u/BusAlternative3334

Content Warning: reference to car accidents and suicide.

(Thank you for reading, please give feedback, I want to get better! Small edits as always for spelling, grammar and flow. tldr I changed the flair a few times, I'm still new to posting my writing for folks to read. I'm really sorry, I'm a mess and don't want to waste anyone's time. Again thank you for reading!)

When I first noticed, it was already far too late. A college friend had invited me over for beer and we were talking about which behemoths of fiction we desperately wished could be adapted to film, the likes of which included The Knight of the Swords, Dune, Star Wars, and Star Trek. Hell, even a remake of the Lord of the Rings, though neither of us would dare admit to slandering the original, it was a masterpiece of animation. I don’t feel shame anymore, but at that time I was ashamed to admit that I’d even settle for comic book adaptations from DC, Dark Horse or Marvel.

We could both fill an air balloon with our hot breath so when he gave me time to rant, I filled the space. I gulped beer and described Corum’s meta-cultural relation to Vecna and vented about how bullshit the Bene Gesserit’s Genestealing was, they couldn’t win a war on their own, let alone against The Emperor of Humanity.

I knew he had strong opinions himself, but when I harped on how the gene manipulation archetype was a crutch for weak writers, even in the context of a fantasy setting, I was surprised at the lack of rebuttal. I had insulted his favorite Warhammer Chapter, and he offered nothing in response? When I looked over at him he was leaning back in his chair smiling, unmoving. Eventually he came out of it and I brushed it aside because I was fucking scared.

From that visit with Charles, it only got worse. Months passed and I couldn’t move forward without attempting to reconcile what I had seen. Finding a therapist that I liked was the most useful decision I’ve made so far.

I still talk with my therapist, but it’s more to cosplay a normal person, to make sure I can keep up the act in case this all ends. I speak about my ‘job, plans and relationships.’ The hour passes, I smile and end the call.

I have to meet with my psychiatrist every three months, in person. I’m stupid and contemplative so I don’t really have to pretend. A freeze during these appointments is actually nice, it gives me an extra 10, sometimes 20 minutes to think, free-of-charge, all while gathering my thoughts and waiting for her to refill my anxiety meds.

My real problem is that wherever I go there’s a chance that the people around me will black out. Not falling over or passing out, just going blank, completely utterly blank. I struggle to find the right words. It’s more than them appearing to fall unconscious. They completely freeze. It doesn’t matter what position they’re in, if they’re consuming food or drink, or even defying gravity.

 I’ve seen a kid kickflip and left levitating off the ground for over a minute, board and all. I’ve seen someone at the gym holding a bench press at the peak of the concentric phase rock solid for 7 minutes, veins all bulged-out, sweat pooled like marbles on their brow. No one around me notices, ever. I’ve attempted to grab people by the collar, tried to push their face against one of the frozen people, only for them to shove me away like I was radioactive. I can move them when they’re frozen, but it takes an immense effort so I usually don’t bother anymore.

In the past it seemed to affect individual people or objects and the events were widely separated. I’m 47 now and I think it's been changing all along, but the shift was too slow for me to realize. It’s been growing, getting complacent. Maybe less discerning is a better way to put it, like it’s becoming a bubble around me instead of picking and choosing.

A freeze has never lasted less than 30 seconds or more than 10 minutes. Why round numbers? Why these numbers? Will there ever be a freeze that doesn’t end? If so, would the bubble still follow me? And why amongst all my other devices does my car still work? I can still technically drive whenever, wherever I want. How does the combustion engine work when my cigarette lighter doesn’t? Why? How does the rest of the world continue to function if small pockets in fuckoff New York are dancing to the tune of a different metronome? Eventually the effects here should spill over somewhere, right? Am I simply the butt of a cosmic joke?

The worst case by far up to this point was when I caused the car accident near the then-new Franklin-Boem Chemical factory. This was early on after my college years so at the time I didn’t know as much about my circumstances, I just thought I was losing my mind, that I might be developing a prion disease or severe case of schizophrenia. I suppose you could say it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel responsible because now I do know and that changes everything. I’ve seen outside the cave and witnessed a world not composed of dancing shadows cast by a paltry bonfire. The fact blinds me as I know it’s stuck to ME and that if I hadn’t been on the highway that night, she would still be alive.

Like a diabetic who needs to consider their blood-glucose levels before getting behind the wheel of a car and turning the key, I treat this phenomenon like a condition that I must account for in everything that I do from now on.

It was a Saturday evening, a little after 9PM, and I was heading home after a long shift with OT. It was raining that night too. I had a couple of minutes until I hit my Exit when I noticed a young blonde woman driving in a Honda on my left, her face illuminated by a cigarette held pursed between her lips.

‘Idiot, that’ll kill you.’ I thought. She happened to turn and look over at me. She smiled. The way the warm colors from the cigarette light framed her face against the cool shades of her surroundings made her look like a pop art portrait, so different compared to the shattered state in which I would find her.

Then I had passed her car, way, way too fast. The rain stopped, and I realized that her car had stopped too.

In my rearview I watched an F150 rear end her small silver Honda, sending both vehicles ping-ponging against the right-side shoulder. I swerved over on to the shoulder myself, leaving my car and dialing 911 as I ran towards the accident.

I noticed that another car had stopped near the F150. A man’s wife was on the phone while he consoled the sobbing passengers of the totaled truck. I couldn’t pick up on their words. Their voices stopped and started unnaturally as I approached and then passed their location on the shoulder, I figured that my adrenaline was contorting my senses.

I was at the Honda now and by the looks of the wreckage, she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt; The car was turned around, facing against traffic and there was a hole in the windshield. I could see that the driver was a lump about twenty feet ahead, lying in a pile of debris and dangerously close to the adjacent lane.

She didn’t blink, breathe, or fidget. She was frozen, on her left side, in a sitting position, as if still settled comfortably in the driver’s seat. I bent down and pushed her to the shoulder. She was maybe 5’2” but I felt like I was pushing hundreds of pounds of sand. I’m grateful for the lack of traffic that night, I wouldn’t have attempted if the roads were busy. One of her legs was bent upwards at the knee. Her arms were extended, parts of a steering wheel cover still gripped between clenched fists. Scraping through the battered windshield and along the asphalt had peeled back a good portion of her scalp. One of her eyes had popped from the socket and hung by a thin red strip against her cheek. With what I could recognize of her face, she was smiling just as I had seen her before the accident.

I felt the pitter-patter of rain and registered the voice of the 911 operator, who was inquiring about the nature of my emergency. I don’t remember what I had said, I just couldn’t stop looking at the vein in the woman’s neck.

I’ll never forget the sight. At the precise moment the sky reopened for me, the exact moment that the operator’s voice rang out ‘911, what’s your emergency?’, I could see a thick vein in the woman’s neck begin to throb; from no pulse at all to suddenly there was a pulse, like someone had just hit ‘Play’ and her body was now dealing with the backlash of the last 5 minutes all at once.

I must have managed to say something as I do remember the operator instructing me to check for vitals. After vomiting, I numbly complied. I tried to find that vein.

She let out a wail and began fidgeting in the glass. Her scream snapped something in me; wet and thick, with vocal cords forcing a ragged voice past new obstructions of anatomy which weren't present mere moments prior.

I don’t drive now. I don’t leave my house save to visit the 24-hour convenience store. I don’t pay for anything. I just wait for a freeze and take what I need. I don’t fuck, I don’t read, I don’t watch movies, I don’t dance anymore, I don’t exercise, I don’t call anyone, I don’t do anything but drink, piss, shit, eat, sleep and watch videos on the internet. Mostly just the first and last.

I stay awake as long as the alcohol allows and watch endless hours of livestreams. I don’t care about the subject matter or the language, all I do is watch and wait. I’m watching to see if I can catch the freeze in other people.

I scrape at rock bottom for enough courage to put an end to everything, but by the time I think I’ve found it I’ve blacked out myself the old-fashioned way. When I wake up I decide to give another day a try and scour the internet for more livestreams. I need to know. For now, my curiosity outweighs my misery.

 Whatver you do, please stay away from Harriman NY. There’s something broken here.

(I've never been a good writer, but I'm getting into it for the challenge/fun of it. This is a very short story I wrote, I hope it's not too cringe. 😄)

The red light on my security camera pulsed. There was enough movement in my room last night to have triggered the auto-capture feature.

I connected the USB-C from the camera to my laptop. A small sprite danced in circles across the screen while the app was loading. An ache began to flare up at the base of my neck, connecting inexorably to a space deep behind my eyes. The connection was complete. After a few moments the contents were ready to view.

A black pop-up window engulfed my screen. My reflection peered back haggard. Heavy bags under eye, disheveled hair. I needed a shower badly, but I didn’t want to risk falling again. Thoughts of bouncing my skull against the tile, to be discovered naked in cold water, bloated grey flotsam. Someone else’s mess to clean up. No thanks. I’ll wait, drink.

I minimized the window, then expanded it, back and forth, pulsing. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, swallowing half of it in a gulp, wiping splatter from stubble and chin.

Now that I might have some kind of proof I’m scared to take the next step. When I hit play, I’ll know if I’m losing my mind like dad did, or if there is something very wrong with this apartment.

 

I woke up hungover. Laptop dead. Beer bottles scattered like bowling pins. I cleaned up, took a handful of acetaminophen tablets and waited.

I thought about what the inside of my body must look like if splayed out on a scan, imagined what kind of havoc the medicine and chronic drinking was doing. I’d never been a drinker; I had a good start with 42 years sober. The compulsion began three years ago in tandem with the throbbing. That’s how it started with dad after all. Was it a gift from the Y chromosome? I guess I always had it in me. I haven’t found any answers at the bottom of the bottle, but the haze is nice. I’m not interested in carrying any fucking cross. I just want to feel okay, and if that means numb and dull, better than conscious and in pain.

 

Houston, one of my cats, clawed at the couch and stretched, popping up next to me. He was my oldest cat, a real survivor, sleek and black, big paws. He found us after Harvey, wouldn’t leave our porch. I figured that he had paid his dues by surviving that storm. He chose us and there wasn’t anything we could say but come on in.

Lemos was Bianca’s. She didn’t want to take her after we split, now she’s my little meatball, her loss. She was bundled up on the windowsill, a calico without a care in the world. I respected her space, she expressed affection on her terms.

Cud was the last, the youngest, absolute cuddle-bug but that’s not how he got his name. It was the constant slimy orange hairballs. Could probably hear him cleaning himself through a foot of concrete.

He followed Houston up onto the couch. They were both staring at each other, all airplane ears and tension waiting for the other to make a move. After a quick scuffle Houston took his place next to me.

It’s been about twenty minutes. No pain. Finally. I took a shower. God it feels good to be clean.

 

It was cold today. The grocery store was chaos, but a clear head, it’s euphoric!

The only good thing about near-constant throbbing migraines is how when they momentarily cease it helps me to appreciate how wonderful not being in pain really is. There’s nothing like finally noticing you don’t have a migraine, and not being hungover is better than being drunk. The selection of beer here is good.

I may be a masochist.

 

I made some noodles, tossed them in soy sauce, chopped scallions, oil and sesame seeds.

My head started to throb. I grabbed a beer, not yet cold enough, but it does the job. I don’t know why, but I always drink them too fast when they’re warm.

I forgot to purchase more Tylenol. By the time I realized I was too drunk to drive to the store, but the corner store should still be open. I brushed my teeth and cleaned my face. There was already a layer of sweat on my brow. I put on my jacket, hat, boots, gloves. I took a swig and popped a few pieces of gum into my mouth before heading out.

 

Thankfully it wasn’t windy. I strolled down the street booze-warm as puffy white snowflakes drifted around me. They scattered amongst frozen branches illuminated white hot by streetlight. A dog barked from behind a tall fence. What a miserable existence, to have to shit and piss in this ice and snow. The houses bulged with warm yellow and orange light, made me think of Christmas. It was quiet, I loved that about winter.

 

Bermann’s was still open, the kid at the counter carded me. He was new and I imagine didn’t want to mess up what was probably his first job. Remember what it was like getting your first paycheck? Just don’t start drinking kid. I could hear someone in the back stacking boxes. I wrenched off a glove and reached into a side pocket for my wallet. The contents spilled out. Loose change and a couple of old receipts. At the sound, an older man peered out from a back door. ‘We’re closing up!’

I put the silver coins back into another pocket and set the pennies into a little plastic jar on the counter. ‘Those aren’t getting made any more you know? Could be worth something eventually.’ I don’t think I was slurring, but I shut up anyway, stupid, gave the kid my ID.

He leaned over the counter, looking over a small slip of paper.

He smiled, “It fell out. Cougar, nice.’ He handed it back to me as he bagged the paper-wrapped pints and pills. A photograph?

The streetlamp outside hummed. I cracked open a beer and took a gulp, trying to make sense of the photo of my mom. She was standing in front of an old apartment building, there’s no mistake, it was the Hampshire Housing Unit. The photo was sun-worn, but the details were uncannily crisp. She was standing next to our old Honda, parked right outside the front office, looking over her shoulder, hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. Smiling, maybe mid to late forties, beautiful. The Franklin-Boem Factory was in the background, belching out puffy black clouds. That place had been levelled before we ever moved into the HHU. Where did this photo come from? Why wasn’t I in it and where was dad? Who took this picture and how the fuck am I just now discovering it?

A whisper rang out like church bells.

‘Tyler’.

I dropped my beer as I whipped around. The pint hissed and sizzled as it foamed its amber guts over the white snow.

Hair on stilts, heart crashing against bone, ears ringing, gong-gong-gong! I looked around, down the street, at the porches of nearby houses, into the dark mouths of sewage drains, the packed snow at the ends of driveways, any one of which could be hiding a person. Nothing. I picked up what remained and scurried home.

 

I was still in my jacket and boots when the faint pressure woke me up. Cud found his way next to me. He flipped his tail back and forth. It smacked lightly against my hand as he began to paw at my face. Their food bowl must be empty.

 

I chased the Tylenol capsules with a swig of beer. Nausea forced up the little contents of my stomach across the crinkly plastic Bermann’s bag, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

 The weekend had come and gone. I had to work.

Thankfully I was remote, IT. My shift was a blur. So many unplug-it-plug-it-back-in tickets, a couple password resets, system updates and creating other tickets for folks to go onsite for a hardware swap. All day my eyes tracked over to my personal laptop. Now that I was clocked in and didn’t have time to review the security camera file, it’s all I wanted to do. Tonight was the night.

 

There were seven nested files. Seven instances where the device was triggered to record before it returned to standby. I clicked play. There was a faint static hum. The audio on this thing wasn’t spectacular but the picture was clear enough.

The view was from above my bed frame; taking in the bulk of my bedroom.

The first recording was of Cud approaching the bed. He jumped up and cuddled next to Houston. It’s so funny how they can scrap with each other during the day and then cuddle at night.

For the second I didn’t notice much. I think maybe I could see Lemos in a pile of clothes moving around near my closet?

The third was definitely Lemos getting up out of my hamper, stretching and settling back down. She was in a different position than in the last recording. Might just be too dark for the camera to pick up everything.

The fourth was Lemos approaching the bed and jumping up. She sat on my chest. I didn’t know she cuddled with me at night. It was nice to see. After a few moments I shrugged and she lept off. Pawing at the window curtain behind be, she eventually settled down on a pillow.

The fifth was Cud stretching while Houston leaned back, ready to swat. Cud moved over to me and got into his spot on my side nestled against my arm.

The sixth was a nothing-burger. Didn’t hear or see anything noticeable. Maybe it picked up on a sound outside? Enough to trigger the recording but not enough to keep it from going into its power-saving mode?

The seventh was Lemos approaching the closet and then finally returning to her comfy spot in my hamper. Cud was still next to me flapping his tail back and forth lazily. I stirred but didn’t wake up.

Then my eye was drawn to movement by the door. From the left Houston bounded in, jumped onto the bed and… Cud followed him.

What?

I rewound the file and looked closely at Cud next to me.

My hand was resting on the lump of his back, his tail swinging back and forth, I had thought.

Rewatching though, that wasn’t Cud. I paused the recording.

My hand rested on a bulb of matted hair. Play. My fingers unknowingly stupidly plucked at the strands. The head was jostling back and forth causing a long-braided ponytail to whip against me.

I rewound, pressed play. Thunk, thunk.

The cats entered the room.

It squirmed from my side, gaunt limbs extending flush from the side of my mattress, curling like a dying spider until it completely submerged itself under my bed.

The audio picked up a smart smacking sound from wet, puckered lips.

End of recording.