nmyworld

This is a short that I submitted to Glimmer Train. It was rejected, but I figured it would be. It’s my first submission and I must admit that it’s not as good as I thought it was when I submitted it. The story’s kind of a Philip K. Dick type reality/or not story set in the future.

“The day that ends is the day that’s real.”

Rachael’s mind wandered through the phrase every few minutes. The inscription seemed to be everywhere lately, stalking her in both reality and hallucination. But she didn’t like thinking about her hallucinations. Especially not with the random telephones ringing from various areas of the hospital and the occasional call for a doctor over the loud system–and him. She nervously rocked her leg and chewed on her rubbery knuckles, looking up every few minutes at a clock whose hands seemed to never move.

Two hours? she thought, Is it usually this long? Time was moving at an odd pace and all she could think about were the good times she had with her new lover. They only met recently, but they were already madly in love. She thought about their first meeting, their first kiss, their first bed. Frustration hit when her mind began to feel fragmented. She couldn’t remember new days or even sleeping, dreaming.

A paper clip caught her eye under a chair across the room. It had squared edges, but was still in the same timeless paper clip design. She scratched an itch on her knuckle; she always seemed to have an itch there.

A large old nurse slowly opened the large white double doors to Rachael’s left and made her way across the elongated waiting room. When she reached Rachael’s side, she squeezed into the chair next to her, fighting a battle over rather or not to commit to eye contact. Rachael looked up at the nurse whose long face seemed even more elongated by the secret she was about to reveal.

The nurse sat uneasy, thinking of the right words, glancing at Rachael whose eyes were about to burst at the news she knew was coming. “I- I’m sorry–”

Rachael’s eyes exploded and she threw her arms around the old nurse who could only hold the young stranger back, rubbing her back every few seconds.

“There was just too much damage too long, honey,” said the nurse, voice weak with grief, “the regenerator can’t replace brain cells.”

The two sat hugging in the waiting area, rocking back and forth, while the nurse fought back her hatred for this part of the job. The old lady struggled to keep Rachael from falling into hysteria, but the oncoming flood of emotions was too powerful.

Rachael began sobbing uncontrollably and stormed out of her seat, throwing the old lady to the floor, knees first.

“I want to see him!” she cried, “I want to see him, now!” She stood ready, out of her seat, oblivious to the pain she just caused the old lady.

The nurse moaned and sat on the ground, rubbing her knees with her palms. “I-we can’t, yet–just sit down hun, let me get you a–hey!”

Rachael started off toward the double doors from which the nurse entered. Her progress was stopped when two towering orderlies burst through another door to Rachael’s side. The two huge men jumped in front of her, ready to take action if needed. One was noticeably shorter than the other, but just as muscular and sporting an old-style goatee.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to calm down, please,” said the smaller man.

Rachael made a quick lunge between the men to get one last glimpse of her lover. The larger orderly grabbed her shoulder. In a flash, she turned, grabbed his arm and stabbed her fingernails through the man’s wrist. The huge man fell to the floor wincing in agony.

The other orderly watched his larger coworker collapse and looked up at the young lady whose eyes had turned from despair to an unearthly rage. He put up his hands in defeat–he wasn’t going to make the same mistake as his partner. As she walked past him, he lunged at her with all of his might, but was surprised to find that she was no longer in the space he was aiming. The man slammed to the ground hard and slid into the row of chairs lining the room.

Rachael stood up, watching the man slide into the chairs. She turned to the large white double doors and began toward them when she felt something press against her leg–then there was nothing.

***

She looked up at the concrete ceiling staring back at her. Visions were coming in slow and one or two blurry scenes at a time until she could finally see somewhat clearly. The room was tinted a urine yellow due to the cheap bulb in the corner and had only a rusty, windowless door. A drain in the center of the room caught the tears that dripped from her cheek in her unconsciousness.

How can a hospital keep such a dirty holding room? she thought.

On the room’s ceiling, she noticed the writing, “The day that ends is the day that’s real.” She thought about the graffiti, her life, everything: the last time she got in her night gown, the last time she woke up with bed hair, the last time she dreamed–she never dreamed. She doesn’t remember doing any of that.

The large rusty door facing Rachael’s feet slowly unlocked and opened, allowing a blinding white light to invade the room. Rachael sat up, propping herself up by her elbows and peered directly into the light, her eyes adjusting without a flinch. A man emerged through the light dressed in an expensive suit, carrying a briefcase. Rachael lay back on the ground and tried to remember the mornings, the nights, the late breakfasts, him.

The man stopped at her feet and looked down at her face.

“Rachael Gasts,” said the man–his voice was deep, experienced, and slow. “I won’t waste your cycles on explanation, so I’ll just leave you with these.” The man walked around to Rachael’s head, looking down at her face as she stared at the writing on the ceiling. He took the briefcase into both hands and poured it’s contents onto the floor next to Rachael’s head. Then, he turned and began heading toward the door. When he disappeared into the white light, he muttered a faint statement not meant for her to hear: “How many more?” The door closed behind him.

Rachael sat up and inspected the items around her head. A nail file, a piece of paper with something printed on it, a pen, a self defense taser, and a paper clip. She scratched an itch on her knuckle. Without even thinking, she arranged the items in a line, eyes moving only to make sure they were perfectly straight. When she was finished, she blinked the tears away from her eyes–the grief was still near.

Looking down, she grabbed the nail file and wondered why she was given such a tool–it could still be used as a weapon despite the cell’s lack of bars. She picked up the file and inspected it, noticing that one of her fingernails was damaged in her fight with the orderlies. She grabbed the file with her other hand and began filing the blood-stained nail–only, it didn’t act like a fingernail. Instead of an organic scratching sound, the file made a high-pitched metal on metal scrape that shot a chill down her back.

She threw the file to the ground, clenching her fist and biting her lip. Her hand shook involuntarily as she looked down at the piece of paper. What was written on the paper was clearly visible.

“The girl who was not
Will get her own day to feel
Only in the end”

Rachael looked up from the sheet of paper at the concrete wall staring back at her. Slowly, the words, “The day that ends is the day that’s real,” appeared in her own handwriting on the wall, followed by a copy of it next to the original, then another beside it, and another. Panic raced through her eyes as she glanced around the room, seeing that the words had completely engulfed every wall.

Her hallucinations were never this vivid.

She grabbed her head, closed her eyes and put her head down, rocking nervously, singing:

“Big summer wonder wall
Take me down to circus
Let me laugh, be merry
‘Till cotton candy skies”

Her lover’s favorite lyric helped calm her fears, but her hysterical crying and singing was only silenced when she heard his voice singing along with her.

She stopped singing and threw her head up, eyes anxious to see his face again. But all she saw was a dramatically different room. Though this time, she wasn’t struck with panic, just a sense of calm upon seeing the new room. The walls were now spotless and the only fixture to be seen other than the new bright white light in the corner was a mirror on the wall, sitting level, in front of her. She stared into the mirror at herself, trying to wish away her emotions and hallucinations by recognizing them in the mirror.

She looked into the reflection of her eyes and saw memories flowing from them. Memories of the day, the night, him. She wished she could remember waking up next to him, but she was never good at remembering moments like that. She felt betrayed by her own mind.

When she wiped her tears from her face and looked down at the paper again, the shine of the pen caught her eye. She picked up the object, noticing how cold and expensive it felt in her hands. It soothed her and reminded her of the pen she bought him on their anniversary; she couldn’t remember much from that day.

Frustrated, she dropped the pen and snatched up the taser. It had a cheap black plastic cover and rattled when she tilted it. The weapon had seen some use.

Then, she was back in the hospital. Never before had she experienced a flashback, but never did she think they would be so vivid. The colors, the faces, the sounds; all as if being played back in her mind. She could see herself crying on the old nurse’s shoulder, her fingers slicing through the large orderly’s wrist, and the smaller orderly crashing into the row of chairs. But she could also see the larger orderly on the ground, holding something small and black. pressing it against her leg–and then, nothing. It was the taser.

And that was it. It hit her so hard that she dropped the taser. It seemed to drop an inches an hour as it fell the short distance to the ground. She wiped her eyes clean with a slight laugh and set them straight in front of her. A smile formed on her lips and she could no longer feel sadness, anger, or curiosity–she already knew what was to be known.

Her eyes went down to the sheet of paper and — as if without thinking — she began writing. When she finished, she grabbed the paper with her other hand and folded it with her fist.

With her other hand, she took up the paper clip and felt the itch she had been scratching on her knuckle. She straightened one end of the clip and began to put it into the hole on her knuckle that had bothered her all this time–she hesitated, trying to conjure up memories, faces, moments. She could find the memories easier to conjure, now. They were somewhat organized, coherent. Closing her eyes, Rachael thrust the clip into the tiny hole on her knuckle. Her body tensed, the paper dropping from her hand:

“RG212 had her day.”

Rachael was lifeless, eyes flickering white and black. After a few moments, her eyes returned to normalcy and she stood up with a renewed sense of urgency, sporting a perfect posture, staring miles away into nothing.

The door to the urine-tinted concrete room opened, allowing the same white light to pour in, followed by a short man in a white knee-length laboratory coat.

“Good morning,” said the man. He talked fast but in a kind tone. The man walked around her, inspecting her, jotting down a few notes, observing the wear on her chassis.

“Rachael Gasts,” she said. No emotion.

“Yes, Rachael. Good. I’m glad we could get you subdued without much more damage,” said the man. “Run diagnostics for me, please, will you, babe?”