by Justin Bell
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dream was never the same. The clouds were thick mounds of wet cotton, drenched in deep red ink as if part of a child's school project. The ink slowly oozed, landing in large round splotches on the dirt. Large figures loomed above, skulls filled with rows of jagged fangs staring out from underneath strands of spaghetti hair. There were flashes, and noises, and red? so much red. A gaping mouth drew open until it became this huge vacant maw swallowing everyone in sight, as they desperately clung to yellow teeth, which clamped shut in a furious flash of white.
The young man sat up, his left shoulder flaring. A gruff shout became garbled and gurgled into a half-choked grunt of pain. Fingers on his left hand tingled as agony shot from the shoulder blade across his back and down into his guts. With almost no warning, he felt like he might be sick, so he leaped out of bed, and realized he didn't know where the bathroom was. Jerking his head around in dazed confusion, the young bald man spotted a door in the corner and ran to it sliding past his dresser and bursting into the bathroom just in time to throw open the toilet and vacate his last night's meal into the bowl. His brain was a mass of wrinkled confusion, trying to dig through these thick, wet cotton clouds of blocked memories.
Where was he?
He looked up and around, and certain elements of his surroundings were familiar, but not quite enough. Feeling as if he had done all the vomiting he was going to do, he eased himself back to his feet and stumbled out into the bedroom. He quickly dressed himself and wandered slowly down this barely familiar hallway, then stopped and stared at a family photograph on the wall.
Was that? him?
Was that his family?
He could feel it?it was right there at the edge of his consciousness, but if he concentrated too hard, it skittered away like roaches under a newly turned on kitchen light. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, struggling to think back even twenty-four hours, but the harder he tried to go back in time, the closer the lumps of cotton got, effectively blocking his mind from searching out the truth.
The truth? He'd settle for a few lies.
Frustration built up in him and he clenched both fists, but didn't lash out. His mind was a rustling conflict between jumbled uncertainty and firm resolve. Simultaneously, he had this distinct feeling of d?j? vu while at the same time having no idea who or where he was. Both feelings battled each other like heavyweight boxers, and his mind was caught in the middle. As he continued looking at the family picture, a sudden stab of pain buckled his knees, scorching from his right side. He grabbed at it, and for the first time noticed there was a bandage there, underneath his newly worn t-shirt. Lifting his shirt up, he examined it with his fingers, and winced in pain as they drifted over the center of the bandage where there was an obvious wound. With a clutch of breath, he peeled back the bandage and saw what looked to be a fresh gash sewn together and partly through the healing process.
Is that a bullet hole?
He wasn't sure how he knew what a bullet hole looked like, but suddenly he was certain that's what it was. Gently replacing the t-shirt over the bandage, he looked at his reflection in the mirrored surface of the framed picture. He saw a bald head and stern face, narrow eyes, furrowed brow, and thin brown goatee around his downturned lips.
Who are you?
He walked down a flight of stairs to his open concept living room and kitchen. It was a nice house, with a great large bay window above the couch, looking out into the fresh green wilderness. Within moments, he had located a staircase leading down to the basement. Minutes later, he was there, standing in his office, looking at his desk, where a black laptop sat in a docking station and a monitor set above it with a black screen. He had been here before. He knew it.