Fever Dream | Teen Ink

Fever Dream

April 4, 2018
By Eduardo.Giralt SILVER, DAVIE, Florida
Eduardo.Giralt SILVER, DAVIE, Florida
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

I could hear “Flame of Love” playing from somewhere. I couldn’t tell if it was some helicopter in this bright tokyo night sky blaring it from above or some underground nightclub from below. All I could think about in my inebriated state was that soulful horn in the song.
After what seemed like hours staring at the city from the alley I was in I decided I’d call a cab. I pulled out my small navy blue burner phone and began to dial what I think was the cab number they gave me at the hotel. Memory for the most minute details is what got me here in the first place, I suppose. While I tried to focus my vision on the minuscule letters of the cheap, front-lit screen, two massive red droplets fell right on top of them. I put my fingers to my nose. Pulling them away, I could see my blurry hand drenched in red. Lightheaded, I tried to disperse the blood from the phone, the thick ruby liquid seeping through the holes between the buttons like sewage. The music gradually increased in volume, my vision blurred more intensely, colors fading in and out of each other like mixed paint. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here…
Suddenly, a heavy metal door to the left of me snapped off its hinges and crashed down onto the alley. The deafening bang left ringing in my ears, and as I reached to cover them a gang of tall, leather-clad japanese thugs piled out onto the alley. They seemed to fly in front of me in my drunken vision, and before I could react one of them had me by the throat.
“11 Hours, 57 minutes, 30 second,” He rasped, at least that’s what I think he said, in his cartoony accent.
“What?” I said, coughing blood onto his tattooed face.
“11 Hours, 57 minutes, 27 second.” He replied sternly, nostrils flaring, his grip on my neck tightening like it was a stress ball.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I barely choked out, my surroundings and the lights of the night all blurring into one.
“11 HOURS, 57 MINUTES, 20-” and it all went black again.
“Good morning, Kyle, you have approximately 11 hours, 57 minutes, and 10 seconds until your mission, please report.” A robotic voice spoke, sending ripples of pain through my head. I made a relieved noise from beneath the mound of pillows, and smacked the smart-alarm on its head.


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