Remote

He sits down on the couch and thumbs at the harsh material of the cushion. He sucks in cold oxygen and feels it fill his lungs, then exhales. He stares at the stupid, ignorant commercials, eyes half open. He yawns, the infection in the back of his mouth stabs at his nerves in his nasal, only going away when he closes is mouth. He grabs the small orange bottle marked diazepam off the coffee table and twists open the cap. The pills go down his throat with black coffee, the heat of the liquid soothing his nasal. He leans back in the couch and stairs at the television. Eyes, blank, staring in one spot on the TV, sometimes catching the sight of another humans face, but unaware of the fake, pixelated face staring back. He didn't feel his body, only his sore vertebrae as it slouched against the uncomfortable couch. He closed is dry, burning eyes, still staring in the same spot where they had been on the TV. But now the TV was off, and he wasn't aware. His hand rested on his stomach and went up and down as his breathing slowly got faster. He listened to the muffled voices come in under his closed, locked door.

…......

The voices droned on, incoherent now as his jaw dropped slightly, indicating that he was asleep. He knew he was asleep, he did it on purpose. He tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were too heavy to lift and his eyes raced around blindly in his head. Then there was nothing. He knew he was awake, so he opened his eyes. The TV was bleeding. The thick warm red was oozing out of the screen and the little speaker holes and didn't stop. The carpet under the television turned dark red and the blood was making its way towards his feet. He grabbed the cold remote and changed the channel. The fish noticed him first and decided to swim out of the TV, teeth exposed intentionally. Water filled the entire room and the remote floated away out of his hand. He breathed in water and coughed out air, bubbles floating to the ceiling. The semi large fish swam lithely towards him through the playboy magazines and books and pencils and crumbled up paper and trash and random remotes and a cup and a telephone. He swam away, kicking his feet violently and pulling his body through the water with his long arms. He grabbed the remote as the fish bit down on his calf, tearing open the skin, blood swimming out into the water, and he pushed the button. He fell to the wet ground as the water disappeared and was replaced with a concrete sidewalk. It was night, the air freezing cold on his wet body. He stood up and looked in his hand. He held a gun, the metal freezing in his palm. No cars were on the road. He walked up the sidewalk and stopped under a street lamp. He looked behind him, a small trail of blood painted on the sidewalk, disappearing beyond the circle of light. His leg ached violently, but the cold was numbing it fast. He looked at the gun in his hand, turned it over gently and stared blankly at it. He forgot where he was, what he was doing. He thought to himself, how did I get here?, but nothing registered in his frozen mind. He looked up at the lamp post, a dull orange light spilling on his body. Looking up he could make out the first few letters on the building. REM. . . He pointed the gun up at the lamp post, confused, and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in his hand suddenly and fell to the concrete along with the glass. The light suddenly disappeared. It was cold and dark. He closed his eyes and saw what he saw with them open. A car turned onto the street and blinding headlights sped towards him. He reached for the gun on the ground, feeling glass instead of the cold metal, and finally found the weapon. He ran out into the road, feet smacking the black road, and stared into the white light. He raised the gun and shot seven times until the car drove into the lamp post and stopped. He ran over to the car, pulled the door open and and looked at the body. It was him, but with a deep red hole where his eye should have been. My god I killed myself, he thought, panicking. He pulled his own body out of the car and it fell onto the road. Opening the jacket on his other body he searched the pockets in haste, looking for something he couldn't remember. He turned over his dead body and searched the remaining pockets. There was nothing in his pockets. He stood up and yelled, feeling very frustrated and cold, and decided to get in the car. He backed out of the lamp post and sped down the street with one head light. There were no stop signs or lights or lamp posts or intersecting streets. The road just kept going. He drove continually for five minutes then slammed on the brakes. He searched the car for something he knew he had to find. He opened the door and got out of the car and looked under the drivers seat. There it was. He grabbed the remote and pushed all the buttons until something happened.

He was back in his room, sitting on the couch. The couch was still uncomfortable, and his head ached violently. He could feel his pulse in his eye. He got up and looked in the mirror posted on his wall and screamed. His left eye was gone, replaced by a gaping, dark red hole. He slammed the remote in his hand against the mirror, shattering it, and the channel changed suddenly.

The sun was hot outside, and Thomas decides to take refuge inside the bathroom. He glances at the few students rushing to class, trying to beat the clock. Before opening the heavy metal door of the bathroom, Thomas takes a few long sips at the drinking fountain, savoring the cool water swimming down his throat. He wipes the remaining drops of water hanging from his chin and pushes open the bathroom door. Inside the bathroom, Thomas looks under the stalls, hoping to find no feet. Thomas is satisfied that the bathroom is vacant. He paces around the room, waiting for a student to come in the bathroom, and when no one comes, Thomas locks the bathroom door. Thomas stands in front of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He flips himself off and throws his backpack on the counter. Opening the bag he takes out an orange pill bottle and twists the cap off. He swallows the diazepam and drinks slowly from the sink. Thomas places the pill bottle back in the bag and reveals a .38 special, snub nose pistol, which he sets delicately on the sink counter. He continues to search in his bag, and after a few seconds, pulls out a black remote and puts it in his jacket pocket. He grabs the gun and squeezes it, appreciating the heaviness in his hand. Thomas opens the chamber and eyes the gold bullets, smiling as he spins the chamber. Thomas takes off his school uniform and throws it in the trash. He wont be needing it after today. He leaves his pants and his undershirt on. He puts the gun in his pants pocket, and swings his backpack over the shoulder. He unlocks the bathroom door and walks back into the hot, bright sun. Walking to class, Thomas can feel the hammer of the gun poking at his leg, and he smiles. He walks back into the classroom and the bell rings. The students curious eyes follow him to his desk, most likely due to his lack of a school blazer. The Spanish teacher, Mr. Gonzalez, stands up from his desk and walks slowly towards the podium to take roll call.

“Adams,”

“Here.”

“Brady,”

“Here.”

“Cooper,”

Thomas sat silent in his chair until Mr. Gonzalez looked up. The students were all looking at Thomas.

“Mr. Cooper, I hope you are aware that you are missing an important part of your school uniform.” He said this with sharp sarcasm tainted with a Spanish accent that lit a fuse inside Thomas.

“I'm sorry, but I don't speak that Mexican gibberish.” Thomas nearly shouted.

Several people started laughing, but Mr. Gonzalez caught their eyes they went silent.

“You are on thin ice, Mr. Cooper, comprendre?”

Thomas was silent.

“Do you hear me Thomas?”

“I SAID I DONT SPEAK SPANISH!” All the students were looking at him, Thomas felt their eyes.

“Okay, I've had enough of you, now get out of my classroom and go see the principal.” Mr. Gonzalez's face was red.

“No, I don't think I'm going to do that.”

Gonzalez didn't reply, and instead went to his desk and picked up the phone. Thomas stood up and strode over to Gonzalez's desk. Gonzalez got one word into the receiver before Thomas unplugged the phone. Thomas walked back to his desk and sat down, the class ablaze with the sound of whispers and text messages being sent. Gonzalez placed the receiver back in its cradle and walked very slowly to the podium.

“What do you want kid?” Those words came out of his mouth in a thick Spanish accent, which only happens when he is angered.

“I want you to shut the f**k up and raise my grade to an A, or I'll kill you.” The class went dead quiet except for Gonzalez's laughter. He stopped his fake, intimidated outbursts of laughter and leaned on the podium.

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Well I guess I don't have a choice.” He continued the roll call. “Dix,”

Gerald Dix remained quiet. Thomas stood up from his desk. “What are you waiting for, beaner?”

Gonzalez looked up at Thomas, his face red with pulsing veins, and shouted curses in Spanish. Thomas revealed the gun, the class shrieking, and pointed it at Gonzalez's head. He pulled back the hammer and shot, a loud pop emerging from the short barrel. The white board behind Gonzalez was suddenly splashed with dark, almost black, blood, slowly trickling down the board. Pieces of skull hit the white board and made a sound like rock being thrown at the ground. His body landed on the floor with a loud thump. The class was screaming. Thomas set the gun on his table and pulled his remote out of his jacket pocket. CLICK.

Reviews

[Naraly Godinez]

I thought the same thing Zack did!! . An alternate universe that consumes us with every click the beginning drew me in, literally. The imagery was amazing

[ZackOfBridge]

I'll take your points dude

[Ania L]

I really like your style of writing, will be reading the rest of your stuff.