From behind the blood red eye

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
My attempt at emulating one of my favorite authors, Ken Kesey, specifically his book 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". I was really happy with it, except for the last paragraph, which felt contrived and amateurish.

Submitted: March 03, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 03, 2015



Without light there could be no shadows. All I needed was darkness, and something for this horrible pain. The frenzy of dust flying up from hastily moved objects settled on me as I stood still and plotted my next move against the horrible shapes and patterns moving like some sort of abstract painting melting onto my wooden floor. I grabbed the nearest piece of cardboard and pushed it against the window, my bony frame creaking threats against my wispy existence.

The shadow was gone, which meant I could live for another day without having my every move watched and judged by some vaporous form keeping just out of view, sometimes in the ceiling or behind my eyes. The pain in my head was rising like storm water, threatening to clog the drains and overflow into the streets of my mind drowning away my thoughts and memories about that which avoids being seen.

My legs stopped working, my head was too busy discussing and arguing about how I could clear out of here for good, without them watching me. I curled into a ball, clutching my head as though my pain was a hammer and nail piercing through the layers of skin and bone so that the repairman could finally keep my head straight and on task, stop me from seeing the truth about hidden shadows and saving the people who are being slowly siphoned away by horrific beasts no larger then a pinpoint.

The walls started moving, that was how I knew. Someone realized I was here and moved the walls so that they could get more room for public schools and parking lots, a human force removing all roadblocks until people are suffocated by their small houses and cars, with perfect efficiency and making no waste. People need to park somewhere, I knew that, but I wished they gave me enough room to get off the floor and grab a drink of water, I was so thirsty. The wall started making noise and I hoped that it would give me my answer and let me know when they will open up to give me a little more space, but it just made a constant pounding to help the repairman bury the nail deeper and deeper inside.

“Andrew, get out here,” the walls said. They didn't talk often, so when they did I made sure to listen carefully as to not miss any important information. “Christ Alfred, you off your meds again?” This question seemed quite rude, frankly it was none of its business.

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