John's Lawn

A car honks in the distance.

Camden blinked, staring down at the flight of stairs beneath him. He let a slow, calm breath to relax him before descending into the station. His shiny dress-shoes clacked against the concrete like a metronome in an empty house. He blinked again, trying to clear his vision. Stopping at the first landing, he rubbed his eyes. His vision didn’t clear.

He thought for a moment, “Did I leave my glasses at the office?” He shook his head at the ground, disappointed in his forgetfulness. Gaze trailing, he found his undershirt untucked. Adjusting it, he noticed the right sleeve of his suit was torn at the seam. He sighed with a groan and continued down the stairs.

The blinding white lights flickered overhead before coming back with a staticky buzz. Camden flung a hand by his ear, assuming a bug to be the culprit. No matter how hard he swung, it wouldn’t fix the annoying buzz.

He released a bag-dropping breath and yawned, covering his mouth on instinct. Something wet touched his hand as he reached the second platform. He stopped and looked down. A crimson droplet rested on his pale skin.

Pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket, Camden wiped his nose, blowing gently; before sliding it in his back pocket.

The descent continued.

Posters and advertisements smeared into blurs across the walls. Despite the lack of glasses, he read several from his periphery.

“NEVER LEAVE WITHOUT ONE!” One read. A woman was displayed with an LED light strapped to her chest.

“UP TO 500 LUMENS!” Was printed at an angle over an empty spot on the poster.

Another read, “THE COMMUTERS SHOE! Stylish AND Comfortable!” They looked like dress shoes at first glance. But any extended observation would reveal the cheap pleather and the foam base.

A third, “PUMPED UP ENERGY! For when you need a jolt to liven your day!” A teenager held out a can with the word “PUMPED” emblazoned on it.

He tripped on the last step down to the third landing, barely catching himself on the wall.

The ground revealed no sticks or tricks, but his right foot felt weird. Leaning his back against the wall, he lifted his foot. The peeling sole slapped his toes as he raised it. Once again, he groaned, “I’ll just have to get a new pair tomorrow.”

The fourth set of stairs would be his last, he thought he remembered that. It had always been four sets down, hadn’t it? Be it going up or coming down, he was always too exhausted to recall. He remembered counting them a few times, but he was always either in a rush or a bog. Fighting through mobs of people talking on their phones, trying to yell over one another to ensure their voice was heard. Or flowing down an abandoned concrete river. Once or twice a fight had broken out on set three, or was it two? It was hard for him to remember, he always ignored them. Too much happened in the city to get invested in every little quarrel.

He breached the four, finding himself at the top of five, but now he saw the subway platform.

“Of course,” He thought to himself, “It’s five.” A laugh escaped him as he continued down. Somewhere behind him, a lost siren screamed, calling to him. The man it was meant for heard it, though he didn’t realize it.

Reaching the platform Camden pulled out his flip phone. It was dead, just another inconvenience for the office worker. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. A clatter greeted him. Looking down, his phone was splayed out, disemboweled by the fundamental forces imposed on it. It wasn’t the phones fault, but Camden blamed the object nonetheless. He cursed as he hunched over the pitiful device, piecing it back together.

Standing, he reached into his pocket to place it where it belonged only to find a hole at the bottom. It truly wasn’t the phone’s faultl, it was the suit’s fault. First the torn sleeve, and now the pocket. He’d spent good money on the three piece, he’d worked overtime to get it. He knew it was to try and get an edge at the office. Maybe if he’d put in the extra effort and looked good he could stand out. That was why he’d gone cheap on the shoes, he figured he could buy new ones later.

A talk with the store manager was in order. Suits aren’t meant to rip unless there’s undue stress. An office job was as far from that as possible, at least as far as the suit was concerned.

It was late, his head ached from time in front of a computer with no eye protection. His joints creeked from years in a chair. His shoulder had been out of sorts since he’d left the office too.

Camden knew not to ask why this sort of thing always happened to him. He knew it didn’t really. That day was just especially bad was all. His muscles extra sore. His joints extra sensitive. His head extra clouded.

The clock ticked overhead. Looking up, he couldn’t make out the time, he was too near-sighted, or too tired, Camden couldn’t remember which. He had left his glasses at the office… hadn’t he?

He stared out to the other side of the empty station. The light at the other end flickered periodically, partially illuminating the concrete slab and the advertisements behind it. Some held their own lights, encased in bulletproof frames. Others were little more than torn sheets of paper, stained yellow from a decade of age and cigarette smoke.

A sound drew his attention from the empty platform across from him. It came from the leftmost end, the staircase.

Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

The methodical, dripping footsteps, a sound that reminded him of his own shoes; -if they’d been a little more expensive.- He stared over at the incandescent-lit platform. The feet stopped.

Camden yawned a heavy intake, one just long enough to be uncomfortable, then paused.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

Just as rhythmic as the unidentified footsteps, but quieter, and just beneath him. Looking down, a puddle of blood stared back at him. It blinked.

He stepped back, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his handkerchief. He took deep breaths as he patted his back pocket.

Nothing.

He released his face, using both hands to pat himself down. His handkerchief was gone. “God can this day get any worse?” He knew he’d dropped it by mistake, but he had no desire to go back up the stairs. Giving up, Camden wiped his nose with his ragged sleeve. He would have to deal with the bloodstains later.

Clack, clack, clack…

The footsteps continued, and soon, he found a figure on the other side of the station, waiting same as him. They were tall, around six and a half feet. From the distance, it was hard to tell what they were wearing exactly. At least, with Camden’s distorted vision.

Camden looked around for a seat. He needed to relax, his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Puddles of blood didn’t blink. Or, if they did, surely they wouldn’t make it so obvious. 

There were no benches, no stools, no seats whatsoever. For a moment, Camden thought it was weird there was nowhere to sit. Or, was it strange? On second thought, he never remembered there being any.

Tap tap tap…

He wiped his nose again.

Clack, clack, clack…

New footsteps.

A siren cries, wanting to be heard, needing to be heard.

Camden’s eyes blink slow, but soon open again. Five figures stood across from him. Maybe it wasn’t as late as he thought.

A cars horn yearns to be recognized.

Camden grabbed his shoulder, rolling it back. His headache was worse. He blinked hard, looking up at the clock again. It is an illegible circle. The hands don’t move.

Tap tap tap…

He wiped his nose with a cold hand. Looking back across the station, a group of people meet his gaze, twenty, thirty figures. None of them are distinguishable beyond their height.

Camden looked left.

Nobody

He looked right.

Nobody

The light above him went out, seconds a later, a pop bounced through his skull. The following whine ventured into a ringing. Camden squinted, clenching his jaw. He stuck his pinky in his ear, forcing the sound away but it only made his headache worse.

Before he could force the ringing away, hail pattered at his shoulders. Gently at first, but it picked up, raining over him like sharp confetti.

He held out his hand. What filled it wasn’t hail, but glass pebbles. Camden coughed, his red flavored mucus forcing a gag. 

Releasing the handful of rocks, he looked down. A shore of glass beads stared up at him. They didn’t blink.

His heart slowed.

Tsssssssssss

A steady stream of blood trickled down his chin like a low-tuned faucet. He stared out at the crowd of figures. One remained. He blinked and the figure was in front of him, smeared across his vision like a thumb through an oil painting.

Blink

Camden was on the ground. The distorted figure hovered over him. His ribs ached, his head was gone to the clouds, his legs wouldn’t move. He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

As he laid there, the figure touched his neck, his wrist, his ankle, his chest. Camden struggled to breath in, and the figure assisted him, pushing down repeatedly.

The entity never gave up, even when Camden was ready to. Somewhere in that eternity between each life-determining second, he found something to hold, someone to hold. Through his closed eyes, a blue light threatened to wake him.

He held tighter.

A red light engulfed him and he choked, coughing on the warmth it brought. His eyes opened ever-so. The figure sat over him, “You’re gonna get through this, stay with me.” His eyes closed again.

The man was blue, so blue. But then he was red, moreso than the blood staining his suit. He continued to hold that which kept him there, but allowed himself to sleep.

Even if only for a little while.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep