The Patriot Act

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

The main character has or does not have a psychotic break when he hears a familiar "click" in the ceiling of his home office.

The Patriot Act

"We only did what we were ordered to do."

By Don Hagelberg

He walked to the patio doors and pulled the beige drapes closed to the left-side.

It was then that he heard the "click." Not the "click" of his chick-let, computer keys, but the "click" of what?

Thermal-camera! Yes! The "click" always accompanied the closing of the drapes, the closing of the day, the closing of the patio door through which he could be publically seen.

He sat down in front of his turned-on computer and stared at the closed beige drapes hiding his inside from the outside world.

The thumb and forefinger of his right hand touched, met and began to make a small round circle. If he had picked his nose, taken the essence of what he breathed out of his nose, and placed that solid residue between his forefinger and thumb right now, his slow circle would have manufactured a delicate pill.

Should he get the broom from the laundry closet and knock against the ceiling below from where the "click" had sounded?

The old woman above wouldn't ...couldn't hear, deaf as she was. He placed both hands beneath his chin letting his fingertips just touch, smiled his very best imitation of a five year old boy and mouthed in the direction of the "click' and the camera, "I'm a bad boy. I am a very bad, bad boy!"

Under his breath he cursed, "Bitch!"

The thermal camera? What could it see? Did it record? In this room he masturbated, wrote revealing letters to acquaintances, sent them over the internet. "That too?"

If they kept a thermal camera focused on him, then they had to record and intercept the internet too. They also had to keep a record of what had been searched and what had been...everything.

Who but a mad woman, a crazy woman would do such a thing? Anger and shame flooded his cheeks. His teeth slid under pressure and stopped with his uppers slumped over his lowers.

"Voi kac!"

"Stal' sveenja aparata!"

He made a fist with his left hand and pounded it ever so gently on the desk from which his computer smiled.

Fifteen years? Sixteen years? How long has she kept her thermal eye on him?

Stop! It must stop! He would put an end to it! A permanent end to it!

Suddenly, yet smoothly, he swung and lifted his body from the desk chair, walked to, opened, and closed the door to his office.

Half in a run and half in a fast pace, he strode to and unlocked the door to the apartment house's "Tool Room." The fluorescent light flashed and his hands grabbed the sledgehammer from its home in the rigid circle of steel which secured it "up-righteousness."

Now running down the second story hall dragging the rusted head of the sledgehammer behind him, leaving a flame of rust to stain the run behind him, he halted at the from door of "the" apartment which hovered like a thermal camera above his, silently pushing silence into his ears.

He gently tapped the door knob once, swung back the sledgehammer and drove it into the place at which the tongue of the lock jammed into the door frame which kept him outside.

The frame of the door crashed and the door limped open with the second smash of the hammer.;

"Bitch? Where are you?"

He followed the patter of his own apartment which he knew and suddenly stood in front of the door immediately above the door to his office.

No! Because when he smashed the light-weight, barely skinned, unlocked door open, a fat older aged man with deep-set goggles over his eyes sat looking down onto the floor.

"What the hell? Get the shit out of here!"

But it was too late. Too, too late!

In the flash of a second, he had drug the hammer on the hard wood,, bamboo floor, around the bed in the middle of the room so that he finally stood in front of the goggled man, sitting on the edge of the bed's white comforter with its blood-red roses.

The sledgehammer went into the air and came home on the right foot of the goggler.

He yelled. He screamed. He swore, but didn't see the second blow of the sledgehammer hit his left foot. The one with smashed feet attempted to stand up, but fell backwards instead onto the blood-roses of the pure comforter.

"But this....this does not happen. this type of thin never, never happens!" the goggler said from the top of the bed between screams.

"I am a psychologist. An investigator. This type of thing never happens to Doctor Dribble. Never."

He heard the disbelief and hissed in reply, "Continue to do this and I shall return! And if I have to come back, I shall return with a sickle and cut you off from your sex!"

Submitted: June 25, 2012

© Copyright 2021 Don Hagelberg. All rights reserved.

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