Out of Time
"I'm running out of time!" she shouted as she backed further into the dark alley. She had begun to freak out minutes before, out of nowhere. Her wide eyes began to bleed. He just stood there, frozen in shock and confusion. He didn't know what was happening, or what to do to help her. ". . .don't have. . .much. . .more. . .time!" she sputtered through the blood now rising from her throat, filling her mouth. "Don't worry," he kept saying. "Don't worry."
"Shit, this is horrible!" Select All. Delete. Beth pushed away from the desk, stood, shut the lid of the laptop roughly. Taking a few steps away, she stopped; turned; stared at the closed computer. She let out a frustrated "Augh!" and rubbed her hands vigorously through her hair. She had been facing the Impenetrable Block for ten months. Always a blank. Still, she came to her desk every day. Every. Fucking. Day. She sat staring at the screen. Sometimes counted the blinks of the cursor. Sometimes counted the ticks of the clock on the wall behind her, just because she couldn't stand the noise in the emptiness of her mind. Sometimes forced herself to type something, anything, just to write. Today was one of those days.
Beth's bare foot squeaked against the hardwood floor as she pivoted again and took the few more steps to the fridge. She opened it with a jerk; stared at the empty space where her favorite wine ought to have been; squeezed her eyes tight. Frickin' Sam! Suppressing a growl, she took a deep breath, then opened her eyes. Letting the breath out in a resigned sigh, she grabbed the chocolate milk from the back of the fridge, and slammed the door. Not bothering with a glass, she leaned against the counter, the edge of it cutting into her lower back, and took a long drink. Her fingers flew to her lips and she gave an involuntary shudder as she set it down on the counter across from her. Must have gone bad, she thought, face contorted. Turning on the faucet, she brought several handfuls of water to her mouth; swishing, spitting it out. Wiping her mouth dry with the inside of her shirt, she stalked to the back door, carton held out away from her.
Stepping into the alley behind her apartment, she paused to adjust to the darkness before crossing to the garbage cans against the opposite wall. As she stood there, arm outstretched in front of her, Beth's eyes met the gaze of a familiar face smiling from the back of the carton. "What the. . ." She squinted; brought it closer; looked at it in utter bewilderment. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? stood out in large, black letters above a decade-old photo of a little girl in pigtails, a gaping black hole proudly displayed in her wide smile. Her first grade picture. "Is this some kind of joke?" She looked around the alley, as though some prankster would magically step out, announcing jovially "you got me!" but all was still; empty; quiet, save for the clock in the room behind her. She felt the ticking in the center of her brain, like the damn cursor, urging her to figure it out! fill in the blanks! write! write! write!
Suddenly feeling like she would vomit, her mind twisting inside-out as she strove to understand, Beth dropped the carton. It bounced against the step, falling to its side. The thick liquid began glug-glugging from the open wedge; running over the uneven asphalt, finding its way to the drainage systems of a neglected back street. Her hand shot back, feeling inside the door for the light switch. Her fingers finally caught it and a dim, yellow arc lit her back steps, making a halo about two feet around them. She watched the blood slowly fill a groove here, a crack there; slowly dripping, then drizzling to settle into a dark puddle where a pot hole was just two minutes ago.
With a shaking hand, Beth knelt and picked up the carton. She tilted it toward the light and studied the picture. There were drops of red filling the eyes of her younger self. She wiped it roughly against her jeans and held it up again. It wasn't on the picture; it was in the picture. "This is not funny!" she looked around again. She said it louder, "this is NOT FUNNY!" though she didn't know who she was talking to.
An eerily cheery whistle cut through the pounding silence, tearing her from her frightened, confused reverie. Beth felt both relieved and angry. She rushed down the steps, hopping over the puddle of thick red as she sprinted toward the sound. "Sam!" she shouted. He stopped whistling, but continued toward her with a casual, jaunting walk. She shoved the milk carton into his hands. "What kind of sick joke is this?"
"Whoa! Slow down there, kid." Beth felt confused all over again. Everything seemed distant. "Listen, why don't you just relax and finish your milk, huh? Then we'll sort this whole thing out. Whaddya' say?" I’ve heard this before. . .
Sam put his hand against the back of her neck. The pavement felt rough and cold on her bare feet. She felt sick again. Her eyes welled up. She suddenly felt so scared and overwhelmed. She turned toward Sam, red streaming down her face. He just stood there. She coughed, gagged; crying through a thickness in her throat. He grinned.
"Not ten months. Ten years!" Everything was garbled. Figure it out! Fill in the blanks! Write! Write! Write! Beth turned to Sam, eyes wide. "What the fuck. . .did you do?" He began to whistle again, dragging something by its pigtails deeper into the darkness of the alley. He pried the carton from Beth’s fingers and smiled as he held it under a slow dripping, which turned to a drizzle.
"Don't worry, kiddo. Just a souvenir, since you're out of time."
-----
As always, copyright Jessica Reifsnyder, 2014. Thanks for reading!
No comments:
Post a Comment