Trapped

Trapped

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Was he… alive? Was that what this was? Why couldn’t he think straight? There was a buzz. A flicker. A motor running. Was he attached? He couldn’t tell. Were they doing something to him? Had he changed? Had they changed him? There was too much background clatter; he couldn’t think straight. Hammering or pounding. Lighter or glare. Voices. Discussions. Repetition. Over and done again. Why couldn’t he focus? Why couldn’t he think?

Things skipped. One day to the next. Things changed and he didn’t know how he got from one place to the next. One moment, but then it was gone. One day but suddenly a week. Sometimes more.

Skips. Skips at work. Skips at home. People disappeared. There once, gone forevermore. Names or relationships – they didn’t stay in order. It was always out of order.

The people though, he liked living like the people though. They made up for things. They had better lives that he had. They were always something more. Nice. Fun. Empathic. Sympathetic. That had the best lives. They could be funny when they needed to be. Wise when the moment called for it. Caring or sharing or finding a way. They always had something to say.

Was any of it real? Was he anything? The lives lived made no sense.

One day he was a racecar driver in a worldwide competition. One day he was a Malibu detective and an LA body washed up on the shore at his beach house. One day he was the beach bum asleep unaware of what was washing up on the shore. Detective. Doctor. Lawyer. Used car salesman. All things. Too many things.

He looked out. Was that what it was? Did he live there? Was that living? Trapped in a box, always skipping into something else.

He didn’t want to go back.

It was much easier to just watch the next episode.