even most of the time and when I did come home with plenty of winnings, she saw me as a winner…

  I wanted to hold onto that feeling more than anything. I wanted her to see me as a winner permanently, so I took a chance. I borrowed twenty thousand dollars from Biggs Handy—yeah, that’s his name. Big, round Biggs Handy. We set terms on how I’d pay him back. I even hinted at gratuity above his set interest rate. I was confident that his twenty thousand would turn into a hundred:

  4 to 1 odds on Speedy, lane number 3.

  The horse hadn’t done much of anything for some time, but I had insider knowledge. The wet conditions were something he thrived in. And the original jockey was being replaced by someone lighter due to injury. It had all the ingredients for success.

  But, the day came. The race happened. And Speedy fell, snapping his front leg. The rest is history. I couldn’t come up with the money. And here I now lay, wishing they would come and finish the job.

  I’m tired. I close my eyes, wishing they would never open again. But, it will only be temporary…

  2

  The room I am standing in is filled with wispy fog. The dreaming has begun. At least here I can walk. At least here I can feel.

  There is a sudden dull ringing in my ears. Sharp and simple. A steady sound. As I start to walk, it begins to fade. What a strange place this is. I’ve been here for only moments but it has worn on me as if it has been hours or even days.

  I stop walking to look back from where I came. Everything that is behind me is pitch black. I hear steady growls in the darkness. The fear I feel is immediate. I don’t know what’s behind me, but I know it won’t stay there long.

  “It’s just a dream.” I whisper to myself as I close my eyes. But, it doesn’t calm me. The fear is actually growing.

  Andrew? my Angie? I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It warms me immediately. At least I can have her in some form, even if it is just in a dream.

  “I wish I could change things, babe.” I say quietly. “You deserved so much better.”

  Turn back toward the way you were walking. Your mind is fading fast. If you get lost in the darkness, there is no hope of you getting a second chance. her voice seems so far away. I’m afraid to open my eyes. Those growls belong to the creature from my childhood. I don’t know why it’s the first thing following me now. If it swallows up what remains of your consciousness, you will cease to exist.

  “This is only a dream, Angie. It will end as soon as I open my eyes.”

  Think about the steady ring you walked away from.

  As I do, it all makes sense. I’m dead, surviving only in a pocket of my subconscious, no longer a body but just a thought.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Create while you still can. Give us a place where we can be together. Otherwise, soon you will slip away into nothingness.

  “Will you help me? If I imagine you holding my han—

  I feel her grab a hold of my left hand before I even finish the thought. My eyes are still closed and I can feel a cold wind starting to blow.

  “You don’t have much time, Andrew.” her voice is much closer now.

  I open my eyes to see that the blackness has eaten up nearly everything but me and her. I can even feel that I am starting to slip away. It’s hard to focus on anything specific.

  I can only think about the ocean: the warmth of it, the churn of the tide under my feet; how the waves crashing down sound like thunder in a cave. It all makes me think of our honeymoon. If perfect ever existed in my life, it was that week—

  It feels like I’m in the water. My eyes are open and I see nothing but the blackness growing closer and closer toward us. And yet, the sensation of being wet is undeniable.

  “Remember our honeymoon?” I say as I look over at Angie.

  She nods with a smile as her eyes meet mine.

  “Is it too late to take us there?”

  “No.” she sighs. “I could live there with you forever.”

  I close my eyes and imagine the water rolling over us as we lay on the shore. The wet sand cold under our warm bodies. The sun high in the blue sky above us.

  “Open your eyes, Angie.” I whisper, even though I haven’t opened mine yet. “Tell me we’re there. I can feel the water. I can feel the sand. I can feel the warmth of the sun.”

  “It’s perfect, sweetheart.” she says quietly.

  3

  Perfect? I don’t think she has ever used that word with me in the same sentence. I was a perfect screw up, consistently able to disappoint. But, I was never able to exceed her expectations. Even when things were perfect (or as close as it comes) I was still underwhelming.

  To hear her say that word makes me miss nothing of the real her. I created a better version of her than she actually is. I created someone kinder, someone worth sharing my paradise with. I don’t feel like a stupid man with this Angie. I’m not walking on eggshells, trying to please with every waking breath. Even though this Angie isn’t the one I married, she is the one I would have preferred. And if I truly have the power to create what I want, this really is paradise.

  I don’t fully understand how this works or where I am. I have always believed that when the brain shuts off, so does everything else. I suppose if existence itself comes from a series of ran
dom chemical reactions, this isn’t that farfetched at all. If thought is a reaction to the chemicals that create us, is it too farfetched to believe it can continue in some aspect after death? Even if it’s just in a series of memories, like looking through old photographs? It wouldn’t make sense for my paradise to be anything more than revisiting the past. But, if I get to choose what the outcome is, perfection is possible.

  Before Angie left me, I had a fleeting thought: she was the reason I gambled so much to begin with. I never told her this. She wouldn’t have listened. But, had she loved me for who I was instead of always expecting more and more out of me—had she found me worth much of anything, I wouldn’t have taken such stupid risks trying to earn her admiration.

  I like this feeling. The prison of self pity has had the bars cut away, and I’m able to see from the outside in. What a stupid man I was, under the thumb of a stupid woman. But, no more. This Angie will be everything I want. She will be sweet, kind, and submissive. She will not want to argue, because my view is her view. She will not have differing opinions. She will not have opinions at all. Opinion is where trouble really begins. And old Angie was full of them. What a stupid woman. She was lucky to have me.

  Honestly, I wish her a terrible life, and I hope her new husband gets tired of how she is and leaves her. I revel in the very idea. To have her feel small and defeated—oh, how wonderful that would be…

  I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I’m letting the reality of the world I’ve created