Fractured - Vintage Short Fiction 2008

thought I'd bring this back for a bit....

“Make sure you take care of the old lady in 310. She was seriously off her nut yesterday.”

 

“Miss Boehm? She’s a sweetie.”

 

“Sure, you didn’t see her up on her bed, swinging Mrs Larson’s cane around and shouting ‘En garde. You steala my meatballa!’”

 

“No way.”

 

“Way, and she had her shawl wrapped around her like a cloak. I guess she thought she was a Musketeer.”

 

“Well that’s better than old lady Larson. That old hag bit me yesterday. If she does it again I'm gonna hide her damn dentures.”

 

"Be nice. She's clueless, remember. Just smile and give her her meds, and put ice on your arm. How much longer could she possibly have?"

 

"Enough to take out a chunk of flesh."

 

They’re talking about me again. Every morning I wake up and I find myself in this strange place with white walls and white tile floors. It smells like rubbing alcohol and death. And the old woman across the room snores and drools, crying out and moaning in her sleep.

 

“Mrs. Boehm. Rise and shine. You’re going to have some company today.”

 

“Is Buffi here?”

 

“No honey. Your kids are coming. Eric and Fred. Now how do you want me to fix your hair?”

 

“Can I wear it in a pony tail again?”

 

“Sure. Red or blue bow?”

 

“Blue.”

 

I don’t have any kids. I don’t know what she is talking about. I just want to go home. Everyone here is old and crusty and crazy. Its wearing off on me. I look in the mirror and there’s this old troll looking back at me, all wrinkly like a white raisin. I don’t know who she is but she scares me. This woman who combs my hair, at least she doesn’t pull it like mom used to. I don’t know why my mom put me in here. She never loved me but I never thought she’d give me up.

 

“Ok, there, now aren’t you pretty?”

 

“Thank you.” I don’t know who they think they’re fooling. My hair is reddish brown, not this stringy white stuff with the bald spot in the back. Maybe they dye it when I’m sleeping.

 

“So are you excited about Fred and Eric coming?”

 

“Yes, I am.” I’ve learned to answer them with yes and no or they give me pills that make me sleep. Maybe I’m sleeping now and this is just a dream. I wish I could wake up. I just want to see my boys again. Fred will be a senior next year. I don’t know who the big bearded guy with the holes in his ears is that comes to see me but my Fred is only 16 and Eric is 12. God I miss my boys and David. I miss David so much. I wish he’d come see me but they just smile and pat my arm and tell me he’s in a better place. How could he leave me here with Mrs. Larson who smells like fish and pee?

 

“Hey, mom. How are you?”

 

“I’m fine. Have you met Mrs. Larson? She snores a lot.”

 

“Yes, I brought you something from Buffi. It’s a picture of her great grandkids.”

 

“Buffi?” There’s my BEST friend. I don’t know who the old woman is but that little girl with the green eyes in her lap, that’s Buffi. Tomorrow we’re going to climb the tree in the back yard and look for Cardinal Richeleau and stab him in the heart.“Thank you, young man. And who is this fine looking man with you?”

 

“This is Eric.”

 

“Eric, oh yes. I remember. Are you drawing?”

 

“Mom. I have my own graphic design company? Both of my boys, they work for me in production and technology research? Do you remember?”

 

“Why, yes. Eric. Eric. I love you. I always knew you’d be so successful.”

 

“I love you too, Mom.”

 

I know this boy. I do. My Eric. But why does he look older than me?

 

“I think she actually remembers you, Rico.”

 

“Well of course, Fred. I’m the favorite.”

 

I don’t know why Eric is crying. He never trusted me. I love him so much. I have another boy. What’s his name again? Where the hell am I anyway. Wait. I have to find my sword.

- The above story was inspired by my own Grandmother's battle with the monster that is Alzheimer's....peace.

TL Boehm

©2008

Author's Note

I don't write much short fiction but when I do I write like this. or maybe I don't. I waste a lot of time writing poetry (along with half the planet and 85% of the cafe patrons) because I have a voracious IVM to feed (internet validation monster) but story telling is my love....

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Very good. A bit of humor helps dull the edge of this woeful predicament so many have and will find themselves in. At 65, I notice a marked deterioration in my own mind, and let me tell you--it's frustrating and scary. I never imagined my own thoughts would betray me, but they're starting to. The thought of full-blown dementia is just unacceptable. How sad about your grandmother. I saw it happen to my father, also. I guess this is what happens if we live long enough.

[TL Boehm]

It is scary. I'm only 48 and some days - I wonder...I blame stress. On the other side, I had two great grandparents live into the late 90's - both incredibly sharp...so perhaps one can dodge the bullet.

[Angel]

This is so sad. It made me cry.
I wonder, though...perhaps Alzhiemer's is a mercy...as the old person gets ready to die, God takes them back to happier times...

This was a thoughtful piece. I like the way you threaded the lady's thoughts through everything going on around her. Very nicely done.
Thank you for sharing this story.

[TL Boehm]

Thank you, Angel. I wonder about that too.

[MunkyWrench]

This makes me want to laugh and cry all at the same time... I sit and I wonder if I will be that way in my autumn years... most likely... as forgetful as I am now at 40... will I be unwilling to live in my own reality and create one of my own from another time? Thank you for sharing this...

[TL Boehm]

Thank you and nice to meet you. I wonder that too...