Flynn
13 November 2009
With a great cry and huge gasps of lungfuls of air, he jolted awake from what he had imagined to be eternal limbo. He could think of nothing, and didn't care about the nature of time. Suspended animation filled his wraith-like panic stricken consciousnes, the freeze-frame photovoltaic capture of the poised knife, in paused momentum, just bursting at the seams of its frame to unload itself, transfer the pain, translate the cold glint of polished steel into ripped flesh and opened chest. Maybe there was blood on the floor. What was real anyway? Who cared?
As he took in the lungfuls of air, he came to know he had not been breathing for quite some time now. He hadn't had too much last night, he hadn't had a shot in months, there was no possibility, no route in space-time leading to the present situation. The exotic psychedelia that inhabited him just a few moments ago began to fade away, one by one. Colours returned to their proper places, and his breathing grew normal. He was drenched in sweat, even his blanket. He sat up straight, poured himself a glass of water, and walked up to the window.
Insomnia was one thing, and this new kind of stifling thing was quite another. The guys at the bar told him to take care of it, or he could end up all strung up in his sleep, and not know a goddamn thing. To that, he simply nodded, and drained his glass. Lighting a cigarette, he got up and walked right out into the bustle of the city.
"Flynn Marsh", the lady called out, "do we have a Flynn Marsh here?" "Yes Ma'am", he said. He had a peculiar drawl, this nasal twing to the 'am in Ma'am, that betrayed his Chicago upbringing. He shuffled nervously and lied down on the table, standard procedure. After the torch-and-eyes routine, Flynn told the balding doctor he was going to die in his sleep because he simply stopped breathing at times. The doctor said, "Hmm", and thought awhile. Then he scribbled something on a paper and ...
He was in limbo again. He knew it. To break out of the suffocation, he had to surface. Once he surfaced, everything would go wild. He knew that too. But surfacing was salvation. In pain lay his redemption. Periodic sadomasochism, and he had no say in his sub-ego's whims and conspiracies. He had to move his hand. Break free. "Aaaagghhh!" again the now-familiar rush of blood to the head, three lungfuls of air in one go, and off-the-rocker wild crazy heartbeat. Gasp, gasp, choke, cough, cough, cough. Curses. Exhaustion, fatigue and impotent helplessness.
He could not concentrate at work. He kept dropping things, and got clumsy with paper and pencil. Peope shimmered in and out of view. Down at the pier, with a beer in hand, he watched the seagulls. "Ah, what the hell."He flung the bottle into the waves and lit up.
And just at that moment, through the cloud of cigarette smoke, Flynn beheld the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life. She was a charming young thing, with short blond hair and the prettiest dress. She was smelling some flowers at the shop and buying a magazine. The old shop keeper was saying something nice to her, because she immediately broke out into the most innocent laugh, tossing back her head ever so slightly. A halo of goodness, warmth and love sat lightly on her head, and she seemed to glow with happiness. Flynn had not noticed he had let fall the cigarette from his fully agape jaw, now displaying a thin line of drool. In his imagination, he had just got skewered by Cupid's pink missile, and she was at the other end of it. He followed her, ten paces behind, all around her Saturday morning shopping route, completely dazed, intoxicated by her presence.
As she waited by the curb to cross the road he caught up with her. As they both stood by each other in the motley crowd of random people, by the traffic light, he caught a whiff of her perfume. The light changed, and the crowd began to move. "Miss -", he managed before collapsing to the ground, coughing and spluttering.
When he came to, he was in a car with some guy with a moustache. Apparently Pete was the good guy who was getting him to a doctor or something. Pete, on noticing he had come to, began regaling him with his wartime exploits in Vietnam. "Stop the bloody car, I'm getting out of here." He felt nauseous. Boy, it was cold. He stomped on the ground to warm his feet up. Not a cloud in the sky. If only he had stopped the girl and got to talk to her... He felt confused. He had read about Buddhism and Hinduism, and reincarnation, and maya. Would he meet her again, in a different birth, tomorrow, next year? She had such lovely eyes... But what if she wasn't real, only a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination?
What if she was?
He was afraid to sleep that night. What if he dreamt about her, and died before the dream ended?
