Day 211 – Coma – Short Story

“H-H-How long?”

“A while,” she replies softly.

“W-What does that mean? Like a couple of hours, a day, a week?” He asks quickly.

“Seven years.”

“SEVEN FUCKING YEARS!” He yells.

“Gerald, calm yourself, getting an…”

“FUCKING CALM MYSELF, DO YOU REALLY THINK I SHOULD BE FUCKING CALM RIGHT NOW?”

“Please, I can understand you’re fr…”

“THEN DON’T PREACH TO ME, SEVEN FUCKING YEARS STACE! SEVEN FUCKING YEARS AND YOU ACT LIKE IT WAS NOTHING,” he yells as he forces himself up and off the table, crashing to the floor in a heap.

“You need to be careful, take it slow, it will be a little while until you’re back to one hundred percent.”

“FUCK!” He yells as he scrambles to his feet, holding himself up with support from the table, the next few minutes pass quickly as he stands there, his breathing slowly becoming shallow, and calm, sweat drips from his body, and he turns to her, his eyes show his panic, his fear, but also, his frustration. “W-W-What took so long? And where’s Hallifax?”

“Hallifax fell in battle, five years ago, you, you were lost to us. We believed you and the canister to be destroyed, that is until stories of a beast frozen within a box started to surface, and we knew, there was hope, that maybe the war could still be ours.”

“So, we’re losing then?”

“Without you leading us, and without Hallifax, we could not hold them off. They decimated us, tore our cells apart, one by one, until those left burrowed deeper, or in most cases, disbanded completely.”

“How many?”

“Less than fifty.”

“And, what of him?”

“He’s still out there, like the dog he always has been, at the forefront, leading them.”

He smiles as he lets go of the table, and shakily stands on his own, clenching his weak, frail hands into fits, “Well then, my dear countess, let’s strike back, I have so many years worth of terror to send his way.”

END

Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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