Trapped
By Joshua Scribner
Thumping shook his world, over and over. Terrance awoke. The loud music vibrated the wall shared with his neighbors. A voice also penetrated that barrier, but not the lyrics, a monolog separate from the music, indecipherable. Terrance got out of bed, slipped on his pants.
Heather stirred under the covers. “Where are you going?”
Terrance took a deep breath. “I’m going next door, where I’ll calmly ask him to lower the volume.”
He walked into the hallway.
“Terrance! Just calm down!”
“I am calm. I’m not going to beat up the neighbor kid.”
Why did she need to overreact? Yes, he had an anger problem. But the therapy had worked. He could control himself.
The memory of Doctor Frayder’s words echoed. “Your mind is like a trap. That’s why you get so angry. You can’t let things go.”
But he could let things go now. He wasn’t the least bit angry.
Heather screamed, “Terrance!”
Ignoring her, he left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He moved to the neighbor’s door, took another deep breath, felt loose muscles and a tranquil mind. He didn’t know how Doctor Frayder worked his magic. The old man had explained that Terrance wouldn’t actually sense the process of change.
“We won’t be able to attack anger like yours directly. Instead, I’ll slip messages to you indirectly. You won’t hear them with your conscious mind, but your subconscious will soak them up.”
Doctor Frayder never charged him a cent. “Our therapy will be an experiment of sorts, so there will be no fee.”
Terrance knocked. A second later, the volume of the voice and the music diminished to near silence. The sound of feet shuffling came from the other side, then the door opened.
The neighbor often left her teenage son home alone on weekend nights. He stood a few inches taller than Terrance, but skinny, with bushy hair. He usually wore the smart-aleck expression of a punk, but now looked horrified, holding his hands out in front of him. “Dude! I’m sorry! Calm down!”
Terrance felt no anger, just mild frustration, trying to act with tact and dignity, but no one giving him a shot. “It’s fine. I just want you to keep it down. My wife and I are trying to sleep.”
The kid stared hard toward the center of Terrance’s body. “Anything you say.”
Suddenly, Terrance’s apartment door shot open, and Heather stepped into the hall. “Terrance, you don’t want to do this. Just calm down.”
“I’m calm. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Look,” said the neighbor kid. “It wasn’t my idea. Some old dude paid me to play both CDs really loud at 2AM. If you want, I’ll give you the money.”
Terrance turned back to the kid, who still stared toward the center of Terrance’s body. “I don’t want any money. I just—”
“Terrance, please,” interrupted Heather. “Just give me the gun.”
Terrance shook his head. “What are you talking about? I don’t . . .”
He saw it in his left hand, his pistol, a weapon that he had never pointed at anyone, even in one of his fits of anger. How had it gotten there? Why was he pointing it at the kid’s stomach?
He’d give it to Heather. At least, that was the plan. His left hand had its own plan, though, and squeezed the trigger. The kid hunched over. Terrance’s left hand raised and shot the kid again, this time in the face.
Heather screamed. So did Terrance. His left hand aimed and shot Heather in the face. She went backward and flipped over the banister.
For a little while, Terrance could only question reality. Was this a dream? Was he still in his apartment, in bed?
His feet were next to develop their own will. They moved into his neighbor’s apartment, stepping over the dead kid in the doorway, then went to the living room, where a portable CD player sat next to a home sound system. The portable device played a heavy metal tune, which apparently had no lyrics. The sound system emanated a man’s voice, stating the same message, repetitively. “Kill someone, kill anyone who witnesses it, destroy the two CDs you hear right now, and kill yourself.”
He recognized the voice. It belonged to Dr. Frayder.
Terrance took both CDs into the kitchen, placed them directly on the coils of the stove, and set the heat to high.
He had known his mind was a trap before he met with the shrink, having never been able to let things go. He had not known it a trap for subconscious things too, just as he’d not known Dr. Frayder was a mad scientist. He stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
By Joshua Scribner
Thumping shook his world, over and over. Terrance awoke. The loud music vibrated the wall shared with his neighbors. A voice also penetrated that barrier, but not the lyrics, a monolog separate from the music, indecipherable. Terrance got out of bed, slipped on his pants.
Heather stirred under the covers. “Where are you going?”
Terrance took a deep breath. “I’m going next door, where I’ll calmly ask him to lower the volume.”
He walked into the hallway.
“Terrance! Just calm down!”
“I am calm. I’m not going to beat up the neighbor kid.”
Why did she need to overreact? Yes, he had an anger problem. But the therapy had worked. He could control himself.
The memory of Doctor Frayder’s words echoed. “Your mind is like a trap. That’s why you get so angry. You can’t let things go.”
But he could let things go now. He wasn’t the least bit angry.
Heather screamed, “Terrance!”
Ignoring her, he left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He moved to the neighbor’s door, took another deep breath, felt loose muscles and a tranquil mind. He didn’t know how Doctor Frayder worked his magic. The old man had explained that Terrance wouldn’t actually sense the process of change.
“We won’t be able to attack anger like yours directly. Instead, I’ll slip messages to you indirectly. You won’t hear them with your conscious mind, but your subconscious will soak them up.”
Doctor Frayder never charged him a cent. “Our therapy will be an experiment of sorts, so there will be no fee.”
Terrance knocked. A second later, the volume of the voice and the music diminished to near silence. The sound of feet shuffling came from the other side, then the door opened.
The neighbor often left her teenage son home alone on weekend nights. He stood a few inches taller than Terrance, but skinny, with bushy hair. He usually wore the smart-aleck expression of a punk, but now looked horrified, holding his hands out in front of him. “Dude! I’m sorry! Calm down!”
Terrance felt no anger, just mild frustration, trying to act with tact and dignity, but no one giving him a shot. “It’s fine. I just want you to keep it down. My wife and I are trying to sleep.”
The kid stared hard toward the center of Terrance’s body. “Anything you say.”
Suddenly, Terrance’s apartment door shot open, and Heather stepped into the hall. “Terrance, you don’t want to do this. Just calm down.”
“I’m calm. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Look,” said the neighbor kid. “It wasn’t my idea. Some old dude paid me to play both CDs really loud at 2AM. If you want, I’ll give you the money.”
Terrance turned back to the kid, who still stared toward the center of Terrance’s body. “I don’t want any money. I just—”
“Terrance, please,” interrupted Heather. “Just give me the gun.”
Terrance shook his head. “What are you talking about? I don’t . . .”
He saw it in his left hand, his pistol, a weapon that he had never pointed at anyone, even in one of his fits of anger. How had it gotten there? Why was he pointing it at the kid’s stomach?
He’d give it to Heather. At least, that was the plan. His left hand had its own plan, though, and squeezed the trigger. The kid hunched over. Terrance’s left hand raised and shot the kid again, this time in the face.
Heather screamed. So did Terrance. His left hand aimed and shot Heather in the face. She went backward and flipped over the banister.
For a little while, Terrance could only question reality. Was this a dream? Was he still in his apartment, in bed?
His feet were next to develop their own will. They moved into his neighbor’s apartment, stepping over the dead kid in the doorway, then went to the living room, where a portable CD player sat next to a home sound system. The portable device played a heavy metal tune, which apparently had no lyrics. The sound system emanated a man’s voice, stating the same message, repetitively. “Kill someone, kill anyone who witnesses it, destroy the two CDs you hear right now, and kill yourself.”
He recognized the voice. It belonged to Dr. Frayder.
Terrance took both CDs into the kitchen, placed them directly on the coils of the stove, and set the heat to high.
He had known his mind was a trap before he met with the shrink, having never been able to let things go. He had not known it a trap for subconscious things too, just as he’d not known Dr. Frayder was a mad scientist. He stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
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