Stephen Craig

TRAPPED IN A BROKEN MIND

The greater part of me died last night.

I held her hand tightly and watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing work itself towards a gradual and pained end. Death entered the room with a callous disrespect for my feelings and took her from me whilst I simply stood there watching.

As ever, I was powerless.

I felt him touch me as he passed and it was the second time to my knowledge that I had been unable to protect her. At that moment I wanted him to take me too but I knew that he would not.

In some respects he did though because from that moment my eyes lost their focus on the real world. Empty and devoid of tears from an enduring sorrow and nightly vigil at her bedside — my sight and reason had both died.

She had been in a coma for the two months that had followed the attack; the violation of her life had started with the violation of her person. When we walked into the house that evening I did not see the attack coming — but I certainly felt the blow that knocked me into unconsciousness.

* * *

The two men stood and watched, simply making notes in the silence of the room.

* * *

I had awoken in a severe stupor and rolled over slowly to try and get my bearings and gain an understanding as to where I was. Her eyes were open and vacant. Staring at me but unseeing and there was an emptiness that pierced my heart. At that moment I remembered.

I remembered the evening we had enjoyed. The restaurant. The meal. The laughter. Recollections of a short lifetime spent together and how we were going to spend our tenth anniversary.

A Parisian evening where two hearts could be together and in love. Invisible to the uncaring throng who in turn had their own hearts in hand.

* * *

The machine made an occasional beep and the two men looked at each other. There was a knowing look between them and a slight shake of a head.

* * *

I could see the white light on the Avenue de Champs-Elysees and knew that heaven belonged here as I looked up and spoke my thoughts:

‘Les etoiles sont belles ce soir’.

She had smiled and looked up too

‘Oui. Ils dansent pour les amoureux’.

I held her tightly and we kissed. Hand in hand we continued to stroll towards the Arc de Triomphe.

* * *

The family were crying, embracing in the grief of loss. There was a screaming from somewhere:

‘Nooooooo… not yet’.

Sobbing and crying were real and owned the ‘here and now’.

* * *

‘I CAN HEAR YOU’! A voice screamed out in a mind that was in search of something.

* * *

The two men felt uncomfortable to be intruding upon the raw emotion of a family in their grief. Death brought with it a certain finality that was not just to the lost, but to the living left behind. They looked at the machine and made some notes in a scribbled hand. Here, a life was measured on numbers.

* * *

I do not think that she ever awoke from the attack. A catatonic seizure? A psychological collapse? Withdrawing away from a fractured reality? I would never know the answers to these questions because I would never be able to ask her.

No more warmth to hold. No more fragrance from her skin.

Not even a chance to tell each other goodbye.

* * *

We would have returned from that trip ready to start our family. We had discussed the names of our children — if it was a girl it would have been ‘Angelica’ and if it was a boy it would have been ‘Charles’. I would have called him ‘Charlie’ and taught him how to play football.

That would never happen now.

They had stolen my life.

They had stolen my wife.

* * *

I tried to crawl over to her to kiss her and tell her that everything would be okay, but she did not move. Her clothes were torn and ripped and there was blood on the floor where she lay.

Too much blood.

I lay my head by her and cried tears that burned. I cannot say for how long or even where help came from, but it eventually came and I remember hearing a door open.

* * *

The door opened and a nurse walked into the room.

‘Please take your time. If you want some privacy, there is a family room at the end of the corridor. If you have any questions, I will be at the desk outside’.

The door opened and closed and there was one less person in the room.

* * *

The door closed and Gabrielle walked into the room. She was beautiful. I remember the details as if it were yesterday, but this was only our second date. We had been to see a movie and returned to my apartment for a drink of coffee.

She must have visited the bathroom, but when she came through that door I just could not believe how her eyes shone. The hair that carried down the length of her back was blonde and as she walked it bounced as if it had a life of its own.

We had chatted for hours — literally until the sun came up. At some point she had snuggled herself up to me and fallen asleep. Her hair smelt of apples.

* * *

We had collected apples from the ground when we had visited that orchard on the south coast. It had been a hot summer, certainly I could not remember such a long period of prolonged warmth in the air. The evenings had been especially unbearable and often I would feel the sweat on the small of my back.

* * *

‘Please don’t leave me. I love you so much’. The tears were real and tasted of salt.

* * *

The machine was silent and had been rolled out of the room by the two men after it had been disconnected from the body. No more beeping. No more electronic message to give,. In fact, no more comment to be made upon the world of the living.

* * *

‘Entschuldigen Sie mich, wo ist der Bahnhof bitte’? It was all I knew and it did not help me get far.

Had we taken some time to travel? If we had, we could not have gotten far and besides — I could just hear crying’.

* * *

Gabrielle stood up from her chair and walked over to Peter. Turning towards her mother and brother, she looked down at her husband and kissed his forehead. Through broken words, she whispered in his ear:

‘I will love you forever’.

* * *

‘I will love you forever’. He spoke the words gently to her as she lay on the floor. His arms cradled her head and his tears washed her face.

* * *

The three left the room and began the difficult journey down the corridor. They would need to step out into sunlight and try to continue to live their lives.

* * *

‘I will love you forever’. The words were a continuing resonance on an electrical pulse.

* * *

The two men spoke to the nurse:

‘How long had he been like that’?

‘Two months apparently’.

‘It must have been hell for his wife’?

‘They disturbed a burglar’.

‘Oh God’!

‘He got hit over the head’.

‘Christ almighty’!

‘They say he never regained consciousness…’

The discussion in the corridor continued.

* * *

Somewhere, a memory spoke and existed.

The greater part of me died last night…

* * *

In her car, Gabrielle held clutched hands to a leather steering-wheel. Her head was slumped forward and her eyes were closed as she held the memory of his face close to her.

A memory of a final kiss.

She screamed loudly before covering her face in her hands and giving in to the uncontrolled sobs of loss…

###

About the author

Stephen lives in England with his wife. Following a re-evaluation of his life goals, he looked to establish a career through his writing and has published several e-stories. Along with his like for horror, he is currently working on the first in a series of fantasy stories and he hopes that you take as much enjoyment from his work as he does in creating it.

With your support, he hopes to make his writing dreams come true.

Connect with me online

Stephencraig74@aol.com

http://www.stephencraigauthor.wordpress.com

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephen-Craig/567151849971213

Twitter: @stephencraig74

Also by the same author

Blooded Eyes

Grim Reaping

Who Killed Bob?

The Drowning of the Innocents

Coming Soon in 2013:

Falling Through the Rainbow

Flash Fiction:

Symbiote

The Tortured Clouds of Kh’all

The Omnipotence Paradox

Glue

Dead Ted

The Last Step

Cream of Volition

The Reaping Rewards

Road Kill and Everything In-Between

Feel

Trapped in a Broken Mind

Available for download from www.smashwords.com

COMING IN 2013

Falling Through the Rainbow

By Stephen Craig

Prologue: Black

Night had fallen over the God forsaken city and below, where people searched for the slightest glimmer of hope, chaos existed only to consume their dreams. The poverty here was the worst that had been experienced for many years and crime was rife. Law and justice struggled to control the overwhelming blackness that devoured the hearts of the innocent. In walking the streets below, those rotten, squalid streets, it would be extremely difficult to believe that innocence could even exist here. But it did. In small cracks and pockets, light could be found. In a perverse balance to this and allowing for the depravity that was abundant, there was also a malevolent cancer that ate away at the depths of society. An abhorrent presence that simmered in the despair and self-loathing of mankind. This canker existed in man.

One man in particular sat alone in his own squalor, alone in a dirty little room where the smell of drainage lingered. He closed his eyes momentarily and mouthed a silent mantra before opening them to look down at his hands. In the darkness of this dimly lit room, he sat holding the thin strips of flesh, soggy and bereft of form, between his fingers. He was watching them with great interest. They seemed to move constantly within themselves, rippling like tender waves upon an expansive ocean. They danced as though with a mind of their own. Instinctively, he cupped his hands together around the prize and drew them towards his face. Towards his nose, where he inhaled deeply to savour every possible sensory pleasure. His eyes flashed open, widely, magnetism to all light, pulling in the messengers that would define his surroundings. Moving the skin in circular motions, he felt his arousal building, building to a blissful crescendo. Building upwards, almost to the verge of ecstatic release. He stopped himself and breathed heavily. There could be nothing possibly beyond this moment. Beyond this taste. The man bit his lip hard, bit until he felt warm blood running down his chin. Listening. Listening with intensity for the contact. The crash of the droplets hitting the floor, like a cymbal being struck with a hammer. All senses were heightened. Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. The taste of his own blood was exquisite.

Getting up from his knees he walked over to the table in the centre of the room, upon which rested an old wooden box, cracked and warped like his mind. He raised the creaking lid slowly and reached in to hold the contents in both hands. In his left a paintbrush and in his right, a knife.

* * *

‘Black coffee’ he called to the waitress.

‘I’ll bring it over to you’.

Richard Grain walked over to the grim table with its plastic tablecloth and sat down. As he pulled in his seat, his hand grazed the underside of the table and he could feel some dried chewing gum stuck in the place where one of the previously cultured cliental had obviously sat. He hoped it was chewing gum.

The waitress brought over a large mug of coffee.

‘let me know if you want food or a top up when you are ready’.

‘I will, thanks’. As the waitress walked off he looked out of the window and picked up the laminated menu on the table. It was sticky.

Outside, it was raining heavily. A depressing rain that had been falling constantly for what seemed like days. In places, the storm drains were backing up in their impotence to control the downfall. Sitting here, he could feel the dampness of his clothing. If he did not get ill from this wretched weather, he would not get ill from anything. He took a sip of the bitter black coffee and looked down at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He waited.

* * *

The man walked over to the corner of his room and pulled a discoloured dust cover from a pile on the floor. He revealed a large amount of paint cans, some which had been previously opened and had dried streaks down the side, others were new and unopened. Reaching down, he picked up a can and a screwdriver that was lying on the floor and carried them over to the table. By the window there was something else covered by a sheet. Removing this he revealed a stained wooden easel, upon which rested a large canvas. A work in progress. HIS work in progress. He looked out of the window at the rain that pounded against the glass and watched the intricate patterns that ran down the outer pane. He stood in thought, mesmerised by the beauty in the droplets dancing on the glass, then turned his attention back to the canvas.

Moving across to the table he picked up a ceramic saucer that he liked to use to mix his paints upon. He prised open the tin of paint with the screwdriver and stirred the contents, of which he then poured an amount into the saucer. Next, he picked up the knife and examined the sharp blade. Satisfied, he rolled up his sleeve and ran the knife along the side of his arm, watching the blood trickle down his flesh, over his wrist and through his fingers. It dripped from the end of his fingertips and landed in droplets into the paint on the saucer. After a while, the man reached under the table and picked up a dirty bloodstained towel and wrapped it around his arm. He picked up the saucer and paintbrush then went to his easel. With a smile on his face, he dipped the brush into the mixture and began to apply it to the canvas.

* * *

Richard had been sitting there for twenty minutes and he looked again at his watch. Doesn’t look like she is coming. He thought to himself.

‘More coffee’? The waitress spoke.

‘Please’. She filled up his mug.

‘Any food’?

‘No thanks, I’m just waiting for somebody’. He turned back to the window.

The waitress walked off towards the kitchens and he was aware of the clattering of pans and distant voices.

The bell above the café door sounded as the door itself was opened and a woman walked in. She put down her umbrella and gave it a good shake. Unbuttoning her coat, she looked around the café and saw him sitting at a table. He was looking through the window but suddenly became aware of her reflection in the glass as she sat down.

‘Hello Richard, I wasn’t sure if you would still be here’.

* * *

The paintbrush moved with silent vigour across the canvas. He was painting from memory and at this moment his eyes were ablaze. All things come from something he thought to himself. Blood had soaked through the towel and dripped a little from his upturned elbow. He finished for a moment and stood back to admire his progression. This work of art was coming alive from life itself. Ironic then that the life that he had used so far was now dead. The forms were all there, his vision was being created as he went along, but he wasn’t quite sure about something. It was a small irk and he could not quite put his finger on what it needed, what he wanted. He walked over to a chair near the table and sat down. Here, he closed his eyes and began to remember, to think about his artistic progression. In this place he could remember the voices, the screams, the smells and the silence of death. Lifeless forms that had become his inspiration, that had given him the materials to produce. He could see the skin on the table and picked it up again.

‘Materials’ he spoke with a smile.

* * *

‘I didn’t think you were going to turn up’. Richard spoke.

‘I almost didn’t, the weather is awful and my cab was late’.

‘But you did’. He smiled

‘But I did’. She reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with a tender finger.

‘I’m sorry, Joanna’ he looked up from the finger on his hand to her face. ‘I wish we hadn’t argued. It’s just…work. I felt so stressed. I have been working non-stop trying to…’

‘I know’ she interrupted him and touched the finger to his lips. ‘Let us not talk about it now’.

‘I miss you’. He closed his eyes.

‘I miss you too’. She gripped his hand in hers.

The waitress walked over.

‘Would you like a drink’?

‘Yes. I’ll have a coffee please’ Joanna said, ‘black’.

‘Any food’?

‘No thanks’. She smiled at the woman.

After the waitress had poured her coffee and returned to her work behind the counter, Joanna turned to Richard and spoke.

‘I want you to come back home’.

‘What’? He was a little surprised.

‘I need you to come back home’.

‘Are you sure’? he looked into her eyes.

‘Never more so. Like I say, I miss you’. She smiled.

He leant across the table and they kissed. The passion was still there and he had missed the warmth of her lips. He tasted salt.

‘Don’t cry’.

‘I’m sorry’.

‘Don’t be sorry’. He smiled.

She looked at him. ‘Can we go’?

‘Sure, I will just pay the bill’. He waved at the waitress and made eye contact before pretending to write in his hand. The universally understood signal for getting your bill. The waitress left the bill on the table and Richard paid up, leaving a small tip.

‘I’m hungry’. She spoke the words.

‘You didn’t want anything’. He looked at her

‘Not for food. For you’. She gripped his hand tightly.

Collecting her umbrella, they left the café together. Although the rain was still falling, Richard had a smile on his face and a warmth in his heart that he had not felt in a while. Tomorrow would be a new day and things were beginning to look up.

* * *

As the door closed behind them and the hypnotic tone of the bell rang out into nothingness, Mary Poole walked to the door. There was nobody else in the café and it was closing time. She flicked the bolt on the lock so that nobody could come in and turned the sign to read closed. Reaching downwards to the plug, she turned the switch off and the neon light for the sign went out.

At the counter, she cashed up the till and made sure that the takings for the day were put in in the safe in the office. She put her head inside the kitchen, which had already been cleaned down. They had stopped serving food an hour ago and Bob had already tided up in here. Mary was the only one left on the premises, but this was not unusual.

Back in the dining area, she collected up the menu’s from the tables along with the salt and pepper shakers, which she topped up ready for the next morning. She wiped down the tables and walked back through the kitchen and down the corridor past the office to the changing room where she collected her coat and umbrella from her locker. She then headed to the rear exit of the building and out to the poorly lit car park at the back of the building.

Outside, the rain was still falling heavily and the wind had picked up. She struggled to keep her umbrella upright and covering her head. At the car, she reached down to her handbag and wrestled to find her keys. The water droplets were loud upon the metal roof of her battered Ford but she eventually found them, unfortunately dropping her umbrella as she tried to put it down.

She bent down to pick it up from a puddle on the floor and the wind whistled. She was not aware that she had been watched from the moment she had come out of the building. She had been watched walking across the car park and fumbling for her keys. She had not been aware that this person had walked, unheard through the weather, across the car park and now lingered behind her.

As she stood up she became aware of something, but it was too late. Gloved hands held a chloroformed rag to her mouth and nose. She did not struggle for too long before panic gave way to unconsciousness.

* * *

His head was slowly turning from side to side admiring his work. He had left the table quite a while ago and was now staring with a solemn understanding at the canvas. Whilst he had been cutting the skin, he had been struck with an inspiration. In the background of the picture there had been something missing, something that would be beautiful. A rainbow.

In the silence of the room, he looked out of the window and was aware that the rain had stopped. The night was at its richest now. The clouds had gone and the clear sky was pure black.

###

Copyright

Copyright 2013 Stephen Craig

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author.

Thank you for your support.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Content

Stephen Craig
TRAPPED IN A BROKEN MIND

About the author

COMING IN 2013 Falling Through the Rainbow By Stephen Craig

Prologue: Black

Copyright