The Horror of a Wish Come True (non-Trek)

[Captain Picard's Hair]

Short horror story I wrote for an English course. The story got an A+ and was printed in the college magazine at the professor's suggestion that I submit it.

The Horror of a Wish Come True
The clock dutifully beeped off the hour at two a.m. during the racket of one night. I could only discern it between a break in the gusts, more to the point, it was the only one of us that was unaffected, it being a machine. The television sat silent since whatever lay buried within the nightly conglomerate of useless infomercials would have brought me no peace and besides, the wife was sleeping not five feet away. She was living under the false impression that any unusual (for me, anyway) edginess was simply the effect of yet another project at the job. The truth behind my distress even she was not to know, not my best friend, nor any counselor or even God himself, if it were possible to hide this devilry?... from his omniscience (His relation to the manifestation that underlie that situation I still have not guessed).
It is a strange thing, that irony of the purported calm before the storm. Apparently the ancients marveled at the deceiving tranquility just before the skies let loose their wrath upon the puny minions below. How this was so it is hard to know now, since the meteorologists can tell us when the weather will turn foul (Is this not in fact a great hubris?). As it happened, though late in the season, there was a storm coming, one worthy of a name, and the uncertainty of predicting the movements of these flighty creatures be damned, the outlook was said to be bleak.
The people armed with foreknowledge, the state before this storm had not been calm. The people had scuttled about with an odd focus and forsaken their social interests, clamoring for the last bottle of water on the shelves and agonizing over which store would still have batteries. Yet how they were blessed to be free of my burden!
But there it was, and I could not escape it. The time drew near. Anticipation precluded the possibility of sleep as I could not help but to beg hopelessly of answers to unanswerable questions. How was it that this apparition that I had not seen since that day was to give the gift that it swore to give? What were its true intentions? Is it a guardian of the misfortunate or some creature of less integrity? On that fateful day, such concerns were absent from my mind: I only knew that what it promised I was sorely wanting for.
I could not get away from the basic fact: whatever this spirit brings about would happen, to my liking or not, and it was set to begin on my thirtieth birthday - two days away. It would never be known, that I had this encounter with forces beyond comprehension. What would be seen, is that I (well, if it went as I dreamed it would) would be a new person: never again the push-over, never again wishing for dreams I never attain. I told myself this was as it should have been, if not for that horrible day.
That day I've lived in the shadow of ever since, over all of twenty-one years. They didn't care about me, or any of us. We were dehumanized, simply seen as the path to the money. My dad was the bank manager; he could get them into the vault. Damn his stubborn insistence on being the hero! If he'd acquiesced he may still be alive. Worse than the death itself was what they did to him in order to get in - and that they did it right in front of my eyes.
I was never the same. It took a long time before the endless parade of counselors got through. Never did I demonstrate a hint of my father's stupid bravery. I'd heard all the stories, about all those men who'd overcome the very worst trials to come out of Hell (or was it from God?). None could be stronger than Dad, and look what it got him!
It came to me at the climax of my recovery; just as I faced what lay ahead it had given me another choice. I never knew what it was, but I knew its offer I could not refuse. It was almost too good to be true -- almost.
But, oh, those years until then, what a trial they were. It was all I could do to accept the grueling punishment of the world. It would all be OK one day. One day, I would be singled out and raised above the torment. That day was all but here, finally.
**********
"NO!" I awoke with a start, jerking upright as I cried out. It couldn't be true. I thought I must have eaten something. I took a deep breath. Heartbeat was still thunder in my head. "No! Get away," I cried, stunned by the touch. But, it was just Caroline. "What," I asked, "Oh, yes, nightmare. Just a bad dream. Don't worry, don't worry. Get back to sleep, I'll be OK."
It had started off as a normal day - except there was no color. But that was perfectly normal. I walked past the unremarkable gray flower bed, drove through the typical gray leaves of autumn, past the usual gray roadside billboards. There I was, at the monolithic office building. The front desk seemed as an altar. Why was there a bright, orange fire burning behind it? I thought of alerting the fire department as I walked toward the elevator.
The demonic security guard growled as I strolled past, his fangs exposed. "Bad morning?" It just hissed as a response to the question. As soon as it accepted me inside, the elevator lurched downward for a frightening instant. After the relieved laughter subsided, I silently chided the maintenance crew for allowing such a situation. I must have still had a giddy smile on my face, been breathing heavily when the elevator fell for good.
At that moment I knew I would die. Loud screeches and sparks flew around in the weightlessness, unnoticed. All I could feel, or hear, was my breathing, and my heart. If I was having any thoughts, I did not know of it.
The next thing I was aware of was the weight on my back, the cold stone floor below unyielding against my body. My hands were immobile behind me. Why were Miranda rights being read out loud? I could only stutter, "Wh what? What's happening?" Men in F.B.I. gear were scouring my familiar office. One carried the computer out past me. I felt as the rag doll in the dog's mouth as I was roughly yanked up and thrown. A wall of cold steel bars hit me in the face. I turned to face the jail cell.
I was in the large conference room. Newspaper articles on the table announced that I, John Newman, had been sentenced for forty-five years for fraud and battery. Caroline and my seven year old boy Benjamin sat at the table. What were they doing at the office? That thought soon was the least of the concerns facing me. Nothing could prepare me for the sight of Caroline getting up, eyes wide, grabbing Ben by the hand, and backing away. The empty space in my chest was but a pale ghost of the loss; I felt it as part of me that had been ripped out. It barely registered that I had just stumbled over a chair, as it took all I could muster to battle the crushing weight that fought against each breath.
It took a moment before I realized I had come to a place like none on Earth. Here there was no sky, but only smoke from the fires which extended as far as the eye sees. Tied to stakes, battered, bruised, bleeding, were people. Then the realization knocked the wind out of me, as though a train had barreled into me. These were not just some odd people; they were people I knew. The awe of this hellish place was utterly lost on me then. All I could see were the images of friends, coworkers, neighbors, looking as though they had been passed through a meat tenderizer. Finally, it was altogether too much; I could only lurch wildly to fight the apparent undulations of the ground below me. However, regardless of which way the world spun there was no end to the horrors.
"Don't you like what you see?" the oddly familiar voice called out. Turning on Jello legs, I came to face a robed figure that surely was the devil himself. "What is this? What is happening here? Why is this happening?" All I could manage was a strained gasp, but these words came out nonetheless. "Don't you recognize your own work?" As he spoke the mysterious figure lifted his hood to reveal himself.
The last thing I remembered was my own face staring back at me before I awoke.
**********
If I was disquieted before that night, these ghastly images did little to soothe my mind. As the winds and rain howled outside, I spent the last day wondering whether that dream was prophetic or simply the outcry of an overly active imagination. While I perpetually reminded myself that I would make my father finally proud (wherever he is), I could not keep the doubt at bay for long. Surely it would pass that tomorrow is my first day as a free man, and not that today is my last
That night I dug up the old photos of dad. I wanted to tell him of the man I would be. Finally I felt I would no longer feel ashamed to see him. Caroline had never understood; she had always told me to my great consternation that my father was stupid: that a man is not strong for stupid heroism but for facing adversity, for having the strength to choose to live. She thought dad was a stubborn fool to get killed for no good reason, but I knew better. I would never slander the name of my dear lost father.
**********
"Beep beep beep beep " I heard the recurring whine of the alarm clock. Wincing in pain at the blinding light, I groped madly to end that infernal noise. As I wondered who, what, where, and when I was, I was abruptly struck: my God, today is the day! Suddenly I snapped to alertness; I felt energized. For the first time since since anything that I could recall, I strode into the bathroom looking forward to the day.
I knew my first chance would be the meeting. I could assume a higher stature by taking some initiative. It was only a design meeting between engineers, but one has to start somewhere. The task was to construct a robotic arm that replicates human dexterity.
I had been hooked the first time I opened up a robot. Here I was, giving an inanimate object life! I avidly kept up on the field whilst I studied the needed engineering, perpetually astounded by the things they were doing. Though they remain simply tools that do as they are programmed, "intelligent" programming advances further each day. In 2004, DARPA held its first annual Grand Challenge, which pits fully autonomous vehicles against a stretch of the Mojave Desert. In other places, unmanned aerial vehicles are put to the test, as well as aquatic robots, teams of small bots play games of soccer, robots locate objects, and do anything else we can imagine them doing.
Then I read the news early in 2005: a monkey was able to control a robotic arm directly with his brain, and feed itself. Its arms were held immobile for the experiment, and a number of electrodes placed atop the motor cortex of its brain where they could receive electrical impulses from the neurons. The implications for better, more natural prosthetics were obvious. I was enthralled at the possibility of creating this technology and being the one to give needing people the closest thing possible to real arms. Of course, this always seemed too risky, at least for the time being. But why be held back by a little risk? None of the greats ever were! I thought again of this dream that day.
When I strode into work that day, I could not help but to check that the front desk were itself rather than an altar, and the security guards nothing but smooth-skinned, meagerly toothed humans. When I entered the elevator I drew some odd glances from the collected dull-eyed rabble when I nervously clung to whatever hold I could.
Having been thus reassured, I strolled into the conference room standing tall, expecting to come away being seen in a new light. My moment came and I energetically made my proposal. But rather than shine a light on me, this proposal was quickly shot down. That John Smith, all he wanted was to get his own idea chosen, a much clumsier idea than mine (and on the whole a rather inelegant idea). But which one of us was up for promotion? Which one of us left the meeting standing tall? It was about time someone gave that ass what he deserved.
I happened to come behind Smith at the snack room a few minutes later. Smith, he loved his chocolate doughnuts! Snickering, I imagined him choking on them. Why shouldn't he? Before I knew what I was doing, I was upon him, his glasses falling to the floor. I reveled in vindictive mirth as I crammed the cakes into his mouth. He was already gagging with the most awful gravelly wheezes and inhuman grinding eruptions when I realized what I was doing. He fell to the floor as I let go in shock, feeling as though I'd been thrown by some cataclysmic explosion. Barely aware of hitting the wall as I reeled back, I slid towards the doorway. Only my hand leaning against the wall kept me upright as I stumbled into the bathroom. Lurching at the first open stall, I vomited.
**********
I did not return home that night; rather, I stayed at a hotel. I could not go home for fear of hurting Caroline. When I called I told her I had fallen sick and didn't want to infect her. How she would take this I did not know, but it was the best I could come up with to explain my absence.
I was truly afraid of myself. What had I done? What more could I do? How far was I capable of going; could I kill? When I ate a disgusting dinner at that dilapidated diner, I sat near a man who was suffering from some kind of respiratory ailment; every time he coughed I heard the horrible gasps that Smith had made earlier. I was fighting nausea throughout the entire meal.
It must simply be inexperience, I told myself. Yes, like a growing adolescent I simply did not know how to contain my growing strength. I just needed to keep calm and focus myself. I would keep myself aloof for a time until I become more assured of myself. Yes, that would work. Wouldn't it? It had to. I would be fine.
Smith, without his glasses, hadn't seen his assailant. It was dark in the parking garage basement when I'd come across Mr. Cromwell, my supervisor, and I winced at the thought of how I'd twisted his arms behind him almost to the point of breaking, jamming his body into the live steam pipe. His high-pitched wails echoed throughout my mind; I'd almost crashed the car when I happened to hear the angry screech of tires protesting a fast turn while driving to the hotel.
Of course I was wholly wrong both times. I had to advance myself through my own work, whatever Smith did be damned (even if he is an asshole). I could not force Mr. Cromwell to respect me through violence. He would come to see me in a new light, as I displayed a new confidence and competence and initiative and imagination at work.
I would get control of myself, and then I would be fine. There would be more than just acting on impulses that I have -- which everyone has; more than doing just what I'd fancied doing in my private moments. I would be able to do what I didn't have the strength to do in the past, to make choices and carry them out. Yes, I had seen that I had the conviction to act today, now I could certainly go on to make choices - couldn't I?
Several more days passed, with no more improvement on my part. My luck was such that I still hadn't been fingered for any of the more heinous acts. As for the odd behavior noted by my coworkers, I claimed that I was distressed over my dear father who I said had fallen ill with cancer. Caroline was very quickly becoming exasperated, itching to see me. Benjamin, I was especially distressed to learn, was lost without his father and couldn't sleep. Every night I had to choke back my tears as I forced out those horrible words: I can't see you right now.
My old dreams once again came to my mind over those days. The man I'd shared these fancies with was Kevin Hendrickson, a fellow roboticist who'd been intrigued by my ideas about brain-controlled prostheses. He was the one who would be my partner in such a venture. Yet he shrugged off all my protestations as I beseeched him then. He'd moved on: he was now chief project engineer in a venture to develop better robotic surgeons: machines that can execute delicate surgical procedures (under the control of a well trained surgeon, of course) with a precision that human hands cannot match. He was quite engaged by this work and told me that there was nothing more he could gain by taking on such a risk as I proposed. Well, damn him! I would just have to go on without him, then.
**********
With every day that passed, I felt the walls closing in on me ever more. The abominable Smith got his promotion, but I was on an ever tightening leash. My erratic behavior, and the growing unreliability that was sensed in my work, had put me on the spot. By this time I had been notified that I was on probation, and the sense I got from the bosses was not of great confidence. If I lost this job, I would be in a bad way; I would have been a hard sell to employers two weeks prior, but now I would look as a slovenly drifter looks to parents seeking a babysitter. Worse yet, my recent behavior did little to endear me with Caroline. On top if it all, I was constantly at risk of imprisonment if my luck ran out. I had to move.
In 2005 it was discovered that eOffer, a web site run by the General Services Administration of the US Government, had a gaping breach in its security. When the president of a Dallas computer security firm registered his business with the site, he accidentally discovered that by simply entering a publicly available business identification number he could access any other company's account. The network of the company I work for has a similar flaw: I had never let it be known, but for several months I knew I could access any account on the network in a similar manner once I was logged in. There was nothing on the entire network that was out of my reach. Having held back for months, I would now take the advantage. I would transfer money out of the company's accounts, which I would then use to open my company, and I could point the finger at someone else: who else but Smith!
**********
I had taken that action in the hopes of saving myself, however it was this act which proved my final undoing. There was no trace of the money where I had planted the evidence. They did trace it to an account they were able to link to me, however. The authorities, unable to identify a suspect in the various attacks until then, were able to make the connections they sought with me in hand.
Seeing the images I saw in the dream that proved prophetic, that was shocking. Living through the events, that was unbearable. By the third night at the motel, I could hardly touch food without vomiting. I spent my days in a cold sweat, jumping every time someone glanced in my direction. I was only able to sleep with the aid of tranquilizers obtained on the street. When I finally saw Caroline, it was at the pretrial hearing, and I was wearing an orange jumpsuit, handcuffed. Finally able to see her, I found her completely cut off. Steadfastly she kept her gaze off of me, as she hid Benjamin from my sight. From that point on, the only communication I had with her was through the legal teams that mediated the divorce.
So here it is: I've been confined at Riverside Mental Hospital for the past five years, looking forward to spending the rest of my years here. Only because of my mental breakdown have I been spared prison, and because I am far too dangerous to live in the world, release is not an option. What was meant to elevate me has rendered me a prisoner spending his days mumbling in the dark corner. Medications can mediate the recurring depressions and anxieties, but nothing can stop the nightmares. There is no medication that can stop me from feeling as though jolted with a bolt of electricity whenever I see a chocolate doughnut, or hear a cough, or experience any of a countless list of events so ordinary that a day cannot pass without any of them. I'm in a rubber room and under constant watch because I've tried to kill myself, which I see only as an act of cruelty as I await the merciful end.
The path I took to spare me the pain I felt has led me to an existence so bleak that I'd have gladly faced all the hardships of Odysseus magnified tenfold to avoid it, had only I known. But the choice I made cannot be undone; like all men I am made by the choices I have made, and mine has made me into a tool, used by evil and then thrown away to rot. If there is anything my sad life would tell, it is this: Nature does not suffer kindly a coward.

[Tsukiyumi]

*bump*

[Sionnach Glic]

Cool, well done.

[Mikey]

Sorry I missed that before, CPH. Nice stuff. Read a little Lovecraft, maybe?

[Captain Picard's Hair]

Sorry I missed that before, CPH. Nice stuff. Read a little Lovecraft, maybe?

The prof in the class I wrote this for did indeed do some Lovecraft. A few haughty words I dropped don't approach his level of overwriting at times... but I may have taken some cues thematically.

[Captain Picard's Hair]

The basic idea (overcoming one's demons) is a personal theme for me... where I feel I've been quite successful, this character is a foil for my successes - my courage. Hence, the last paragraph.

[Mikey]

Sorry I missed that before, CPH. Nice stuff. Read a little Lovecraft, maybe?

The prof in the class I wrote this for did indeed do some Lovecraft. A few haughty words I dropped don't approach his level of overwriting at times... but I may have taken some cues thematically.

Overwriting?! Well, OK, I guess... but you have to take the timeframe in which he wrote into account.

BTW - characters a/o themes whith which you have a personal attachment are always the most succesful.

[Sionnach Glic]

Indeed, they're always the best to work with, in my limited experience.

[MetalHead]

A great read, saved that to my comp, hope you don't mind!

[Captain Picard's Hair]

A great read, saved that to my comp, hope you don't mind!

No problem