Let's try a new story. Hoping for the best:
Guy’s Oddysee
C h a p t e r O n e
The Night of MisFortune
Life was very strange. At least, it has always felt strange. Something has always seemed … wrong, misplaced, as if some Creator had made an accident when forming the Cosmos. Perhaps too much Oxygen was added, or maybe not enough. Whatever the cause, something was most certainly wrong, and it was something that could really use fixing.
I can see the night it began quite easily. Tom and Ian are having another of their spats, but this time it will escalate into a much more permanent area of memory.
‘You know, Ian, you didn’t need to offer if you hate it so much,’ says Tom. ‘Why don’t you just stop complaining – for one bloody night?’
‘Hey Guy,’ I was leaning against an unusually protruding pipe which was similarly unusually comfortable. ‘You’d think he’d be grateful that I
do offer and actually
do the work.’
‘He’s got a point you know, Ian,’ I say, ‘Why not give it a rest? I’m ever so sure he won’t take up your offer again in a hurry.’
‘Give it a rest?!’ Ian’s voice had risen. ‘Why doesn’t Tom actually do some work for once?! A little more action on his part would stop all of those injuries, and maybe
then, I’ll stop helping him out! I’m
sorry for helping a friend!’
‘Oh, shut up, Ian’ says Tom, ‘I’m glad you helped me out, but we could do without the constant moaning about back pain… leg pain… arm pain… It’s every time!’
‘I don’t moan! I just like to give you an idea of what you’re missing out on!’
‘Well, I don’t need to hear it. We’ve got what? Four hours? I’ll be grafting again soon and while we have this brief interval, I would appreciate being able to keep my mind off machinery, levers and scrubbing.’
‘What if I’m angry? What if I think you don’t give me enough gratitude for all the hours I put in for you?’ Ian gets angrier.
‘I’m really not bothered,’ sighs Tom. ‘Look, just don’t do my work for me again, but please! Just shut up for one night!’
Tom is almost lying down on the floor, head resting and lolling against his nearby bed. After he managed to break down the entire cycle a couple of Zulags away, he has literally been unable to work for the beatings he took. They don’t care about that, though, and so Ian has been forced to do double the work. At least it made Tom’s absence unnoticeable.
Ian is standing up and pacing. He looks thoroughly worn out. He had been back in the rather cramped bedroom (which the three of us share) for around ten seconds before they started bickering, but the grime covering Ian’s body, the obvious bruising swelling his left hand and the definite red of blood in his eyes tell me he has reached the end of the line.
‘Ian,’ I say, in what I hope is a voice to calm him down, ‘Tom’s still recovering, all right? Just give him a while, yeah?’
I stand up, but Ian doesn’t listen. Instead he swings his right fist through the air, and throws himself downwards onto Tom. It’s almost comical, and looks as if Ian has fallen. The second I hear the double gasps of the pain and cracking of multiple bones, I know comical is the last thing this situation could be equated to.
Tom immediately jumps to his feet, and with a bloodied face in his hands, he barges out of the door.
‘Why did you do that for?!’ I demand, but to no avail. Ian has broken his hand and my anger is quenched instantly, to be replaced with shock. He stands, and I help him, while looking at the hand. The hand he uses for most of his work – the hand he needs. On the surface it looks barely damaged. There is a slight bump down the side where his little finger is, which I can only assume to be the broken bone. Ian doesn’t say anything, however; his face is white with shock and he can only stare at his hand.
‘Go… Go get it checked out,’ I mumble, ‘you know where to go.’
‘No,’ he objects, equally mumbling.
‘Yes,’ I say much more forcibly, and even push open the door and edge him outwards into the dark.
As I do so, I hear the familiar ‘Oi!’, and pull the door shut in fright, leaving Ian.
He will be okay; injuries are allowed to be healed. They have to be. What could that guard do?
The door bangs open, one of its two remaining hinges breaking loose and falling feebly to the floor. What is it doing in here?!
‘Oi!’
‘Y… Yes?’ I splutter, petrified to the spot.
The creature in front of me doesn't reply. Instead, it thr0ws its arm over its shoulder and returns with the standard automatic firearm.
It makes its signature noise; one that would sound more at home amongst the swamps, amongst the slime and creatures that dwell there. I had heard it a million times: before a beating, after a beating, before a shooting and after one too. I should guess that it will shoot me, but I don’t. Instead, my mind is numb, frozen, unable to think. Unable to even acknowledge the gun.
I stare blankly at the nozzle pointing towards my chest. I can’t think.
The guard drops the gun, and it clatters resoundingly on the floor. What? I stare at the gun as the guard does similarly. It appears it also couldn’t comprehend what was happening, though I would liken that more to its small brain than shock of the moment. Instantly, it turns and storms out of the door, knocking the last hinge clean off.
I am left stupefied, but I still cannot concentrate on the moment. Instead, I wonder how exactly those round metallic feet can turn three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot, seemingly without moving.