Overdose

an antidote to microdosing fiction

“Overdose” is the outcome of several short pieces written for

Miguel S.

‘s Microdosing Fiction challenges - limited word count on a given prompt. There seemed to be a theme to many of mine and I wondered what would happen if I shunted them, with a modicum of editing to fit them together.

This happened.

The page remains depressingly blank in front of me.

I toss my favourite pen casually across the ergonomically angled surface of the multi-function writing station. (One could not call such a construction a ‘desk’.) It rolls downwards towards me and comes to rest against a narrow plastic lip fastened there for just such a purpose.

“Write what you know, write what you see.” Echoes of helpful encouragement emerge from my otherwise empty mindscape. “I know nothing,” I think, almost out loud. “I see too many things that must be written about, but I do not have the words.”

There is no one to hear me anyway. Not any more.

I pick up the pen and write a single word.

I remember. That day, the beach had been hot, glowing and sandy. We had been too hot too, even after our skinny dip in the sea. “We are soulmates,” she had whispered, her eyes closed against the sun as she had laid on her back beside me. “Yes.” I had looked away shyly, quickly, hoping she would not notice my primal fascination with her undressed body, thinking me immature. Fifteen for only nine days, I had felt I’d just grown up that day.

It is late evening. In bed, I lay on my back, as I always do these days. Tap “Play” on the smartphone. Flick off the small lamp. Close my eyes. Settle back into the goose-down pillow. Breathe in for four and out, more slowly, for six. Repeat. Whisper “Night, memories.” My dreams come mercifully quickly.

I remember. “Wait a moment!” she had shouted into the hallway, startling her friend, who had just raised a second glass of Pinot G. to her lips. “Honestly,” she had confided, opening the third bottle, “I am beginning to think that having control of his State pension is not worth the running up and down the stairs every time he needs the goddamned loo.” When she had finally appeared at the bedroom door, I had pretended I hadn’t heard her.

A silent voice in my head says, “Breathe, Matthew. It’s not optional.”

I try to expand my chest, to push out my belly, to suck in at least one more lungful of life-clinging air. My eyes, still screwed shut, feel as if they will never open again. Heart barely beats. Hands, balled into fists, press hard on my thighs. Teeth clamp on teeth, jaws send warning pains to my brain. Pressure intensifies, bursting in my chest. Rushing, roaring pounding deafens my ears. The scream forms deep inside me, demanding release. I know, without knowing, there is no escape route for it – or for me.

I remember. I had looked around, taking in the stacks needing to be sorted, labelled, arranged, catalogued: notifications issued, disposal forms filled out, identifications checked and, more often than not, transport to be organised for the bodies. I have been, by nature, a tidy person and always found satisfaction in bringing order to chaos. But in the rubble that once had been a hospital, I had felt only despair over this pile of corpses.

I swear under my breath, or would have, were I not holding it so tightly. I can barely make a sound anyway, with the rising panic constricting my vocal cords. Dark holds no more terror for either of us now. What had seemed cold, empty, menacing in its unknownness, had become a warm, inky-black cloak wrapping itself around our unclothed souls and we have let go of the last tendrils of our corporeality.

I remember. One box had remained in the otherwise empty room. “An unliving room now,” I’d said under my breath. Taking out my craft knife again, I’d opened it, cutting through the ‘IMPORTANT’ label written with a dark red marker pen. And fallen backwards as her soul flew out, brushing past my heart.

I am awake. Or at any rate, aware. Dark has become light. Everything is simply appearing in its own place in my awareness. I ask a question. The faintly glowing old man speaks without speaking barely raising my eyes to mine.

“You died, that’s all.” Said matter-of-factly.

He starts again, as if he’s had a sudden softening somewhere inside.

“Oh, if you didn’t pick up the Quick Start Guide at the gates, you can get one here now. Three dollars.”

He continues scribbling in his impossibly thick book.

I hesitate, but I know I have to ask. “How long am I here for?”

He sighs and reluctantly looks up.

“Forevermore, obviously.”

I remember. I watch her fingers fumble desperately at the knots, seeking some kind of grip on the twisted twine, looking for a minuscule leverage point she can exploit, pull at, work away until she might create some slack and maybe, then, maybe, just maybe, pry the knot open, and… I see realisation dawning on her. She knows she is too late. I have done the deed. She shudders as I look down at her distended eyes, now red with the telltale petechial haemorrhages.