Wake Up

Wake Up

…Ah, the bliss of the simple life.  The heat radiating from the bright sun like tendrils laying on his skin, warming his body with their touch.  He had taken care of the day’s early chores – mucking out the fields, refilling the water tubs in pasture for the horses, putting out hay bales.  Now he filled individual water buckets, pumping water by hand at the spigot – the cold liquid numbing his toes as it splurged onto the ground, oftentimes missing the bucket.  At last when two buckets were full, Damien hefted them into the barn to put them in stalls of horses he would soon bring in from their paddocks.  Before that, though, he’d move to cooking feed, mucking out stables, and setting out tack – and only then would he bring the horses in.  And at that point the true day’s work would begin – grooming, exercising, rubbing down the many horses that were in his care; giving lessons to the boarders, giving work to the young lads who trickled in from dawn till dusk – working to put bread on their tables at night, a roof over their heads.  It was a hectic life – there was always something to do, but never something Damien was forced to do.  He worked for the love of it – he worked to care for the beasts around him – there was freedom in it.  Freedom seldom found elsewhere.  …



         “Damien, you moron, get up already!”

         Damien jolted up in bed and slammed his head against the wood of the bunk above his.  He groaned and fell back into his pillows.  The same dreams again.  They had started a few weeks ago.  Each time Damien fell asleep, the dreams picked up right where they had left off, as if this life was the dream – or the nightmare.  Damien looked askance at the alarm clock sitting on top of his dresser next to his bed.  He groaned again.  The red demons in his alarm clock glared 8:02 AM into his sleep fogged brain.  He was late. 

         “Hey, asswipe, didn’t you hear me?  I said get up!”  That was Damien’s older brother – John.  John was the oldest and the star of the family – so he did pretty much anything he wanted.  And that’s a load of crap, Damien thought as he got out of bed and trudged to the bathroom to start the shower before his older brother decided his laziness was a reason for a beating.  John, of course, would call it giving Damien “tough love”.  It didn’t help that John was four years older than Damien, and two feet taller.  Of the five brothers and sisters Damien had, he had gotten the scum of the gene pool – dark hair to his parent’s light, pale skin to their seemingly natural Italian tan, and he had lost out on height, as well. 

         Once showered and dressed, Damien traipsed down the spiral staircase of his family’s penthouse apartment that emptied on the pristine white tile floor of the kitchen and connecting dining room.

         “It’s about time, asswipe.  Dad’ll pound you for being late,” John said, lounging at the head of the sleek, polished black kitchen table.  He was dressed in sweatpants and a Giant’s jersey with a piece of half-eaten toast in front of him.  The sports section of the Times blocked his square face.

         Damien snagged a bagel and cream cheese from the kitchen before sitting down at the table.  “He probably won’t even notice,” Damien said.   

         “I’d pound you – but you look so pretty in your little suit.”  Damien ignored his brother’s snipe and focused on his bagel.  His fingers twitched, longing to loosen the tie that hung like a noose around his neck.  He shrugged his shoulders, lips quirking at the tightness of the suit jacket across his shoulders, how the fabric crinkled with every movement.

         “Hi Damien!”  Lacy and Jane said in unison as they bounced down the stairs, dressed in matching skirts and shirts.  Jane wandered into the kitchen as Lacy stood beside Damien’s chair and combed her fingers through his hair.

         “You are kinda cute all dressed up.  If you did your hair people might even notice you,” Lacy said.

         “Jeez, thanks Lacy”, Damien said.

         “It’s not every day you get complimented by High School Royalty,” Jane said as she crossed the dining room to stand beside Lacy.  “Come on, we’ve already missed first period.  If we’re too late it won’t be fashionable.” 

         “Oh, travesty,” Damien said. 

         “Did I say you could speak?”  John said as Damien received twin smacks on the back of the head from his sisters. 

         “What’s your excuse John?  Why aren’t you at work?”  Lacy said.

         John didn’t even look up from the sports section.  “Didn’t feel like work today.”  Damien held back a snort.  “What was that asswipe?”

         “Nothing at all,” Damien said.  He wolfed down the rest of his bagel in a bite.  “Time to get going.”

         “Have fun at work Damien!”  Lacy called as she grabbed her bag and followed Jane out the door.  Damien followed the twins out.  It was 8:35.



         …Damien froze in time.  The wind kissed his face as the tall grasses in the pasture tickled his jeans, a fly landed on his neck but he didn’t dare to swat it away.  The stallion stood with his warm brown nose inches from Damien’s.  Damien could feel the stallion’s whiskers whispering against his cheeks could feel the steam of the stallion’s breath.  A stomp, a snort.  A tail lashed out at a menacing fly.  Stillness.  Damien reached out a hand and laid it on the stallion’s snout.  A ripple.  The stallion stopped breathing, stopped moving and stared.  His ears were forward – a good sign. 

         “Shhhhhhh,” Damien cooed, “It’s alright.”  He closed the divide between himself and the stallion, keeping one hand on the horse’s snout and moving the other to his neck.  Muscle trembled beneath Damien’s fingers.  Damien rubbed the stallion’s neck and let the halter slide from his shoulder.  Buckles jangled and the stallion’s ears swiveled to attention.  Keeping a hand on the stallion’s neck, Damien held the halter and raised it to the stallion’s ears.  “Easy boy.  Everything’s fine.”

         Sound and fury erupted.  A bray shattered the silence and Damien fell to the ground with dirt in his eyes.  The stallion pivoted on his hind legs and galloped away.  Some things are meant to be free.  …

         “Do you have a problem with authority Damien?”  Damien didn’t bother to answer; he knew Richard’s question was rhetorical.  “Because it seems to me that you do.  Every other employee in this company understands that they are part of a whole – thus, if an employee has a problem, the company has a problem.  Do we have a problem, Damien?  None of you siblings ever had this much trouble with work.  They were grateful.  John never rose above the office worker position, yet he arrived every morning on time.  Derek might just take the company from me one day.  Lacy and Jane never complain about working after school, yet you, of all of my children, you arrive perpetually late, have poor performance records, a generally dismal attitude, and no motivation whatsoever.  Why?”  Richard paused for a second, as if waiting for a reply.  Damien had none.  “Despite my best efforts,” Richard said, his face scrunching as his beady eyes wrinkled at his son, “you have failed where your siblings have flourished.  What am I to do with you?”

         “You could fire me, sir.”  Who said that?  Damien certainly didn’t remember saying it. 

         “Damien!  After all we’ve done for you?”  Richard’s face purpled and his cheeks puffed out as he slapped his hands against the polished mahogany of his desk.

         “Done for me?  What have you done?  You’ve given me everything – but you’ve never done anything for me.  So go ahead, fire me.  You know I don’t want to be here.  I’m not like John or Derek or Lacy or Jane or Brad.  And you can’t deal with that.  That’s why you won’t fire me.”

           Out!  Now!”  Richard said.  Damien obeyed.



         “What is this?  I specifically said nonfat caramel macchiato with two extra shots, no whip, with two splendas.  This tastes like one splenda.  And this chicken Caesar salad has Caesar dressing!  I asked for Italian.  Are you deaf, boy?”

         “I’m sorry Ms. Sanchez, I ordered with two splendas,” Damien said, “and Caesar salads come with Caesar dressing”.

         The secretary rolled her eyes at him and placed a hand on her hip – Damien supposed she was trying to be intimidating.  “I’ll tell your father about this.” 

         “I have to deliver the rest of these,” Damien said, and strode off through the endless rat maze of cubicles.  It was lunch time now.  Moreover, it was lunchtime for everyone except Damien.  It was probably illegal in most places, Damien thought, taking away lunch breaks – but Richard didn’t care about legality, only control.  Damien’s stomach spasmed and growled in protest, but there was no help for it.  Damien sighed as he made the rounds of his office floor.

         He had been working under his father for almost a year now, and still he was relegated to menial tasks like coffee orders, copying and envelope stuffing.  As he schlepped through the labyrinth of cubicles to his own tiny desk, he thought back to his dreams.  A simple life.  A life where he made his way by the sweat of his brow and the strength of his back.  An escape from the flashy lights and maddening skyscrapers of the city, a release from the blaring taxi horns and endless work that was his life in New York City.



         ...  The forest was a piece of ever changing scenery, a color pallet of red, orange, yellow, green, and brown.  The earthy smell of bark and dying leaves filled their nose, the crisp air stung their eyes, -and the world whirled around them.  A mesh of majestic trees, like skyscrapers, towered into the blue heavens above, none more than a meter part, and scant inches from their flanks. 

          Damien’s wrapped his legs tighter around Rascal’s flanks as he slid his hands up the gelding’s neck and leaned into his horse.  There was nothing better than a trail ride.  Damien urged Rascal on with his legs for still more speed as they galloped the narrow trail, jumping – no flying over downed trees and small brooks without care.  A sound in the forest, a whipping of wind, a twittering of a bird.  The peaceful world around them exploded.  Damien flew - not with Rascal this time, not defying gravity, but adhering to it. 

         Sharp pain and a groan from Damien’s lips at the unforgiving attitude of the forest floor.  Rascal stands not far off, regarding Damien with a wary eye.  Damien stumbles to his feet, and reaches a hand to his horse. 

         Their foreheads press together; soft brown hair under Damien’s skin.  Rascal’s hot breath on Damien’s chest; the gentle sound of Rascal’s breathing.  Damien’s hand slides down a soft nose, caressing the sensitive skin of the gelding’s head.  They rest like that; together.  Rascal snorts into Damien’s hand.

         “You’re right boy; it’s time to go back.”  Damien turns around and clucks to his horse and Rascal follows. 



         When Damien finally stepped into the elevator of his family’s apartment complex, put his key in the corresponding lock and pressed the “P” button, it was a relief.  As the elevator began to move, he loosed his tie, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and slumped against the steel sides of the elevator.  It was a good five minutes up to the penthouse.  Damien felt himself dozing already, felt the lines between the dream world and the real world blurring.  Before his mind’s eye he smelt the sweaty, animal musk of the horse, of worn leather and hay.  Damien floated into the apartment and seemed to glide up the stairs.  If his family called his name, he didn’t recall.  His clothes melted from his skin, and before he knew it, he was asleep.  Or had he already been asleep?



         …  Damien ran. From what, he didn’t know, but he ran, jumped, flew through seas of waist high stalks of grain, through city streets and blaring horns, leaping over logs, dashing through streams and across crosswalks.  His bare feet pounded the pavement, his breath steamed and puffed in billowing clouds as he crashed through the undefined night – his lungs wheezed with effort, his muscles popped and burned as they were forced onward.  Damien had no thoughts – all of his mind was focused on the running, on the sight of the impenetrable dark ahead of him.  But the dark was comforting – the dark meant they hadn’t found him.  He dreaded the moment he saw the ground in front of his fleeing feet – it would mean death, or something similar to it.  He didn’t even remember what he had done, what he would do … 



         Damien jerked awake with a muffled cry, tossing off his blankets.  A cold sweat dripped down his back.  He was out of breath.  He had shoes on; was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  Didn’t I change into my pj’s last night?  He thought, confused in the odd lapse between sleep and dreams.  No matter.  He was tired.  He kicked off his shoes and closed his eyes.  …



         …“Easy Rascal,” Damien said, “ho boy.  Ho. Good boy Rascal.”  He rubbed the gelding’s neck in long strokes and lengthened the reins a little as he continued to praise his mount.  The only sound in the riding ring was the rough huff and puff of Rascal’s breath as he snorted.  The horse stood stock-still; and on his back Damien continued to soothe as he fought his own nerves.  Rascal had a habit – a common one among thoroughbreds – of making mountains out of molehills.  This morning, Rascal’s mortal enemy was a squirrel sitting on the railing that – God forbid – hadn’t asked the gelding’s permission to eat nuts.

Damien tapped Rascal’s sides with his legs, encouraging forward moment.  The gelding snorted, his ears flicked backwards, and he walked forward.  “Good boy Rascal, that’s it.  Easy now…”  Damien continued to stroke the horse’s neck.  Rascal stepped.  He stopped.  His ears flattened – and Damien clamped his legs around Rascal’s sides as he felt the rippling of muscle an instant before the gelding leapt into a gallop, bucking, and continued – kicking and leaping, muscles surging until he stopped all at once and stood – ears erect, steam rolling off his body in droves in the mid-morning chill. 

         After a minute of peace, Damien encouraged Rascal to canter – bracing for another rodeo session.  To his surprise, Rascal jogged along without any sign of complaint “Good boy”, Damien said, and cantered once more around the ring.  …



         It was nine at night when Damien reached the apartment building again...  He could see the glow of the penthouse lights from the street.  A shiver rattled his spine, putting his hairs on end.  His parents always went out to dinner Friday nights, as did his siblings.  Damien stayed home.  It’s nothing, he told himself, Diane probably just had people over to dinner instead of going out.  That could be true enough; his parents enjoyed shoving their success in other people’s faces.  Especially friends.  That had to be it.  What else could it be?  It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with him.  His day had been completely ordinary.  Maybe Derek was home for the weekend – maybe he was having a party.  But then why would the lights be on?  Derek’s ideas of parties were frat boy affairs; red solo cups, drunken girls, flashy lights and loud music.  If this was the case the penthouse should have looked darker.  Damien stepped into the elevator.  He was overanalyzing.  It was something stupid, probably.  Some family event they hadn’t deigned to include him in – a dinner party.  But he had already thought of that.  Damien yawned and stretched his legs as the elevator doors closed.  Rascal gave me a good ride today.  What?  Where had that thought come from?  Who was Rascal?  The elevator stopped.  Each step towards the front door felt heavy; as if the carpet was molasses and Damien was moving in slow motion.  There had to be a reasonable explanation for the way his skin was crawling.  Damien put his key in the door, and turned. 

         “Damien!  We need to talk,” Richard said.

         “What’s going on?”  Damien said, not even half-way through the front door yet.

         “Just sit down,” Richard said.  As the front door closed behind him, Damien turned towards the kitchen.  Everyone was at the kitchen table; Diane, John, Derek, Lacy, Jane and Brad, and Richard.  Damien’s family sat like monolithic gargoyles in the straight backed chairs; Richard sat at the head of the table – his face blank and rigid.  One seat was open for Damien.  He took it.  What was this about? 

         “Mom, dad,” Damien said – though he hadn’t thought of Diane and Richard as parents in years – “What’s this all about?”

         “Someone broke into the company today,” John said. 

         “And?”

         “And we think we know who did it,” Lacy and Jane said in unison.

         “Yeah,” Brad said. 

         “Well that’s great then,” Damien said, "Who is it?  Did you catch them?”  Silence answered him, silence, and the blank, faceless stares of his family.  “What?” 

         “I think you know,” Richard said.  He opened his laptop and turned it around so it faced Damien.  The video taking up the screen looked like security footage of the company.  From a typical high angle view, Damien watched as a boy – looking to be about eighteen or so, smashed in the front doors with an aluminum baseball bat and proceeded to run through the offices and cubicles, throwing computers across the room, bashing monitors in with his bat, and breaking windows.  He was quick, and he had known where to go – instead of wasting time on the lobby he had gone straight to the actual rat maze of the office floors where he could trash the most expensive equipment – copiers and scanners and computer servers. 

         “Okay…”  Damien said as the video footage ended, “Did the cops get him?”

         “Not exactly,” John said.  The rest of his family stared.  Damien narrowed his eyes and played the video back.  The youth on video was of average build – a little on the short side – with black disheveled hair.  His skin was pale – but that could have just been the footage itself.  There was nothing remarkable about his dress – a t-shirt and jeans.

         “So…what?”

         “The perpetrator doesn’t look at all familiar?”  Richard asked.

         Damien glowered.  Then he remembered.  Remembered last night…the frantic dream, waking up in the middle of the night.  Damien’s heart leapt into his throat – he could hear the pounding of his blood in his ears.  He had thought the brief period between dreams hadn’t happened – had thought reality had been part of his dreams.  But he had waked up wearing a t-shirt, wearing jeans.  Damien looked at his family.  Realization rolled in like a wave breaking – it crashed on him and pulled him into a rip tide of impossible consequences.  He shot up from the table, hands slapping the polished surface, chair clattering across the kitchen floor – tumbling end over end.

         “No!  You can’t possibly think – I didn’t do this!”

         “Yes you did!”  Brad said, “You’re wearing jean and a t-shirt!  Just like the criminal.”

         “No I’m not.  I just came back from the company.  I’m wearing a suit…”

         “Then where is it?”

         “Yeah, where is it?  Huh?”

         “Gosh Damien, those jeans are so not in style.”

         Though it was impossible, they were right.  He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and boots!  Boots.  Like cowboy boots.  He rubbed his thighs.  “I was at work all day!”

         “Proof, Damien.”  Richard said.  “Who saw you leave?  Anyone?”  Heads around the table shook no.

         “Why’d you do it Damien?”  John asked.

         “Was I a bad mother?”

         “What could I have done better?”

         “Dude, I know you hated your job but jeez!  Do you know how much money Dad lost today?”

         “Breaking and entering isn’t cool.”

         “But I didn’t do anything!” 

         “That doesn’t change the fact that you could be lying,” Richard said.

         “I can’t believe this!  You’re my parents, and you actually think I broke into the company, in broad daylight, just to break stuff?  Are you out of your fucking mind?  Wouldn’t you have been there during the break in?”

         “No.  There was a business meeting over lunch in one of the conference rooms.”

         “For all of the employees?”

         “That doesn’t matter.  No one saw you leave this morning, you look like the kid in the video, and everyone here knows you hate working at the company,” John said.  “Besides, the only floor that was wrecked was the one you work on.”  Before Damien could interject, Richard picked up John’s thread and continued.

         “You always show up late, you antagonize fellow employees, you fail to complete simple tasks and now you’ve taken your misguided anger out in crime,” Richard said, “It happens all the time  except usually the idiot is smart enough to use a gun, and finish himself off in the end.”

         Damien’s hands curled into fists on the table top.  None of this made sense.  He ducked his head – black hair falling in front of his face – and went rigid as a board.  Rage formed a hot tight ball in his center and radiated outwards, till every muscle trembled with undulating waves.  “Dad.  I’m your fucking son.  Don’t you care at all?”  Silence.  Damien raised his head and looked at Richard.  Damien’s burning blue eyes met his father’s beady black – and then his father’s lips twitched upwards in a minute smirk.  “I’m an adult.  I don’t need to take this shit,” Damien said and stormed towards the front door of the apartment.

         “If you go out that door, Damien, I’ll press criminal charges,” Richard said.  Damien could hear the laughter in his voice.

         Damien whirled around like an angry stallion.  “What?!”

         “You heard me.”   

         Damien narrowed his eyes.  “Go ahead then.”  Damien strode towards the door and wrenched it open.  He glanced over his shoulder; saw Richard with cell phone in hand.  Damien slammed the front door behind him and didn’t look back. 

         As the elevator descended, Damien was calm.  The rage had flushed from his body leaving him cold – but it was more than that.  The moment Richard had said the words Damien knew what he was going to do.  Really, he had known for a while now.  And now that the decision was made there was no turning back. 

         The elevator doors opened, and he saw the police cars.  Damien ran.  Out of the elevator, through the spinning glass doors.  He heard the police on his tail – jingling like janitors with their keys and their guns.  But he kept running, galloped faster and faster, despite the pain in his legs and his shortness of breath.  He had to be faster than them.  Skyscrapers towered like trees as he raced, trashcans were crossrails, and crosswalks were bubbling brooks that he jumped as the impending darkness surrounded him.  He reached the company; saw the wreckage of broken glass.  Had he done it?  Damien leapt over the glistening shattered edges of glass and dashed across the lobby to the stairs.  Elevators didn’t go to the roof.  He took the stairs two by two – the police were still hot on his tail.  Up and up and up.  His thighs and calves burned for release, his lungs gasped for air but he made himself climb, even as his stomach roiled and his vision blurred.  The roof.  He saw the last door, and rammed his shoulder into it – just like the movies.  It wasn’t locked – he didn’t question why - so he sprawled onto the rooftop, head over heels, wheezing for breath as the scent of barley rose around him.  The cement was rough against his skin, and before long he heard the police – boots stomping up the stairs, belts jangling.  Flashlights lit up the rooftop around him.

         “Stay where you are and put your hands behind your head!”  Damien pushed himself to his hands and knees, and sat back on his haunches.  “This is the New York City Police Department!  Don’t move.”  Damien stood up and faced the officers.  “I said don’t move!”  Damien raised a hand to defend his eyes from the bright flashlights – the bright sun.  He drifted backwards, each light step taking him closer to the edge of the building.

         “Stop!  You don’t want to do this,” the police officer said.

         Damien’s lips twitched.  His nose itched.  “Tell Richard he’s sorry.”  Damien pivoted and shot for the edge of the rooftop.  The officers screamed and shot their tasers – but Damien had escaped.  His sneaker grasped the edge the concrete rooftop and pushed off – the final jump in the course.  Damien spread his arms wide to the open night air and smiled as he plummeted.  He dreamed…



         …  And woke, eyes fluttering to life, mouth spitting out pieces of hay as he emerged from a pile of straw five feet deep with the scent of horses around him.