A Quiet Sunday at the Park

A Quiet Sunday at the Park

Written by: Danni Lynn

Commissioned by: anonymous

Word Count: 2,500 words

Note: I was hired to write a story with multiple possible incomes. We agreed to roll a die to decide what happens!

Rating: R for violence, character death, and scary moments.

Synopsis: Micah just wants to enjoy a quiet day at the park. But, after some frightening rumors have been circulating town, he might be in more danger than he thought...

The trees during the fall at Count Murdoch Park had taken on a cozy yellow-orange hue. The colors blended into the dusky landscape and stood out in comparison to the bordering pine-forest that drew Micah’s attention daily as he walked past the park. Today, on a quiet Sunday, Micah decided to take a break and read on a park bench as the fall air teased at his hair.

Micah was dressed up in his new and favorite black cable-knit turtleneck shirt with a zipped-up collar. The collar, zipped close, fit snuggly around his neck, making him feel all at once comfortable and sophisticated in the slimming black fabric. His hair was carefully oiled and combed back with a slight swoop of his bangs draping over one side of his brow. Micah’s shoulder-bag sat on the bench next to him and a vintage copy of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth, dominated his attention. Micah turned a page and looked up toward the pine trees in the distance. In his book, he loved imagining he was the main character going on adventures, falling in love with a handsome hero, and facing daring odds… In the warmth of the fall sun, all that excitement seemed possible, but the neighboring forest carried a haunting reminder.

Over the last five years, three young men had gone missing in the park. That was the reason it was so empty, but that emptiness made it the best place to relax and read a good book, in Micah’s opinion. Even deeper in the shadowy boughs, Count Murdoch’s abandoned mansion was somewhere out of sight, lending a mystery to the fascinating setting. People said if you approached the mansion at night, you might here the eerie song of a piano through the broken and boarded up windows.

Micah turned back to his book and continued to read. Out of sight and many yards away from where he sat, the thin barrel of a sniper’s rifle stuck out of a bush. The crosshairs of the gun’s scope aimed its red focus on Micah, wavering between his head, shoulder, and chest in the distance. Someone’s finger tightened on a trigger.

Silenced, the gun fired.

***

Micah’s book fell to the ground. That’s all he was aware of in the moment. The binding dipped toward the graveled pathway, and the aged yellow pages fluttered in the air. His hands stretched out in front of him, still curled as if the pages were in hand. His eyes widened. How could he have dropped it like that? He went to move, but his body didn’t respond. Micah’s skin blanched and his mouth gaped open, but he couldn’t utter a word.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

His mind was blank. He had stopped breathing and even the air stinging his wide, un-blinking eyes did little to stir him out of his shock. Fall leaves swirled in the air before him. The wind tickled the back of his neck. An echo ringed in his ears like a distant song. Everything was in slow motion as if he had just closed his eyes and stepped out of the active motion of life.

Suddenly, everything leapt back up to speed. An itch began to spread across Micah’s chest and his skin felt very warm. He breathed in and looked down, moving jerkily. His chin couldn’t tilt directly downward, and he had to kind of shrug to do so. His book was on the ground but as he stared at it, his body slumped on its own accord, and he fell sideways onto the bench. Micah tried to stop himself and sit up, but his arms didn’t respond. He tried to swallow but his tongue only hit the back of his throat, as if he had forgotten the simple motion. He slipped onto his back and leaned against the back of the bench.

Above, a murder of crows took wing and leapt into the sky. Branches waved in the breeze.

Micah turned his head, pressing his cheek against the bench seat. Something twinged deep in his chest and the shock eroded away into a burning pain. Cringing, Micah suddenly sprung into action and grasped his chest. At least, he thought he did, but he just managed to slap his chest with his right hand. His shirt was wet, and a red sticky stain spread onto his palm. He held his hand up in front of his face as a realization dawned on him.

“W-what happened?” Micah whispered. His voice croaked, the tones and constants stumbled and scrambled his voice into an unintelligible struggle. He thought he had spoken, but no real sound came out. Did he spill something? Did he rip his shirt? Maybe he got hit in the head by something and this is a weird concussion?

A pain in Micah’s chest flared up, making it hard to breathe. It felt like his chest was constricting, collapsing in on itself with the weight of the pain. Micah tried to reach for his zipper to make it easier to breathe, but his arms wouldn’t move. It hurt too much.

Micah took a steadying breath and steeled himself to try again. He lifted his arm, grabbed the zipper, but the pain intensified as if someone had stabbed him right in his breast. He pulled down but his hand slipped away uselessly, and he fell back onto his back from the effort.

No one was in the park. The paths were empty. The birds were silent. The wind held its breath.

He had to do something. Micah flapped his arms and swung himself back up into a sitting position. He gritted his teeth, wanting to scream but he pushed himself again and slumped over onto his other side, landing on his shoulder bag. He had napkins. Napkins and his phone were in his bag. Reaching in, he dug around until his fingers clasped around the soft material. Taking them out, Micah pressed them to his chest, seeking the center of the pain as scarlet blood blossomed across the brown paper.

It was dizzying—he needed to get help. He was hurt. Someone had injured him. Micah leaned forward and staggered up onto his feet. If he was going to survive, he needed to move and find help. Someone to help… him…

Micah stumbled forward two steps, kicking gravel as he dragged his feet. He swayed forward and back, the pain in his chest thrumming along with each effort. He took one more step before his legs failed and he collapsed to his knees.

“Agh!” Micah yelped. He sat back on his ankles, looking up at the trees above. His hands held tight to the napkin on his chest. Overwhelmed, he fell to the ground.

The pain created a wall of intolerable confusion. It took over all of Micah’s senses and he felt himself floating away. He didn’t see the sky, the trees, or anything around him as it suffocated every sense of his body. His thoughts side-stepped around the seepage of chaos and knelt into a little corner in the back of his mind. He couldn’t fathom the pain but a slip of pain burned into his little corner of sanity, welcoming itself in like a toxic bloom interrupting his thoughts. It was indescribable and all encompassing. In the face of it, there was no sense of what had happened, who had done it, or what was possible. Fight or flight did not exist in the scope of his pain. He was shutting down. It felt kind of warm and fuzzy as he passed away from awareness and into an unknown cradle of detachment.

He hadn’t called his parents in a while. Maybe he should do that later today.

Away from Micah and out of sight, the man in the bushes stirred. The branches rustled as he moved closer to his target.

Micah’s eyes opened again at the approaching footsteps. A twig snapped and something rustled. He couldn’t turn his head to look because he couldn’t make his body do anything he wanted to. Someone had done something terrible to him but why? Who would hurt him like this? Had he wronged anyone, or had he been at the wrong place at the wrong time? He wasn’t particularly interesting or worth hurting—so why did this happen? The rumors about the abandoned mansion in the woods near the park and the young men who had gone missing rang in the back of Micah’s mind. His legs tensed and his hands clenched as if trying to turn his body on and force it to move again. He needed to run, he needed to get away before whatever was out there came to finish the job they had started.

The footsteps got closer but then around the corner of the path, a couple with their dog appeared. A husband bundled up in a light sweater and scarf walked with his wife who was a petite blonde. Their dog, a wire-haired terrier pulled at its leash and bounced around. The dog erupted into a fit of barking and the footsteps that had been approaching Micah skidded to a halt and changed direction, disappearing into the background. The couple noticed Micah on the ground.

“What happened?” the wife gasped.

“Looks like someone drank too much?” the husband wondered. “He doesn’t look okay.”

The woman’s brow wrinkled. She went over to Micah who was unresponsive on the ground. His mouth was open, and his bangs stuck to his sweat-streaked forehead.   

“Hey, are you alright?” she asked. She looked back to her husband. “He looks young—I don’t think he is okay.” The couple got closer, and the distinct coppery scent of blood permeated the air. The dog lunged nose-first and began whining. The husband pushed his wife back and kneeled in front of Micah.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong with him?” the wife asked.

He tapped his shoulder. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” he asked. Micah’s eyes fluttered. “Can you talk?” Nothing. “I’m going to check you out; I want to make sure you are okay.” The man touched Micah’s shoulder, accidentally knocking a balled-up cluster of napkins off his chest. They were dark with blood and there was a hole in his sweater, wet with the dark color. The man’s face blanched.

“He’s bleeding,” he said. The man unzipped his turtleneck and revealed his white neck, now soaked in dark red blood. A bullet hole was in his upper chest and had shattered his collarbone.

The wife shrieked. She collapsed to her knees and wrapped her hands in her hair as she began hyperventilating.

The husband picked up the napkins and pressed them against Micah’s wound. He twisted them and shoved them into the bullet wound as best he could. The dark blood surged and soaked through the napkins. Like a button being pressed in activation, Micah’s eyes brightened, and he screamed. A fire of pain raged through his chest, kicking his mind and body back into high gear.

Micah surged upright, pushing the man away as if he had just been physically attached. He swung his arms, but his left arm fell stiff at his side. He whirled toward the man in front of him, but the husband grasped Micah’s shoulders again, which sent another bolt of searing pain through his body.

“Stop! Calm down, I’m here to help you!”

A crowd of onlookers, drawn in from the street by all the noise, began to gather around Micah and the couple. Micah looked at the man and tried to lean away from him. He didn’t register what was going on. His eyes traced the husband’s receding hairline, his mustache, and he recoiled.

“Wh-who are you?” Micah asked. Pink spittle fizzled around his lips.

“What did he say?” the wife asked.

“Just—call 911,” the man answered. “Someone get help!” he yelled. He helped Micah lie back down, but the boy began to scream again. He tightened his grip on the napkins and shoved them into the wound to pack it and staunch the bleeding. Micah’s free hand scrabbled at his neckline, weakly trying to push his hands away but he was powerless to stop him.

Micah thrashed his head and kicked but other people began to appear to help. A second man held down his legs while another bystander grasped the wife’s barking dog and calmed it down. The wife, still distraught, hurried over to help her husband and took off her own scarf to press against Micah’s bullet wound.

“Hold it tight, we have to stop the bleeding!”

“What happened?”

“I think he’s been shot. We just found him lying here.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“How could someone do such a thing?!”

“Where did he come from?”

A clamor of voices swirled around Micah as he struggled against the many hands and arms that held onto his body. In all the noise and confusion, he was voiceless in the pain of this nightmare. He felt completely alone as everyone talked over him. Someone said he had been shot. Another said he was bleeding. Had his shirt been ruined? Did someone remember to pick up his book? How could he have been shot? And by who?

The husband now took off his own scarf and someone lent him their jacket to press against Micah’s wound. The wife let go of her scarf that she had been using, now a deep scarlet, and backed away with her stained hands stretched out before her. She numbly fished her cell phone out of her pocket and tried to dial 911. She tapped at the smart phone’s screen but her blood-covered thumbs slipped and failed to activate the touchscreen. Another woman approached her and covered her hands in hers, grasping her in support.

“I already called, it’s going to be okay,” she said. The wife nodded before slumping to the ground. In the distance, a siren could be heard but whether that was for their help or another emergency elsewhere in the city, no one knew.

Micah stared up at the sky. The pain had washed away again as his mind detached from it in shock, or it simply became a constant thing, now forever woven into his very being. There was pressure on his chest from the staunching of his bleeding, but the blood now leaked from his mouth and dripped down his chin, curling down around his ears and onto the ground beneath him.

From the growing crowd, a young man stepped forward and kneeled before Micah. Everyone was busy saving his life and trying to make sense of the situation. But this man was still in all the chaotic movement around them. He had light hair and a clean-shaven but strong-featured face. He reached out and took Micah’s hand, intertwining his fingers in his. As everyone else panicked and fought for Micah, he stoically watched over him, silently letting him know he was not alone.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered. “Just look at me and block it all out.”

Micah tried. He tried not to feel the blood seeping down his chest and to his belt line. He tried not to let the pain swallow him whole.

“Am I going to be okay?” Micah spluttered. Blood and spittle rushed out of his mouth instead of words. The young man squeezed his hand. If it were a different day and circumstance, Micah would have been glad to run into someone like him. Maybe after he got better, they could discuss this strange meeting over dinner. Maybe they could hold hands in a less dire situation…

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “No matter what you decide, it’s okay. If it hurts to fight it, it’ll be fine if you decide to go.”

The sirens outside the park grew louder but a cacophony of car horns joined the wailing. Along the main road, the after-church rush of traffic had clogged the streets, and the ambulance was stuck only two-blocks away. Bystanders began to turn toward the sirens and ran to wave it over. Crows landed in the trees above and began to caw over the noise. Micah blinked, his eyes falling like a heavy curtain, before looking up at the sky one last time.

He didn’t want to fight it anymore.