Member-only story
Shamble On
Brad Foster, 2021 ©
I forgot my name again.
That sometimes happens when I wake up. I force my arm towards my pocket. My hand has other ideas and grabs up the fabric as if to strangle it.
“STOP IT!!!” I yell at my hand. I know that’s what I think, but to anyone nearby, it’d sound like an angry, rumbling growl.
My hand (can I really call it mine anymore?) defies me by ripping the pocket and most of the right side of my pants off. In league with the arm, it chucks the wad of cloth against a wall blackened from a long-ago fire.
NO! I hear a soft ting-tink of something metal clattering nearby.
My legs still listen to me, so I stumble over to the mounds of rubble to chase something. I don’t recall right this moment what it is, but I know it’s very important.
My legs jerk out and my feet tangle under me. It won’t be much longer before they join the mutiny. I topple onto a pile of ruined masonry where jagged shards of dusty, grime-covered glass jut out and slice gouges in my stomach and legs.
My ears and eyes haven’t betrayed me yet. If anything, they’ve sharpened to a fine edge that could slice through bone and flesh. My stomach rumbles and I force my thoughts towards the object I’m after. If I dwell too long on those other thoughts, it won’t only be me that…
