101 Words

They are faint echoes coloring every moment of my continued existence. You can’t call them memories, not exactly, because they never actually occurred. They are more like dreams. Or possibilities.

Either way, I am haunted.

They say–and by they, I mean the quantum physicists–that prior to its observation, a particle exists in superposition, in every possible quantum state simultaneously. I know this to be true. My world, ever since the moment of the accident, has become superpositioned. There is the reality in which she died, or the reality in which she’s still alive, and they exist forever in parallel

The sky turned from dark to light, and as I stood to my full height, color bled back into the world. Gritting my teeth, smelling my own blood, I faced my opponent. My sweaty neck cracked as I strained myself toward the sky, each pop making the sun flash like a camera. I was heat and light, and as I stepped toward him he understood, but too late. When I finally laid hands on him, my grip only cut through him, like a knife through butter, and he simply melted away. I had seriously underestimated how powerful dying would make me.

“Dad, why is Mom strange again?” My six-year-old son doesn’t mince words.

My 11-year-old daughter asks sympathetically, “Dad, is Mom mad at you
again?”

They are getting accustomed to my wife’s cyclical mental instability, but it
still hurts every time. You would think that after thirteen years it would
get easier, but it doesn’t. My wife lives half of her life in a world that
has no basis in reality. She “knows” that I have women on the side. She
seethes with anger. The worst part is, none of it is true. It’s all in her
head.

The Brubaker Spectacular trundled down Main Street, festooned with ribbons and fur, exploding confetti at every corner.

The children trailed after the wagons, quivering in epileptic fits of joy. The Brubaker Spectacular had arrived.

Elephants trumpeted at the sky. Acrobats danced from the rooftops. Giants wrestled lions, while swinging from trapezes suspended over fiery pits.

The Brubaker Spectacular promised two weeks of bewitching sensation, exceeding even the most remarkable dreams of splendor.

Shops closed their doors. The school master tossed aside his exams. Reverends and ministers preemptively forgave a fortnight worth of transgressions.

Nobody ever said no to the Brubaker Spectacular.

Shoulda known that boy’d never let her go. Not like I never seen them bottomless pit types before. Her daddy’s the same damn way, all ca’mon baby and gimmegimme. What’d the fool ever give me, besides her and some maxed-out credit cards? Tried putting her off them kinda boys, but I reckon it’s true the apple don’t fall far from the tree. Be different if the boy’d serenade her or something, if he ain’t just stand there. Tried telling the sheriff how a restraining order’s just a piece of paper. Ain’t gonna do much good once the boy’s tired’ a standing.

Beams of light break through the blinds, dancing across my face, beckoning me to awake. It’s a Sunday in June, but I don’t go to church anymore so there’s no need for me to get up this early. I am afraid to even get out of bed, knowing if my dog hears the slightest step, he won’t stop whining until I come downstairs. Is it wrong to leave him alone so I can sleep a little while longer, though I know he’s bored? Guilt pushes me down the stairs, only to find his puddle of urine. I should have slept longer.

“If you give me a dollar,” he says, “I’ll give you a kiss.”

His laughter rings true — the echo of an honest joke, sincere and triumphant. His smile casts a shadow on my heart. I laugh and smile back, desperate for nonchalance, hiding behind freeze-dried joy. We are caught in a momentary silence.

She strides in, dyed hair hanging limp around her face, sharp raccoon eyes glaring, jeans too tight for her too skinny body, thin cherry lips pressed into a coy, calculated smile. She draws him away, leaving me with my icy confessions.

I have a dollar in my pocket.