Serendipitous shortcomings
by 
DomSanchez
|
Posted: Saturday, May 5, 2007 Word Count: 418 |
He shifted one foot in front of the next, exploring the carpeted floor immediately next to him. He wished to hell he could remember where he put that wretched screwdriver, it was the only thing he could think of that would be long enough, so he could sure it would kill him. Kill Mike.
Frank scrabbled his hand about on the work surfaces scattering everything in its wake. Damn his wretched eyes, he still had not even been given his white stick, he had only been let out of the hospital that morning, and really only because they were out of beds.
It was Mike's fault.
He had made him like this and all because he hadn't tightened that damned rivet, with the bloody screwdriver, and now he was for it. If only he could find it!
Mike was in the garden humming to himself tinkering with some other stupid contraption. Frank had to make his move now, he could not stand that bloody humming, doesn't he know what he'd done?
If he couldn't find that screwdriver he was going to damn well do it with his bare hands.
He shuffled outside feeling for the door frame, he could hear a plane passing overhead, it sounded as if it was having a bit of trouble, as if the engines were struggling.
Mike was just ahead of him now, still bloody humming his stupid tunes. Even if he didn't have a screwdriver he was going to throttle him.
At the same moment he thought these thoughts the plane above listed to one side, the contents of the hold sliding towards the open cargo doors, but only the old tools had fallen to the relief of the crew.
As Frank got near to the humming, he thought he could also hear a whistling sound that was increasing in volume.
Finally, the whistle peaked in a cacophony of sound, then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped, finishing with a thud.
The humming stopped.
Frank felt his way to where the humming had been, the body was slumped on the ground, he felt along the prone arms, up to the shoulders, which were wet and slightly sticky, his fingers followed the line of the neck up to the skull, more wetness. Finally, his fingers reached to the top of the head, which was now soft to the touch, and sticking out at a right angle to the temple he felt the round handle of what he would swear was a screwdriver.
Frank scrabbled his hand about on the work surfaces scattering everything in its wake. Damn his wretched eyes, he still had not even been given his white stick, he had only been let out of the hospital that morning, and really only because they were out of beds.
It was Mike's fault.
He had made him like this and all because he hadn't tightened that damned rivet, with the bloody screwdriver, and now he was for it. If only he could find it!
Mike was in the garden humming to himself tinkering with some other stupid contraption. Frank had to make his move now, he could not stand that bloody humming, doesn't he know what he'd done?
If he couldn't find that screwdriver he was going to damn well do it with his bare hands.
He shuffled outside feeling for the door frame, he could hear a plane passing overhead, it sounded as if it was having a bit of trouble, as if the engines were struggling.
Mike was just ahead of him now, still bloody humming his stupid tunes. Even if he didn't have a screwdriver he was going to throttle him.
At the same moment he thought these thoughts the plane above listed to one side, the contents of the hold sliding towards the open cargo doors, but only the old tools had fallen to the relief of the crew.
As Frank got near to the humming, he thought he could also hear a whistling sound that was increasing in volume.
Finally, the whistle peaked in a cacophony of sound, then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped, finishing with a thud.
The humming stopped.
Frank felt his way to where the humming had been, the body was slumped on the ground, he felt along the prone arms, up to the shoulders, which were wet and slightly sticky, his fingers followed the line of the neck up to the skull, more wetness. Finally, his fingers reached to the top of the head, which was now soft to the touch, and sticking out at a right angle to the temple he felt the round handle of what he would swear was a screwdriver.