Bridges by Foster Trecost

I woke in a dark room, not pitch dark, but dark enough. Some light slunk in from under a door, just a sliver. I didn’t know how long I’d been there, felt like a long time, but the truth is, it could’ve been hours and it could’ve been days. There were voices, muffled sounds that swam through water, but nothing made sense. I tried to remember something, anything . . . but couldn’t.

Then my wife was sitting next to me in the front seat of our car, our son in the back. “Enjoy the movie,” I said. “I’ll be back in two hours.” They got out; I drove away. That was something. Not much, but something.

My eyes adjusted and pulled the room from darkness, a room empty except for me. I thought I’d been abducted. When offered nothing, the mind bridges to any possibility. I walked to the door and pounded on it, but no one came.

My sister had wanted to see me. Yes, my sister! I wondered if she could be to blame. From the theatre, I’d driven to her house. She’d given a strange tale of troubles and wanted to talk. Strange, indeed.

I stared at the sliver of light under the door until I remembered more: a winding road, that’s what I remembered. Dark with sharp curves. The light from beneath the door flashed, and I shut my eyes. The lights were even brighter, headlights, right in front of me, coming right at me. And then darkness.

The light from beneath the door brightened again. The underwater voices grew louder, and I understood what was happening. The door opened, so I pressed myself against the wall. The light engulfed me, and I heard these words: “Somebody, come quick!”

 ***

 Jim Thome opened his eyes. He couldn’t remember when he’d closed them. His first words were to his wife: “How was the movie?”

© 2013 Foster Trecost

Foster Trecost is from New Orleans, but he lives in Germany. He loves to cook cajun food for his German friends.

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