Glisterspeck
Frozen sea axe smith
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2007
- Messages
- 489
This is the opening to Glisterspeck 7. I've had the idea for many, many years, but only found a way to tell the story in the last few months. It eventually turns sic-fi, I suppose. Maybe more alternative history, as it is very near future.
I'd like to know all the usual things: does it hook, would you read on, and so on. All other feedback and critique is, as always, welcome.
_____________________________________________
Emma came to see me today. I don't remember her coming, but Dr Thorne said she was here, before my treatment. I'd never take his word for it, of course, but there's proof. A pair of plaid pajamas, folded neatly on the bed, in the middle of the room. I'd left them in a mound of clothes piled against my hamper. Anyone but Emma would have brought a clean pair from my dresser, but these are her favorite. The top that she wears whenever she stays over.
I pick them up and hold them over my face. Breathe in. They smell like her. She washed them at her place, with her detergent. Her fabric softener. I drop the pajamas against the bed. If it weren't for the rickety hospital bed, this room might pass for a cheap hotel. There's even a bible in the nightstand. No doors or drawers though. No place to hide something. The top of the tall cabinet beside the bed is sloped so anything put up there would slide off. I pull my t-shirt over my head and toss it into the cabinet. Pull back the covers and sit on the bed. Push my track pants down over my knees.
Someone cut the drawstrings from the pajama pants. Did they have Emma do that before she brought them? I hope not. I hope they cut the strings out themselves. I pull the pajamas up over my thighs and swing my legs under the covers. I try to sleep, but instead think of Emma, sitting alone, scissors in hand, most likely crying, realizing why I'm not allowed to have shoelaces or belts or drawstrings.
There's another treatment this afternoon. Dr Thorne says the treatments cause the memory loss. A common side effect of shock treatment. I know, I know, they already tried to correct me. Electroconvulsive therapy, they call it, but those words don't click in my mind. Every time Dr Thorne talks about the treatments, I hear the Ramones' song. Gimme gimme shock treatment. Every time, it makes me smile. Few things make me smile in here. Fewer things out there.
I push up off the bed and cross to the window. They've made the bars blend in with the window frame. Like the grilles that cover first floor windows in half-gentrified neighborhoods. Do they have neighborhoods like that out here in the burbs? I tap my fingers against the glass. Plexiglass. At least the hospital isn't so far away that I can't see the city. A line of souvenir skyscrapers on the horizon. Sears Tower taller than all the rest. The view from my apartment on the North Side is much better. From Emma's in the West Loop, better still.
We used to lay, each in our own bed, and watch the city lights. The colors atop Chicago's skyscrapers are always changing. We'd try to guess what the lights meant. Text each other guesses until one of us drifted off to sleep. Red, white, and blue -- too easy. Green for Saint Patty's Day. What I thought was purple turned out to be pink. Emma had to look it up on her phone. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
I wish I had a phone in here. Wish I could text Emma. Send her all those silly, kissing smilies. Call her. Tell her that I love her, and I don't know why I never told her so before. And that I'll be okay. At least, that's what they're telling me. That I'm getting better, that I'll be okay.
"Did you tell them to show me that book?"
I want to scream the words, but whatever pills they've given me won't allow it. They haven't stopped me from trembling, though.
"No," says Dr Thorne. He sits across the table from me in the lunch room. His fingers pluck at his beard. "It was the book then?"
I don't answer. I don't trust him. Don't trust any of them.
"Robert told me that you asked to see the book."
I scratch my forearm. My skin itches. All of it.
"You had quite a strong reaction, James, to whatever it was you saw."
Dr Thorne drops his hand from his beard. He reaches under the table. Pulls out the book. The guest registry. I had asked to see it because I didn't trust them. I wanted proof. Proof that Emma had visited after my treatment.
"I didn't break anything. Didn't hurt anybody."
"No." Dr Thorne says, placing the book at the end of the table. "But I think something you saw in the registry may have hurt you. Something caused you to react. We can agree it wasn't a positive reaction, yes?"
I look away. The fluorescent light behind the door of the coke machine in the corner flickers.
"It was a response," I say. "That's got to count for something."
Dr Thorne smiles. He taps his finger against his chin.
"It's something, yes." He pauses, but keeps tapping his chin. "Do you remember what you saw?"
I try to shake my head no, but can't stop waggling it back and forth. Dr Thorne motions toward the door, and Judy, one of the night attendants, enters the room. She sits at the end of the table, near the book. Smiles weakly. Dr Thorne nods at her, and she places a hand on the book.
"Do you think you're ready to look again, James," he says, "if we're here to help you?"
Tears sting my eyes, but my wobbling head slows. My body rocks forward, and I shake my head yes. Judy slides the book down to Dr Thorne. The doctor opens it. He flips through the pages. Turns them so I can see.
The page is full of names I don't know, the date of their visit, and the manner of the visitor's relationship to the patient. I shudder and smile. At the bottom of the page, Emma Robinson. The date, my second day here, five days ago. Relationship, girlfriend. Dr Thorne turns the page. Four times Emma's name is listed on the next page, the last date being the day she brought the pajamas. He turns the page again. Even before it falls, I remember. I squeeze my eyes shut, but still I see it. Emma Robinson. Today's date. Friend. Just, friend.
I'd like to know all the usual things: does it hook, would you read on, and so on. All other feedback and critique is, as always, welcome.
_____________________________________________
Emma came to see me today. I don't remember her coming, but Dr Thorne said she was here, before my treatment. I'd never take his word for it, of course, but there's proof. A pair of plaid pajamas, folded neatly on the bed, in the middle of the room. I'd left them in a mound of clothes piled against my hamper. Anyone but Emma would have brought a clean pair from my dresser, but these are her favorite. The top that she wears whenever she stays over.
I pick them up and hold them over my face. Breathe in. They smell like her. She washed them at her place, with her detergent. Her fabric softener. I drop the pajamas against the bed. If it weren't for the rickety hospital bed, this room might pass for a cheap hotel. There's even a bible in the nightstand. No doors or drawers though. No place to hide something. The top of the tall cabinet beside the bed is sloped so anything put up there would slide off. I pull my t-shirt over my head and toss it into the cabinet. Pull back the covers and sit on the bed. Push my track pants down over my knees.
Someone cut the drawstrings from the pajama pants. Did they have Emma do that before she brought them? I hope not. I hope they cut the strings out themselves. I pull the pajamas up over my thighs and swing my legs under the covers. I try to sleep, but instead think of Emma, sitting alone, scissors in hand, most likely crying, realizing why I'm not allowed to have shoelaces or belts or drawstrings.
***
There's another treatment this afternoon. Dr Thorne says the treatments cause the memory loss. A common side effect of shock treatment. I know, I know, they already tried to correct me. Electroconvulsive therapy, they call it, but those words don't click in my mind. Every time Dr Thorne talks about the treatments, I hear the Ramones' song. Gimme gimme shock treatment. Every time, it makes me smile. Few things make me smile in here. Fewer things out there.
I push up off the bed and cross to the window. They've made the bars blend in with the window frame. Like the grilles that cover first floor windows in half-gentrified neighborhoods. Do they have neighborhoods like that out here in the burbs? I tap my fingers against the glass. Plexiglass. At least the hospital isn't so far away that I can't see the city. A line of souvenir skyscrapers on the horizon. Sears Tower taller than all the rest. The view from my apartment on the North Side is much better. From Emma's in the West Loop, better still.
We used to lay, each in our own bed, and watch the city lights. The colors atop Chicago's skyscrapers are always changing. We'd try to guess what the lights meant. Text each other guesses until one of us drifted off to sleep. Red, white, and blue -- too easy. Green for Saint Patty's Day. What I thought was purple turned out to be pink. Emma had to look it up on her phone. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
I wish I had a phone in here. Wish I could text Emma. Send her all those silly, kissing smilies. Call her. Tell her that I love her, and I don't know why I never told her so before. And that I'll be okay. At least, that's what they're telling me. That I'm getting better, that I'll be okay.
***
"Did you tell them to show me that book?"
I want to scream the words, but whatever pills they've given me won't allow it. They haven't stopped me from trembling, though.
"No," says Dr Thorne. He sits across the table from me in the lunch room. His fingers pluck at his beard. "It was the book then?"
I don't answer. I don't trust him. Don't trust any of them.
"Robert told me that you asked to see the book."
I scratch my forearm. My skin itches. All of it.
"You had quite a strong reaction, James, to whatever it was you saw."
Dr Thorne drops his hand from his beard. He reaches under the table. Pulls out the book. The guest registry. I had asked to see it because I didn't trust them. I wanted proof. Proof that Emma had visited after my treatment.
"I didn't break anything. Didn't hurt anybody."
"No." Dr Thorne says, placing the book at the end of the table. "But I think something you saw in the registry may have hurt you. Something caused you to react. We can agree it wasn't a positive reaction, yes?"
I look away. The fluorescent light behind the door of the coke machine in the corner flickers.
"It was a response," I say. "That's got to count for something."
Dr Thorne smiles. He taps his finger against his chin.
"It's something, yes." He pauses, but keeps tapping his chin. "Do you remember what you saw?"
I try to shake my head no, but can't stop waggling it back and forth. Dr Thorne motions toward the door, and Judy, one of the night attendants, enters the room. She sits at the end of the table, near the book. Smiles weakly. Dr Thorne nods at her, and she places a hand on the book.
"Do you think you're ready to look again, James," he says, "if we're here to help you?"
Tears sting my eyes, but my wobbling head slows. My body rocks forward, and I shake my head yes. Judy slides the book down to Dr Thorne. The doctor opens it. He flips through the pages. Turns them so I can see.
The page is full of names I don't know, the date of their visit, and the manner of the visitor's relationship to the patient. I shudder and smile. At the bottom of the page, Emma Robinson. The date, my second day here, five days ago. Relationship, girlfriend. Dr Thorne turns the page. Four times Emma's name is listed on the next page, the last date being the day she brought the pajamas. He turns the page again. Even before it falls, I remember. I squeeze my eyes shut, but still I see it. Emma Robinson. Today's date. Friend. Just, friend.
