Syndrome by J Sharpe

Author:J Sharpe [Sharpe, J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-25T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

I wake up lying on linoleum flooring. No, wait. That's not entirely true, or I no longer believe it to be so. I wake up to find myself yet again in a different world, in yet another different nightmare. Until proven otherwise, even though I haven't got a clue how I should know, I assume everything to be part of a dream.

I've got a headache. Like the ones you have after going out for too long. For a minute I hope I've truly woken up but immediately push away the thought. I'm afraid to hope.

With a hand pressed to my temple I slowly push myself up until I'm in a sitting position.

Where am I?

I recognize the space. The stainless-steel counter, the small kitchen. The oven, the frying pan.

Lights shine brightly into my eyes. Burned flies, now reduced to nothing more than crispy shells, lying behind clear plastic covering the fluorescent lamp. My muscles ache and it feels like I haven't used them in days. My stomach grumbles. Attempting to settle it down I rub it. Instantly a flash of pain surges through me. I cringe and look down. I'm wearing a shirt but the once white color has changed into a sickening, dried reddish-brown palette, like a grim painting. The same goes for my pair of jeans.

Even the floor is covered in blood. It stands out against the shining white tiles. A bit further away reflects the butcher's knife the light of the fluorescent light.

My body doesn't just feel painful and stiff, but it also feels strange, in a way I can't really describe. It's like my body is no longer just my body.

I remember what Jon told me. I'm not just in your head. Far from it.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Carefully I lift up my shirt. My hands are shaking. Blood drips from the cut in my stomach. I gently touch the wound and wince as pain seers through me.

Looks like you've been stabbed, son.

Like I've been deaf until that moment, I feel a soft plop in my eardrums. What follows are noisy voices, unintelligible conversations. Laughter followed by footsteps.

A swinging door opens. The footsteps stop abruptly. A familiar voice: ‘Jeez.’

I keep my hand to my stomach and look up, into the face of Louis Enrico. With his unkempt and bearded face, full of wrinkles and blackheads, he looks rather wild. People who cross him in the street usually give him a wide berth as they walk by. Normally his eyes show you who the man really is. Soft, honest. Now they show fear and incomprehension. Questions loom in his eyes. Emotions struggle for the upper hand: fear, anger, pity. The latter wins. Hands outstretched he approaches me. ‘Peter, what have you done?’

‘No…’ I stammer.

He kneels down next to me and goes with his hands through his long hair. ‘I knew you had it tough, with everything that's been happening to you lately but this…’ he pushes away my hands to inspect the wound and sighs. ‘You'll need stitches.

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