Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn

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Nanite Sadness

I decided to half-celebrate NaNoWriMo by simply writing a thousand word story on the first day of the month (today). Comments welcome.

Death of Mr Jacobin

Urine splayed down his leg, filling him with bitter anger. Pooling around the hairs and curves of his body, it traveled further downward, extending into the fabric of his pants where it touched. Its downward descent was a search for rapture, to be taken by the air leaving behind naught but salts and the odour of the streets. His arms flail making token effort to react to this indignity, helpless without guidance from the brain, which had its own distractions. His vision, a neon pastiche, the many glows searing his eyes (or his vision; the effect was in his head), his tongue sampling "the sound of green fizz" from a synesthesia feast. He staggers back, feeling his brain being pulled apart, examined, put back, his heart beating harder, far too hard to maintain the status quo. To avoid a fall from a distance that no longer resembled his five feet nine inches, he thrusts a hand forward through the unsuspecting air, a crapshoot effort to arrest or control the fall he knew was to come. The bathroom-cold porcelain of the sink (cold in a way unique to bathrooms and taxi drivers), distant from his cares, meets his hand awkwardly, passing his fingers over the rim but rejecting similar passage of his palm. Fingers gripping the sink as if a one-handed hold on the sink, his knees swing forward, body a bent tightrope between sink and distant legs. Sweat surrounds his hand like a glove, a warm glow feeling as if it could light the world. His toes strain, his position an absurd reminder of an Alpine skiing trip with his friend Ray, a confident forward lean, complex motions to avoid the flying rocks hidden under a casual, easy set of moves. Through a neon haze, he sees them again, but without the ability to move, and the now uncertain position of his hand, a coming rock comes towards him, enters the danger zone. Wide eyes lose their spark before he even meets the floor.

The experience of bathroom scents recurs, rote response fails to provide impetus for the broken body. It traces across the front of his skull, up, over the hairline, and down the back of his neck, and then returns to touch upon itself, stimulus touches stimulus, thought-on-thought. Instinct awakens, arms want to push their body up, but he is completely still. A dizziness reenters him, tosses his sense of self to the winds.

A sliver of light slices into the darkness, restores his sense of self. He feels the ground tilt, something pulling him up, and he is on his feet. Tears of gratitude flow from his eyes - "Mother", he thinks, in his desire to be mended. He stands, waiting to be led, a marginally interested eye halfway open, surveying the scene, as he is taken. A cool stream of air gently walks along his back, its consistancy slowly betraying his condition, telling a truth he actively disbelieves. A daydream of walking provides truth - his feet move him slowly across the room, although he can tell that somehing is wrong, something is missing. He leans forward, scenes passing before him, a door swings closed behind him. The wide eyes, shape of the mouth of a coworker make him wonder as it flickers by, barely registering in his brain. Another head, soundless, appears beside him, keeping pace exactly like a chesire cat, mouth moving in silent speech. He tilts his head at the apparition, his head curiously devoid of sensation, tells it to say something, and ears are amazed at the world of silence he lives in. Green and yellow blurs trace the blurred outlines of increasingly indistinct cubicles. A delight - each glance at yellow gives the sharp, sweet taste of fine lemonade, an easy caveat to deal with - black the taste of tar. The head fades from his side as he reaches the elevator, its carpet and guardrail reminding him of a hotel in Bonn. He shakes his head, clears the memory for the demanding task of math, as he does the numbers, wishing he had a calculator. "Business is a matter of numbers, numbers are a matter of mnemonics", he recalls, and thinking, counts down the numbers on a hopscotch field from his childhood, his friend Rebecca watching him from outside the lines, forbidden to interfere. He reaches the end of the field, trembling finger reaches out, guesses "1" in the most physical way. "Why am I shaking?", he asks himself, as the lush prison gently falls to the ground. The thought sits like gel in his mind, gently moving like a fruit punch as the carpet's shapes become clear to him. The wall cracks, spits him from the room, and he passes a painting on the way out, haunting eyes of a slave on a plantation stare at him across the centuries. He never understood that painting, but now he felt a strange kinship with it, sudden unfamiliarity. He spoke more soundless speech, "I cannot tarry, but I will return if I can", and things moved again. Red flows from his skin as fuzziness sharpens for a moment - the taste of cherry pie with thick crust fills his world, and a sudden hunger awakens in him. The sky slowly tilts, dances left, then right, then finally right in front of him, and sensation of movement stops. He feels a faint kick from behind, like an unruly horse, and small shapes from his body, not part of the regular programme. He sees a small fluttering blur nearby, near a tree, and begins to confess to it, to redeem his ears, to hear the sound of parted clouds. A warmth fills him, cheeks feel flushed as if he were in the gym. He reaches up, wipes his face, and then reaches higher, cleaning a cloud with a lazy gesture. He coughs gently, sees young clouds leave after every breath. A last, silent breath, "Which way was I going?"


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