This post is the fourth of four instalments for the story 'One Guy's Dystopia In A Seemingly Peaceful World'. See the first instalment to this story here, see the second instalment to this story here, then see the third instalment to this story here.
......... “Sir?” he asked warily.
Dean kept quiet. There was nothing familiar about this man, nothing he recognised in his features or his clothes or his eyes. Still, he registered the concern in his voice. Compassion. Something cultivated over years, perhaps.
“Have you started forgetting again sir?” he asked, more urgently this time. Panic blossomed in the stranger's eyes.
“Christ, she's back in your head, isn't she?” There was a tremble in his voice now. He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Oh God Dean, I'm so sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry.”
Dean ran on impulse. His mind was still sluggish and blurred, but at least his body worked. The pain in his legs was gone, but he had no idea where he was running to, or from. If only he had time to think! If only the space between strides was enough for him to start piecing together what was happening to him.
The slow hum of a helicopter and approaching shouts filled his senses, along with a growing sense of panic. There was smoke now, and even less space to think. Less space to stand. Something in the gas. His limbs started failing him, dragging him to the floor. A face hovered above him, full of compassion, then he blacked out.
Dean awoke with his back against a hard, cold surface. His arms and legs were strapped down, but he was otherwise unharmed. He was surrounded by a swarm of people; men in uniform, women, children. Next to him worked a doctor.
He spoke slowly and gravely. “I know you can't remember me right now, Sir, but I need you to trust me. She has broken into your mind. Soon, your thoughts will be hers, your body will be hers, and you will die. Do you understand?”
“Good. Now, this is a sedative. It will render you unconscious long enough to confront her, but beyond this we cannot help you. Kill her, or be killed. Good luck.”
There was a pain in his arm, then he was under again.
Dean bolted awake. Everywhere was white. Every wall, every floor-to-ceiling column, even the air. Nothing cast a shadow, except Dean. Shimmering in the centre of the room, with skin that burned with light; eyes like stars, was her. She flashed a brilliant smile, and her teeth were diamonds.
“You don't look happy to see me, honey. But then, I suppose you don't remember me, do you?”
Dean trembled. “Oh, I remember enough.”
She laughed, and the air shattered like glass. Dean's body was freed, and he found himself bounding towards her. He reached into his pocket, searching for a knife. His phone vibrated against his hand. “I'll kill you, I swear I'll end this!”
She smiled, and he plunged the knife into her. She folded, skin turning an oily grey, and lay in a pile at his feet. His phone buzzed.
Her voice was singing glass. “Hello dear.”
Writers' Relay 1 | Post 4
Writer: Carl Sealeaf
Profile: Carl Sealeaf is a Birmingham-based spoken word artist, and has performed at gigs and festivals up and down the country. He is a graduate of the Cannon Hill Collective and Creative Space Residency artist development programmes at mac, has been commissioned by Capital Theatre Festival and Apples and Snakes to produce short pieces of spoken word theatre. He is currently working on his first solo show and works for the arts organisation Beatfreeks.
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