Aftermath - A short-short story

He knew that smell. It was something to drink. Yellow, foamy, with an almost bitter taste. Yet he couldn't put a name to it. He knew it was something he had enjoyed from time to time before it happened. His memories seemed so clear now, not jumbled like they were this morning. If only they could be this clear all the time. The smell brought back images of a dark, smoky place with loud music playing. Images of men standing around a green table holding sticks in their hands and drinking and talking and laughing. He shook his head and whimpered softly at the memories. The laughter became angry shouting. There was pushing and hitting. And there was a thing, a small black thing that one of the men held in his hand. Why couldn't he remember the word for that thing? He could remember the sound it made. The loud, almost deafening explosion. He could remember the pain he'd felt, and the blood streaming down his face. He could remember falling to the floor. Yet he could not remember the words for these memories.

But he wasn't in the dark place now. He was outside. He felt the soft, warm sand under his feet, and between his fingers. He heard the sound of the waves, knowing what they were, but still not able to form the words to express his knowing. And people laughing. He could lift his head, but only barely. Bright colors rushed by. People in swim suits chasing a ball. He blinked at the bright sun reflecting off the water, and turned his gaze back down to the sand.

Helen put her hand on his back and rubbed softly. He had known her for a very long time, but again the words for that knowing escaped him. They had been together, but she went away long before it happened. Now she was back. Had she come back because it happened? He didn't know. How frustrating it was for him to be able to think so clearly, and remember so well, and yet be unable to simply talk to her about the time before.

Why, he wondered, had this happened to him? Would he ever be like he was before; able to speak, and understand? Able to walk, to pick up a fork and spoon? Would he ever again be free of this helpless feeling? When would he be free of the indignity of being wheeled around like a piece of baggage, and being lifted into a chair and fed mush, one spoonful at a time? Staring down at his weak, useless hands, he began to cry. It seemed he cried a lot these days. He cried out of frustration and out of pain. He cried because he knew no other way to communicate. All he could do was hope that somehow they would understand his frustration. Be he also knew there was nothing they could do. It had happened. That could never be changed. His only hope was that someday he could regain all that he had lost.

He rolled around and managed to get to his hands and knees. In spite of his almost helpless state, he did enjoy these frequent outings to the beach. He wanted to walk, to run through the sand like he used to do, but his legs refused to answer. The best he could manage was to push himself along on hands and knees, and as long as he didn't wander too far away Helen and Mack seemed content to allow him this little bit of freedom. His hand fell on a broken clam shell. He felt the rough exterior and the smooth inner surface, rubbing his fingers from front to back, from rough to smooth, over and over. It smelled of dead fish. He laughed, remembering the time so long ago when he and Mack had been fishing and Mack got drunk and fell off the charter boat. Mack had looked so funny when he pulled him out of the water. He had been strong back then, with large muscles that rippled under his skin when he worked the high steel. Now he felt so small and weak.

He looked back over his shoulder at Helen. She was watching him. He wondered when this would all end. He wanted so desperately to ask her when he would be strong again. But all he could do was to make a few grunting sounds and look into her eyes. Would she get the message?

"Mack," Helen said softly. "Look at him. It almost looks like he's trying to tell me something."

"Huh?" Mack put down his can of beer and looked up from the book he was reading. "Don't be silly, Hel. You're just imagining things."

"I don't know," she replied. "More like he's trying to ask me something."

"For crying out loud, Helen," Mack said, chuckling almost derisively. "The kid's only 8 months old."

He looked back down at the shell, his tiny fingers wrapped around its edge, and thought how strange it was to be so small again.

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Very nice.

180

I went through much of this thinking a combination of "Oooh, good detail" and "Hm...a little too sentimental." Until I realized the crying was from a baby, and then of COURSE there'd be crying.

The memories and the lack of being able to grasp them, I like. Before I got too far into it, I thought of Orwells 1984. The style was similar.

I've never read a story about a new/old soul, and it's a great idea.

I thought the clam shell would turn into a weapon, so I was completely
surprised by the denoument.