Final Short Story

Author's Note: This is a piece that I was assigned to do in class. It was the creative short story piece. It honestly took me so much time to try and write this. I am not a very creative person, and to have to write such a creative piece was difficult. In this, the goal was to mimc an author and insert a defense mechanism that the character used. My character exhibits rationalization and denial, and I chose to mimic Ambrose Bierce. The main character is in the midst of his own torment, believeing he is being held captive by terrorists. However this is not the case.

Trapped in the Mind

Drip…

                           Drop…

                                                       Drip…

                                                                                     Drop…

the sound that haunts my mind, it fills the inner crevices and never stops with its monotonous and continuous drop. I’m not sure how I have arrived in this place. It is dark and dreary, no light and not even a single window to peer out of. It has become harder each and every day to take comfort in my one inch thick, hard as a rock mattress. I can never find peace in this place; all I ever hear is the drip and drop. 1I await every drop with annoyance and – and for some reason – resentment. How have I arrived in such a miserable situation?

I should have known better, signing up to work with the government couldn’t have ever been a good idea. I’m sorry Stacy I hope you can forgive me. Lulu and Skip, I pray every night that you know Daddy misses you. Finally, another hour passes in this noisome cell. I have come to the realization that every 1,967th drop marks the passing of an hour. Even though that irritable drop will tip me over the edge of insanity, sadly it has become my only lifeline.

Come on now, I need to think, what was I doing before I arrived here? Oh that’s right, I was walking somewhere and I felt a shock of pain pierce my body. It ripped through my flesh and tore me from the inside out, as if a savage beast was attacking me. The rest is a blur. That same day my advisor had given me some sensitive information about terrorist cells and potential raids. I was supposed to deliver it to someone, which must be why I was walking outside; I was on my way to meet this person.

Although things look bleak, I just know that somehow I can get out of this. I have prayed, I’ve gone to church, I do what is right most of the time, doesn’t that mean that the greater being in the sky is going to save me? Who cares anymore, this is my own fault. I risked my life just to get the feeling of heroism when in actuality I am nothing more than a loser for leaving my family. I need to stop thinking like this, but how, how can I overcome this lapse of judgment? Throwing a pity party isn’t the answer, but I have been lying on this mattress for days, I cannot get up for some reason. I try to stretch my left arm and something tugs on it. Fortunately, my right arm is free and moves around with joy and ease. 2The movement of flailing fingers keeps my focus and my eye ensues it across the darkness. My arm and the drop are the only motion within my chamber.

Breaking free of this place is my only way to survive. If my own ability at the moment will not allow me to escape, I must be cunning. Outsmart the enemy, outsmart the torture, and in the end outsmart myself. Though the movement has been taken away from me by a mysterious force, I can survive, and I must survive. My family needs me, but not as much as I actually need them. There goes the drop again, why will it never cease? Being abused would mean far less pain than this solitary drop.

Maybe, I could tear up my mattress and use the stuffing as a way of lulling this incessant drop. Maybe, I could hit my capturers with my right arm when they advance upon me. Maybe, I should have just not been such an oaf, and worked behind a desk like every other middle-aged man. Maybe, this whole situation will just disappear as if it had only been a nightmare. Maybe… just maybe.

Who cares anymore? I am only delaying the inevitable. I will die in this dark place, alone, and with no one to comfort my ever-increasing sorrow. Stop it! I cannot think like this, but as time continues to tick away my mind wanders farther down the path of despair. The only way to conquer the lurking pessimist is to think. Think with the brain that the government sought to have on their side. 3Rising from my thoughts of my deep despair were drops I could not bear or accept, a clear, precise, cacophonous melody like the whipping of a percussionist’s hand on the triangle; it possessed the same irritable nature.

The drop continues, I should really know by now that the drop will never cease, its existence will end once the end for me has come. The sound fades away, and all is at peace. Why is my heart rate increasing? It’s pumping faster and faster. It feels as if I am trying to tug a semi-truck along my arteries. The heave and gasp that accompanies every breath will not cease. The drip and drop that haunted me for what has felt like years is replaced by an even more bothersome beep. I hear nothing but beeps, so many beeps. Why can I not breathe? I gasp and nothing fills the empty lungs that ache for an occupant. Then, I open my eyes and rays of light come pooling into my darkened body. Fluorescent lights keep hitting my corneas, my eyes burn into my head. I am paralyzed: all movement, sound, and light cease to exist.



Beep…

                                     Beep…

                                                                     Beep…

                                                                                                  ∧_∧__∧_________




Mimic Lines


1) “He awaited each stroke with impatience and – he knew not why – apprehension.”

2) “A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current.”

3) Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which her could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality.”