Something Is Strange

Something is strange; it’s the first thing you notice. He is not like the others. David Brenham, my co-worker from the Bowman Theater. Today I saw downfall; his ultimate demise. David was a homeless on-and-off worker that had stumbled through the theaters archway, like a sedated beast, looking for easy booze money. He was going on five years of steady work when it all took a turn for the worse…straight into four pissed off drugged-up Hell’s Angels. He had been drinking from the time we left work at 7:01 until 12:35 at Slugliver’s on 74^th Street near the missile factory. We were cast in wild celebration. The light’s devilish green illusion bumped and spilled onto the sidewalk. David, being the drunken b*****d he was, decided it would be a riot to key one of the bikes out on the corner. Being quite inebriated myself I held no objection. One scratch. One scratch is all he could muster before they saw him. One scratch and I ran. I hadn’t run since high school. I hid behind the blue dumpster that was in the back. It smelled like a cross between a public bathroom and spoiled milk and there was a hint of roadkill freshly peeled. David was screaming, a cold banshee yell thrown into the wind of the darkened alley. The orchestral voice corroded my ears. The image of David, bloodied and broken, was vivid in my mind. I heard the b******s cackling like hyenas stalking helpless prey. They left. I called an ambulance. At home I expected to see the story pasted all over the news but instead only reports of perfection. Unemployment down, crime has dropped to a new low, tax refunds are on the way. That’s alright though, I couldn’t bear to look at his bruised, puffy face…simply describing it fills me with poisoned delight. There’s more. He didn’t remember what had happened to him. I visited him in the hospital today. Room 358. In a quite, almost inaudible whisper he revealed to me what had kept him up the night before. A secret louder than the whirling musical machines keeping him fastened, by one thread, to life. “I don’t remember the drinking or the bikers. All I remember is you…you, running away and leaving me to die, to wash away along with the scum and the filth on that sunken street.” I left. I took a ride to the outskirts of town, to the wall that surrounds the city. How could he know that I had left him for dead? I waved to the guards up at the top, poised like the gothic statues of a monastery, and smoked a cigarette down to the filter. What did he expect me to do- fight off four bikers carrying ball peen hammers- alone and wasted? I dropped my keys. As I picked them up, something made my stop. David, at the top of the hill leading to the wall, was marching forward hunched over and weak. He had an IV in his arm and his hospital gown was waving in the wind. David got to the edge of the wall. I was watching him…the guards were watching him. He placed one hand on the wall. He felt its roughness, its coarse paint. His foot rose into the space between the stones. As he pulled himself up, a smile took form on his crazed face. David fell down. The smile was replaced with a numb stare. Blood was rushing from a fresh wound in his forehead. Two guards flowed out and dragged his corpse through the doorway leading, I could only imagine, to be a better place. Strange…

Reviews

[ashley]

Wow. This is just... fantastic seems lame, but really there's no other word. I love the details, especially how you used all five senses (because most writers forget either one or two). I felt like I was there. This was a great write! :D