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Welcome to the latest installment of Friday Flash Fiction. Enter your short work of fiction (under 1,000 words) based on this prompt by midnight Saturday to be eligible to win! The best entry will be published on the site, along with a short author bio; bringing you fame, fortune and bragging rights. Winners also receive a small prize. Entries may be posted in the comments or emailed to theoneminutewriter@gmail.com. If you post in the comments, please be sure to leave us a way to contact you in case you are our winner. Good Luck!
It's 4:00am when the doorbell rings. You stumble to the front door, rubbing your eyes, and find your best friend. He/She looks pretty panicked.
"Quick, pack a bag," they say under their breath. "I have to leave town right away. And I need your help."
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Friday, March 15, 2013
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What was that noise? Someone knocking on my door? I'm a light sleeper, often I'm semi awake between 2:00 and 4:00, but I doze. The LED readout said 3:20. The knocking didn't stop, it wasn't the tail end of a dream.
I'm in a senior residence, my neighbors are all over 60, some are very sick. I don't know many of them, I've only been here three months. The knocking didn't stop. I got up turned on lights, when to the door. "Hello?" No answer. "Hello? Who's there?" I called right into the edge of the door. No answer, just more knocking. I opened the door.
The man from across the hall was there. His door was open, he was in pajamas. He gazed at me but didn't say anything. Had he had a stroke and couldn't talk? He said hello to me this morning. "Can I help you?" I asked.
He looked at me intently. "Pack. Drive." he said.
"Where?"
"Pack." He reached out to take my hand. I followed him, resisting a little bit, into his apartment, leaving my door ajar. He lead me into his bedroom where a suitcase lay open on his bed."
"Where are you going?"
"To bed,"
"Good idea," I said. I closed the suitcase and put it on the floor. I pulled back the covers. "There."
"Thank you," he said getting into bed and closing his eyes, which had not made contact. He was asleep; he had been sleep walking. He wouldn't remember in the morning.
I went out, closing his door firmly, back to my apartment. I closed and locked the door. And, damnit, I couldn't go back to sleep at all. I got up at 4:45 and made breakfast. Living here was going to be an adventure.
"Abscond"
In his haste, Johnny slammed the trunk shut onto his hand. I dropped his duffel bag so I could help him release what was likely now his few broken fingers, but he blocked me with his body as he wrestled his hand free. With his other hand he
grabbed his wrist and held his swollen fingers to the air, stomping around in a circle erratically, almost drunkenly. Maybe he was drunk. Johnny began to growl lowly from his throat and then erupted into a gutteral scream, that bore through the cold night like a knife through the lung. I shuddered, deluged by a primitive, feral heat that came off of him in waves. The stench of a man in fear of his soul.
Johnny screamed again, but this time it was not for his broken bones. He pivoted around and stared at me with eyes that were no longer his own. “Pick up the bag.” he told me. I did as I was told, tripping over myself in the process. He reached out and grabbed my arm hard to keep me from falling, then led me roughly to the passenger side door. “Get in the car, sugar. We’re leaving.”
I got in, throwing his duffle bag into the backseat. Johnny got into the car then, awkwardly reaching for the clutch with his left hand as he tried to steer
the wheel with his mangled fingers. The car lurched to a halt as we stalled out, our bodies shifting violently forward. Johnny swore and screamed again. I put my seat belt on. We made our way warily toward the edge of the parking lot,
the car weaving as a boat with no rudder. Twice more the car shuddered violently and stalled, and Johnny swore and slammed his good hand against the steering wheel so forcefully that I was worried one or the other would surely be broken now, too.
We sat silently for a stifling moment, listening to the soft tick tick tick of the shut-off engine. Out of Johnny came a sound so small and pitiful then that it startled me more than his screams. I looked
at him, watching him struggle to meet my gaze. “I need your, help sugar,” he said, this time the undeniable quiver of dread laced into his voice. “You gotta help me. We gotta get out of here.”
And I did. Out of fear or resignation or pity or love, I’m not sure. We drove away that night with Johnny steering the wheel and quietly whimpering, “Okay,” every time he pressed the clutch so that I could shift the gear stick for him. I’m not sure how many miles we drove like that, but however far we went I worried it would never be enough for him.
saramcevoy1@yahoo.com
Great reading, June. Wasn't expecting the sleepwalking!
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