Kiditaly
11-26-2014, 08:05 PM
So this is my first post!
I'm doing a flash fiction piece for Scholastics and it would be great if I could get some feedback.
It was the splash that was heard from a million miles away.
I felt an excruciatingly cold mass of an unknown substance trickle up my legs, eventually reaching the rest of my extremities as if a demonic entity arose from the depths of hell. The blood of my ripe veins crystalized my innards. My body became a competitor in the game of freeze tag, failing to run away fast enough from the excited little kid who anxiously waited to utter the words “you’re tagged!” from his crumb-covered mouth. The world paused and my vision blurred, allowing fuzzy and vague shapes to solidify the confusion I felt.
I exhaled to see if I was still alive. I blinked to see if my cognitive skills were still evident. I swiveled my ankles to see if paralysis set in. The phone was still hanging from the receiver, slightly swaying back and forth, and indicating a recent use. I felt the arms of my chair: damp and grimy with an accumulation of sweat surrounding my fingers, implying that I must’ve been sitting perfectly stark for a few minutes. Movement was irrelevant and provided no solution to the problem. So I sat there.
And sat.
And sat.
Until time ticked, ticked, ticked away and day became a dark, black void.
And the cycle of day and night continued to run its course, over and over, increasing in redundancy. The juxtaposition of my body within the house created a negative visual; a vibrant set of walls, paintings and furniture clashed with the rotting smell of my skin and the disgruntled aesthetic of my body. In my mind, my body was actually decomposing, my stature remained stiff in the exact same chair, and the world continued to revolve around my absence yet I was driving my car and visiting mourning family members and discussing funeral arrangements a few days later. My physical self only entered the recovering stages, leaving my mind within the ominous moments of the first 90 minutes following that tragic call.
A replay of events fought its way into the damaged areas of my brain, continuously pressing rewind in order to pinpoint the “best” parts.
I wake up in a cold sweat constantly. The overbearing weight of an unwanted presence repeats itself until it no longer becomes scary to experience. I involuntarily envision the same sweaty chair that engulfed me. I look at myself through the perceptions of an outsider, observing my stark pose, my wide and dry eyes failing to blink, the antiquity of the phone swaying back and forth in conjunction with the ticking of the clock. And like the very first time the playbacks happened, I’m disgusted that I failed to react immediately. My mind, body and soul not only marinated in the chair’s repugnance but in guilt and denial as well. The 5 stages of grief holds importance when it comes to dealing with death and its purpose is to help accept and move on yet I find myself still within the first two stages.
One night the playback revisited me and what was peculiar was that it was unfamiliar. The setting was not that of an interior space but of an outside land, specifically one with a body of water. Everything was much clearer than before, as if I’d physically gone to sleep on the cold pavement beside the guardrails of the water and woken up suddenly by a stray dog gnawing on my shirt or a harsh pelting of icy rain hitting my vulnerable skin.
***
The dark, eerie setting of the harbor and the vast area of the polluted water surround me. It’s hard to articulate anything specific; I only see shapes. There’s a relatively large apparition standing hesitantly by the edge, as if it feels the sudden urge to jump but is held back by dismay and irresoluteness. I walk closer slowly, hoping not to alarm whatever it was. As the distance between us decreased, it became easier to dissect and analyze what was there. I see a jacket, black and firm. Silver shoes start to catch the light of the moon, a glistening angel. I squint to see more of the outfit while steadily walking towards what is evidently a person. The textures of his jeans compliment the plethora of dirt stains.
As he stands there lifeless I finally reach him; I could feel the warm presence of his body without physically touching him. I look down at the ground and see several bottles of vodka, empty and shattered. Encompassed by a large shard of glass is a pill bottle that contains only air and worthlessness. My eyes revert back to his body and catch a green tattoo on the way back up. It’s on his forearm, medium-sized and elegant. As I read what the script says, a distant finger presses the pause button on their remote control and ceases my heart. I felt the same post-mortem feeling as I did when I first heard about my brother’s suicide. No details were given, ever. Some said it didn’t matter where he died; others wanted to keep the occurrence within secrecy.
I hurriedly look up at the back of his head, frozen. As I try to grab his shoulder, he turns around, slowly revealing the profile of his face.
And then everything goes blank.
I hear an overpowering roar of water splashing against concrete walls within the white void of my mind, a splash that could be heard a million miles away.
I'm doing a flash fiction piece for Scholastics and it would be great if I could get some feedback.
It was the splash that was heard from a million miles away.
I felt an excruciatingly cold mass of an unknown substance trickle up my legs, eventually reaching the rest of my extremities as if a demonic entity arose from the depths of hell. The blood of my ripe veins crystalized my innards. My body became a competitor in the game of freeze tag, failing to run away fast enough from the excited little kid who anxiously waited to utter the words “you’re tagged!” from his crumb-covered mouth. The world paused and my vision blurred, allowing fuzzy and vague shapes to solidify the confusion I felt.
I exhaled to see if I was still alive. I blinked to see if my cognitive skills were still evident. I swiveled my ankles to see if paralysis set in. The phone was still hanging from the receiver, slightly swaying back and forth, and indicating a recent use. I felt the arms of my chair: damp and grimy with an accumulation of sweat surrounding my fingers, implying that I must’ve been sitting perfectly stark for a few minutes. Movement was irrelevant and provided no solution to the problem. So I sat there.
And sat.
And sat.
Until time ticked, ticked, ticked away and day became a dark, black void.
And the cycle of day and night continued to run its course, over and over, increasing in redundancy. The juxtaposition of my body within the house created a negative visual; a vibrant set of walls, paintings and furniture clashed with the rotting smell of my skin and the disgruntled aesthetic of my body. In my mind, my body was actually decomposing, my stature remained stiff in the exact same chair, and the world continued to revolve around my absence yet I was driving my car and visiting mourning family members and discussing funeral arrangements a few days later. My physical self only entered the recovering stages, leaving my mind within the ominous moments of the first 90 minutes following that tragic call.
A replay of events fought its way into the damaged areas of my brain, continuously pressing rewind in order to pinpoint the “best” parts.
I wake up in a cold sweat constantly. The overbearing weight of an unwanted presence repeats itself until it no longer becomes scary to experience. I involuntarily envision the same sweaty chair that engulfed me. I look at myself through the perceptions of an outsider, observing my stark pose, my wide and dry eyes failing to blink, the antiquity of the phone swaying back and forth in conjunction with the ticking of the clock. And like the very first time the playbacks happened, I’m disgusted that I failed to react immediately. My mind, body and soul not only marinated in the chair’s repugnance but in guilt and denial as well. The 5 stages of grief holds importance when it comes to dealing with death and its purpose is to help accept and move on yet I find myself still within the first two stages.
One night the playback revisited me and what was peculiar was that it was unfamiliar. The setting was not that of an interior space but of an outside land, specifically one with a body of water. Everything was much clearer than before, as if I’d physically gone to sleep on the cold pavement beside the guardrails of the water and woken up suddenly by a stray dog gnawing on my shirt or a harsh pelting of icy rain hitting my vulnerable skin.
***
The dark, eerie setting of the harbor and the vast area of the polluted water surround me. It’s hard to articulate anything specific; I only see shapes. There’s a relatively large apparition standing hesitantly by the edge, as if it feels the sudden urge to jump but is held back by dismay and irresoluteness. I walk closer slowly, hoping not to alarm whatever it was. As the distance between us decreased, it became easier to dissect and analyze what was there. I see a jacket, black and firm. Silver shoes start to catch the light of the moon, a glistening angel. I squint to see more of the outfit while steadily walking towards what is evidently a person. The textures of his jeans compliment the plethora of dirt stains.
As he stands there lifeless I finally reach him; I could feel the warm presence of his body without physically touching him. I look down at the ground and see several bottles of vodka, empty and shattered. Encompassed by a large shard of glass is a pill bottle that contains only air and worthlessness. My eyes revert back to his body and catch a green tattoo on the way back up. It’s on his forearm, medium-sized and elegant. As I read what the script says, a distant finger presses the pause button on their remote control and ceases my heart. I felt the same post-mortem feeling as I did when I first heard about my brother’s suicide. No details were given, ever. Some said it didn’t matter where he died; others wanted to keep the occurrence within secrecy.
I hurriedly look up at the back of his head, frozen. As I try to grab his shoulder, he turns around, slowly revealing the profile of his face.
And then everything goes blank.
I hear an overpowering roar of water splashing against concrete walls within the white void of my mind, a splash that could be heard a million miles away.