shoulder. Its head was pressed against her ear, and he could hear its backward chatter.
“Stop it.” He wished his voice didn’t sound so weak. The creature’s head twisted around. It grinned, revealing a set of prickly teeth, and
winked
at him.
The kitchen returned to normal. Donna did not look up at him. She ate her breakfast and read the newspaper in silence. He left that morning without saying goodbye, and found that things at work hadn’t changed, either.
At lunch time, rather than sit in the lounge, he spent an hour in the men’s room trying to sort out his troubled life.
What if this is permanent?
he wondered, to which Joe Hopper responded,
What makes you think it ain’t, hoss?
Donovan considered it a fair point. The symptoms of whatever was happening were getting worse. He was isolated now, living among the rest of the world while being omitted from it. The visions, and the question of whether or not they were real, were growing more and more prevalent as well. His “gray sight” revealed monstrosities the likes of which he could never fathom on his own. They were creatures suited for more fortified minds, fictional beings culled from a mind far more creative than his own.
Logic and reason had failed him, left in the past with Monday and some semblance of reality. He wondered if his soul would fade away with the rest of him. He wondered if Donna would remember him once he was gone.
That’s enough. I’ll find a way through this.
He left the restroom strengthened by his determination, but as the day wore on, he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.
• • •
A five-car pileup on the highway made him almost an hour late for dinner. Donna was finished with her meal by the time he arrived home. He tried to apologize and explain himself, but it was in vain. She could neither hear him or see him. What troubled him most about it was that she didn’t seem to miss him, and it was then he remembered the crude thing on her shoulder for the last two mornings. He remembered the way it whispered it in her ear, the way it mocked him.
Were the white things at the root of all this? If they were, then all of this—the flickering, the gray visions, the tall creatures—were very much a part of reality. It meant there was something far more sinister at work than just the gradual breakdown of his sanity.
Donovan chose not to dwell on it, locking himself away in his office to work on his novel. He struggled for half an hour as he tried to begin again, but his mind kept wandering back to the matters at hand.
How would Joe Hopper solve this?
he wondered.
Or Michael Candle, for that matter?
He looked at the phone, contemplated picking it up and calling his brother, but feared he would be met with more silence. Just because the unwitting customers at work could hear him did not mean anyone else could.
He went to bed early and tried to sleep away his trouble. His thoughts kept him awake, and he laid there for an hour before Donna crawled into bed beside him. She usually kissed him goodnight, but for the last two nights she had not, and tonight was no different. If his suspicions were correct, he could not blame her for this, but it still stung him.
Donovan needed his wife now more than ever. Throughout their years of marriage she’d always been his right hand, his navigator, and closest friend. Even though her sudden inability to acknowledge his existence gave credence to his earlier fears that he was slowly being omitted from the world, it did not make the rejection any easier.
He spent the next hour crying into his pillow.
• • •
Friday morning was much like the three mornings before it. He woke, experienced the gut-pulling transition between color and gray realities, and saw creatures that should not exist outside the realm of fiction. Donna ignored him, as did his co-workers. By eleven o’clock he’d made it through a block of automated calls, and so far it seemed those total
“Stop it.” He wished his voice didn’t sound so weak. The creature’s head twisted around. It grinned, revealing a set of prickly teeth, and
winked
at him.
The kitchen returned to normal. Donna did not look up at him. She ate her breakfast and read the newspaper in silence. He left that morning without saying goodbye, and found that things at work hadn’t changed, either.
At lunch time, rather than sit in the lounge, he spent an hour in the men’s room trying to sort out his troubled life.
What if this is permanent?
he wondered, to which Joe Hopper responded,
What makes you think it ain’t, hoss?
Donovan considered it a fair point. The symptoms of whatever was happening were getting worse. He was isolated now, living among the rest of the world while being omitted from it. The visions, and the question of whether or not they were real, were growing more and more prevalent as well. His “gray sight” revealed monstrosities the likes of which he could never fathom on his own. They were creatures suited for more fortified minds, fictional beings culled from a mind far more creative than his own.
Logic and reason had failed him, left in the past with Monday and some semblance of reality. He wondered if his soul would fade away with the rest of him. He wondered if Donna would remember him once he was gone.
That’s enough. I’ll find a way through this.
He left the restroom strengthened by his determination, but as the day wore on, he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.
• • •
A five-car pileup on the highway made him almost an hour late for dinner. Donna was finished with her meal by the time he arrived home. He tried to apologize and explain himself, but it was in vain. She could neither hear him or see him. What troubled him most about it was that she didn’t seem to miss him, and it was then he remembered the crude thing on her shoulder for the last two mornings. He remembered the way it whispered it in her ear, the way it mocked him.
Were the white things at the root of all this? If they were, then all of this—the flickering, the gray visions, the tall creatures—were very much a part of reality. It meant there was something far more sinister at work than just the gradual breakdown of his sanity.
Donovan chose not to dwell on it, locking himself away in his office to work on his novel. He struggled for half an hour as he tried to begin again, but his mind kept wandering back to the matters at hand.
How would Joe Hopper solve this?
he wondered.
Or Michael Candle, for that matter?
He looked at the phone, contemplated picking it up and calling his brother, but feared he would be met with more silence. Just because the unwitting customers at work could hear him did not mean anyone else could.
He went to bed early and tried to sleep away his trouble. His thoughts kept him awake, and he laid there for an hour before Donna crawled into bed beside him. She usually kissed him goodnight, but for the last two nights she had not, and tonight was no different. If his suspicions were correct, he could not blame her for this, but it still stung him.
Donovan needed his wife now more than ever. Throughout their years of marriage she’d always been his right hand, his navigator, and closest friend. Even though her sudden inability to acknowledge his existence gave credence to his earlier fears that he was slowly being omitted from the world, it did not make the rejection any easier.
He spent the next hour crying into his pillow.
• • •
Friday morning was much like the three mornings before it. He woke, experienced the gut-pulling transition between color and gray realities, and saw creatures that should not exist outside the realm of fiction. Donna ignored him, as did his co-workers. By eleven o’clock he’d made it through a block of automated calls, and so far it seemed those total
Similar Books
