WATCH THIS SPACE
Sunday, October 21, 2007
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead) Part 4
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead)
“‘There must be some kind of way out of here’, said the Joker to the Thief”
4.
After several seconds, Brock opened his eyes. The man stood at the end of his bed holding the chain, but the tiger was nowhere to be seen. Brock’s fear quickly turned to rage.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you playing at with that animal?!”
The man looked around in mock-surprise.
“What animal, Brock? I certainly don’t see any.”
Brock scowled.
“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. You’re just a figment of my madness, that’s all” said Brock, as his rage turned back into depression.
“Not at all, Brock!” said the man.
“Oh, be quiet. All figments of the imagination talk like that”.
The man stared at Brock and then spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a hyperactive, bratty child.
“Tyger with a ‘Y’, Brock? Why so much William Blake?”
Brock opened his mouth to reply indignantly, but realised he couldn’t. Why has William Blake been on my mind? I can’t remember anything about my past but I can remember obscure quotes?
The man chuckled.
“I’m not a figment of your imagination, Brock. Quite the other way round, in fact”.
“What do you mean? And where is that tiger?”
“The tiger doesn’t exist, Brock. It only existed because I made it exist.”
Rather than debating this unlikely point, Brock continued down that line of questioning.
“And why on earth would you make a vicious, man eating tiger exist?”
“Why, I’d have thought that obvious. It was a rather lazy attempt to shoehorn some literary depth into this piece.”
Brock stared. He wasn’t the only one that was mad in this place.
“What on earth are you on about?”
The man sighed.
“Brock, do you wonder how exactly I knew you were thinking of the word tiger using a ‘y’? How on earth would I know such a thing?”
“I told you. You know because you’re a figment of my imagination. I’m mad” retorted Brock, outwardly unfazed. He was in fact beginning to doubt his convictions.
What the bloody hell is going on, he thought.
“You aren’t mad, Brock” said the man. Under the circumstances, that isn’t particularly comforting. At least madness is an explanation.
“In fact,” he continued “You’d only be mad if I wanted you to be mad. You only think of the ‘y’ in tiger because I want you to. You’re only in this hospital because I want you to be. In fact, you only have free will because I want you to.”
“What do you mean? What’s going on?” said Brock, panic welling up from his stomach and adding a note to his voice.
“I wrote you, Brock.”
Brock gaped.
“I wrote you, I wrote this room, I wrote this hospital, I wrote this reality.”
“Are you…God?”
“Don’t be silly Brock. I’m an author. The Author, in fact. Alive and well.”
Brock stood staring at the Author in disbelief. Not only was his entire reality crumbling around him, he realised it was not in fact his reality. It was the Author’s.
“Prove it!” spat Brock, spitefulness revealing the last refuge of a defeated man.
The Author shrugged and pointed outside the window to the sparrows in the tree. But they were no longer sparrows. The tree was full of squealing pigs.
I wish I were mad. Let me be mad. That would be a reasonable explanation for all of this.
“I really do feel bad about all this, Brock” said the Author, dusting off his hands “I feel especially bad about your name. Well, about everyone’s names, but really, how could I expect you not to notice when your name is as patently ridiculous as Brock Trident?”
Brock stood up, running his hand through his hair. The pigs grunted noisily outside.
“So, what exactly is this place, then?”
“Well, it is a hospital.”
Brock’s confusion was sorting itself out and yielding to a burning sense of irritation.
“I know that full well, but what the bloody hell is going on?”
“Well Brock, this is my first novel attempt” said the Author, as his cheeks reddened slightly “and I thought I’d go for some mass market appeal. Rich, dashing hero is scorned by lover, acts reckless, goes into hospital, beautiful nurses check him in under improbable sickness – I mean, heartbreak, what was I thinking? These nurses should be fired…”
“Get on with it” snapped Brock, cutting the author off from his apparent self deprecation.
“Oh, yes, where was I? Ah, that’s right – nurses fall in love with dashing hero, slight plot complication when handsome doctor seduces nurse, hero wins back girl. It was awful, hackneyed stuff.”
That’s my life you’re talking about, thought Brock, with a degree of defensiveness, despite himself.
“So why isn’t it turning out like that?” said Brock. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I’m afraid this manuscript has to stay unfinished. I’m very self critical and saw only too well that the first attempt should indeed stay on the shelf. And, well, its only natural you’d break out of the confines I’ve written for you! You ruined the plot – you missed the obvious and unlikely romance scenes, didn’t fall for the love interest and were apathetic to the complication!”
“Well, why can’t you finish the manuscript and fix it up?”
“Oh Brock, don’t you see? This isn’t a very good piece of writing, and I know it. There’s no way to salvage it.”
“So,” said Brock, as he scanned his brain for further questioning “why can’t I leave the hospital, if I’m not needed in the novel? And why do I have amnesia?”
“Really Brock!” said the Author “You know this! You can’t leave the hospital because I haven’t written a reality outside the hospital. In the book, this is all that exists, and the book is your world.”
This took a moment to sink in. In fact, it didn’t sink in, and Brock moved on with his questioning without even trying to get his head around it.
“So the amnesia, why do I have amnesia?”
“Oh, that’s my fault too,” (no bloody kidding, thought Brock) “you see, I’d intended the book to start with you waking up after a car crash, and thought I’d flashback to your past later on. But I, er, never did. You don’t have amnesia, I just haven’t written anything for you to remember – just like I didn’t write in the medical procedure, cue our handy black-out. I can be so lazy with research.”
“Wait a minute” again Brock chose to ignore the implications of this complicated information, “You said I was in a car crash. The Doctor said I was in a motorbike crash? How in Christ’s name did I crash?”
The Author sighed.
“Well, that really is my bad writing…just a simple inconsistency, like your check in date, your age…your licence – oh, the cowbell nurse alarm! I really couldn’t decide when to set this story! Any inconsistencies you have to blame on my lack of skill.”
Isn’t that convenient, thought Brock bitterly.
“I mean, what with all the inconsistencies and bad writing, surely you can see why I had to abandon this book! Its awful, clichéd stuff – the beautiful nurses, the handsome doctor, the ridiculous names, the permanently good weather – it’s all been done before.”
“So, what happens to me?”
“Brock, Brock, Brock” muttered the Author with paternalistic charm “I’m afraid it’s going to stay like this. You’ll just live through the book. I felt the least I could do was write myself in and apologise for leaving you like this. And also to apologise for your name…I’ve really never been good with names…even my own pen name is ridiculous.”
Well that explains that, then.
“So, you can’t help me? I’m stuck here?
The Author sighed. “Well, technically, what I’ve written is almost over. I could help you by finishing the book, but I’m afraid it’s not possible, financially. I mean, I do have bills to pay, and finishing this writing wouldn’t help me a jot.” He sighed again. “Don’t blame me!” he shouted hysterically towards Brock’s visible anger. “It’s the publishing houses, blame them! They don’t want William Blake, they want easy romance. I fear I’ve been typecast as an author already”.
“What will happen to me once the stuff you’ve written has happened?” protested Brock.
The Author, who had been staring at the ground, looked up surprised. “Oh, nothing dramatic, Brock!” he said, looking happy that he could at least relieve his protagonist about something. “I mean, it might be completely boring, but the book will just start again.”
“You mean there’s no way I can change anything, I just have to keep living through this…this drivel?”
The Author looked slightly hurt.
“Well, to put it bluntly, yes. Everything stays the same. If it’s any consolation, though, you won’t remember it. Ever. In fact, you’ll have this conversation with me many times in the future, now that I’ve written myself in”.
This was the final straw. Some bloody consolation. Brock stood up and walked over to the Author, grabbing him by the front of his jumper. “Now look here, you pen-pushing hack, you’ve got me into this mess and now you tell me I’m stuck in your bloody book with no escape, ever? I’ll be here for the rest of my life?” he yelled into the Author’s face.
“Well, technically you’ll be here forever, as you don’t age…” began the Author, until Brock’s face went a shade redder and he decided it was wiser not to continue.
Brock’s voice dropped to a low, barely audible whisper as he let go of the Author and jabbed his finger into his chest.
“You listen to me, you bloody bastard” he began with exaggerated eloquence, “You’re going to damn well write a satisfactory ending to this story or I’m going to wipe the floor with you, you disgusting little man!”
The Author simply stayed where he was and straightened his collar. “Very well” he said, and for the first time, Brock thought that maybe he had been slightly too demanding.
“Why don’t you take a look in the bottom drawer of your table” said the Author. “Hopefully the ending I’ve put there is…satisfactory”. He spat out the final word.
The first two drawers were both pulled out and empty, exactly as he had left them. Yet the third and final drawer remained closed, a shiny bronze lock the only thing that had kept it this way. It glinted smugly.
Brock turned back to the Author, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bronze key, which he threw to Brock. No sooner had it been slipped into the lock than the drawer slid open. In it lay a fat wad of paper. What the hell is this?
Brock picked it up and sat down on his bed. He saw that the first page was blank, aside from several words scrawled in the middle.
They said:
“Love’s Heart Monitor”
Victor Silverstone
(Dave Williams)
Brock read the words again, then again. What does this mean? That little geek better not have…
The Author was gone. Brock let out a cry of rage and ran into the hospital corridor, but of course, the Author was nowhere to be seen. “You bastard!” yelled Brock, knowing that he would hear, or at least read, what he was saying. “You sold me out, you piece of scum!”
Nurses were poking their heads from several rooms, and Brock could see Julie from reception running down to the room. Brock went into his room and sat down on the bed. He picked up the manuscript and began the inevitable.
Brock knew exactly what was coming, and grunted. Some ending…
Flipping open to the first page, he read.
1.
Brock Trident, thought the man, as he stared at the board pinned to the end of his bed. How on earth did I end up with a name as idiotic, and completely ridiculous, as Brock Trident?
Brock gazed around the room, and was pleased at least that it was a nice one. Bright, clean, and silent atmosphere made him think he was in the country, away from the cacophonous sound and fury of the city. This was further confirmed by the open windows, fringed by their gently flapping curtains…
THE END
(and the beginning...)
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead) Part 3
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead)
“‘There must be some kind of way out of here’, said the Joker to the Thief”
3.
Brock woke up in exactly the same position he had fallen asleep. He thought he heard the nurse’s whisperings in his ear as he awoke – “Don’t worry, Brock baby” – but dismissed it as a pre-awareness nightmare.
“Well Mr Trident, I’ll send these down to the lab and we should have them ready for you in twenty minutes. Come and see me then. Sophie, if you’ll take Mr Trident down to his room?”
Brock felt himself being launched to his feet and, by the time he had fully regained consciousness, the nurse was laying him down on his bed.
“Ooh!” she exclaimed, losing balance and falling on top of Brock. He felt her hands grope at his chest. Poor girl must be trying to get up.
“I’m…so sorry, Mr Trident” said Sophie in a strange voice, her face close to his. Brock gave her a helpful push, allowing her to regain her footing.
She straightened herself, fixing up a button that had popped on her blouse, revealing more than a hint of cleavage. How embarrassing this must be for her!
“See you later, Brocky” breathed Sophie, as she walked out of the room, winking at him before she left. What? I must still be hallucinating slightly. I feel distinctly abject.
Brock waited several moments before moving, to make sure he wouldn’t imagine anything else silly, then stood up warily and stowed the wallet back into his chest of drawers. Having done this, he stared at it for a moment, and then took it out again. He reached for the third drawer of the table but found it to be locked. How predictably irritating.
Stuffing the wallet in his pyjama pocket, Brock reached for the middle drawer. Inside lay a folded piece of paper. He picked it up and saw that it was a short note, scrawled in what appeared to be lipstick.
B - darling, I need you, it read. Sophie.
Hmm, thought Brock. Must have been left by the last patient. How strange, his girlfriend’s name was the same as the nurse’s! And his name started with the same letter as mine! What a coincidence!
Smiling, Brock screwed up the piece of paper and threw it into the bin beside the table. Standing up, he walked back into the corridor, down towards the reception desk.
They should have my results my now. If not, I can use the walk.
Brock reached the desk and went to press the bell. As he raised his hand, his eyes flicked further down the corridor and he saw the EXIT sign glowing warmly. Brock realised how stuffy he felt.
I really do fancy a breath of fresh air. The test results probably aren’t ready, anyway.
Drawing his hand away from the bell, Brock straightened his pyjama pants and walked towards the door. The idyllic day seemed less irritating now that he could possibly be a part of it.
Outside, Brock saw that the hospital was completely isolated from any roads – the only path was a small, cobbled one winding over a green hill. In fact, green hills seemed to border the hospital on all sides. Brock could see that the hospital was a modern, yet homely, construction, and walking around its edge, he came to his window. The sparrows still tweeted in the tree, and Brock checked to make sure they weren’t nailed to the branch.
The cow still chewed its cud in the field, and Brock started to amble towards it. Its nice to be out of that dammed hospital, he thought. I’m sure my memories will come back. A surge of optimism flooded through him.
It was instantly followed by the nausea of shock.
Hang on; shouldn’t I have reached that cow by now?
It was true. Although he had been walking for several minutes, the cow was only marginally closer. Looking behind him, Brock saw that he had only moved two metres away from the hospital wall.
I must have…er, idled in my thoughts. No need to panic, Tride’.
Fear grew in Brock despite himself; he quickened his pace, all the while glancing backwards. While he could feel himself walking, he moved no further away. Breaking into a run, he looked ahead and saw he didn’t move in that direction either. The grass moved underneath his feet, but it seemed like he was on a lawn treadmill. He could move no further forwards.
Oh god. You’re mad. NO, NO, NO. Don’t think like that, something’s going on.
Brock tried to run around the hospital, but as he did so he could get no further to the horizon. No matter at which point he ran, and despite how much it seemed like he was moving, he got no closer to leaving the confines of the hospital.
A cold sweat broke out, dripping in a waterfall down his back. Brock, reached the front of the hospital and backed towards the door. He pressed against it and it swung open. He snapped around at the sound of a voice.
“Good morning…Brock”. It was Julie from reception, stopping to lick her lips as he stumbled past and drawing out his name seductively. Good grief, I’ve woken up in a porno flick. A porno flick directed by David Lynch!
He made a retreat down the corridor, shaken by his foray into the outside world. Like many people confronted by something completely incomprehensible, Brock decided to aim to do the most normal, mundane thing possible as a means of grounding himself.
I think I’ll pick up my test results now.
He reached the reception desk and leant heavily on the counter, pressing the bell several times. Nobody came. He pressed the bell again.
Okay Brocky, you’ve just discovered you could be stark raving mad (NO, screamed the other side of his brain), the receptionist went the other way, and you’re ringing a bell at a reception desk, patiently waiting?
Brock tired of waiting. He walked around the desk and through the back door. Typical back room: perpetual boiling kettle to supply the endless cups of tea that are no doubt consumed here.
“Doctor!” yelled Brock. Getting no reply, Brock moved over to what he saw was a side room. He pushed open the door.
Ah, there’s the Doctor, he thought. Bloody man is making out with the nurse, never mind, none of my business.
“Er, excuse me, Doctor” said Brock, not wanting to seem too obnoxious in this rather embarrassing situation, despite having his reality shaken to the core minutes earlier.
The reaction was terrible. The nurse, Sophie, screamed and ran towards Brock, while the Doctor straightened himself up and adopted a look of triumph.
“It’s not what it looks like, darling, I can explain!” screamed Sophie. It took Brock several seconds to realise she was talking to him. Darling? Where did that come from?
The strange behaviour of the staff comforted Brock somewhat. Misery, or strangeness, loves company, eh?
“Oh, it’s alright, don’t worry” said Brock.
“Now look here, Trident” said the Doctor “I think we can both see who Sophie’s chosen, so you’d better get out of here.”
“Really Doctor, it’s alright, I just wanted to ask you about…”
“Please forgive me, darling!”
“Of course, none of my business, now Doctor, I just wanted to…”
“What’s your problem, Trident? Can’t handle defeat?”
“No, Doctor, I’m really just here to…”
“Don’t listen to him, darling! It’s you I love, you!”
What on earth are these flips on about?
“Doctor, I just want to know the results of my test!”
Both Sophie and the Doctor stared at Brock incredulously. To them, his outburst seemed like the only unusual thing that had happened.
“That was just a convenient device to get you to meet Sophie, Brock.”
Brock spun around. The new voice had come from behind him, and there stood a thin, tall, middle aged man wearing a cardigan. He looked completely unremarkable except for one inescapable point – he clutched a chain which encircled the neck of an enormous, growling Bengal Tyger.
I mean tiger.
“Welcome to my nightmare, Brock” said the man, and the tiger lurched towards him on the chain. Brock did the first thing most people would do when they encounter a tiger in an innocuous country hospital. He ran.
What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?
The line popped into his head as Brock ran down the corridor, back to his room. He was vaguely aware of Sophie and the Doctor’s screams as he ran into his room and leant heavily against the door. Breathing deeply, he stared around, hoping he would wake up. A tyger – tiger, here, in the hospital? Calm yourself man, nobody else saw it. You’re imagining it. Then what about the outdoors?
But it was so vivid, shouted another voice in Brock’s brain. You know what it means, Brocky, you’re…
“Let me not be mad”, muttered Brock. A cold sweat broke out, and he felt his back was slippery and wet with it. This is a madhouse; I’m in a country asylum. No wonder nobody’s being straight with me, it’s all a cover story, and I’m a bloody madman!
Brock sat down on his bed. This explains it all – I didn’t crash at all, I went mad, completely mad. That explains everything, why everything is wrong…
It wasn’t a comforting discovery. Brock sat with his head between his knees, breathing heavily. I have to do something; I have to think of…
“Hello, Brock”.
Brock’s head snapped up, and he let out a cry and jumped onto his bed. There before him on the floor was the tyger (you spell it tiger! Tiger…burning bright?), led by the same man Brock had seen in the reception room.
“Stay away from me, whoever you are!” Brock yelled.
The man smiled.
“Why the hammer, why the…chain?” he mused, and dropped the chain that restrained the beast. As it hit the floor, the tiger tensed. It sprang towards Brock, its claws outstretched.
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead) Part 2
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead)
“‘There must be some kind of way out of here’, said the Joker to the Thief”
- Bob Dylan, “All Along the Watchtower”
2.
Well this is peachy, thought Brock, safely settled back in his bed and again watching the (so bloody) idyllic birds in his tree. Julie had led Brock down the hall after assuring him everything was going to be “just fine”, and had gone to fetch a doctor who “would be able to explain everything”.
Try as he might, Brock couldn’t coax any memories out of his mind. Nor could he coax any out of Julie, whose eyes filled with tears as she patted Brock on the arm after settling him in bed and refused to answer his questions. “You brave, brave man, Mr Trident” was all she had said, in an irritatingly disingenuous way. Does she run from a script? A particularly tacky, corny one?
The weather outside had remained irritatingly sunny all morning, not at all matching Brock’s puzzled and impatient mood. He stared hard out the window at one of the birds in the tree, hoping it would die. That would maybe improve his mood.
Don’t these birds ever fly away? It’s like they’re outside the window for my personal “enjoyment”.
For something to do, Brock leaned over to his bedside table, noting again the nurse-call bell. Provincial fools, he thought. He pulled open the top drawer and found his wallet lying there. Hoping to discover a little more about himself, he picked it up and flipped it open.
Expensive smelling leather, score one for the Trident. Let’s see…
In the wallet was a driving licence, displaying his age – 34. For God’s sake, he thought, can’t this hospital get any of its bloody details right?
There were a few credit cards, but none that triggered any memories. Almost giving up on the wallet idea, he opened up the section that would normally hold the money. Out fell two things. The first was a stubby piece of paper. The second was a bundle of ten hundred dollar notes.
Oh my God. Brock’s mind was spinning. I must be mightily rich to be carrying around such a wad of cash…but wait, maybe I’m a thief! Maybe that Julie went to get the police…no, calm down, calm down…think! Think!
Brock stuffed the money underneath his pillow. Whoever I am, its best to stay here, he decided, and picked up the piece of paper that had fallen out with the money. It turned out to be a receipt. A receipt for an extremely expensive car, paid for with one of the credit cards Brock had examined earlier.
A slow smile spread across Brock’s face. There is no way, he thought, I’d have used a credit card if I were a thief. This means I’ve gone and hit the jackpot!
How Brock could reason that waking up with amnesia and money constituted a “jackpot” is hard to tell, but he did. However, before he could come to any more baffling conclusions, the door swung open.
Brock quickly stuffed the wallet under his pillow (you’re acting like a criminal now, man!) and looked up. Standing in front of him was an indecently young man in a white doctor’s coat. This might be the doctor, thought Brock. You genius, you. The man looks around twenty.
“Mr Trident? I’m Doctor Rufus van Stockhaus.”
We must all have stupid names around here, thought Brock, as he stared blankly at the doctor. Not only stupid names, but everyone is young and good looking here.
It was true. The man had a roguish hint of stubble and black hair, swept back in a wave. His eyes were a deep blue, and he didn’t look at all like the kind of man that pokes inside bodies for a living.
Luckily, Brock snapped out of his daze and managed to reply to the doctor without looking completely mad in the process. Just be rational, Brocky. You can’t expect all country folk to look like deformed inbreds.
“Good morning Doctor, it’s good to see you!” replied Brock. Despite everything, he was genuinely relieved that he might find out some answers.
“I hear you’ve had a bit of a memory lapse, Mr Trident?”
Brock nodded. “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious, I must have just, er, bumped my head in the accident…” He trailed off optimistically, and a thought struck him: Good grief, I hope it wasn’t that expensive car I seem to have bought.
“Mmm, hopefully. It was altogether too much for us to expect you’d escaped completely unharmed, but we didn’t anticipate this. Still, I’m sure you got out of the accident much better than the motorbike!” The Doctor laughed.
Motorbike?
Brock’s thoughts were echoed by his mouth. “Motorbike, Doctor? But Julie at reception told me that I was in a car crash…?”
The Doctor stared at Brock blankly. After a few seconds, he carried on as if Brock had not said anything.
“So what we’re going to do, Mr Trident, is run a few tests, just a few brain scans so we can make sure that there’s no permanent damage to the tissue. Does that sound alright?”
Hah, thought Brock bitterly, they give you the illusion of choice.
“Yes, that sounds fine, Doctor”, lied Brock. Now why on earth did he blank me when I mentioned it was a car crash? Poor guy must have got it wrong.
“So, Mr Trident, would you care to follow me down to the scanning room? It’ll only take a moment”.
Brock stepped out of the bed again, taking care to see that his wallet was concealed. Did he say “the scanning room”? Isn’t that a bit Doctor Who?
Happy that it was tucked safely under the pillow, he followed the Doctor into the corridor. The two of them headed towards the sun room, Brock’s feet slapping on the cold floor.
“Mr Trident, you know that it was very foolish of you to get on that motorbike” said the Doctor, more as an attempt to make small talk, guessed Brock.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, according to your file you never learnt how to drive!” chuckled the Doctor.
Explain the licence then, genius. Are these doctors hired for their looks?
After passing several doors, they turned into a small, airy room on the right that contained only a soft chair and a desk. The Doctor indicated the chair and Brock sat down.
“Now, if you’ll just wait there, I’ll get the nurse so that we can get going.”
Brock nodded and the Doctor left the room. I wonder what these tests will involve? There doesn’t seem to be any machinery or equipment in here, so I’ll probably just have to respond to something.
Brock again racked his brains for memory, coming up with, as before, nothing, but before he could slip into a miserable haze at his predicament, he heard the click of heels coming down the corridor towards his room. Through the door walked the nurse.
Oh Christ, thought Brock. Not another one. No bra-burning here.
Predictably, she was extremely beautiful, her short blonde hair bouncing in a neat bob. Short skirt, generous bosom, long legs. The minute she cast her eyes on Brock a smouldering look came into her eyes. She gazed at him wistfully, licking her bottom lip in visceral anticipation. Brock…
…stared back with a bored and slightly puzzled look on his face. What is this woman making faces about?
“Mr Trident” said the woman “I’m Sophie.” She spoke seductively, in a Marilyn-esque voice, but it fell on deaf ears.
“Hello” said Brock.
Sophie blinked, as if Brock has responded wrongly, but quickly checked herself and fell back into her sultry gaze. She walked over to Brock as the Doctor entered the room.
The Doctor began dabbling over the desk, blocking what he was doing from Brock’s view.
“So Doctor, what does this test, er, entail?” said Brock, a note of panic creeping into his voice. I should have enquired more about this.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, Mr Trident – now nurse, if you’ll care to…” He trailed off.
The nurse took Brock’s hand tenderly – a little too tenderly – and gently dabbed at its back. He inhaled her intoxicating perfume. Just as Brock was enjoying the soothing sensation of having his skin stroked, a sharp needle jabbed directly into his vein and his own cry of surprise was drowned out by the quick, easy lapse into sleep.
At least, I hope I’m falling asleep, thought Brock, as he slipped into blackness.
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead) Part 1
Preface: this is the story that I had to write as my Major Work for Extension English 2. I'll receive my mark for it some time in the near future. 4 parts, broken up for convenience. Comments welcome.
No One Here Gets Out Alive (Or Dead)
“‘There must be some kind of way out of here’, said the Joker to the Thief”
- Bob Dylan, “All Along the Watchtower”
1.
Brock Trident, thought the man, as he stared at the board pinned to the end of his bed. How on earth did I end up with a name as idiotic, and completely ridiculous, as Brock Trident?
Brock gazed around the room, and was pleased at least that it was a nice one. Bright, clean, and silent atmosphere made him think he was in the country, away from the cacophonous sound and fury of the city. This was further confirmed by the open windows, fringed by their gently flapping curtains, as a sweet aroma of spring wafted into the room. Outside, Brock could see several sparrows hopping amongst the tree branches. It was almost too idyllic.
It was only almost too idyllic as Brock had no idea who he was and had awoken seconds earlier with complete amnesia as to his circumstances.
In fact, Brock Trident had not even the vaguest idea about his life. Well, he had one idea, one that he just got from the mirror hanging on the wall next to him: he was incredibly, amazingly, dashingly handsome. Blonde, sun bleached hair, square jaw, sparkling blue eyes, rippling muscles.
Christ almighty, mused Brock, I must be an arrogant bastard. But where on earth am I?
Once again, Brock cast his eyes over the room. It seemed far too sterile to be anyone’s house – the linoleum floor removed that idea from his mind straight away. Then the realisation struck him: it’s a hospital. The board on the bed confirms it; it has to be a hospital. And that would explain why I can’t remember anything, that’s why I’m here!
He looked down at his pyjamas, which were a far cry from normal hospital wear – they were fluffy, flannelette pyjamas: comfortable, but they looked more like something you could buy in a shop, not sterilised hospital garments. Strange.
With the intent of getting some answers, Brock felt around for the nurse-call button, but his hands, instead, brushed an ornate bell, which was attached to the wall by a chain, a rather curious relic of a bygone age sitting in a modern hospital.
Mind you, thought Brock, this is a country hospital. That might be the kind of thing that passes for modern here. God knows, these country places are stuck in the past. That explains the pyjamas. It’s a “homely” feel.
Brock tossed the theory around in his mind and concluded it seemed likely. The lack of a drip next to him made this theory a fairly good one. However, the ultra high definition flat screen television suspended above his bed did cheapen the idea that he was in an under funded, rural (yokel, thought Brock) hospital somewhat.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Brock walked to the window, where he could see out onto rolling fields of green, dotted with the occasional oak tree such as the one outside his window. Far in the distance, a Jersey cow sat on top of a hill, chewing contentedly.
Brock blinked. This is silly, he thought, this hospital is built in the middle of a field.
He walked back over to his bed, and grabbed the board attached to the end, where he had read his name. Brock Trident, Christ. Also on the board was written a check-in date – April the 4th, and a symptom: “Severe Heartbreak”.
Bloody hell, I’ve had a heart attack. God, and I’m only – he scanned for his age on the board – 31! Who has a heart attack at 31?
Brock realised this was certainly possible, but he didn’t feel like he’d had a heart attack. He felt fine, flippantly fine, in fact.
Fit as a fiddle, he thought, proving it to himself by bouncing up and down on his heels where he stood.
Having discerned it was unlikely that he’d had a heart attack, Brock started to wonder why exactly he was in this hospital. Trying and failing to remember anything, he tentatively pushed open the door to his room and stepped into the corridor.
A few – but not many – doors to other rooms dotted the corridor, showing even more the minute size of this hospital. At one end of the hall, Brock could see a brightly lit sunroom, and he could see the blue neon glow over a reception desk at the other end. Finding out his surroundings, he decided, was more important than working on his tan, so he headed for the reception.
The familiar trappings of the hospital comforted Brock, as much as someone who has recently woken up with no memory can be comforted. And as much as a tacky, rural scene framed on the wall can comfort anyone.
Cow in field, cottage by hill and shepherd with sheep…well, I suppose nobody debuts their postmodern installation mixed-media art in a hospital.
He reached the reception desk, and, finding it deserted, pressed the bell. While he waited for someone to appear, he contemplated stealing a hospital pen, but then his attention was caught by the desk calendar, displaying the date.
April 2nd.
That’s impossible. It said I was checked in April 4th, and that means…that means I’ve been here almost a year. The blood drained from Brock’s head and his knees buckled slightly.
Brock stumbled over to a chair in the waiting room and slumped down. A year of my life, gone, he thought. While he sat in silence, contemplating this, a young woman stepped out from the reception back-room. She was dressed in a (low-cut, thought Brock, despite himself) white blouse and a black skirt, with her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. Dangling earrings swung at her ears, and her long eyelashes batted Barbie-doll style at Brock. She looked altogether too glamorous to be a country-hospital receptionist.
“Mr Trident!” she said, in a surprised voice. “You woke up quickly! How are you feeling?”
“Woke up quickly?” said Brock incredulously; “is that some kind of joke?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Trident?”
“I said is that some kind of joke?”
“Mr Trident, I don’t know what you’re…”
Brock cut her off with an angry wave of his hand and walked back over to the desk, jabbing his finger at the calendar.
“I’ve been asleep for a year, and the first thing you say when I wake up is a stupid joke? Honestly, if this is the way you country people operate, then…”
“Mr Trident! I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you certainly haven’t been asleep for a year. You were checked in here yesterday after your car crash!”
Brock fell silent, his hand in the air and his jaw open. Now that he thought about it, what the girl was saying made sense. If he’d been asleep for a year, he’d have felt much less refreshed than when he woke up. I felt like I’d just had a nice night’s sleep. Also, wouldn’t he have had a drip and feeding tube if he’d been out for that long?
So that means either this calendar is wrong, or the date on my board is…
“Err…” Brock scanned the receptionist’s blouse for a nametag; “Julie”.
“Yes, Mr Trident? Are you feeling better now?” she purred.
“Yes Julie…um, I’m sorry about that. Is this calendar correct?”
Julie looked unnerved at Brock’s speedy change of mood and his new line of questioning, but responded briskly.
“Yes Mr Trident, that’s the date”
Well then, the board on my bed is wrong, he thought. And as for “heartbreak”…well, it’s obvious what’s happened. Some joker – probably a kid from the child’s ward (Brock hoped there was a child’s ward) changed it, just for a laugh.
Brock breathed a deep sigh of relief. “That makes me feel much better. I think someone’s messed up my details – the sign on my bed says I was admitted two days from now, with a case of, of all things, heartbreak!” Brock laughed, but Julie just smiled sadly.
“Oh, but Mr Trident, it’s so true! I’ve no idea about the date, but the other girls and I wrote that particular piece of graffiti. I’m sorry it’s upset you, but we didn’t think you’d mind…”
“What? Why did you write it?”
“Mr Trident! Surely you remember, before the car crash…”
She stopped and stared at Brock, who in turn stared back at her blankly. Her smile drained away.
SO I LIED
Anyway, I'm updating now.
Since last post:
Since last post:
- two car accidents in town (and this is a town with 7.5k people - come on!) with three and two deaths respectively. Dreadful stuff. My cosmic condolences.
- first HSC Exam: English. I studied a lot for it and I think it was okay but we'll see when I get the results in December. Next exam is tomorrow which is the second part of the English paper.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Faux Post
COMING TOMORROW
(mainly a reminder to myself)
(mainly a reminder to myself)
- the HSC
- the bands I saw and shall see (sounds like a Metallica song)
- the Year 12 "Thank God You're Here"
- apology for such a crappy post RIGHT NOW.
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