The Reading Room

            Great. More lightning…and rain. Boy, did he hate the rain. The foyer, besides the sporadic lightning bursts, was dark and cold. Footsteps echoed upstairs, and the sound of a shower flowed down to him. Out of habit, he reached down and straightened the Oriental rug that furnished the spacious entry. It sickened him.

            Dallas Persimmons hated being a butler. He had been butler to the same man for thirty years, and he hated that, too. His only happiness came from the household maid, Miss Quell. Her elegant stance was as appealing as a summer day. Dallas would do anything for her. He fondly remembered his first few days on the job. She had accepted him the moment he walked in the door to ask if the master of the house was still accepting applicants for the butler position. She had given him a cup of tea and made him feel at home. That was all he ever wanted—a home. Dallas’ own father had left him at age seven, and his mother had died five years later. From that point until the time he left for college, he moved around from relative to relative, never completely fitting in. Those first days on the job had been a pure miracle.

            By the next week, Dallas had become too comfortable, and “The Boss” got angry. The house was “a mess” and everything was “hopelessly disorganized”. The cruelty didn’t stop there. No matter how hard Dallas tried, he was never good enough for “The Boss”. His job had been threatened multiple times, but Miss Quell had always intervened. She understood. The Haverford Mansion was the only long-term home Dallas ever had. If he was fired, he would have nowhere to go. Still, Miss Quell was able to save his job time after time. “The Boss” had always liked her…a little too much. This is another reason Dallas hated that putrid old man. Thirty years of fighting for Miss Quell’s heart…thirty years of constant criticism…thirty years too long…but it would all end tonight.

            That’s right: Dallas was going to kill “The Boss”. Those thirty years of oppression had made him an even more embittered man, and in that time, he had crafted multiple plans in his head of how to appropriately kill the man that had made him suffer for so long. At present, seven plans floated through his head, each more torturous than the next. Shooting, stabbing, poisoning, strangling, drowning, falling, striking…too many options, and he could only pick one. However, he didn’t draw the most excitement from the plan itself. It’s what came after the “murder” itself that filled him with such elation: he and Miss Quell would get married and inherit the mansion once and for all. This was how things were supposed to be, thought Dallas. He and Miss Quell would live “happily ever after”, one of those fancy storybook endings. Revenge upon the wicked for the cause of his oppressed self.

            The lightning, thunder, and rain continued outside as the miniature version of the rainstorm continued in the upstairs bathroom simultaneously. “The Boss” was almost done showering. In a few minutes, Dallas would have to go fetch the horrible man a towel. It sickened him, just like everything else he had to do around the mansion. But he’d be okay with it for today, since it would be the last time he’d have to do anything for anyone against his will.

--

            Mrs. Pridewater was too obnoxious. Mr. and Mrs. Jenison were too drunk. Sir Cochran ate too much, and his belly protruded from his suit coat. Lawrence Franklin had a lazy eye. Gertrude Pendleton breathed too heavily. Officer Yuckley had six fingers on his right hand.

            This was “The Boss’s” dinner party crowd. Dallas hated every last one of them. The way he had to serve each of them made him sick. He spent most of the evening throwing up. In between his vomitous bathroom sessions, he delicately placed trays of food on the table and complimented the guests’ attire and personality. Everything was fake. But everyone was happy. Or at least, they appeared happy. On his third trip to the bathroom, (this time he was there to get napkins to clean up a mess he had made at the dinner) Dallas decided that it was time to “go in for the kill”. He and Miss Quell had gone over the plan multiple times, and he realized that, as he sat there on the bathroom floor, heaving helplessly, she would be distracting “The Boss” in a few minutes. He exited the bathroom after some time, and snuck along the back hall, which was nearly pitch black save a tiny stained glass window at the end of the hall. He stood in the light of the window briefly, listening for any sound at all beyond the walls.  He could hear the goings-on of the dining room, all of the guests laughing and babbling about nothing. And then, he heard what he was really listening for: Miss Quell and “The Boss”.

            “Sir, please sit down. You must have eaten something that didn’t agree with your stomach,” he heard Miss Quell saying in the kitchen beyond.

            “Yes. It must have been your cooking. You were always lousy at pot roast and cordon bleu.” The disgustingly blunt response sent a chill through Dallas’ spine.

            “I apologize, sir. Next time, I shall consult a recipe book on how to properly cook such foods. Right now, we need to worry about your health. Sit here in this chair while I go fetch some stomach relaxing medicine. I’m sorry that there are no other decent places to sit. A kitchen is no place for the master of the house.” Hurried high-heel footsteps were heard heading in the opposite direction. It was time to act. “The Boss” was alone.

            He continued down the gloomy hallway until he found the next hall which veered off to the left. He went that direction until he knew he was at the back door to the kitchen. He felt around in his pocket. Where was the gun? He thought he had picked it up before he had started serving dinner! He must have misplaced it. Just then, he uttered a few choice words, but immediately clapped his hand to his mouth before he thought anyone would catch on that he was at the door. Suddenly, a loud gunshot was heard in the room beyond. The din of the guests’ chatter died immediately. Dallas, shocked and confused, slowly opened the door, and saw the limp figure of “The Boss” on the floor at the feet of Miss Quell, who held the smoking gun valiantly.

            “I did it, Dallas! WE did it! I had to, because when I went to find the pills, I saw the gun lying on the floor in the hall. I figured you had misplaced it, and that you would be unprepared to kill him. But it’s okay, it’s all over! We won!” She was so proud of herself. Dallas was so disgusted.

            “I can’t believe you didn’t wait for me! We planned this so that I would get to shoot him…so that I would get to deliver the final blow. He had been oppressing me! I was the one who was supposed to end it all! What kind of a moron are you?! Now you will go to jail and I’ll never get to see you again! What have you done?!” He was sobbing uncontrollably. His plan was falling to pieces.

The world around him melted away. He was blind. All the noise that followed the gunshot, the screams from the dining room and the frantic calls for calm, faded away. Miss Quell and all the guests were gone. He was alone in complete darkness. Where was he? Where was everyone? He could not move. He had no body. He had no soul. He was just there. Then a voice:

            “Dallas Persimmons?” it called.

            He tried to answer, but nothing came out, for he didn’t have a mouth.

            “DALLAS PERSIMMONS?!” it called again, totally outraged. It was neither male nor female. It was just a voice, and Dallas was just a thing in this black universe of nothing.

            “Fine, if you don’t plan on answering me, I’ll just tell you what’s going on. You have entered a small gap in time. You might not know it yet, but after you realized that you had failed to kill ‘The Boss’, you ran to the cutlery drawer, found a sharp knife, and stabbed yourself. So, at this moment, you are not quite dead, and not quite alive. You just are. These little gaps in time are rather convenient for someone like you. In your case, the gap has resulted from your soul’s need to accomplish some kind of moral quest on Earth. Your soul is currently seeking some therapy upstairs. No, don’t even think about asking any questions. And yes, there is an ‘upstairs’ here, you just can’t see it, because you don’t have eyes. You’re just here. In fact, if you had eyes, I’m pretty sure you’d try to harm yourself again. That’s why we remove you from yourself. Your full body is currently at the repair shop. Now, don’t go asking what you are, because I’ve already told you. You’re just you. Isn’t that enough? But anyways, I digress. What I was saying was, since you are here, you have a choice: either you go back in time to finish your quest, or you choose to go on to your allocated afterlife. And no, you may not find out in advance what your afterlife is. It has something to do with cheese and pudding, anyways…not too pleasant. So, if I were you, I’d choose to go back to Earth and complete your little mission. I think I’ll send you back to about the time where you spilled gelatin on Mrs. Pridewater will do. Is that alright?”

            He had no mouth, so he simply existed until the voice got frustrated with him again.

            “Oh, right, you can’t talk. Well, back to Earth you go!”

            A loud popping noise echoed throughout the space, and he was immediately back to his normal self in the opulent dining room, just in the middle of dropping a dainty bowl of gelatin onto the obnoxious guest, Mrs. Pridewater. He blinked his eyes feverishly as he readjusted to being body, soul, and himself (whatever that meant).

            “I say, what an atrocity! Gelatin on my new dress?! Young man, you will pay for this!” she bellowed.

            “I’m sorry, madam. I will fix this problem immediately,” he said, as if reading from a script. That was odd, he thought. I already said that today…

            He walked into the kitchen and began a search for napkins. Suddenly, another thought came to his mind: When did he drop the gun? He searched frantically in his pocket to no avail. He had dropped it before dropping gelatin on one of the guests. He quickly abandoned the task at hand and exited the kitchen through the back door, where only moments ago… (or would it be mere moments from now?!) …he had been standing anxiously. He sprinted down the hall, made a right, ran through the beam of stained glass light, and eventually ended up on the other side of the dining room, where he suspected he would find the gun. To his surprise, Miss Quell was standing there, looking away from him. She had not heard him approach.

            “Oh my goodness, Dallas must have dropped this at the beginning of the dinner! I must go carry out the plan myself. It’s the only way we’ll be able to live together for the rest of our lives!” She brandished a shining gun in her hands. “For love!”

            Dallas started running again until he reached her, just as she was about to open the door to the dining room. “Wait!” he yelled. His body suddenly shook violently. He was free from the predetermined “script”. It was time for him to make some changes.

            “Dallas?!” Miss Quell gasped, as she released her grip from the door handle. “I thought you would be in the kitchen with you-know-who!” She was in total shock.

            “I should be, but I realized that I dropped the gun!”

            “Did you drop the gelatin on Mrs. Pridewater, yet?” she asked nervously.

            “Yes, that’s all taken care of. No one suspects any—“

            Suddenly, a loud crashing noise was heard from inside the dining room, causing Dallas to stop mid-sentence. The two of them looked at each other in horror. What had happened?

            Miss Quell went for the door again, and upon opening it, they saw what had happened: In her rage, Mrs. Pridewater had started yelling at “The Boss” to the point of bashing his head with the punch bowl. Go figure.

            “This is terrible, Dallas!” Miss Quell said, half yelling, half trying to conceal her disappointment that it had ended this way. “We were supposed to end it!”

            “He’s dead!” babbled the drunk Mrs. Jenison. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! Fanny Pridewater killed him with the PUNCH bowl!” She hiccupped ridiculously, and then fainted on top of the crumpled corpse of “The Boss”.

            Dallas knew what he had to do. He had to reenter the time gap so that he could go back in time and fix it…again. He ran from the dining room, leaving the disheveled Miss Quell behind, and entered the hall again. He looked around desperately until he saw something: the spiral staircase. He ran to the top and then, after a quick prayer, jumped. All was black…blacker than black.

            There was that voice again:

            “What a blasted failure you are, Dallas! No one has ever had to enter a time gap twice in one night! Well, your soul is back in therapy, and we’re fixing up your body again, so just sit…er, I mean…exist here for a while until everything is ready for you to return. I’m guessing you’ll want to go back to Earth a little bit before the gelatin incident?”

            No response, of course.

            “I’ll take that as a yes…how about while you’re serving the wild turkey roast. That should do it. Well, enjoy your second trip back!”

            After the deafening popping noise and a bit of blinking, Dallas was back in the dining room, carrying a large tray of turkey. He swayed unstably, nearly dropping the beautiful cooked bird onto the carpeted floor. The guests gossiped heavily as the food was being served. Miss Quell was on the other side of the table, tending to Mrs. Pridewater.

            “I’d like some gelatin, dear. I’ve had enough meat for one evening. Yes, that’s right, straight to dessert for me!” she said.

            “As you wish, madam,” responded Miss Quell. As Dallas placed the turkey on the table, Miss Quell came around and they exited into the kitchen together. “Dallas, why don’t you take this bowl of gelatin in to Mrs. Pridewater while I go see how you-know-who is doing. The small amount of poison we put in the turkey should be kicking in the cordon bleu should be kicking in here soon.”

            “No, I have a better idea,” he said as he inconspicuously felt around in his pocket. It was just as he suspected: empty. “Why don’t you take the gelatin in to her without dropping it on her and then bring you-know-who in here. Less mess, and that will give me time to hide behind the preparation island. Once you walk him into the door, duck out of the way, I’ll pop up and finish him off. How does that sound?” He grinned mischievously.

            “But, I thought we weren’t going to change the plan anymore than we already have!” She wasn’t cooperating like he had hoped.

            “Listen, Yvonne. Just listen! I’ve thought about it, and I think this will work better. Okay?!” He was turning a bright red.

            “Oh, I don’t know. I always liked the idea of seeing Mrs. Pridewater with gelatin all over her lap, screaming like none other!”

            “Stop being such a dreamer and stick to the new plan, got it?” The redness grew.

            “You’re no fun, you know that, Dallas?” She was being playful now. He couldn’t resist. They hadn’t had any true alone time for months. He kept the conversation going as long as possible, now sounding less angry and more flirtatious. He loved it. He loved her. He loved this moment. They’d go find the gun together, walk into the dining room together, and pull the trigger on “The Boss” together. Then they’d run off together, get married together, and live on a tropical island together. They didn’t need to stay in the house. A tropical island would much better suit their togetherness.

            Just then, their enchanting conversation came to an abrupt end when they heard cries of despair and agony from the hall beyond the dining room, where the spiral staircase was. What now, thought Dallas. He was apprehensive. What if he had failed again? He quickly shoved the negative thoughts to the back of his head. They walked out of the kitchen and into a surprisingly empty dining room. The commotion continued in the hall. They walked over to the door, opened it, and saw the large crowd of guests standing at the foot of the stairs looking up. “The Boss” was threatening to jump.

            “All of you people have caused me such despair with your gluttony, greed, and deceit! I cannot take this anymore! I must end this before I get too involved in all of this madness!” he yelled.

            Dallas panicked. He looked down at his feet, hoping to see the gun nearby, happily waiting on the floor for its big act. And there it was: glinting up at him tauntingly. He reached down quickly and glanced up to the top of the stairs as he did so. “The Boss” had already started his fatal descent to the hardwood floor. Dallas pointed, aimed, and fired at the moving target. Everything went black. He didn’t see if he had succeeded. Everything melted. It was blacker than black…and then it was purple.

            A voice:

            “Dallas, how does all of this make you feel?”

            He could not answer, but he could see. That was an improvement. It was just a vast expanse of purple, but it was definitely better than nothing. He could feel, too. He felt around with his hands that he could just barely see amidst the purple haze, and he found a hand. He held onto the hand, and the hand held back. It was a familiar hand. He knew it well. He was comfortable. “Dallas, I hope you know that an angry mob of dinner party guests killed you and your friend Miss Quell.” He knew. He also knew what came of “The Boss”, but that wasn’t what really mattered. He just wanted to be himself, in the purple haze with the only friend he ever had. Revenge was overrated.

THE END