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The Man Lost in the Fray

Two catastrophes strike, one an illusion and the other a true-to-life nightmare...

By Thomas CzernekPublished 2 years ago 7 min read
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The Man Lost in the Fray
Photo by Adrian Swancar on Unsplash

I sit in the car in silence and stare out the windshield at the apartment parking lot. With a glance at the rearview mirror, I notice the bags under my eyes. My hands are fidgety and will not stop shaking. The sound of my heart pounding is fresh in my ears, yet I am completely still.

It’s time to go to work.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a moment. “God, if you’re real and not just Santa Claus, please don’t let Sarah be at work. Actually, don’t let anyone but me be at work.” Keeping them shut for a bit longer, I cling to the dissolving remnants of hope.

It’s no use. I fucked up big time.

The problem is I asked Sarah on a date at work - stupid, stupid, stupid me. Of course, she said yes, so I gave her my number, then she didn’t text me - and now everyone at work probably knows about it.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’ll probably be accused of sexual harassment and fired for asking her out to coffee later and labeling it as a date. That’s what sexual harassment is: any unwanted advances relating or perceived to be relating to sex.

Sarah clearly didn’t want me, wasn’t even worth a text I guess.

Being the only guy at work, I’m sure it’ll start off with some strange looks of caution or glares at the creeper because I’m now that guy. They’ll call me in the office and that’ll be it.

I swallow my saliva and it drags down my throat. Butterflies whirl in my stomach. Work starts soon, but I can’t bring myself to start the engine.

God, why did I do that?

To think, I’ve worked so hard to build myself up over the years.

HR likes me for picking up shifts and staying late when they need me to. They see me as a professional who never ever shows up late. On the floor, I go out of my way to help my coworkers who seem to appreciate me, even when it means being forced to stay late to finish my own work.

Everyone thinks I’m a good person because I work hard and am the only male nurse assistant there. I try so hard to build this great reputation, to do a good job, but now this one stupid mistake will ruin it for me

I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose everything. There’s no family around me I can talk to, and no friends for a thirty-year-old introvert in a rural, beer-drinking college town. It’s just me, my job as a nurse assistant, and my studio apartment.

My world is soon to crumble all because I asked Sarah Bowers if she wanted to get coffee with me and explained that it was in fact, a date. Cringy, I know... so of course she wasn’t going to go through with it.

God, I’m such a fucking idiot. What is this, the 1940s? No one explicitly asks for dates. Now I risked throwing the little I’ve achieved away for nothing, absolutely nothing.

I am nothing.

I look at my watch. Time is ticking.

Shifting in my seat, I flinch as my side stings. I lift my shirt and look at the dozens of long searing cuts there. No, not a soul can know about this, yet at the same time, I’m not sure anyone really would care.

Still, I keep it a secret that cutting is the only way I can break through the anxiety. After all, Sarah isn’t the only problem I have, it’s the whole world.

When you’re lonely like I am, no one knows you’re in pain, no one acknowledges it. It comes to the point where I can’t bear to accept it myself, so I need something to breakthrough. The sharp edge reminds me that I’m here, that what I feel is real.

My phone alarm rings, and I startle. No more moping around.

It’s time to go to work and get fired.

I turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Gripping the steering wheel, I squeeze it until my knuckles turn white, muttering under my breath. “Man, I’m so fucking stupid, just an idiot who can’t get laid. I’m a complete piece of shit. I’ll never be anything.” It’s gospel now. Glancing at the rearview mirror, I see the vermin looking back.

Pulling out the lot and driving down the road, in my head I replay the faces of residents I cared for, turned into corpses by father time, that I hurried to wash before the coroner arrived. Familiar obituary segments come to mind.

My face is expressionless as I drive, picturing myself from the outside. l see the road, feel my butt in the chair, foot on the pedal, but still, it’s like I’m not even here. I hardly touch them. I barely exist.

Further along, I approach a crosswalk to a park that I usually pass on the way. Glancing at my watch, I press the gas a bit harder and go five over the speed limit. I can’t be late. I can’t have them look down on me for this, too.

Then a face appears in the corner of my eye. I lift my foot off the pedal, but it’s too late. My car slams into the body of a young woman jogging, and she bounces off my windshield. The woman lies on the road and doesn’t move.

My heart is caught in my throat.

I can’t breathe.

The world is spinning.

Killing the engine, I open my car door and look at her motionless body, her neck bent at an odd angle. “Oh god, oh my god.” Pulling out my phone, I call 9-1-1 and tell them everything in a blur of tears.

They’re on their way.

Legs unsteady, I go into my car to grab my wallet and anything else I need for the police. While I wait, I stare at the beautiful woman with a broken neck. There's no pulse.

An officer’s car comes from the other way and pulls up beside me. He glares at me and shakes his head. “An ambulance is coming. They called me in here because I was close. You’re in some big trouble, you know that? Were you texting?”

I stare at him like he isn’t real, blinking my eyes rapidly to awake from this nightmare.

Then I face the dead girl. I did that to her. Me.

The world comes crashing down.

My voice rises and burns in my throat. “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry.” I dig my fingers into the roots of my hair and pull, ripping.

The officer ignores me and is out of his car kneeling beside her, but I don’t care anymore.

“I-I can’t do this. I can’t. Too much, too much.” I look at the woman not moving. She’s broken, and it’s all because of me. It’d be better if this never happened. It’d be better if I was never born.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a box cutter knife and stab myself in my left forearm, digging and cutting into the web of veins. I scream as fresh hot tears cascade down my face in agony.

The officer turns. “What the-” He tackles me and wrestles me to the ground. He’s stronger, but he still has to watch the knife. He can’t stop me from hurting myself - though, in seconds, that isn’t true. The strength drains from my body as I bleed, bleed, bleed.

Before long, the officer pins me and wraps something around my arm.

That won’t save me now. Nothing will.

Slowly, I close my eyes and drift into the abyss.

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About the Creator

Thomas Czernek

Horror Writer & Storyteller. Inspirations are Pulp Fiction and Anime. Connect with me at tommycwrites.com or Follow me on Instagram @tommyczernek

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