Nano Bytes - A Collection of Short SciFi Stories

Afterimages, By Elisabeth_Long

"Sign here. Here. And here. Please hand over your phone and any other devices. You'll have 60 minutes."

The printer ink hasn't completely dried. The title before my name smudges a little when the correctional officer slips my ID card into a clear plastic sheath and hands it to me.

I hang up my raincoat and leave my umbrella on a stand.

I follow a guard out and down a long corridor. The visitor's badge now clipped to my sweater bobs in time with my steps.

This administrative wing of the prison is being revamped. Caulking guns and masonry tools lie atop stacked sheets of plywood. Yellow "Caution: Fresh Paint" signs are taped to almost every door jamb.

The yellow tape flutters in the breeze. Police Line - Do Not Cross. The broken body of a man lies in a pool of congealed blood on the sidewalk.

I look up.

The dead man is alive once more, but not for long. His arms pinwheel in his 9.81 m/s² freefall. The man who just pushed him off an apartment building roof is leaning over the parapet, grinning and waving.

The scene loops back and plays out again. The tape, the body... the killer's chilling grin.

I slam my eyes shut and reopen them to fixate on the guard's back. I force myself to concentrate on the smells in the corridor as I keep walking, whiffs of volatile organic compounds from the paint, the vinegary stink of fresh shellac on wooden benches along the walls, pockets of stale air.

The inside of a coffin would be like this. Closed, stifled. Eternal rest, ensconced in an oak-style veneer laminated onto chipboard. Sawdust and glue and... a head resting on a foam wedge covered in satin. Tangled red hair upon a silk pillow.

There are roses strewn across the nightgown-clad woman's corpse on the bed. 'Flowers for a blue lady'' the man scrawls on the notepad by the phone on the night table.

The scene shifts. I already know how it plays out at the start, having watched it before. The man crushes a pillow over the woman's face. Her legs thrash, her fingernails claw at his forearms... until suffocation robs her of life's breath and her arms fall aside.

I draw a deep lungful of air, counting out the seconds in silence.

One...

Two...

Three...

I exhale and level my stare forward again.

We pass an open passageway that angles off in the distance. From its depths, I hear voices. Ones echoing within the barred concrete cells beyond, not the bone-enclosed space of my skull.

Bone shards and brain matter trickle down the floral wallpaper. A single bullet hole, a bullseye in a faux daisy. The female shooter spins on her heels and flees out the sliding glass doors. Sheer curtains flap in her wake like a cape upon her exit. A man's body is sprawled on the rug.

I squeeze my hands tight. Dig the tips of my nails into my palms. I must be more stressed than I realise given the barrage–or should that be a mirage–of afterimages bombarding me.

We're approaching a metal door at the end of the corridor. The guard reaches for a passcard tucked halfway into his uniform shirt pocket. The lanyard it's attached to is sweat-stained where it lies across the back of his neck. The strap hangs like a noose.

I do my best to ignore the man hanging from the pipe overhe–.

The leather belt wrapped around his neck is sweat-stained. His body swings gently to and fro. The trio of men who strung him up stare at the pendulating shadow as if marking the passing seconds.