thirteen, fourteen, fifteen o'clock by David Gerrold

Author:David Gerrold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Autoset from 'thirteen, fourteen, fifteen o'clock_for typesetting.indd'
by 'Claire' on 01/06/2023 at 16:16
Content may have been edited since
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-08-25T20:36:33+00:00

fifteen o’clock

fifteen o’clock

light squeals in red and white flashes

I’m staring up into blazing noise—and as fast as that happens, I’m floating warm above the cold table, disassociating at the same time noticing in high-resolution detail, vivid colors, every thump and grind below, a body dissected by fingers of color, the spectrum beyond the retina, the lump of meat is filled with tubes

—and nothing happens—

black holes punctuate the white night sky, all lined out in neat rows and columns, I’ve never seen this sky before, but I know the lyrics, this sky this sky this sky’s in love with you, floating alone in the whiteness

—more nothing happens—

a man, two men, a woman, I’m not sure, dressed in blue they blur, making noises with their cock-holes, serious sounds with many particles, syllables, I can hear you now, you know, they dont know, they dont notice, it’s all numbers and machines, we have brain activity, dont get cocky kid, too soon to know, cant locate any family, I dont think he has one, I hate these cases

—nothing continues to happen—

comfortable in the land of nowhere, no feelings at all, I dont care and I dont have to care, nothing and no one and nowhere at all, the machines rattle and breathe, I drift and leave

—until something awful happens—

and I start to feel again, first a nibble, then an itching, a growing grinding, becoming a shrieking screaming, a roaring scraping raging burning—a hand on something that used to be a shoulder, and then I drift again

and existence continues like this in timeless forever, cycles of here and nowhere, until one day I’m awake enough to focus and one of the voices has a face and she’s asking if I remember my name, if I know where I am, if I have anyone she can call, and a lot of other questions I dont have answers to, like can you feel anything?

she tells me not to worry, it’s too soon, she pats my arm, I cant feel it, so she pats my chest, northeast of my heart, maybe she means to comfort me, the thump of her hand goes through me like a drumbeat, like I’m only a skin stretched tight across a giant copper kettle, booming at her command, she aspires to be Tchaikovsky pounding out the 1812

on the far wall, a horrible screen natters endlessly, splattering senseless pictures and grating sounds, I cant turn it off, it shows only blonde-haired women with serious faces selling grave lies and empty promises, they all wear red, why is that? I feel assaulted

no, I dont remember and I dont care that I dont remember, this is easier, this endless soak in cloudy nothingness, it’s the drugs, I know, but nothing I recognize, never did the medicinal stuff, too clinical, too dry, too sterile and white, there’s no adventure, no magic, I’m sinking, I know it, but I dont care, I float on the gentle tide of legal boredom

Michael comes to visit. Why Michael? I remember

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