Category: Fiction

It had been nearly a year since the disappearance. They hadn’t found a body, they hadn’t found any evidence or any witnesses. That hadn’t stopped the rumours. They’d had a fight, he’d blacked out, she’d gone missing. To say that people were suspicious of his story was an understatement. The hostility had grown over time, as he had tried to live his life, attend classes and deal with the hole in his life where she had been. He’d been trying to function, but it had gotten progressively harder.

He’d gone out for drinks a few times, with the few people that were still willing to hang out with him, but when they’d called it a night, he’d kept on drinking. Every so often, his drinking would combine with circumstances to create an “incident”, and he’d need to find another bar to drink in. Preferably one further from the school, were he was less likely to run into people who knew his story. This usually worked fora while, though never for more than a few weeks.

And then one night, shit got really weird.

“Let me get this straight, you’re pounding on his door to tell him his fiancée’s parents are going to murder him if he doesn’t get her home immediately” she paused, grinning “and he tells you that he just came out of the closet. And neither of you find that funny.” She quirked her eyebrow, “at all?”

“I would, if I knew where she was. Maybe.” He sighed and rubbed his head. The coffee was helping a bit. “I’m worried about her.”

“You two broke up, didn’t you? Why is it your problem where their spoiled brat ended up?” She frowned at James and then turned to the other man. “And what the hell Duggan, why are you playing their messenger boy?”

The grizzled man rolled his eyes. “Campus security, kinda my job. Faculty upset about missing student daughter, that’ll be paperwork.” His tone was light, but his muscles were tensed. “I’d really like to avoid another incident.” He quoted with his fingers. “The last one, do you know how many hours I spent staring at the footage?”

“John, look, I don’t remember much. I don’t even really remember the fight that Anna here has clearly heard about.”

“You don’t remember the fight? You don’t remember how she slapped you in front of a handful of your friends, and shoved you into the bushes. How can you not remember that!?”

“Oh, well, that does explain these.” James slides back his shirt sleeves and rubs his finger along a series of scratch marks on his forearms.

“Damn it man.” Duggan reaches down into his knapsack and pulls out a red kit. He unzips it and pulls James’ arms across the cafe counter towards him. His manner is mechanical as he inspects the wounds. He taps his earpiece once and resumes his examination. “Record. Medical supply log. James Gorman. Minor scratches on both arms. Application of disinfectant and the goo. Both containers still fairly full. End and mark for transcription.”

“Alcohol is the cause of and solution to all of life’s problems.” – Homer Simpson –

For James Arthur Gorman, it certainly started his problems. Gorman was invited out to a party to celebrate his recently published paper; not normally a drinker, the good news and lack of stress encouraged some indulgence. A whirling dance of images and sounds later, he wakes up to a pounding in his skull and on his door. Disoriented, he attempts to make sense of where he is. He’s on the ground, in a small space; reaching out his arms find the walls with ease. He can easily touch the four walls. Reaching up, he finds cloth above him. His hands continue to explore the room, eventually finding the something cold. It shifts and the wall behind him falls backwards, spilling him out into the light, burning into his brain. The image that floats above his tightly shut eyes is familiar to him, but somehow wrong. Then he realizes it’s wrong because while it’s his living room, it’s upside down. Except it can’t be, so he must be. The pounding continues, louder now.

His mouth opens and he tries to speak. The sound that comes out is incoherent, but the pounding stops. At least the pounding outside his head.

“James, are you in there? Open the damn door!”

James; that was him. He should answer. He should get up, and find water and pull himself together.

“James, we need to talk. What the hell happened last night?”

Last night – that was a blur. He tried to remember, but the images wouldn’t hold still. “I, we, celebrated…” his voice sounded hoarse but he was able to form words. “… I woke up in the closet. I’m about half way out so far.”