a short story by Elizabeth Scozzari
“Mother trucker!”
His voice rumbled over the whistling in the other room. A high pitched whine replaced his co-worker’s attempt at a tune. The doorframe spun, splitting in two, even as he closed his eyes Fred felt like he was on a roller coaster. He forced himself to look, caught in the doorjamb was his finger.
Everything stopped.
The pain had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Fred tilted his head one degree to the left and another two back to the right. So slight were his actions not even his hardhat moved. Somewhere in the distance beyond the dulling ringing in his ears he heard doves in the rafters. Christmas in July, his partner had said when they had taken residence there after the framing, like from that movie with that kid. When he’s lost in the city?
He had been talking about Home Alone 2.
Fred hated that scene, but even that was better than what was coming. He had been in the industry long enough to have grown comfortable, careless even, about not reaching between the door and its frame. Fred knew the second he pushed it open pain would flow just as freely as the digit if hadn't remained attached.
Over the years Fred had seen some really gruesome injuries from the dumbest mistakes. Like the time Peter had reached into the Equipter 4000 and left his newly donned wedding ring along with his ring finger trapped between the gears. He tried to spin it from the hospital bed, extra time off for the honeymoon, but the rest of us who knew Peter had called it like the omen it was. How long until they had gotten divorced? Six years? Eight?
Fred’s stomach turned again. He couldn’t feel the pain, but he knew it was there. He would have to bite the bullet and open the door. He looked around for something he could actually bite down on, at best it would be an apple from his lunch bag, if he could even reach it. Fred saw a vision of himself standing there, squealing like a pig, prepped with a large red apple, ready for a roast. His belt would require two hands to take off and there’d be no use in chomping down on his t-shirt.
The damage might not be too bad. Swelling would mean a cold one over lunch, maybe supervising instead of getting dirt under his nails. Fred bit his lip, that’d be worse than having to close down the site for the day. He tried to concentrate on that cold, carbonated grainy taste of PBR on his lips, until he had a reason not to, Fred could remain hopeful.
It wasn’t like there was —
“Shit.”
There it was. Bright red on the pencil cedar plywood, one small drop of blood. Fred felt his last cup of coffee burn. He closed his eyes, biting back the bile. His mind was losing its grip against reality, the sooner, the better.
He mashed his teeth together, and with a sharp intake through his nose, Fred unlatched the door and pushed. The door swung, the frame too, falling away from him. Black sparks clouded his vision, the ringing pierced his thoughts. He needed to pick up that door, make sure it wasn’t damaged. Expensive door it had been. The taste of soured milk and coffee filled his mouth.
Fred felt the room turn on its side, for a moment, he opened his eyes. The job was screwed, the support beams were horizontal. Nothing was right. A sea of red flowed in front of him – had the spilled something – sticking up like a diving board was something bright white. Was that his. . .
“Mr. Fred! Mr. Fred!”
Before he could answer, Fred felt the night cover him up.
Creative Writing Weekly is a gathering of writers of all levels, lead by Michael Rash, that create pieces every week based on prompts. The prompts for this piece were: Finger in the door, whistling, doves in the rafters, apples, one small drop of blood. To learn more about the next workshop and other events, visit our calendar!
Comments