Static Fuzz

A Story by Kevin Moore

A short response to a writing prompt.

My first memory was a dim, fuzzy room through narrow slits of cracked eyelids. I had a split second to wonder why everything was sideways before the searing fireball of pain jolted through the base of my skull. Wincing, with a sharp gasp, I tried to right myself and get oriented. Sitting up only brought another barrage of fiery spines shooting through my neck up into my head. Fighting off the urge to vomit, I clutched my exacerbated cranium in both hands. Finally able to take a full breath, I slowly opened my eyes. The excruciating pain faded behind the horror before me. I realized my hair was wet and sticky; one look at my hands revealed an even greater shock. It was they that were wet and sticky…and red. Worse, my left hand contained a blood-bathed knife I hadn’t even noticed was there through the pain and shock of my rude awakening.

The walls heaved and began closing in. This was not a good time to lose control. Gathering my wits, I found my clothes saturated with blood. There was blood spatter everywhere, on the walls, ceiling, and nearly every piece of furniture in the room. I couldn’t make myself remember where this room was; it was completely unfamiliar. That’s when I noticed the heap of bloody carpet on the couch. My stomach churned as I realized what was hidden within the lumpy roll. The room spun and floor shifted as I forced myself to my feet. Pushing the vertigo aside, I took careful stock of the rest of the room. Nothing appeared disheveled or in disarray. The door was closed. The television at the far end of the room was a window of speckled black and white fuzz. First things first, I told myself in that brave, unwavering voice, that lives only in my head. Brushing aside a curtain of frayed nerves I walked over to the couch and reached for a corner of the carpet. Witnessing the face it concealed loosed that iron grip I’d placed on my gag reflexes. The floor sped toward my face with lightning speed.

A dozen strong, commanding voices echoed through the darkness. Opening my eyes was far more difficult this time. I hoped the last time was just some terrible nightmare. That hope was soon dashed against the shoal of reality. My hands were bound and before my face were a pair of meticulously polished shoes. The police had arrived and they thought I did this!

“He’s awake! Get him on his feet!” One of the voices shouted from across the room. Two pairs of very strong hands grasped my arms and hauled me vertical. I tried to stand like they wanted, but my legs wouldn’t respond, so they dropped me onto the now vacant couch. Many voices blended together. I knew they wanted information. They wanted to know what had happened; why I’d done it. I wanted to make words, but couldn’t. I could only stare at where her cold, lifeless eyes had looked pleadingly from under the carpet as if to ask, how could you?

“Okay, you don’t wanna talk here? We can do it down at the station!” Without pause I was pulled abruptly to my feet again and to my surprise they remained underneath me. Movement on the T.V. screen captured my attention. An officer was reviewing some VHS footage. When he lowered his head to jot down some notes, I saw her naked back to the camera and beyond that a man’s face I couldn’t recognize. I still could not produce the memories to fill in the thousands of blanks running through my mind. In a daze, as my uniformed escorts led me outside to a patrol car, I couldn’t make the pieces fit together. It wasn’t until I sat in the silence after the slamming door that I noticed the string of onlookers lining the streets. I only recognized one grinning face, the man in the video.

Regardless of the amnesia diagnosis, I was found guilty of capitol murder. After sentencing I was informed I would be placed in a maximum security prison in solitary confinement; apparently I blacked out and attacked a man who was sitting in the back row of the court room. Each day I spend here I accumulate another terrible flashback of the horrifying event that got me here. It’s still not enough to know what happened, but one thing strikes me as incredibly odd. I remembered I’m right handed.