A Waking Nightmare (standard:horror, 1407 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Dec 10 2007	Views/Reads: 3483/2218	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
We do it every day...and every day we get lucky...or not! Don't do it... that's the message.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

time, is it still morning, afternoon or night? That question drifts by 
me on sails of silver. 

‘I'm afraid I don't.' 

‘You do know who you are, correct?' 

The question is steel. 

‘Tom...Tom Schofield, yes.' 

‘And your address, sir?' 

‘17 Rufas Square, Whitechapel.' 

He comes round to my side, standing next to the nurse, now at the back
of my head, having a word in her ear. I push my chin upward, force my 
eyes back till they hurt, but cannot see them. It's just a flutter of 
mouths speaking, indistinguishable from the moth caught in my head, 
more than a whisper but still indiscernible. He returns into my frame 
of vision. 

‘Mr. Schofield, I have some very sad news. The car you were
driving...well it mounted a pavement near your home, a mother and her 
child a mother were killed.' 

The pressure of blood, sluicing down my neck, produces an immediate
nausea. I feel a blue depth absorbing me. I'm drowning in guilt. 

‘Mr. Schofield...Mr. Schofield.... it's okay, gently
now...gently...you're doing fine. I feel her hand grip mine. My hand 
responds, tightly, as if letting it go will see me falling away from 
life itself. 

My head is exploding, barking bouts of pain enter and leave in cycles of
agony. My brain has lost control of thought, and it runs wild...why... 
why me... what happened? 

The nurse, her palm behind my neck, tilts my head forward. I sip at the
wet cool, but cannot swallow. The surplus drains down my neck, forming 
a puddle below my Adam's Apple. 

‘Breathe, Mr. Schofield; you're having a hard time breathing. In....
out... in...out... keep in time with me please, big breath, in...now 
out... and again...in... and out, that's better, keep that going.' The 
nurse calls the policeman back. ‘You can continue now.' She squeezes my 
hand. 

‘You don't recall using a cell phone at any time, Mr. Schofield?' It's a
pointed question asked, it feels, from the lofty position of knowing 
the truth. 

There's a drift of fleecy guilt in the question. I try hard to recall,
try to see myself at the wheel, see the cell phone. 

‘No, sir, I don't recall anything. Cell phone?' 

‘Yes, eyewitnesses say you were driving without due care, you were using
a cell phone. You definitely don't recall this?' 

There's a deep, dark resonance in his voice, yet the words dance from
his mouth with a sterile, accusing satisfaction. He believes I do 
recall and not admitting to it. I know this from the timbre of his 
voice, and the way he accentuated on the word ‘definitely'. 

A mother, and a child, dead! A watery fog thickens before my eyes. I
feel profoundly alone and afraid. I'm alive and a mother and child are 
dead because I used a cell phone while driving. 

How could this destruction happen to me, to them, a mother and a child
innocently standing, walking, and playing when my car smashed into 
them, never again to know laughter in their eyes. My thoughtless act. A 
call, to whom, and why, and what could have been so important that I 
would risk such havoc and death on someone for a something that could 
easily wait? 

The lamp, shining an illuminating reality, offers no comfort. I feel
far... far underground. What a senseless world, just a phone call. I 
wasn't drunk. I wasn't on drugs or medication, I simply thought it 
could never happen to me. Somehow I drove into a woman and child. 
Nothing makes sense. I lie here, skeletal ruins, a shattered, broken 
existence, but alive. There's nothing so helpless, or wise, as wishing 
to turn the clock back, to return to sanity, to get another chance at 
turning round a dumb decision. 

‘Do you have a reading there, nurse?' The policeman asks, sounding tired
and uninterested. 

It's a distantly heard question, somewhere out there, but audible. I
turn my head toward the nurse, now discarded of her white nursing cap. 

‘Yes, Mr. Tomlin. Looks like a good reading. I think we're done here.' 

‘Great, I'm meeting my wife at Giorgio's. It's our twentieth
anniversary.' 

‘Congratulations...here, let me take that jacket from you.' 

I suddenly feel my legs twitch. My thoughts seem to be finding their
ancient shape. 

‘Let's take a look ...' The Policeman, now in shirtsleeves, receives the
printout from her. ‘Hmmm... quite good, very good in fact. I'll sign 
him off and get on my way home, the traffic will be building up soon.' 

Feeling is flooding back into my legs. My head is clearing. Perfect
sound...no echo... not sense of riot... no sense of distance. 

‘Time to swing your legs off the gurney, Mr. Schofield?' There's a lot
less warmth and concern in her voice. 

I hear traffic outside. Hear people talking beyond the door. My mind is
happy, remembering yesterday's great result at Tottenham.  I'm feeling 
less drunk, but feeble and slightly nervous. 

‘Don't worry, you passed. Very good marks for the simulated accident
scenario. Your guilt level was excellent.' She holds out a document, my 
first ever driver's licence. ‘If you need a cup of tea, there's a 
waiting room. Congratulations.' 

Guilt level, whatever is she talking about? Cup of tea, no way, I just
passed my driving exam. I must call my mates right away! 


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