Blink {Featured}

Chapter Twenty Five

JOHN FINNIE (35y), AUGUST 2022, 09.44

The sunlight looked brighter outside, it made John's eyes tear even though it was a cloudy day. His old fucking eyes couldn't handle it. What a pathetic creature he was, he couldn't even walk, couldn't do anything really, and seventeen years of his life--gone within a blink--left him a pathetic corpse of a man. Blink... why did that word make him feel as if he'd just seen Samantha's breasts?

Marty was silent, pushing the wheelchair down the sidewalk to a place John remembered--the graveyard. The strange thing was, he remembered coming to this graveyard to watch Mam leave flowers on Dad's grave. But Dad was alive, it made no sense. The chatter of birds, the grey clouds above them, and the smell of the grass stirred something inside him, something he couldn't grasp. It slipped past him like a slimy fish. Had it been a dream?

'Urgh,' he grumbled, and Marty gave him a cursory warning glance. Yeah, he knew--no swearing, no complaining out loud. Dammit. What did they expect from him? Bags of rainbows and ponies? The dark bags under his eyes became more pronounced daily, and the unrelenting dreams tortured him at night. The dreams of the angel and the demon, of him screaming and dying a slow death. Was his conscience sending him a message about being a better man before evil destroyed him? He snorted. Fuck that.

The gravestone became larger and larger as Marty rolled his chair closer, and the memories ate at him, tore his conscience and his heart. Why did he remember Dad at a place like this? He could've sworn it had been real.

'Marty, did my Dad ever die?'

The look on Marty's face was answer enough. 'Mate, you know that's impossible. People don't just die and reanimate every day. Even your case is a miracle.'

'Yeah,' John nodded. 'I know, it's just... I remember this place. I remember Mam putting flowers on Dad's grave.'

A frown creased Marty's brow, and then it seemed a light went on in his head. 'You know, there was this thing you used to do at school. You said you could change time.' He laughed, shaking his head. 'You're a hoot, mate.' His eyes refocused and he looked at John with a smile, though it still looked off to John--Marty wasn't this old. He wasn't, dammit. The friend he'd known was sixteen and mischievous--not a bloody cop. The uniform Marty wore for the occasion didn't help either.

'You swore it was real,' Marty said. 'We cheated on tests and shit, and you almost had me believing this Blink thing existed.' For a reason John couldn't fathom, he blurted, 'Yeah, fuck that Marty. Fuck you and your stupid fucking theories ey?' Man, he wasn't supposed to swear. Marty lifted his hand and John cringed into the chair--he knew he deserved it.

No blow came. When John looked back up, tears stained Marty's face and he stared away at a gathering of people near a grave. Had John brought on these tears, or was it Marty's own bitter memories? He wanted to ask, but thought maybe he should keep his shitty mouth shut for a while.

And with the next breath he breathed, John felt as if a heavy stone came to rest in his chest. When he closed his eyes, he saw Charlie running on the grass, squealing and circling the shrubs that decorated the area, and he breathed the cool evening air of another memory. Reminiscence of the moments he'd taken for granted, the places and people he thought would never change. When he opened his eyes the ache was as fresh as the day he'd lost them. Damn that grass, and that grave in the fourteenth row, grave number sixty-five. That was where Dad had been buried. How the hell could he know that? Maybe he was crazy, but the ache was real. And losing Charlie hurt more than anything in the world--he had taken her for granted. God, he wished he could hold her hand again.

John realised tears wet his own cheeks, and snot had started dripping from his nose into his moustache -the results of his refusing to shave. He closed his eyes and wished he couldn't hear Charlie's voice in his mind, wished he wasn't here now. Seeing her grave... how would he cope? It was all so unfair.