Fractious

 

 

 

Uncial Press
Aloha, Oregon
2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60174-097-7

Copyright © 2010 by Carrie Lynn Barker

Cover design Copyright © 2010 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical
or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

Typical story; guy walking home from work one day gets jumped by two big goons, gets
knocked on the head, rushed to the hospital, slips into a coma for a day or two, appears fine with
only a mild concussion and a few bumps and bruises then goes home and takes it easy for
another day or two. Now, minus wallet, including ID card, maxed out credit card and various but
still mighty important business cards, guy begins to think that this ordinary knock on the head,
two day coma and resulting concussion might not be so ordinary. Guy begins to see things,
things that are far out of the ordinary, things that people normally don't see. Even worse, things
begin to see guy.

This guy is me; and calling myself a guy is just me being silly. That's actually my name;
Guy. But not like "a guy," meaning a male of the species. Like "gee" but with a hard "g" sound,
as in "grog" and not like "golly gee whillikers." Rhymes with see? Get it? I hope so because I do
not want to go about trying to explain how to pronounce my name for the rest of my story. It's
the French pronunciation and since my mother was French, it all makes sense. So let's stop
talking about how to pronounce my name. There are more important things to be talking
about.

I'm twenty years old, not even old enough to drink in my home state, and my story is as
true as they come. In September I was on my way home from work, right after depositing my
measly pay check in the bank when I was mugged. I had no money on me, not even a buck. I
wasn't wearing nice clothes, just a really cheap suit I bought when the Mervyns department store
went belly up a few years ago. The price tag read $150.00 and I paid $29.99. Good bargain, if
you ask me. I don't know what the men wanted from me, aside from the typical want of money,
or why they picked me, but being mugged is what led to where I am now.

You probably won't believe my story, but there are still people who don't believe we
landed a man on the moon or that kissing a frog will give you a prince. Of course, nobody tells
you that princes only get turned into a
terribilis
frog, also known as the golden poison
frog, which, just as its names suggests, is poisonous and will kill you if you kiss it, which is why
nobody believes in the legend of kissing a frog and getting a prince. Nobody has ever kissed the
terribilis
frog. Don't ask me why I know this.

* * * *

I was walking home from the bank with zip in my pockets and less in my bank account,
having spent the majority of my money on bills, bills and more bills. My shoes were scuffed, my
stomach was empty, and my mind was telling me it was time to either get yet another part time
job or ask again if I could get full time hours at the bank I worked for. Being the only child of
two dead parents who were also only children, I had no one to fall back on, to beg money from
or borrow from. I had no relatives, friends or the like in any other way, shape or form. I had no
one and nothing. Perhaps that's why fate chose me at that moment to get mugged.

Two men stepped out of an alley right in front of me. One of them was holding what
looked to be a pretty realistic plastic gun. "Give me your wallet," the gunman said.

I actually laughed. I put my hand on my chest and said, "Me? You want my wallet?" I
dug it out of my pocket and tossed it to him. "Take it. It's all yours."

The gunman caught the dollar store wallet in midair and tossed it right over to his
buddy. His buddy opened it up and rifled through it. "It's empty."

The gunman turned, keeping his gun aimed at my chest. "Where's the money?" the
gunman said.

"Ain't any," I said. "I'm as broke as apparently you two are."

"No funny business," the gunman said. To his friend, he said, "Does he have any credit
cards? An ATM card?"

"One credit card." The buddy pulled out the MasterCard that was at its limit.

"It's maxed out." I indicated the card. "Good luck with it."

"Shut up!" the gunman screamed at me, obviously becoming just a little annoyed. "You
just came from the ATM, mister. Where's the money?"

"Paid the bills," I said. "I put money in. Didn't take money out. Sorry I did it
backwards."

Now, I'll admit I wasn't completely unafraid of these two. Having a gun, plastic or not,
pointed at your chest isn't exactly my idea of a super duper fun Wednesday night. But what had I
to lose? I had no money or anything else these two would value. They could have my wallet. All
that required was a couple of phone calls to let MasterCard know I'd lost my card and a trip to
the DMV for a new ID. Not that anyone wanted to spend a day at the DMV but I didn't mind all
too much. Oh yeah, and a call to the cops to report the crime. No big deal. Yet these two were
not thinking this was all fun and games. They wanted money, and if they didn't get money, they
were going to take something else.

The gunman was a big guy, approximately five-eight with brawny shoulders and a fat
head. His eyes were dark and spooky but that was probably because he was standing under a
street light and the glow kept bouncing off his pupils, making his eyes look creepy and crawly.
I'm only five-six so he had a couple inches on me. Plus, I'm not exactly the Arnold
Schwarzenegger muscle man of the year. I'm more like scrawny minus a few pounds. No
muscles whatsoever. My tongue can hardly be classified as a muscle; it was so out of shape. So I
wasn't planning on fighting. I didn't have anything to fight with.

When the gunman came at me with the gun raised, I saw my life ending right then and
there. Nothing flashed before my eyes because there was nothing to flash. But I did what I could
to save my measly life. I ran.

The gunman followed me, like I knew he would. Gunmen can be so predictable
sometimes. We weren't exactly on the busiest street in town, so there was no one to see this
pursuit. Not like it lasted very long. The gunman caught up with me and grabbed me around the
middle, taking me face first to the ground. My chin hit concrete and jarred my brain into
pudding. Dazed, I lay there, my lip bleeding into a little puddle on the ground. The gunman got
off of me and kicked me hard in the ribs, causing me to double over in pain.

Through a groan that had to have come from me, I heard him say, "Get up. Now."

I couldn't so I just lay there, my arms wrapped around my stomach, thinking he'd broken
at least two ribs and maybe even my jaw.

"Get up, asshole," the gunman said. "Get up or you're gonna end up with a hole in your
head." I was beginning to think that maybe the gun wasn't so plastic after all.

At that point, I didn't really care. He could have shot me and all it would have done was
end the pain in my midsection and put an end to the miserable excuse of my life. I would have
been okay with that. Instead, I began to hear voices; strange nearby voices. Then I heard
footsteps running along the pavement.

"Let's get out of here," I heard the buddy say. Then he added, "Al, we can't even steal
his identity. He's got the weirdest name I ever heard."

As the gunman stood over me, he said, "Yeah, What's that?"

"Guy Fractious," the buddy said, pronouncing my first name as if he were calling me a
male of the species. I was glad he left off my middle name. Those two names were bad
enough.

Both men laughed, which they were entitled to do. Then the voices began to get closer
and closer and the two men beat it. But not before the gunman brought the butt of his weapon
down on the back of my head with all the force he could muster, sending me into a less than
enjoyable darkness.

* * * *

I woke in a hospital room two days later. Three good Samaritans had come around a far
corner and seen me being tackled and had come to my aid. The gunman and buddy had gotten
away but the good Samaritans had given descriptions that matched mine. Along with the name
I'd heard, "Al," the police had good leads to go on. All I had was a splitting headache and a loss
of a couple of days.

The doctors said the gunman had hit me just right to cause me to slip into a mild coma,
but I'd be okay in a day or two. All I needed was a good rest and possibly some aspirin. The first
thing I did as I lay in my own bed later that evening after being released from the hospital was to
call my job. Much to my dismay, I no longer had a job.

"What?" was my first exclamation upon hearing that I'd been fired. "I got mugged,
knocked unconscious, put in a coma for two days and you fire me?"

"Sorry, Guy," my boss said with no hint of the sympathy his words conveyed. "You
didn't call. For two days. That's considered job abandonment. We had no choice but to fire
you."

I clenched my teeth, wanting to reach through the phone and strangle him. Instead of
doing the impossible, I said, "I was comatose." I made sure to say the words slowly so he'd be
sure to understand. Apparently he didn't.

"Then you should have had someone call for you," my boss said calmly and
seriously.

"Are you kidding me?" I hollered, now wringing the phone's neck.

"Sorry, Guy," the jerk repeated. "Your last check is in the mail." Then he hung up.

The phone landed on the floor on the other side of the room, no longer in only one piece.
Bits of wiring and computer chips scattered all over the place. I didn't care about the sudden
broken state of my phone. Now I had a splitting headache, no job, no driver's license and was
still flat broke. AND I had who knew how much in hospital bills to pay. Sure, I had insurance at
the time of incident, but that didn't cover much more than the basics. I won't even go into detail
about the details of that stupid HMO.

So, feeling more than a little lost, I sat in a corner of my beat up old couch with a Barry
Manilow record playing. Yes, I know we've moved on from vinyl, but it just has this scratchy
quality that CDs can't duplicate. I sang along to the songs I knew and hummed the ones I didn't,
but not even Barry could pull me out of my funk. I didn't know what to do. Finding a new job
was the first priority but I couldn't think much past the pounding of my head. I downed a few
aspirin with a cold glass of water and decided to go for a walk.

It was cool outside and the air felt good, even did a little to clear my head, but as I
rounded a corner, headed for the park, I got a sudden feeling of agoraphobia. How could I escape
if I was suddenly attacked again? I began scouting escape routes, looking around for open doors
and glancing at people out of the corner of my eyes, lest they jump out and grab me.

Could I go into the grocery store and find someone there who would protect me? Was it
easier to run back to my apartment or take off for open spaces? Where were there to be found the
most people so there would be plenty of witnesses if it were to happen again? And if there were
witnesses, would one of them come to my aid if I was attacked? Or was one of the witnesses
going to be my next attacker?

I was outside for no more than a minute before I turned and bolted back to my
apartment, taking the stairs two at a time until I reached safety. I locked the door behind me and
put a chair beneath the knob. You know, like they do in the movies?

Had you walked into my apartment just then, you would have found me curled up in a
ball in the corner, my head buried under my arms with my eyes closed as tightly as they could
be. You probably would have laughed, but I most certainly was
not
laughing. I was
post-coma, post-mugging, post-job-loss terrified. There is no better word to describe my
breakdown. Ter-ri-fied.

I stayed inside my house for two weeks exactly. I didn't try and find a new job. I didn't
take my last paycheck to the bank to deposit it when it finally appeared in the mail. I didn't go
buy groceries. I lived off what I could find in the apartment, even going so far as to mix flour and
water and eat the paste when I completely ran out of food. I think spending that night vomiting
that gunk back up is what yanked me out of my slump.

The next day, pale and pasty from my grotesque night, I ventured out of my apartment. I
took two things with me; my keys and a glass bottle filled with water. The keys were for getting
back inside my well-locked apartment. The water was for when and if I got thirsty. And the glass
bottle was my weapon. Just in case. I went to the park and sat on a bench, making sure that I was
in sight of as many people as possible. There were kids playing with their parents, and the
parents probably thought I was some kind of perverted freak. I probably looked like some
perverted freak since I was still sweating out the flour paste I'd eaten like the dope I was.