Thursday, July 1, 2010

LAD Website Original: Old Habits

Old Habits
by J. Ian Manczur

Martin Thompson woke to three surprises. The first was the fact that he had awoken at all, a fear that had kept him conscious way past exhaustion the day before. The second came when he looked down and found himself covered in blood. Though, to be fair, this wasn’t as much of a surprise as it was an unfortunate confirmation. He knew he was going to be covered head to toe, as the previous day had been a hectic scramble to and fro strangers who would inevitably erupt in a geyser of innards. Martin hysterically laughed, with interspersed moments of vomiting, for some time after at the almost comical atrociousness of the day before.

The final surprise came as he regained his composure. Martin had no idea where he was. The place could have been any, a generic room interspaced with little things that the previous owner had hoped would give it originality and define it as their own. But, from a quick glimpse, the only fact Martin was aware of was it wasn’t his room.

With a little effort, Martin could have learned a lot about the previous occupant, but he, at this time, preferred not knowing. Martin was often found not knowing in life, having taken the saying “ignorance is bliss” to heart. Yet, as such were the times, Martin learned that whatever bliss he had successfully derived from ignorance was soon replaced by the irrational fear of the unknown. Old habits die hard.

In lieu of obtaining knowledge, Martin gave into that fear. In his past, it had been a given that those around him, those he considered friends, would undoubtedly save him for the need of having a charming individual, such as himself, around. Whatever the problem that would arise, be it gambling IOUs, a boyfriend/husband of a conquest, the prejudice system of cops and courts, or, as he recently found out, the zombie apocalypse, he could always count on someone stepping up to see him through. He was alone now and faced a challenge unlike any he had before; he was in charge of his own destiny.

Martin chose his path. He crawled along the trash-heap of a floor towards a hockey stick leaning against the far wall. He coiled himself around it, poised to strike any interloper who dare walk through the door. At least that was the illusion he wished to give. In reality, it was to hold up what little piece of him that was not already sunken to the floor, drained by despair.

There he waited, in his dark corner of the world. There he waited, for whatever unspeakable horrors would come to claim him. There he waited, for something, whether the creak of the door or the splintering of wood. There he waited.

It was a simple occurrence that would draw his attention. A bird crashing into the window. Once again the unknown would prey upon Martin’s mind. Whatever impending doom lay across that threshold he so guardingly watched was secondary to the immediate threat of noises at the un-spied windows. Yes, the room was three stories high. Yes, the closest perch was an inhuman distance away. But, while fear of the unknown is powerful, that very fear mixed with implications, uncertainties and imagination can ruin the toughest of men. Martin was far from a tough man. In his mind raced an amalgamation of every horror movie he had ever seen. And what he faced was terrible indeed.

He was going to die. It was a fitting end, he supposed, though the particulars of the how’s and why’s fell a little short. He imagined the various ways his death would occur, starting with the more obvious result of being eaten alive or torn to shreds and then eaten to a few more obscure methods he had seen in movies on these subjects. Then it came to him, how at all was this a fitting end? Perhaps if he had created this situation or even had considered this happening, somehow he could find some justification to his death. But, this was ridiculous and with that thought the very first spark of survival kindled.

Martin feverishly rose, grabbing a desk chair and flinging it through the window. He ran to the opening, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Come and get me!” There was no response. The alleyway below was absent of anything beyond a now broken chair. He let out a sigh of relief.

Returning to the room, his fingers trailed along the desk to his side. They came first to a bobble-head of some hockey player or another. Next, was a trophy, assigned to one Andrew Howard. Martin’s mind flashed with inspiration. Racing to the closet, he opened the door and immediately found what he was seeking. In a duffle bag at the bottom of the closet sat a full set of goalie padding. It was a loose fit, but Martin solved that with extra clothing from the closet. As a final measure, he pulled the goalie mask over his face.

Armored to the teeth, wielding his father’s jagged knife and stick in hand, Martin left his safe haven to earn his death. The devil himself could have appeared before him and Martin would have made damn sure that the devil remembered his name.

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