Stream of Consciousness

I am going to write a simple stream of consciousness. No editing, no going back over, just write for a bit and see what happens.

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It was a day like any other. A normal day. But what did that really mean anyway? Normal was such an empty idea, like a bottomless well that sounds like the ocean. He lived near the ocean. With cats. He was a normal guy. But that brings me back to whole normal thing, which is a crock. So maybe he wasn't normal. Maybe he was nuts. But if more people are crazy than not, which ones are the normal ones?

So anyway, he lived by the ocean with his cats. More than one, obviously. Who has just one cat? That's just not normal. And there I go again. But I digress. I guess he had a name. Let's call him Larry. That's a nice ordinary name. Is ordinary like normal? Are they both arbitrary? Does anyone really care?

So Larry lived in a small house alone with three cats. That's a good number. I just got a phone call and it totally threw off my groove. So now Larry will likely be a whole different person. I lost that moment, and the man Larry was going to be. I hope the new Larry is just as good. Maybe he's better. But there's no way to really know, and exactly how would you determine what is better or worse? It's all opinion anyway. Isn't everything?

So Larry lived in a small house alone with three cats. And he had a basketball hoop in the driveway that he had never used. He didn't have children or grandchildren, and he wasn't the least bit athletic. Who was he trying to fool with the hoop anyway? He was seventy nine years old and looked like a soup chicken wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt.

He liked his little house and his cats. He didn't work anymore, which was actually the reason he had the hoop. You see Larry was one of those professional people. I don't mean a prostitute or anything, just one of those corporate guys who wears expensive suits and a new tie every day. He worked every single day as hard as he could so he could be at the top, but he didn't like it much when he finally got there. He was lonely. He was so busy working to get to the top he didn't bring anything with him. He was alone. He had no wife or children. He lost touch with his brother, and his parents were long dead. So he had nothing in his life but work, and he tried to be content with that. It was too late anyway. By the time he thought he had enough money and power, he was too old to do the thousand and one things he always said he wanted to do.

So that's why he had the basketball hoop. One day, he just bought it and set it up. He always wanted to learn to play ball. But he had no one to teach him. He had no friends, no relatives. He was an old lonely man. That was why he had three cats. Cats were good company. They were better friends than any he had throughout his life.

So Larry lived in the little house by the ocean. He had hoards of money but nothing to spend it on. He filled the house with spent dreams and disappointment. But still, he had hope. He had the basketball hoop. As long as it was there, he could dream that tomorrow, he'd learn to play.

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Hmm, well, that was kinda sad. But that's where my head went. Hope you enjoyed it.

Dreaming a beginning

I had a dream a few nights ago and it turned into this. I'm not sure where it's going or if I'll ever do anything with it, but I'll follow around Cy until he stops telling me his story. There is a first chapter written after this as well. If I'm still working on it next week I'll post more.

C13 was tattooed on his chest in small neat letters, just under his collarbone. It was the closest thing he had to a name. He’d just chosen a real name, and wasn’t sure what to think of it. He looked at the driver’s license in his hand.  Cy Hunter. The age and birthday were a wild guess, placing him at twenty two, but the doctors weren’t sure. He was six foot seven, three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and reinforced bone. He had no body hair to speak of, and his skin was thick like hide and tan in color. He shoved the license into his jeans pocket.

            It was a stupid idea. He couldn’t blend in. Even if his mouth wasn’t disfigured, his eyes weren’t human. He sat on the bed in the small hospital room that had been his home for the last eleven months during his recovery. His unparalleled regenerative abilities saved his legs when doctors couldn’t have. The doctors had been able to fix his mouth. They removed all of the sharp teeth that were growing in the wrong places, and surgically shortened his lower jaw so it lined up with the rest of his skull. They filed the sharp teeth down to manageable size, and removed enough so that what remained was as human as they could manage. He looked at the mirror on the wall and smiled grimly.

            He had a mix of human and crocodile teeth due to the genetics mixed to create him in the lab. He had four human molars that he could use to chew if he was careful. The rest of his teeth roughly alternated human and fang. The result was still a nightmare, even if the fangs no longer cut into his lips.

            Due to his skin being more like hide, he scarred badly. The scars from the surgery on his jaw were obvious despite the doctors careful stitching. There were two scars on his cheek where the fangs used to protrude, though his lips had healed and were actually normal in shape. But he had limited control of them, and the result was that he slurred words and sometimes spit when he talked.

            He watched himself in the mirror with his crocodile eyes. Black pupils surrounded entirely in golden green. He had too many scars. His pain was written on his skin for everyone to see. He pulled on his t-shirt and the black fingerless glove he wore on his right hand to hide the burn scars. The glove covered him from hand to elbow, and kept little children from having nightmares. He picked up the mask and buckled it in place. Some kind soul had given him a bunch of comic books when he was learning to read. His mask looked like the one Shredder wore in the Ninja Turtles. It covered his mouth and nose. The frame was metal with a black mesh over his mouth that allowed him to speak easily. He buckled the leather strap around his head and looked in the mirror again. Still a freak, but no longer a nightmare.

            He was the first genetics experiment that had been found alive. What scared him was that he wasn’t the only one, and that there were likely others out there suffering. He wanted to help find the people responsible for creating him and hunt them down. He wanted to find any other genetic freaks like himself and free them. But he was a creature of action, and not very good at puzzles or conspiracies. The path leading to his creators was one of tedium and disappointment. There were paper trails leading to dummy companies, and more dead-end clues leading from those. He wanted to be useful now, and knew that he would have to find something else to do with his life than seek revenge.

He wanted to help people, to protect them. He knew they would never really accept him, but that was ok. He didn’t need acceptance as long as he had purpose. He was faster and stronger and bigger than humans. He could be useful to them. If he served them well enough, maybe they would tolerate his differences.

            The government had provided tutors during his long recovery, and he had his GED. He hadn’t had much else to do while his legs healed from the multiple fractures. He was enrolled at a police academy in the city where Melissa lived. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go back to the city where he had been housed in an underground facility. It couldn’t have anything to do with Melissa. He had only met her once, and he was busy bleeding to death at the time.

            Cy scratched his cheek along the edge of the mask. Dressed as he was, with the mask, only his eyes set him apart. He put on sunglasses. He still looked weird, but he could pass for human. He sighed and picked up the stuffed dog that he shamelessly slept with. Sally gave it to him the second time she snuck down to his cell. It was beaten and torn, stained despite vigorous washing. It had button eyes and appeared to be smiling. He often cried himself to sleep with the toy in his arms. It was his most precious possession.

            He had never seen Melissa again, though she kept her promise to get the dog to him. There was a letter with the dog, but at the time, he hadn’t been able to read it. It wasn’t until months later that he learned enough to pull the letter out and find out the contents. The letter was sitting on the bed beside him. He opened it and read it for the hundredth time.

            Hey big guy. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you in person, but they moved you to a secret location and wouldn’t let me near you. I hope this letter and the dog get to you. I hope that you get a name, and a life worth living. I don’t know if you even remember me. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I just wanted you to know that there was someone out there who cared about you. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. Who knows what the future brings, but if you ever can, come and see me. If you ever need a friend, I’ll be there. –Melissa Porter.

            Her address and phone number were written below her name. He never called her. He wanted to, but he had no idea what to say. For some reason, he felt he could trust her. She had seen him at his worst and still seen a man. He stood up and shoved the letter and the stuffed dog into his bag. It was time to go start his new life.