Dimension Rabbit

My late-step-father didn’t have many up sides to him. He was a drunk, an abusive fuck, and the murderer of my late-mother, Margaret. Of course, he’d never admit it, and her death would be labeled as a disappearance, but I’ve always known the truth. It wasn’t until I figured I might be his next target that I pushed him down the stairs. I was only hoping to break his spine, but of course he had to up and die and I had to put in extra work to make sure I wasn’t caught.

Of course, I decided that rather than allowing him to cause me anymore trouble, I could use his death to my advantage. So that’s how I wound up in the attic, rummaging through my step-father’s things.

I’d found a bunch of useless toys like basbeball bobble heads and sports cards and a harvard degree in forensics. He had an old record player, a couple stuffed animals, old comics, and a total of 3 psychology workbooks in the few boxes pushed against the far end of the attic, past all of my precious mother’s things. At best, the junk would get me 30 dollars. It certainly wasn’t worth cleaning the cobwebs out of the attic.

It was when I reached the last box that I was slightly grateful for all the tedious work. It sat inconspicuously beneath the window in the center of the room. The sun barely grazed the edges of the tiny cardboard box. Cobwebs wrapped around it like a shield. I swatted them away, picked it up, and opened it up and what I found inside was a pair of those classic comic book glasses. They were ginormous. Two, round lenses intensely peered at me. It sat neatly on a velvet pillow inside the box. A namecard labeled it, ‘Dimension Hopping Glasses’.

Usually, I wouldn’t believe in such frivolous stuff, but the concept itself was so intriguing I found myself snatching the box up to study further. Perhaps they actually worked. I leaped down the attic steps and raced into my room.

My desk sat undisturbed in front of my window. The sun shone its light down on the desk surface. It was practically calling me. I plopped down in my trusty chair. I’ve owned it since 4th grade. Pieces of foam peek out from between the seams and the leather is frayed away.

I tenderly set the glasses to the side and search the box. I eventually find instructions. The instructions themselves directed you on reality shifting. The methods sounded like ones on tik tok except they incorporated the glasses and claimed to be the real deal.

So, of course, thinking, even if it doesn’t work, if I sell it right, I can cheat someone out of a hundred bucks, if it does work, maybe even millions, I gathered the rest of my late-step-father’s materials. Tomorrow was garage sale day, so I had to be sure these glasses weren’t cheap cereal toys.

By the time I finished with moving the boxes from the attic, night fell and my body had grown tired. So when I lied in bed with those glasses on, I immediately passed out.

“And ta-da...I’m here!” I gesture proudly.

Charles Dickens is certainly a character I never expected to find upon my first dimension hopping experience. But I guess, in these particular circumstances, it is always best to expect the unexpected. His face is long in shape. A beard extends like drapes from his round chin, and his thin lips are practically covered by his bushy stash. His eyes droop, syncopated with the bags beneath his eyes. His hair splits down the middle and loosely curls around his flat cheeks. He screams depressed artist.

He strokes his beard and contemplates what I’ve said for a mere second. Of course, because an artist can only be prideful, he opens his mouth to counter me instead, “More like I arrived here.”

I place my hands on my hips and raise a brow, “How so?”

A knowing smirk spreads across his face. He digs his hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a rock.

I lean in close to examine it. Sure, it’s shiny, but it’s nothing to write home about. It lacks glint and glamor and looks more like a crystal you’d buy at a gas station.

“This?” I question.

He doesn’t appear satisfied with my reaction. A wry expression falls upon his face. He clenches his fist and stuffs it back into his large, coat pocket, “It’s magic.” He protests.

“My glasses story makes more sense than yours,” I point out.

“They make about the same amount of sense!” Charles responds.

I glare, leaning back against my headboard. I cross my arms, “Charles-Can I call you Charles?”

He glowers.

Charles it is.

“You know, I’ve never read a single one of your books, but from what I hear, they’re deemed the worst piece of literature in the world by all english students. Honestly, people are demanding your unintelligent slop be taken out of the education system.”

That’s not true, but he doesn’t know that.

Charles goes red in the face. He stands, “Well,” He points, but his anger seems to cloud his thoughts as he searches for an insult, “You’re an orphan AND a murderer!”

I glare, “I was a potential murderee not a murderer.”

I push my glasses up my face, “This dimension sucks,” I grumble, crossing my arms. Maybe I should sell these glasses for free. No one should have to deal with an impudent character like Charles Dickens.

“First time you’ve been right all night,” Dickens says, crossing the room to my window. He leans against my desk,

I stare at him as he examines the scenery before him. The flickering streetlight. The damp pavement. The houses across the street. The faint sound of cicada chirping. All of it. He soaks it in and pushes away from the window.

“Do you know why I’ve come here, of all places?” Charles asks.

Pretending I’ve conceded to his point about him being the dimension hopper instead of the hoppee, I respond, “I met you today.”

Charles snickers at the comment. He turns back to look outside, “I need help looking for something...something precious...my next big book if you will.”

“What?” I question.

“Can you get me a copy of a Tale of Two Cities by yours truly?” He waits at the edge of my bed for my answer.

I mean....I can, but, “What’s in it for me?”

Then he smiles, “You can have my rock and actually travel dimensions.”

“How will you travel dimensions and get more of your books then?”

“I have my methods.”

I raise an eyebrow. I’m not a good people reader but I’m actually just hoping my intense stare will make him crack and confess any lies. I’m not usually so hasty....that’s a lie I am, but if a copy of a tale of two cities is easy to come by. I could get one at the thrift store for 3 bucks.

I nod, and hold out my hand, “Well, if you don’t keep to your promises I’ll track you down.”

“It’s a deal,” Dickens responds.