Brian C. Russell

Monochromatic

I downed the pills without water as I drove.  I swallowed hard to keep them from sticking to my throat.  The back of my head pulsed.  The rhythmic pulsation was like a serial killer stabbing me multiple times.  The car ride had a familiar feeling to it.

What’s the matter?  Of course it feels familiar.  It’s the same ride to work I do every morning.

The thought lingered though.  Something about the way the clouds were slung across the sky like hammocks full of water.  Everything grayed as more clouds clustered and swelled.  I wanted to shake my head to try to get the feeling of déjà vu out of my head, but I didn’t want to upset the ebbing headache.

The monochromatic vista drained my energy.

Crap.  I forgot my coffee.

What started as a good morning was quickly spiraling into a horrible Monday.  I tried not to think of the stacks of unfinished work that I left for myself.  Or did I?

What happened to me?  Why can’t I remember anything?

My office building looms over me, stretching far into the sagging clouds.  The tinted windows make the place look like a monolith of onyx jutting from the ground.  Getting out of my car, I search the sky for the sun to no avail.  My head throbbed this time pushing against the backs of my eyes.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  “I should’ve stayed home.”

Sunshine and Bacon

My bed felt soft, beckoning me to keep sleeping, but a throbbing lurked around the back of my head.  The sun shot beams of light through the dust in the room.  My wife’s voice echoed in my mind, “You need to change the air filters.”  Where was my wife?

I sat up, ignoring the headache that clamored for my attention.  ”Eden?”

Light crept under the bedroom door from the hall, along with the faint smell of bacon.  I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes and savoring the aroma.  I swung my feet off the bed and onto the carpet.  The plush threads comforted my bare feet.

What happened last night?

Fragments of my dream melted away as I concentrated.  Shouting?  Accident?  It was a blur, and the more I tried to remember… the more disappeared.

Did we have a fight?

The scent of frying grease and bacon latched on to my nose.  There couldn’t have been a fight if she was cooking me breakfast.  I rubbed the back of my head, trying to ease the waning ache.  I opened the door and moved toward the delicious smell.

“Eden?  You out here?”

She looked back at me over her shoulder.  Her green eyes brightened up and her smile turned to a smirk.  “Oh, shoot.  I wanted to be done before you got up.”

“It’s okay.  Same food.  Same beautiful wife.”  I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight.  “We got any pain killers?  I got a major headache of death.”

Read part 1:  Bruised and Unplugged

Headaches

Fear traps my breath in my chest.  A coffin for the next few moments.  My heart socks my chest like it’s fight night.

A plug?  Oh God…  where’s my wife, my car, my… what’s going on? “Hello?”  My voice scratches.  I cough.  Rubbing my throat with my fingers, I rasp, “Is anyone there?”

My eyes strain in the blinking light.  My head aches.  I swing my feet off the table, one foot on the ground.  Crumbling dirt between my toes, I drop my next foot down.

The building shudders.  The ceiling coughs dust and dirt all over.  I drop down to the ground.  A siren squeals.  A red light flashes.

This is crazy! “Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?”

Pressing my hands against my ears, I stand and move toward the tunnel-like hall.  In the lull of the siren, shouts rise up.  Flashlights coming down the hall.  Shouting.  Sirens.  Flashing lights.

I can’t understand them.  Men’s voices scream at me.

“I don’t understand.  What?”

A flash of a gun barrel.  My hands shoot above my head.  “Whoa.  Whoa!  I don’t understand.  Where am I?  Hello?”

They don’t understand.    I am going to die.  My wife…

Sharp pain stabs the back of my head.  Flash of white.  I’m on the ground.  They’re still yelling.  I touch the wound… there’s no blood.  There shou—something smashes into my face.  Blackness.  Silence.

Bruised and Unplugged

The drive home seemed especially long today.  Clouds sagged overhead, bruised with rain.  Wind screamed through the cracked window making it hard to hear my wife on the phone.  Not that I wanted to talk anymore anyway.

“What?  I can’t hear you.  I’ll call you back.”  I slammed the phone shut and threw it into the passenger seat.  It bounced off into the crevice of seat and door.  ”Great.  Just great.”

Scenarios of her calling back to keep arguing with me, only to find my voicemail, and this whole thing escalating to a whole other level.  I gritted my teeth.  Choking my steering wheel with one hand, I made a quick reach for the phone.  Horns.  Squealing Tires.  Crunch.  Break.  Smash.  Shatter.  Creak.

***

Eyes open.

A lamp hangs above me.  The bulb flickers.  Flash:  corrugated tubes and broken computers.  Flash:  monitoring machines tipped over.  Flash:  stacks of boxes.  Flash:  pipes running along the ceiling.  Flash:  tunnel shaped room.

Where am I?

I sit up and tap the flickering light bulb, but it won’t stop.  A pronged needle dangles from my left forearm, but there’s no IV bag.  The tubes seem heavy, like cabling, and I slide the needle from my arm.  But the hole in my arm is too big, and isn’t bleeding.  I look into the two holes left in my arm, inside each hole are two metal contacts.  Like an outlet.

Continued:  Headaches

This is a new experiment by me.  I’m going to write this story in increments of 200-250 words per day, and see where the story leads.  I’m going to try really hard not to plot too much out ahead of time, and try to write each day and not write ahead.

It’s an exercise as much as it is a project and experiment.  I’m sure someone else has done it before me, and I know I’m probably not pioneering new land here, but I hope you enjoy this story.

So, without hesitation, here’s Tin Man: Part 1.

And, on a different scale, my buddy Loyd Boldman is writing a very minimalistic novel in 140 characters each day called:  Minimal Boy.  So check it out.