December 29, 2019

delusion

NOTE: I wrote this back in August of 2000. I was playing with perception, dreamstate, and reality. There are a few things going on in this short, and I hope it's easy to read what is going on exactly. Apologies on how sophomoric it is - I'm a little embarrassed to even reveal it, to be honest. Anyway, I've only done some slight technical edits because I feel the story flows better with these updates. I'm posting this now because I want to update this blog. Due to personal reasons, I haven't been able to work on Scion and have no news in regards to that. So this is a bit of an apology. I'll try to post more old stuff as time goes on, too. Enjoy!



Alan squinted a little as the light above him flashed into his eyes as it turned on for the night. Much like the lights that hung over him during his operation.

Operation? Hold on...

He glanced at his watch. "Damned bus is late again," he muttered to himself. "I gotta be on time for work today, or I'm gonna get shit-canned."

He looked at his watch again, but to his horror, blood was all over his arm. Pain shot down his arm, and ended at his wrist. He looked around for help, but couldn't find anybody. Before he could scream, the pain stopped, and his arm was spotless. He touched it, hoping there would be a reaction. Nothing.
The hell?
Alan rubbed his eyes, wondering what was going on inside of his mind. Maybe General Languard didn't know that we...
General?
He collapsed to his knees, stared at the pavement, and drowned in his thoughts. Screams and gunfire filled his head. He clutched his head and started to lightly bang on the concrete with it. A strange humming replaced the screams and the gunfire. Before long, all sound ceased in his mind altogether. He opened his eyes and looked up.
Darkness.
Panic surrounded him as he reached out in hopes of finding something familiar, something that reminded him he was alive, something, anything.  He found metal. It was slightly cylindrical. It reminded him of a thin roman column, slightly organic, yet inhuman, soulless.  He could feel as its paint had peeled off in certain spots, and rust replaced it underneath. It was cold, but he embraced it, held it tight.  It was the only 'human' object he had. He would not let go, even if it meant eternity.
Something whizzed by him. And another. Then one of them hit him in the shoulder.  He fell, and lost contact with his salvation, his humanity. He tried to open his eyes.
Greyness.
It was a wierd greyness. He could touch it, manipulate it. It was as though it was...
Mud?
Alan wiped his eyes as best he could and looked out into the street. He looked around him, at his hands, and even felt his face. No mud. He looked up. He glanced back down as the light pierced his eyes.
Something struck him, it felt like someone tripped over him, and he fell prone on the ground. He turned over onto his back, and saw intense light. He was on the operating table again, the light above shone on him as though he was being probed by the light itself.  Pain filled his arm again, but this time he could not move. He was restrained onto the table. A man stood over him, scalpel in hand. Alan gurgled in desperation. He could not see the doctor's face.  The light blurred and dominated his vision. The scalpel drew closer. He tried to scream. Incoherent sounds were the only things to come out of his mouth. The scalpel touched his forehead, and pain burned into him.
He reached to to grab the man's wrist, and grabbed... nothing. He sat up, and blinked at the asphalt. He touched his forehead. There was no wound.  
What in God's name?
The humming returned. The pitch intensified higher as light flooded his view. Everywhere he looked was bright white. Even when he felt as though he closed his eyes. He reached out again. He couldn't find anything thing that provided him with comfort, and all feeling finally left his body. He was frozen, half in fear, and half in wonder as his eyesight returned. His mind absorbed what he saw, processed, identified, and translated to himself what had happened. What was happening now.
The brightness was gone.  Only the cold walls of wet earth surrounded him on all his sides. Bullets whizzed past his head, as both soldiers and earth fell into the trench. Screams of pain and gunfire filled the air. As he reached up to cover his ears, pain racked his head. He had been shot in the left shoulder, and blood ran down his arm. He had been shot in his left hand as well, but he barely felt it. He reached for his forehead. Fresh stitching lined his temple. He remembered his skin was forming gangrene because of shrapnel wounds, and a patch of his skin was replaced.  
He shivered at the thought then looked up and saw red. The sky was covered in blood, and it seemed as though the rain, too was blood. The raindrops even felt warm. They were salty on his tongue. The gun in his right hand was caked in mud, and was jammed with a bullet casing in the ejection vent. It was still warm, and smoke poured out of it. A man fell into the trench, just next to Alan. The top half of his head was shot open, blood and brain matter spilled onto the ground, making disgusting noises as they slipped out onto the mud.
Alan looked away rather quickly in horror, but the image was imprinted in his mind. He felt his innards crawling their way up his throat to escape his thoughts as well. He fought the urge to empty himself like the man next to him.  He closed his eyes and realized that he was actually somewhere else. Somewhere familiar, away from this madness. Away from death, and fear. The noise died. He opened his eyes and saw light.
Alan squinted a little as the light above him flashed into his eyes. He reached over and felt humanity once again. It was cold to the touch, much like his rifle...

Rifle?

FIN