Datamaskin
Posted: 14 Feb 2017, 11:46
F I L E # 2 8 9 0 3 4
The droning is intermittent, crossing wireless signals staggering loudly at the forefront of his brain. He wakes with a yell, facedown in the ditch. There’s a familiar ache at the back of his head. When his fingers trace the dried rivulets of blood at his cheek, he finds a single-entry wound at the base of his skull.
Reality lurches forward, the passing of time jagged and disorientating.
A steady whirring sound builds and builds and builds until it’s inexorably shrill. Frozen fingers dig through torn flesh and chipped bone, seeking out the bullet scrambling his noggin. His voice cracks as he screams into the void, and he rocks forward to escape the agony he’s brought unto himself. Eventually, blood-slickened and trembling, his fingertips grasp the bullet.
Facedown in a ditch, he resurfaces two days later.
Tentatively, he reaches for the base of his skull.
Wound still oozing, the light touch elicits a pained moan.
On day three, he asks the void what the **** happened?
The void answers with an onslaught of mismatched images he’ll only put together on the sixth day.
He wakes up screaming on day seven when radio waves scratch across his mind like fingers on a chalkboard. As he sits up against the crusty walls of the sewers he’s claimed as his home, the telepath involuntarily listens in to conversations happening somewhere above ground. Digitalised voices and the shrill undercurrent of the wireless signals through which the words move, cause a trickle of blood to ooze from his nose. His eyes roll to the back of his head.
Reality lurches forward, the passing of time jagged and disorientating.
A steady whirring sound builds and builds and builds until it’s inexorably shrill. Frozen fingers dig through torn flesh and chipped bone, seeking out the bullet scrambling his noggin. His voice cracks as he screams into the void, and he rocks forward to escape the agony he’s brought unto himself. Eventually, blood-slickened and trembling, his fingertips grasp the bullet.
Facedown in a ditch, he resurfaces two days later.
Tentatively, he reaches for the base of his skull.
Wound still oozing, the light touch elicits a pained moan.
On day three, he asks the void what the **** happened?
The void answers with an onslaught of mismatched images he’ll only put together on the sixth day.
He wakes up screaming on day seven when radio waves scratch across his mind like fingers on a chalkboard. As he sits up against the crusty walls of the sewers he’s claimed as his home, the telepath involuntarily listens in to conversations happening somewhere above ground. Digitalised voices and the shrill undercurrent of the wireless signals through which the words move, cause a trickle of blood to ooze from his nose. His eyes roll to the back of his head.
Dry eyes peer at the dark, dank world around him.
It’s day nine and he’s starved.
It’s day nine and he’s starved.