Short Story Contest 107: Cryogenic Accident - Submission & Details Thread
A Late Night Dream (1172)
I remember the days rolled by like a hamster wheel -forever turning, never stopping to realize the harsh reality of life. Forever spinning, again, again and again - the cruel mistress of a world foreboding for some and collapsing for others.
Randy was a boy unlike most; he played well into the night when most of the children his age were away in bed - away into their own little worlds of play and mischief. And many nights, Randy's mind would go dreamless; distant from cold realities into a blackness - one in itself, one in the same.
Randy awoke. Breath heavy, back arched, head low. Today was a day, he so fondly regretted. It was his sister's birthday. That selfish little snot.
He didn't want any part of this pagan-themed holiday enthralled in selfish desires with a gluttonous spirit.
Randy hated his birthday. It was always the same. Surrounded by an endless sea of friends and family members who on one day, sit in celebration for his existence after all the other days of drifting through life acting as if they didn't know his name.
So in light of the harsh reality of circumstances deriving in social-based hierarchy systems - Randy chose to be the "black sheep."
He chose to be a rebel because when all else fails around you, the only thing you really have is your own wits and moral judgments. And in a crazy world like Apalache County, you need to have thick skin or else you might fall off the face of the Earth.
Steam from the kitchen broke through the air with a sharp annoying whistle that aroused Randy from bed like the cold furry of an ice storm - unexpected, but still unwanted.
"Woman!" boomed Randy, as he stood on his feet, shaking because of the loud, ear-splitting noise that drove him away from a mid-afternoon slumber, just moments prior.
"Woman, turn off that stove! I hate that noise!" continued Randy as he could hear a shuffle in the kitchen, making way to best suit his demands.
Randy was somewhat of the aggressive type after his father passed away in 2002. And ever since then, he likes to think of himself as more of the "man of the house," which in his mind, gives him the right to assert his authority in what he thought to be a responsible manner.
So in doing so, he thought of himself as "the leader of the pack" at his house, even though his mother made all the money, his sister was very well-liked in school and head of her dance squad, while he mostly stayed at home, drinking alcohol and popping any pill he could get his hands on.
Many people never really sympathized with his anti-socially, morally skewed personality - it was 'because of the drugs,' they would say. It was always because of the drugs.
"Where's my xanax?" asked Randy, scratching his head while going towards his mirror. The mirror was far - it seemed to stretch on for miles from where he stood. So nauseous.
He stopped as the world seemed to be getting the best of him as a sickness crept upon his body.
Back into bed, he thought. Another day. Another nothing.
Catherine's party raged on in the house as Randy lay in his bed, stuck in a long dark room.
There was a scent in the air - a rotting scent resonating from the nether-regions of Randy's mouth and gums.
But the room was different; geo-metric patterns and characters from past Saturday morning cartoons pass-by amongst the darkness of the room - all patterns, following an endless trend, forever seeking, forever giving Randy additional entertainment during waking periods of immense boredom.
He couldn't sleep. He promised he would go cold turkey on all types of drugs as a present for his sister, even though they could no longer look at each other in the eye on most occasions - they were still related, but what did she matter to him? She lost faith in him when he started using.
Randy tossed and turned in bed as flashbacks from years past became displayed by his bedside.
The pains of withdrawal wriggled through his psych, making his body shake as vast spirals of color encased the once darkened room followed by a hypnotizing musical number that grew faster and faster as time went on.
Then time stopped as did the patterns, and so did Randy as he fell into a lost, dreamless sleep.
Randy awoke several hours later as large beads of sweat soaked his pillowcase and his long, maggie hair that looked as if it had a life of its own.
As he adapted to reality, a burning sensation erupted within the left portion of his cranium.
"Medicine!" he yelled out as he stormed aimlessly through a dark room, cluttered with beer bottles and an eerie silence that caused him to dart towards the light switch.
The lights went on, but this didn't stop the troubling feeling within his head.
"Jesus" said Randy, covering his eyes from the bright glare of his room.
He turned around towards the direction of his bed, but stopped suddenly.
There was a little boy, sitting down at the edge of his bed, looking down at his lap with his palms pressed into his cheeks.
"Are you from Cathy's party? What are you doing in my room?" asked Randy in the nicest tone he could possibly use. The boy looked young. He didn't know what he was doing. But the boy didn't look up. "Hello, little boy. Are you okay?"
There was no response, except low sobs coming from the boy, which seemed to increase more and more as the seconds past.
"No one loves me. No one loves me. No one loves me" whimpered the boy.
Obviously, this boy needed a counselor, and in knowing this, Randy rushed over to the boy and put his arm around his shoulder.
"It's okay. People do love you. I'm here" consoled Randy, making the most of a delicate situation.
The boy then looked up with tears in his eyes, as his breathing seemed to go down slightly, and a smile began to form on his face.
Randy then froze in morbid horror as he recognized the face of the young boy in his room from a photo album of his family, many years ago.
"I'm sorry I had to die, Randy. I'm sorry it had to be this way."
The boy then slowly faded into the light, until he disappeared completely.
"I should have never stopped using drugs" joked Randy to himself as he grabbed at his rapidly beating heart with his right hand. "Life is way too messed up to deal with on a sober mind."
Randy then grabbed for his nightstand that held up his pills, his bottled water and small mirrors crusted over in a residue caused by late-night partying with rich, pretty girls from the harbor.
Randy grabbed the pills and bottle, and made short work of them as he shut off the lights and slowly slithered back into bed.
And there were no more hallucinations. No more supposed ghosts. No more geo-metric patterns or music - just sweet happiness; all from a pill, all from a dream.
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