Cracked Looking Glass

All Jerry could hear were the hisses and beeps that came from the life support machines on the other side of the wall, so it surprised him when Dr. Kleiner suddenly spoke. “How is she doing?”

“Dr. Kleiner!” Jerry snapped to attention, pulling his feet off the desk. “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s alright, Jerry. I know this assignment is boring.” She looked through the glass, inlaid with fine wire mesh, and watched the comatose patient. “How is she doing?”

“Well, her vitals are normal and all. No spikes, but there were the occasional dips. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. It’s like she, well, it’s like she’s missing her head.”

“In a sense she is.” She sighed. “Kind of fitting, don’t you think?”

The patient showed no signs of trauma. Except for her ghostly pink lips she appeared to only be sleeping and likely to wake up refreshed at any moment. This made the tubes and nodes connected to her seem very unnecessary. Jerry and the other nurses assigned to her had learned to watch by listening, as actually watching manifested in them a subtle madness that would grow exponentially if allowed. Dr. Kleiner, however, seemed immune.

“It really is a shame. So full of life and yet confined to a tiny little room.” Dr. Kleiner bit her thumb and furrowed her brow “…the harsh light doesn’t do her any favors either.”

“I dunno, doctor. She looks fine to me.” Jerry said, typing away at the keyboard, unaware of the look she gave him.

“You think she’s pretty.”

“Well yeah. Everybody does, don’t they? She’s a beautiful tragedy. People love that.”

Dr. Kleiner looked at him a moment longer, then resumed her gaze on the patient. “I’m sure the money helps too.”

“Money?” Jerry finally looked at her. He thought he might have seen a hint of a smirk.

“Of course. We’re a fairly large hospital. Not every coma patient gets this kind of treatment. Didn’t you ever wonder why she’s been under near constant surveillance?”

“I have, but… I just figured she was, I dunno, new?”

“Oh, that’s right.” She laughed. “You only just transferred here a few weeks ago. Her parents are exceedingly wealthy.”

“I never see them though. If they care so much-”

“They care by throwing money at the problem, Jerry. She’s been here over seven months now. No change.”

Jerry froze, his finger stuck on the ‘O’ key, making it repeat across the screen. He looked into the room, focused on the sterile walls and machines that had been housing and sustaining the girl. After a few moments he realized his hand was on the keyboard and fixed the error, which had become a long, shouting paragraph. He got up from his chair and approached the window, facing it straight on. He spared a glance at the patient then looked to Dr. Kleiner.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

This Man Says

It started to rain around 8PM and hadn’t stopped. The sickly yellow lamp of the streetlight rippled when seen through the third floor windows. Reynold LeFevre tried to sit still. Every squeak from his chair echoed throughout the empty, mostly dark office and it was a little too disquieting for him. If not for the streetlight, his desk lamp and monitor would be the only sources of light; to conserve energy the lights went off at 9, no exceptions. For the third time that week he’d stayed late to work on his project and only in the last hour had the effort begun to pay off.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes from the strain of staring at a monitor. He backed away and rubbed his eyes, though he had trouble opening them again. Everything stayed blurry for a moment, with spots floating around until a few blinks later when it all went back to normal. When he focused on the monitor again it was too late. The glare became too much and triggered a nasty headache. He looked at his watch, unsurprised to see it read 1:18AM. There would be no more progress as all the tables, figures, reports and statistics bled into each other in a hodgepodge of numbers and right angles.

“I need some damn coffee.” He said, shutting down his computer. When he turned off the lamp his headache abated, but it left him in the relative dark of the office. The rain had let up and left fat droplets that all glowed the same sickly yellow on the windows. He watched as they ran down the glass, colliding with other drops that collided again until only a streak remained and disappeared from view. Suddenly, he heard a faint pop, almost like the filament of a light bulb snapping. Standing at attention, earnings folder shoved halfway into his messenger bag, Reynold looked around. Nothing. The security guard didn’t make rounds in the office anymore, unfortunately. He resumed putting away his folders, a little harried this time when another pop went off. This time much louder.

He could’ve sworn he saw a bit of flash from the far end of the office too. It’s nothing, I’m just tired, he thought. There came another loud pop, a thunder clap compared to the other two, and everything went dark. The lamp post that illuminated the office erupted in sparks that faded in the rain and shards of glass that fell to the street. Reynold ran for the window, his arms splayed in an effort to avoid running into chairs or desks. He pressed himself against the glass and looked to the alley below. In the pale moonlight he saw one shadow chasing another. He tracked their progress by splashes in the puddles they ran through. When they got too far away he followed them, minding the narrow aisle.

Another gunshot went off as the hunted rounded the corner to the front of Reynold’s building. The bullet must have hit, because they collapsed and rolled to a stop, clutching their leg. The reach of a nearby streetlight didn’t extend far enough to give Reynold a clearer view, but he could see the hunter ambling toward their victim. Please don’t kill him, he thought. The hunter obliged and only kicked the man in the chest before holstering their gun. Relieved, Reynold watched with rapt attention as the scene played on. The hunter waved into the dark and from down the street a pair of headlights came on. They flickered as the driver started the engine and drove up to their signaler. The clean white van passed under the streetlight; Sellars’ Construction in red screen print on the side was all Reynold could see before it passed into the darkness once more.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Eggs and Toast by Craig Sellars. Inspiration for this story.