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Shorts
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| Work in progress-can't think of a title | |
| By ericthered | ||||
| 30 May 2006 | ||||
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Oki so i came up with the idea of a man in a room not being able to remeber where he was. I also had the idea of a sort of big brother/ runningman extreme reality tv show where the bloke had been set up by a tv company, hence the prologue. Although the prologue ties in with this extra concept i have to say i don't like it it feels cliched and tacked on, which it probably is. So any criticism welcome...x Prologue. Harold Jameson, practised his winning smile in the mirror. His career had been based on this smile, and he was happy. He’d just won the deal of his life, his own concept TV programme on prime time tv. Through careful negotiations with TV executives and a horde of shysters, he had managed to retain full copyrights and complete artistic control. The mirror flickered, his face was gone replaced by the face of his assistant a elderly prune faced woman called Miss Jenkins ‘sir your wife is on the phone, she want’s to know whether to buy that beachside house in LA, may I put her through ?’. ‘Good god woman tell her to buy the bloody house and not to bother me today, especially not now’, he looked down to his groin. The mirror returned to the image of his cheerfully smiling tanned face and dazzling white toothy grin. The media had been buzzing for months after a carefully planned advertising campaign that cost enough to buy a small South –American country. Everyone was excited, most of all Harold Jameson the one time local radio disc jockey turned, TV presenter and Media tycoon. He smiled he had a right to be happy. He admired his profile in the mirror, the best money could buy. He looked down to his waist to the top of a junior researchers head moving frantically forwards and back at his groin. Once he had finished, he ordered her to make him a brandy, she scurried out of the room eyes nervously downcast. Harold Jameson liked power, liked to stay in control. But he liked the risk of a good gamble even more. Tonight the premier of his concept show, would be a gamble, but the players were in place, the back work had been done, and the win would be big…..The cards were stacked in his favour, providing it went alright on the night. 1. Sam opened his eyes, the room swayed and blurred. The light stung his eyes, his pupils pin pricks in the sickly light. He starred up at the ceiling, yellow aertex swirls and black speckled damp patches. For a few minutes he stared blankly at the ceiling gathering his sense of self and trying remembering what he was doing there. He was still fully clothed, coat and all. Looking round the room, he scratched his head, trying to remember where he was. Brown and sickly yellow wall paper hung loosely from the walls. Nicotine stained net curtains allowed some of the suns rays to shine in the smoky room. He was asleep on the floor by looks of it, the carpet was brown and faded red, and looked like it had seen better days. Piles of bundled faded newspapers, were next to a cheap two bar electric fire. Sam scratched his chin and pondered the thick growth on his face. How long had it been since he had shaved? Judging by the roughness at least a couple of days. He reached into his back pocket and found a squashed cigarette packet. Opening the lid, one slightly bent cigarette was left. Removing it he looked around the room, in search of a light. ‘where the fuck am I?’ he pondered. Seeing a packet of matches on the top of a wobbly looking side table he attempted to stand up. His legs felt like jelly, no strength, his head swam and little white lights filled his vision. The box of matches was from a bar or a club called muse. Striking a match and inhaling deeply on his cigarette, he sighed with relief. Pocketing the matches, Sam turned his mind to where he was again. He couldn’t remember going to this flat, he couldn’t remember going out last night at all. Even when he’d gone out on a major bender he’d always at least remembered where he first had a drink or two. No, nothing, blank. The last thing he remembered was going to bed late after an evening watching TV. ‘did I miss work?’ he asked himself. There was a dirt covering the mirror in the room, he walked up to it and looked at his reflection. There was a purple ugly bruise around his left eye, his face was dirty, and dark brown patches covered his skin. He rubbed his face with his fingers and looked at his hands, his hands were dirty too, covered in the same dark brown patches. ‘Must of fell over he mused, maybe a friend took me in?’. He looked around the room, it led off to a small corridor. Down the corridor was a door on the left and a room open but shrouded in darkness. He opened the door to the left. It was the bathroom. It was filthy. Vomit and other innocuous stains caked the toilet and surrounding floor. The basin looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time too. Sam turned the tap at he sink on and washed his hands an face in the cold water. Patting down his hair he looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. ‘much better’ he smiled ‘almost human’. ‘Wonder what the time is?’ he looked at his watch, ‘ quarter past four, at least who ever let me stay won’t mind too much being woken up, after all the day’s nearly over’. Leaving the bathroom and entering the dark bedroom. The curtains were drawn. Subdued light shone threw the material, giving the room a dark red glow, barely illuminating the bed with what looked like a figure wrapped in a duvet. Sam sat on the side of the bed next to the raise in the duvet. ‘Emm hello, it’s Sam’. No reply. ‘Hi, wakey, wakey’. Still nothing. Sam placed a hand on the figure and gave it a gentle nudge. ‘hello’, No movement. ‘passed out cold’ , thought Sam. The silence in the room became suddenly oppressive, all he could here was his breath wheezing in his chest. His breath no one else’s, not the sleeping figure. Sam had a bad feeling, his heart beat in his chest drowning out the sound of his breathing in his ears. He pulled back the top of the duvet, revealing the figure underneath…………‘good god’ Sam exclaimed. 2. It was a woman, more than that it was a beautiful woman. She had pale milky skin and dark black hair, her eyes were dark green open and staring. Her lips full, perfectly formed, but blue. Bruises and blood covered her face, and she bore an open mouthed expression of terror. She was naked under the duvet and bore more marks of violence. Her swan like neck was red and with purple hand marks. There was the same brown dirty marks on her, he realised the brown ruddy stains were dried blood, her blood. Sam panicked, sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt sick, so sick he vomited on the floor. Tears streaked down his face. The sound of sirens could be heard out side. ‘shit’ Sam exclaimed. What to do? Should he stay, how to explain? What could he explain, he could remember nothing of last night, maybe he did kill her, no he couldn’t have, could he? He ran from the room, he had to get out of the flat, now. ‘Cant escape through the front door he thought’, he paused, ‘the window’. He ran into the front room to the small window and pulled back the net curtains. The window over looked a narrow alleyway, it looked a distance to the ground, and he was on the 1st story. Still no time to think the sense of urgency was immediate. He opened the window and slung his leg over the window sill. A violent knocking sound came from the front door. He dropped to the alley way, collapsing to his knees ‘fuck’ he exclaimed with pain. The alley led to a busy road full of people and traffic. Sam ran, he didn’t know where he was running to. He ran till the breath burnt in the back of his lungs and his muscles stung with pain. He came to a stop near a park, where in the shelter of trees and bushes he collapsed on a bench, sweat running down his head, his breath caught raggedly in his lungs.
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