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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2162821
by N.Voro
Rated: E · Short Story · Animal · #2162821
A SoHo prototype get’s more than he bargains for on a family retreat to the wood’s.
I am very sarcastic. Sometimes my criticism hurts people. Especially those, closest to me. Why? Because I drain them. Among all the well known typical things a friend or a lover does, I go a step further and gather personal information I am told by them in utter confidence and use it against them. Self-consciously realizing the whole time that I am doing it, being well aware of my actions, and yet I still do it. And continue to do it to this very day. This plagiaristic circle constantly repeats itself and its every circular rotation causes me to lose a friend or two in the process.

But in life there will always be casualties. So, whether complete strangers, vaguely familiar acquaintances I met at some cocktail party, or childhood friends I grew up with, played croquet with on their father's newly acquired estate's lawn, spent semesters roomed up with in the same Harvard dorm, all that doesn't matter as they become informants (without a formal agreement of any sort of course).

The self-realization of the treachery and betrayal only sinks in after they read the latest bestseller I wrote (name change seems microscopic in the long run) and realized their private lives suddenly became public, for anyone willing to spend under thirty dollars to fulfill a voyeuristic characteristical feature all our personalities have no matter how seemingly different we are from one another.
I copyright their lives, as a friction of my boundless artistic imagination, that I sometimes at a leisurely pace, but nonetheless, use to produce these original, but fabricated imitations of real life.

If my publishers only knew, well even then I doubt they would care, as long as this information didn't leak to the press (my lips are sealed). Because if it did, that's a stock-market-crash-type-of-a-slide in sales and a bunch of lawsuits I hardly want to deal with, I'm imagining they probably don't either. My lawyer fees alone would be an isolated figure, that's a total fraction of my last three publishing house paychecks added together. I might be rich, but no one is rich enough for a lawyer's blood.

So, I finished this confession to my psychiatrist (talking solves a good deal of what's left unsaid... usually) at stating that the jacket sleeves of my novels denounce any real life connections. And you know what he said? Care to guess? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Continued to scribble a Picasso worthy sketch with a water-colour pencil in his yellow pad.

I am not a fortune teller, neither am I, as intuitive as a woman, but looking at the latest issue of the Yachting Magazine laying open on his mahogany desk, I can only assume that it's of his next boat. Or one, he already owns and he is compulsively comparing, while sketch-filling in its shortcomings, which he obtained, window shopping other lusciously illustrated yachts, that are just slightly out of his price range.

So, he has no answers for me. No solutions for any of my problems. I suppose talking to a shrink is like talking to a priest.
Only difference is, a shrink has a verbal contract with you (a written one with me) and priests have been known to divulge information of their confessors. Sitting next to their lawyer exclaiming, "Father how could you give me twelve Hail Mary's and then turn me in?"
On a good note, he has a suggestion. He recommends heartily, that I should take a vacation. Which he announces to me, he is going to do soon himself with my hard earned money. Probably sail around the world on his yacht.

But who am I to judge, I rather talk to a blunt individual than a liar any day. And since we are on the subject of deceitful mirror illusions of the truth, I should be quite frank and say, I mostly function in my aristocratic-downtown-loft-habitually-rich-environment due to my parent's monthly allowances that usually know no boundaries, as far as digit-no-strings-attached love goes.

I pondered for a moment (something I am at a given time, actually capable of doing myself), and I come up with the perfect getaway; my parents cabin. As they say: "When you can't face your problems, run away from them."

Few days later, I am in the back seat of my parents first bought car (so much for running) before the plummet to status, a Volkswagen. Off on our way to the perfectly idealistic sounding location for some well deserved recreational rest.

I have to say, I wasn't ready for this, at least not this year. I know it sounds rather ridiculous; but I am not even dressed properly. Armani suit, Gucci loafers in the back of a mint 80's Volkswagen. What a nightmare. My multi-millionaire banker Father gripping the steering wheel and next to him my Mother, who has her own cooking show, with some underhanded feministic views. A fraudulent Bestselling Author, a Loan Shark and an Activist for women's lib; The Three Musketeers.

An indefinite period of time later (that felt like an eternity), we are finally here and I no longer have to listen to my Mother hum Christian folk songs, and my Father make frequently urgent cellular call's to his business partner (who is a female and probably his mistress).

As I stepped out of the car, the air attacked my nostrils with heaviness. In my defence, I am a city dweller used to the darkness, much like a vampire.

The most reoccurring imagery in my life is fluorescent lighted dens, where the next your-presence-is-required party is happening. Where glow sticks make up for a vital assembly-stic part of some probably-underage girls latest Nicole Miller two-piece.

I feel claustrophobic among the ancient giants, the natural force of Mother Nature overwhelming the systematic drug-like-substances in my bloodstream; I feel a gravitational pull, one that transcends my spirit away from my outer superficial shell of a body.

As a follower, no matter where I went my whole life, I always felt a violent pressure to fit in; but here I can be myself. Here, I didn't need to project something I am not through a made up personality. I am suddenly yielded to confront a part of me I left behind, my youthful innocent adolescence.

What strange revelations, fresh air can have on a person. There must be toxins in the air, I was sure of that. Industrial fumigation from the neighbouring Spare Part's Machinery Plant, mixed with some burnt Camp Scout's marshmallows, left behind after a bus trip into the heartland of America, its woods.

Following morning, I awoke in my old room, comforted by dusty bookshelves and gigantic monstrous looking stuffed animals, in variety of offensively bright colours.

So, here I am, trying to recollect the past evening, spent so nostalgically with my Father igniting a campfire. OK, so he didn't use two rocks... Aristocrats and Neanderthals are vastly different groups, belonging to different collective class environments; so I can't really blame him, and applaud his efforts thus far.

I shift my thoughts back to myself (how typical), my spinal cord is very sore, my vision is blurred, my fingers are cramping with what must be early signs of Turrets Syndrome. As a typical alpha male, or fine, just male, I feel the need to release the collective urinary matter from all the imported beer I consumed last night.

What can I say I am a multitask-er and while taking care of the overnight business, I looked out from my cabin's window and confronted a sight of swarming alligators, flourishing amidst the fresh water of this Bourgeois cabin-lake/resort-escape; right below the ledge. I began to retrace my steps backwards, utterly horrified, and as soon as I passed the door frame, the corner of my right eye caught a sight of a Cloaked Concealed Figure lurking down the hallway.

He looked like the Retainer of Death (paternal origin of these originally supposed bastard offspring's below my window), draped in all black, except for his ghastly pale hands without much colour. Around his waist, a gun was fastened.

I wanted to call him fraudulent, not genuine at all, a product of a make-believe world, a humorous imitation of my worst fears, but he was crippling me with an overspreading sensation of dread that felt too real.

My head began to throb with a seemingly persistent headache, the room became noticeably hotter, even scorching and I felt a blinding notion enter my mind; that purification from sin is through punishment and he was here to punish me (and therefore save me).

But the phobia passed, consciousness regained itself and I plunged back inside the bathroom, locking the door after myself.

Outstanding, simply outstanding! There I was, singled out, solitary confined in my bathroom, feeling simply incredulous, as I continued to overlook a wasteland that was my only passageway to my parent's cabin, unless of course I felt a surge of heroism and perceived my parallel alternative of making it safely across the Large Bay on my canoe. Coarsely leading towards the unknown, and as I get out: they can grope me, lift, throw and haul my body with powerfully sharp teeth into the marshes.

I was definitely inexperienced with the whole survival tactic routine. But this hindrance affected my inheritance and I had to prolong my existence long enough, to cash my parent's life insurance policy.

So, I approached the window rashly, but with some hesitation; with one foot placed firmly on the bathtub, I boosted myself, sat on the ledge of the window, swung my feet over and confronted The Pitfall of Death.

It was overflowing with alligators whose animosity seemed animated, not natural at all, not that I was an expert, but the present result, seemed to have been achieved by a chemical reaction and some good ol' manhandled tempering with mother nature.

If they seemed, as a nonentity before from a distance, up close I couldn't nullify their existence to a state of nothingness. They were real. And they would monopolize, my Harvard Business Degree with the rest of me, if my feet slipped from that cornice.

I started slowly edging along, remaining aware that they picked up speed below me. The inadequacy of their short stubby feet didn't seem to be much of a problem. They could keep up just fine and unlike me, they did it noiselessly, true to their predatory nature, making me momentarily forget they were even down there, until I did look down; at those loathsome, gathering reptilians, just waiting to take a hold of me.

Repetition of movement, evolved in to a rhythm of sorts, that is, until a piece of cornice broke under my foot, and a vigorous cry for help, creep-ed upwards, from the pit of my stomach and through my windpipe. And I started to helplessly plummet below, until a slightly opened shutter came in to my sight. I flung my arm out, tearing violently through the woven material and slowing down just enough to continue to shatter through a sheet of glass, framed closed, behind the transparent cloth.

The excessive pressure of holding on for my dear life, with that one arm, caused the muscles to tighten up inside, and with the already remaining fragments of the broken glass stuck deeply enough (within the skin to have caused significant damage to the veins and the arteries); intense dark red droplets of blood began to methodically dribble down.

Sheer adrenaline made the blood circulate twice its normal rate, my grip on the windowpane weakened and I started to feel the effects of a forthcoming fatigue.

Suddenly, something travelled past my left ear and embedded itself in the wood. Upon closer examination, I pronounced it as, a bullet, meant to take my life, but having missed. Oh great! Now he is shooting at me.

The next bullet pierced my shoulder and caused me to collide, face-first with the wall, breaking the ridge of my nose.

Third time being the charm, and considering it's a lonely place at the top, at least that's how I remembered the expression went, I let go, falling below somewhere between a halfway point of the two extremes.

My fall left a deep impression in the earth's surface, and initiated an advancing footrace—rapidly rounding the corner of the cottage — between the raving mongrel beasts, where the forerunner would be awarded a gnawing of the mutilated meat.

I quickly got up to my feet; a nightingale was singing its morbid song, announcing my forthcoming death. I kept advancing straightforward, without any preparation.

A case of serious indigestion was causing my stomach to rumble; having forgotten my Giorgio Armani glasses and being dyslexic, impaired me to see painted markers on select few trees — chosen specifically for their height qualifications —announcing an area of low land ahead.

And with one lame step, I felt the expectant solidified ground texture loose its firmness and my legs began to descend in to semi-liquid discharge.

I had a puzzled expression the whole time, as my lower body slid and plundered unevenly in to this abysmal substance.

The abundance of growing trees nearby was my only saving grace. Especially, when there was an amplifying but well balanced and increasing noise, announcing the approach of my evilly chuckling crocodilian friends.

Mystifying visions of hypothetical probabilities flashed before my eyes, as I started to unbuckle my belt.

With the cool technique, of the Marlboro Man, I took aim and lassoed the belt extending in to a buckle, with exactness, accuracy and precision towards a niche in a tree; the closest marginally one to me.

While the apparatus descended through the air, I projected a coolly unconcerned self-solemn promise of survival splattered across my face.

The metallic clasp fit snugly inside the niche, after giving it a firm tug and tightening it within the bark framework, I nabbed at the belt with both arms pulling myself out, as I decreased the widths to refuge in my fingers.

Once out, I took painstaking steps at a particular pace down a path that was concealed from humanity, placed conveniently out of sight within this Diagram of Hell. The hidden objective: was an insulated Chevrolet pick-up-rust-box, inside a barn, with loosely hung wide open doors.

With no delusions of time, I didn't waste any, clinging the wheel firmly with my trembling hands. There was an inflammation, as the ignition burst forth explosive vapour through the cylinders of the internal combustion engine.

Rounding the corner, sudden infantile paralysis, swayed over me. Ahead, bent at one knee, was the Cloaked Figure, as if something out of a Sorority Initiation, his arms an extension of his state of the art rifle pointed at my windshield; its scope dividing it in to four equal parts.

I shifted gears with a sudden inclination to bring things to an end. The Chevrolet raced forward, as the windshield began taking direct, silenced hits and I impassively pierced through his body (there was no earnest begging with his instilled reverence for God, cause he had none), impaling him momentarily on the frame, before he slid below, leaving only a patch of red. Or so, I assumed, I didn't check, nor did I look behind me; my eyes deathly locked on the boundless vastness ahead.

Dusk was approaching by now; so I turned on the headlights, noticing immediately the closeness of my destination (my parent's cabin).

Suddenly, with great rudeness, propulsion of the Chevrolet roughly withdrew off the path, when a tail swiped the radiator.

I swerved to the left, jolted with shock that pulsated through my jugular veins, maneuvered the truck straight ahead and crushed in to a tree.

There seemed to be an interruption of all activity outside the metallic coffin confines of the truck, but only momentarily, before the resumption of continuously charging aggressive raptures began.

Beginning with an accurate hit, from a different lizard, overlapped with the paintwork of the passenger door, chipping it and crushing it inwards.

What followed was the wholeness of the driver's side window dissolving to mere shards that punctured my skin and created a passageway for a largely grotesque head of the lawless lizard that initially stopped my driving progress.

I couldn't allow slackness staring directly in to that salivating mouth, without delay I edged to the passenger side, rotated in the seat and pounded at the back window with my feet, until that too, shattered and scuffed my legs further.

With vigor, a rhapsody for survival, I plowed through and thrust my body out the opening. Once outside, I came to a run until, I reached my parent's cabin; which after careful examination, turned out to be empty.

The air inside, felt intoxicating, no wonder as it probably nourished gaseous particles that stimulated these deranged peninsula inhabitants on this fine summer day.

After cutting off all the air circulation by closing every window in sight, I sat down, simply exhausted and vigorously beginning to rub my now slightly burning skin.

Is it so preposterous to a perceive a notion, that due to some sinister planning by a mysterious Cloaked Figure, for some unexplainable reason, would abduct my parents and deliver a ton of trans-mutated-abnormal alligators, in order to divert my rescue plans in likelihood of me saving my own skin?

Was it a test to a youthful egotistical coward? Or, did he think I wouldn't make it alive out of my cabins bathroom? This is when I needed someone... anyone... to come rescue me after my futile attempt at rescuing others. To answer, the unaccountable details for me. Just then, the phone rang.

As, my parents talked about everything they bought while shopping, I was oblivious to the indefinite number of hatching eggs at my feet, laid in close proximity together under my leather couch, incubated there by their mother.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2162821