The Beginning

Location: Milford, PA, Hotel Fauchère.
Date: January 27th, 2009, 4:57 pm

         The former Second Lt. Paul Richardson of the United States Army sat stoically and rock-like on the edge of his firm, rigid bed. Were it not for the slight movements of his chest with each of his shallow breaths, he may have been a statue, a life like monument to the ever-present hopelessness of his time here. What little baggage he had sat in the far corner of the beige colored room, collecting dust, just as it had been doing for - how long now?

         Richardson’s empty eyes stared at the clock, and with each tick of the second hand, his head twitched slightly. He’d been here since – he tried to concentrate, his brain filling in the holes of his memories and thinking with nonsense. Visions of the past, memories he wasn’t even aware that he’d retained – these things popped up in his mind. The clock. He had to focus on the clock.

         Since he’d been discharged and diagnosed with this new form of cancer, Richardson had slowly lost control of his cognitive abilities, the doctor’s told him. His motor functions would eventually go, as well, and he would become increasingly weak. He’d even lose sense of touch in some places, maybe even his pain receptors would die out. What did this mean to Richardson? He was up shit creek without a paddle. Something like that. He couldn’t remember the saying he was looking for. That sounded close enough. It didn’t matter.

         And his head continued to twitch slightly with each tick of that second hand. What had he just been trying to do? The clock. What time was it? No. How long had he been here? Since – he stared at the clock, it’s black, plastic hands resting on the lower right. There were symbols there, and he almost remembered what they meant, but not now. He’d watched the clock’s hands move around the disk several times – had he been here for days, then? Maybe. He’d been here since the clock’s hands were on the left-

         Left. LEFT! LEFT! LEFT RIGHT LEFT! The heavy voice sounded off in his mind, and he even expected to see his drill sergeant pop out from behind the door, or perhaps tear through the thin walls of this hotel. But no, there was no instructor. It was just an echo of a memory from years ago. It wasn’t even an enjoyable one.

          During the times when Richardson was able to think for himself, and recall memories as he wished (times that were increasingly rare now), he wondered why he should have to suffer as he was right now. If he had to live in the past that was inside of his head, couldn’t God, or whichever fucked up higher being who got off on watching people suffer, let him live in the GOOD times. Like his nights will Sally – Sally something. He couldn’t remember her name. He wanted to remember her body. At least, parts of it.

         He kept thinking to himself that this thing that was eating him up inside felt like more than just cancer. Not that he’d ever had cancer before, but it felt different than he’d expected. Perhaps it was just the idea that death was looming over him, and there was nothing he could do about it that made him think that way. Richardson wished that he could blame the cancer on someone- the government, military experiments, smoking- hell, even a radioactive spider bite would have helped some. That wasn’t to be, however. It was a genetic malfunction, the doctor’s had told him. It happened sometimes, where a person’s DNA wasn’t coded properly, and one thing goes wrong, followed by another and another, and then BAM! Cancer. Again, the only thing this meant for Paul was the he was fucked. Dead man walking.

         So, instead of going back home after getting out of the hospital, he walked. He just kept walking. He didn’t feel like going back to his family, and facing their pity. When he got tired of walking, and his bones and joints couldn’t take it anymore (much like the doctor had warned him of), he stopped walking. He’d taken his pay from Uncle Sam with him. No one would get their hands on that. Not that he could use it for much longer, but that wasn’t the point. And so, he’d checked himself into this hotel – days ago? Weeks maybe?

         Now, he sat, staring at the clock, and the only movement visible was that of his chest. Visions and memories floated in and out, and he would live them out in his mind. They were getting stronger now, too. They seemed so real. Once, he even thought he saw his old buddy Krieger sitting next to him. His old buddy Krieger died three years ago. It showed on the young man’s face, too. At least, the memory of the guy’s face. When he looked into Krieger’s face, it felt to Richardson like he was looking into a mirror from the future- the man’s face was sunken in, decaying even. The gray ashen complexion of his skin matched the way that Richardson felt – dead.

         Now, back at the clock, the hands moving from right to left, the sun going down, Richardson kept staring. He couldn’t NOT focus on it for some reason. And his head twitched with each tick of the second hand.

         Tick. Tick. Tick.

         Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.

         Or was it the other way around? Was the clock ticking BECAUSE he was twitching? That didn’t make sense. Still, he couldn’t deny the feeling that was there. He was pushing time forward. Pushing it with everything he had. He wanted death to come for him. Push that clock! Push it!

         PUSH IT! PUSH IT UP MAGGOT!!

         Over on his left, Drill Sergeant Gruts stood tall, his cliché, wide brimmed, military-green hat sitting square on the top of his shaved head. He screamed at Richardson, commanding him to PUSH IT! Whatever that meant. Second Lieutenant Richardson only knew that he wasn’t supposed to be sitting down now. If Gruts saw him sitting – well, let’s not think about that. Richardson took both of his arms and braced himself on whatever it was he was sitting on. It was firm, but somewhat soft. Dirt, perhaps? No, he was too high up for that.

         Didn’t matter. PUSH IT! He told himself, echoing the voice of his drill instructor. He tried to push up, but his arms would let him. He looked down at them, wondering why they looked so boney – so weak. He could feel the strain, but not the pain. Someone had told him he’d slowly lose most of his sense of feeling, his pain. Gruts? No..someone else. Someone from his life outside of the army. That’s not where he was, though.

         PUSH IT!! And he did. Boy did he. He pushed with everything he had, and down Richardson went. His body fell forward, his head slamming into the corner of the nightstand next to him, and he knew that something was wrong. He saw the red. Dark red. It didn’t hurt though, so it couldn’t be too bad. He landed on the floor with a soft thud, a sound reflecting the fact that his body had wasted away to almost nothing.

         As Richardson lay there on the ground, the pool of dark red – something that he couldn’t remember the name of- he remembered watching his arm twist as he pushed, and he heard the bones snap, crumbling beneath the light weight of the small man as he tried to stand up. In the background, he could hear Gruts screaming at him to PUSH IT! But there wasn’t anything left to push. Well, maybe one thing.

         As he fell into darkness – pushed himself into darkness – one thing never occurred to Richardson: there was no tick of the second hand now. There was no twitch of his head. The clock stopped with the beating of his heart.

* * * * *

         Two and a half days later...

         A slow, weak, but steady thud began in the chest of what was formerly Paul Richardson. The man’s eyes opened, and he saw the world through a film of some new color, one he couldn’t identify. He saw the world, and so did something else with him.