Waking Up

It’s almost like I’m lying on an operating table. The light illuminating the room has a very peculiar glow. Almost angelic. Every object in the room seems to be blessed with a shinning aura. It’s almost beautiful. I can see everything. It’s just the living room. As always, I’d fallen asleep watching tv. It was strange, there was no grogginess when waking – I was suddenly wide eyed and quite surprised by the weird glow surrounding the room. “Off to bed”, I tell myself. I try and sit up but I can’t. I shift my gaze from the clock sitting on the wall to the table in front of me. Just a couple of beer cans. There’s no way such a meager amount of alcohol could leave me incapacitated like this. That was when I felt it. I say “it” because I can’t see whatever it is I’m feeling. There is just the sensation of something gargantuan behind the couch I lay on.

I hear the clock ticking. It’s a strange sensation as that is the only sound I can hear. It strikes me as ironic as I seem to be frozen in time and yet I can hear the seconds tick by. I can feel whatever it is behind me isn’t here for a friendly visit. My intuition into what’s behind the couch seems to gain clarity somehow, and I can feel it is an animalistic being. My initial thought is werewolf, and although I know they aren’t real, the fear has me unable to move. A tightness engulfs my chest. It’s as if someone has sat down right on top of me. My brother’s bedroom isn’t far, I try and call out to him to help me up. My shouts turn to screams as the horror of the unknown in regard to what lurks behind the couch intensifies. A washing sense of sadness passes over me as I realize my screams are falling on deaf ears. Perhaps my younger sibling heard my cries, came out of his room and saw the monstrosity that torments me and returned to the safety of his room. My heart sinks as I come to the realization that whatever it is, is going to have an easy time killing me, as I lay as helpless as a new born baby.

I can sense the Thing moving around the couch, making its way towards me. I can see a dull shadow in the corner of my eye as I strain to look as far to the side as I can without moving my head. The terror of paralysis grips me further and I can feel the tears beginning to gather. I can’t die like this. Please no. I can feel whatever It is looking at me. Waiting. For what exactly, I don’t know. With each passing moment it grows harder to breathe. I look around, desperately trying to raise my hand to drag myself off the couch. The pictures on the wall glisten in the magnificent light that basks them. The framed picture, ever so narcissistic, of me posing during a photoshoot sitting alongside the picture of my brother straddling a motorcycle on the wall. The empty couches in which friends and family have sat. I can see it all. I see it all except the thing that has driven me to the brink of madness with fear.

With what I feel are my last breaths, I make a last ditch attempt to scream for my kin. I would call for my parents but they aren’t in the country. What a shock it will be for them. My brother will walk into the living room in the morning, dressed for school and bear witness to the bits and pieces of his brother strewn care free all across the room. The bits of me that are left. I wonder what his reaction will be. I wonder what my chunks will look like. Will there be blood everywhere? Or will it collect in a pool on the couch where surely I’m to die. Hopefully it’s a quick death, although what’s killing me is the wait. The unknown. The feeling of the malicious being lingering and watching me.

At that moment, that sinking feeling of helplessness feels worse than death would. It doesn’t help that I’m slowly suffocating. A million thoughts run through my mind. Will it stop at me or go for my brother next? For the first time, I try and address the Thing. Whimpering like a pathetic mess, I implore it does what it needs to do to me and leave. As scared as I am, big brother instinct kicks in and I need to ensure he will be fine once the Thing is done with me. Of course there is no answer. The clock steadily ticks on. Counting down my last seconds presumably. My mind calms as absolute fear takes over. It’s strange. Fear leading to a sense of calmness. I’ve accepted my fate and can but hope my brother will be spared. He was always such a good kid. He still had all his life to live. The calm I felt is replaced by sadness and disappointment at the fact that in my soon to be death, I couldn’t protect my little brother. He has a pellet gun. Hopefully it’ll be enough to scare the Thing. He’ll probably hear it tear me apart and arm himself. I can but hope. And now, I wait.

I sit up, gasping for breath. Staring around the living room. I can finally breathe and move. It’s like I’ve woken up twice. The sensation is almost indescribable. It’s as if I’ve woken up from being awake. At least in this consciousness I can move. I lie back down. The sinking feeling still in my stomach. I raise my hand for good measure, to ensure I’m fully functional. The feeling of the entity behind the couch is there. I lay there, close my eyes and say a quick prayer. Asking God to protect me from whatever it is. I sit up, grip the back of the couch, and look over.

The Cost of Failure

The cigarette burnt steadily in the ashtray. The sound of the second hand progressing around the clock seemed to grow louder and louder. He stretched a shaking hand to the table next to him and clasped the whiskey bottle, already open. He filled his glass, rather than pouring a tot. Just as soon as he filled it, the glass was empty. He couldn’t have an empty glass, could he? He topped it up again. This time taking a small sip from the glass. He put the whiskey bottle, now nearly finished, on top of the folded newspaper sitting on the table. The newspaper that had driven him to drinking like this. Well the newspaper didn’t actually make him drink, what he had done had caused that. The newspaper merely made it known to the world. 
Everything he had done was to help. He wasn’t by any means poor growing up. But even at a young age, he always wanted to ensure those around him that he cared about, had enough too. Since starting his company, he had made it a point to hire family, and friends he was still close to. That way he could make sure they were looked after. He took a drag of the cigarette, staring vacantly at the blank wall. The wall that had once had countless beautiful (and expensive) works of art adorning it. The art was one of the first things they had taken away. Well his family was the first to go. But the art followed quickly. Be shifted his gaze from his naked wall to the newspaper. The article that had outed him for inside trading had ruined him. Damn Mike Springsteen. Mike had been a close friend of Dexter since University and had started working with him as soon as the company birthed. Mike had, however, decided to sell Dexter’s secret to multiple newspapers. All that for money. The very thing that drove Dexter to do it. Money to help his workers. His family. 

Dexter was close friends with James, owner of Jammie Pharmaceuticals. James had, in passing, said that they had patented medicine that helped slow down cancer. This in turn would make shares in the company go up. With this new found “knowlege”, Dexter bought an incredible number of stocks to then sell off once their value increased. Mike, being the kind of guy he was, thought Dexter did it for his own betterment – and went to the newspapers with this information. Now, after investigations and interrogations, Dexter’s stock trading company was unraveled. His assets had been ceased and he was facing criminal charges. But at least he had his whiskey. Well at least while he could afford it. He gulped down what was left in the glass and proceeded to drink from the bottle. 

He had worked his whole life to provide for those he loved and now he had nothing. Nothing to give to them, nor anything for himself. Even his bad decisions had been made with everyone else in mind. He didn’t care about money himself. He just knew everyone else cared immensely about it. What Dexter cares most about was his son. His wife could barely look at him when she stormed out, taking everything she possibly could – signaling the fact she would not be returning. He could live without his business and the fancy things. What he couldn’t live with, is life without his wife and son. A liar and a thief. That’s what his wife had called him. He would no longer leave behind a legacy of goodwill and charitable actions. Now all that would be left behind when he goes are the misdeeds and bad decisions he had made. 

On unsteady legs, Dexter Alexander stood. Bottle in hand, empty though it was. There was nothing left for him. He was a fraud. A cheat. His wife took his son to her mother once the police had come around the house. He had lost his company and all the friends that he had hired. He walked out to the balcony of his penthouse apartment. The cars on the street zoomed past, but they were merely a blur. After the sip that finished the whiskey, the cars and street became closer and closer and closer. 

~Alexander Hickey