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Frantic, Chapter 1This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Christian Wright | |
| Tuesday, 08 July 2008 | |
 The last chapter of Frantic.
I stagger two steps back. My hand clutches onto the bullet wound in my abdomen. I force myself forward into the direction of my attacker. My face smirks as the gun fires two bullets into the man’s neck. A stray bullet shatters the light bulb and I am plunged into darkness. I close my eyes. I feel as my heart roars with ferocity and I devour the anger and hate that churns at my insides.
I savour the smell of blood as if a bottle of Château Margaux .I gladly listen to my attacker’s last rasping breath. The room illuminates and I am back in reality. I open my eyes and slowly soak up the room stopping to watch my wife. Her flower-patterned white dress is smudged with blood and grime. I cringe as her screams pierce the make-shift hospital room. Anna’s kneeling legs slip on the bloodied tiles and her long nails scrape the tiled floor.
I study the dead nurse beside me; her petite body is slumped against an over turned hospital bed. A doctor leans awkwardly against the nurse. I spit at the dead doctor that has a scalpel extruding from his eye.
“I warned you what happens when I get angry,” I say kicking the dead doctor’s body side ways.
The light in the room blinks and I turn towards the window watching the helicopter that is lighting the room. My burning reflection stares back at me. My face is etched with torment; my clothes ragged and bloodied. My toothless mouth grins back at me.
“I told you we could do it Christopher.”
I feel the good doctor inside me trying to regain control of my body. My right hand slips into my pocket grabbing the kitchen knife. I stare at my reflection watching the knife slice at my arm and I feel Frantic’s venom hold its grip onto my body.
I slowly turn to the dead attacker and then to the opposite corner. The silver haired man lies on the floor; his hand yanks at his tie then he tightens it around his bleeding leg. His trembling hand beckons at me.
“Christopher, put the gun down and come here.”
“MY NAME IS FRANTIC,” I scream. My foot stomps onto the floor. I walk briefly around the room ignoring the figure on the nurse’s desk. My wife’s cry has fallen to a light murmur. I frantically fumble at the hole in my stomach and then I stand opposite the silver haired man. The gun slips in my sweating hands.
“Were you involved in this?” I shout ignoring the loudspeaker outside that tells me “to drop the gun.”
The weary looking man attempts to stand but collapses against the recently painted wall. His hands wave into the air and shouts in a fluster.
“For Christ’s sake Christopher. How could you think that?”
I thunder towards the silver-haired man ignoring his pathetic pleas. My finger tightens around the trigger and I thud the barrel onto the man’s sweaty receding head.
“My name is not CHRISTOPHER.”
I take one step back and force the gun into the man’s head and I prepare to press the trigger. I stop as my wife’s bare feet tip-toes around the blood and medical instruments towards me. Anna’s lifeless fingers tug at my arm and her frigid breath scratches at my neck. I stare into her faded blue eyes watching the tears drag mascara down her face.
“It’s over Frantic,” Anna whispers.
“It’s never going to be over. I won’t let it,” I scream as I pull away from her.
Blood trickles from my stomach leaving a trail as I pounce around the room. Anna’s hands cling to my chin and her dull eyes call out to me.
“Christopher. I know you’re in there. It’s over. Let’s go home.”
My eyes move towards the body on the table.
“Don’t look at it,” a meek voice says in my head.
The walls around the polished room flash a hint of blue from the approaching police cars and the sirens briefly grab my attention.
“Christopher, this is yours,” The man yells.
The crumpled man slides a photo against the floor. I delicately pick up the photo and I study the family. A memory ignites in my mind. My son’s 10th birthday party; my wife poses elegantly for the camera while my son and I pull silly faces. My son’s chocolate-covered hands hover menacingly over my wife’s new dress.
“CHRISTOPHER,” Anna hisses.
I close my eyes and think of my son; his bright grin and his hug that would pinch at my shoulders. I think of my wife; the smile that could convince me that life was serenity and her gentle whisper as we made love. I feel like the good doctor again and I desperately force the torment back into its cage. Explosive rage pinches onto my spine not wanting to go back into its prison. It roars for more revenge and then it is gone.
I turn around the room looking for my most cherished possession. My hand grips the wound on my side and pain shoots around my veins. My weakening body pushes the gun to my side. Anna gasps when she recognises the man behind those blue eyes.
“Christopher.”
I weep uncontrollable and she pulls my face into her neck. I wait for the smell of apple blossom but all that greets me is misery.
“What have I done,” I cry. My eyes close not wanting too see the destruction around me.
Her lips caress my neck and her porcelain fingers dance in my hair. I feel her fingers entwine around my hand that holds the gun and her whisper tickle my ear.
"Let’s go home, my love.”
The pain in my stomach thrusts me to my knees. Police sirens from outside the tall building blankets my cries. Footsteps and barked orders scurry up the metal staircase towards me. I bury my head into Anna’s abdomen and I ignore her fingers that pull my hand towards my head. The warm barrel of the gun touches the side of my head and I ignore the man’s screams. I hear him tumble as his wounded leg fails him. My body shudders as I feel my wife lightly press my finger on the trigger. Red dots quiver around my chest from the snipers on the opposite roof.
Frantic has become my lover and it has pushed me through barriers that seemed impossible and I mourn now that it has deserted me and that I have become the self-pitying fool. But the funniest thing is that I never want to forget the man I had become and the beast that I foolishly denied for too long in my darkest thoughts. My story will be your breakfast, you will learn about Dr Christopher Steatham and his horrific crimes.But I doubt you will learn the truth, they would never allow that.
You will never learn of the loving father and husband that I was before they were taken from me. Maybe the snipers above me can hear my thoughts scream up the floorboards towards them. I want to re-live my journey once more before I go home with my wife. If you can hear me out in your comfortable lives I will tell you how I became Frantic.
Copyright 2008 Christian Wright |
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| Last Updated ( Friday, 01 August 2008 ) |
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