Visual Distinction
By: Jason Longbrake
A Short Story
11/17/2009
The old-fashion alarm clock had a different sound that
morning then it usually did; but Ken Downy didn’t notice. He was
mostly asleep when he reached over to the nightstand, firmly
pressing on the stop; his designer pajama sleeve was rising up
his outstretched arm, his long, thin fingers feeling desperately
for the off button.
He lain there a moment and collected his thoughts. He felt
as you do when you wake up and don’t know where you are ; how you
got there or even when.
He had seen, after he fingered the sleep from his eyes, he
was home. His hat hung on the same hook that he hung it on.
When? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.
He continued to look around. There were his shoes, muddy
from the park; he remembered the park. On the back of an antique
chair was his raincoat. On the dresser, there was a picture of
his wife the year before she died of a hiking accident. She was
the more adventurous of the two; he didn’t hike, he did numbers,
he made money, she played with rocks and rope. He missed her.
In the corner of the room sat a sculpture that he had
bought in Spain off a weary peddler that he met in a back alley
behind the shops. Next to it was another antique chair and on
the chair was a note. He didn’t see that.
In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of milk, grabbed a
doughnut and walked into the living room where he sat on the
sofa, less comfortable than he expected, and ate his breakfast.
He sat in silence. The TV screen was black.
After he finished, he stood, he felt slumber and nausea. He
felt that he could pass out; he had stood too quickly and the
blood rushed to his head like a great wave, and an explosion of
stardust filtered through the room within his vision. He sat
down.
I need to talk to somebody, he thought. About last night;
about what he didn’t remember. Where is the phone?
He searched for the phone for twenty minutes before giving
up. It was missing? Then he noticed that his cell phone was also
missing, and the remote to the TV, that still was black and
soundless. What else is missing, he wondered.
Nothing. The only items missing was his capacity to
communicate to the outside world; the means to call for help.
He shuddered a bit in the thought of something funny going
on in his house. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference
that he couldn’t find the phones or the remote. But not
remembering anything added an element of fear to the equation.
And ripping terror sunk into him when he tried to leave; but
couldn’t.
He tried the back door, the front door, all the windows
running from room to room. It wasn’t that they were nailed
closed, or boarded from the outside; they were never made. When
he drew back the drapes that hung helpless from the rod, he saw
nothing but wall, seamless and never-ending, just continuity
from one room to the other.
He stood back and took a huge, confused breathe, and
refocused, like looking at a mystical piece of art in a museum.
He started to see what he failed to see before. He started to
see his stuff, his things, his personal belongings that he
depended on before to reassure him of his existence, his home,
and his absolute normalcy turn flat, two-dimensional.
He felt the picture on the wall, it was smooth, even the
frame it was in, painted. The dresser that held his dead wife’s
picture was a painting, right down to the socks hanging from the
top drawer. The chair, the hook, and the hat that he had hung
from it, were mere drawings and splashes of paint; his bed was
real. Though it was plastic, like the milk jug, and the fridge
and the TV; it wasn’t flat and lifeless. He wondered now if he
was real; or was he just a painting; a memory on the wall of
some...home or art studio or museum.
He walked back to his bedroom, his head down, his hand on
his forehead. He sat down on the bed. He saw a note in the chair
by the sculpture; this chair, not painted, though it was also
plastic as from a dollhouse. He got up and went to the chair,
grabbed the note and read:
“Good morning, Ken. I hope you haven’t had too much of a
disturbing morning on your first day. I tried to make everything
just as you had it, to make you comfortable. I hope you’re not
displeased. I’m sure you’re confused, as well you should be. My
name is Doctor Maize, a scientist if you will. My studies have
turned to the bigger picture of life, pardon the pun, none
intended. My research development, with my ingenuous mind, has
allowed me to solve our crisis that we have in our world. Of
course we are approaching the year 2102, and of course you do
know that we’re faced with a terrible population problem in our
society.
This is where you come in. You may or may not have figure
out by now that you are a part of my experiment. What is that?
It’s simple. My solution to population: Since we can’t make our
grand world bigger, we need to make everything in it, smaller.
Mr. Downy; Ken, you are the future. This experiment relies
solely on your survival. You see, I need to see how long a man
of your size can survive. And in case you’re wondering how big
you are... I will ease your mind. The size of a Barbie Doll,
would be the best way to explain it, Ken. Ha, sorry, again, no
pun intended. No need to know the details of how I did it. Your
mind couldn’t even compute the information if I tried.
I need you to live your life as you known it, but from
inside your house only. You will venture for fresh air
periodically, however, not until after the first week or so. I
have several test that I need to run before releasing you to an
uncontrolled environment; couldn’t have you getting sick, now
could we? Anyway, I do have good news for you, Ken. Its about
your wife.”
Ken sat on the chair, beads of sweat formed on the back of
his neck. He continued to read:
“She is alive. She didn’t die of a climbing accident and
her body never washed down the river into the swallows of the
waterfall. She had been with me. She was our first test, Ken. We
needed a female first; without the survival of a female being a
success, the experiment would be pointless. Now, we need a male;
you. You shouldn’t be too upset; at least we picked you for your
wife, rather than some other man. There is one quam though. You
can’t see her quite yet. You need to prove survival and full
body function for some time before us going through with the
reproduction experiment. Once we have completed the male section
of the process, we will unite the two of you, and then you and
your wife will attempt to get pregnant.
This could be the end of our problems.”
Ken dropped the letter onto the floor in disbelief. Shock
coursed through him, he couldn’t stand; he just sat motionless
in the chair. Suddenly a burst of adrenaline and anger and
protest surged through him. He ran for the painted door,
spinning the plastic knob on its axis, hopelessly. He pounded,
crying his wife’s name, begging for this nightmare to stop. He
fell to his knees in a great sob. His head pulsed, his mouth
felt dry, his hands felt cold on his neck. He took a breathe and
looked up. Then cold fear smacked him in the mouth.
On the ceiling, in the middle, was an eye; large and
staring. It twitched, the pupil dilated in and out like and
automatic camera lens. It blinked. He was watching him. Like a
bug in a jar, he gazed down at him. His newest find; (watch out
for giant pins.)
He heard a voice, almost a whisper. It was coming from
behind him on his left. The voice was a female and it sounded
concerned. “Doctor?” She said. “Doctor, are you feeling fine?”
Ken felt a dreamy buzz come over him, he felt numb, and
then normalcy started to surge back into place. His visi on that
had gone dark started to revive, focus started to sharpen.
He was in a chair, a stool, with black leather and no back.
In front of him was a man, also on a stool. Between them was an
optometry instrument used to check one’s eyesight.
“Is everything okay, doctor?”
Ken looked at her, “Mary Beth…” he said. “What year is it?”
She looked at him with a confused face, “sir, it’s 2009.
Are you feeling sick, you don’t look so good?”
The man behind the large optical instrument peeked around
it with concern.
“Maybe you should go home and rest doctor,” Mary Beth said.
“Home,” he said. “No.” He shook his head. “My wife…” He
sighed. “My wife, she went on a hiking trip this morning. I
think I’m going to meet her there.”
Mary Beth smiled, “But doctor, you don’t hike.”
“I think I’m going to learn.”
