Author's note: Timmy is very serious about his name because it represents him. As am I. Timmy has been a great... Show full author's note »
The AccidentI see a thin silhouette of a figure move beneath the shadows towards me. “Hiya, Dr.Fox!” exclaims Hannah cheerfully, patting me on my shoulder. Startled, I drop my beaker. The thick, brown ooze, glows brilliantly in the dark and drips down my new white shirt. “Hannah! You idiot!”
“What’s wrong, Dr. Fox?”
“Call me Timmy.”
“What’s wrong, Timmy?”
“You m…” The stained spot on my shirt flashes a bright white, almost blinding me. It bleeds into my body, spreading like tentacles across my skin and carving into my flesh. My body twists violently. I crash on the floor, my head banging on the metal. My body is full of it now. It glows unnaturally, as searing heat shoots to the tips of my toes and the top of my head. I clench my burning head, screaming with agony.
The last thing I see before I collapse into blackness is the distant, swimming image of Hannah murmuring, “Oh… So that’s what’s wrong, Dr.Fox.”
“Call me Timmy!” I scream and then I’m gone.
* * *
I have a dream. No, I’m not Martin Luther King, Jr. In my dream I’m sprinting in the night, the cool air resting on my shoulders. There; there it is. A shooting star. It is rocketing down on me as its trail of blazing, rainbow light follows… and I follow.
I see the orb of searing white explode, sending sparks everywhere. In my dreamy state I still have the sense that this shooting star was not like any other star I’ve seen before. I see a glint of golden sparkles behind a rock. I reach down and examine it. The glop spreads like octopus’s ink over my blackening palm. My hand roars with pain. I scream. It is the same pain I felt when Hannah made me drop the specimen on my shirt. I scream and just keep on screaming.
* * *
Cozy covers wrap around my gently throbbing body. The pain is dying down. I open my eyes a slit and glance around. It is white, white, and white. My body is cushioned on a clean white bed. The walls are painted white as a puffy, white cloud. The ground is a soft, snow-white rug, like the knitted rug I drove my toy trucks on when I was just a boy.
The cool air is fragrant and wafts like a lullaby up my nose. It is calm and pleasant like the crib I rock my baby girl, Josie, to sleep in. For the first time in my life I just want to snooze off.
But I’m still Timmy Fox. I need to get back to work! But I’m sleepy… No, Timmy get up! The world is waiting! The experiment is ready to go!
The experiment… But it spilled on my shirt!
I hop out of bed and angrily bang on the (white)door. My fist goes right through, sending fragments of wood everywhere. What the? I pound on the door with my other fist. It slices through easily too.
“What are you doing?” asks a confused nurse, dressed all in white, who had just walked in through another obviously white door. She glances at me suspiciously.
“Get back in bed, honey. You still need to heal.”
“Where’s my wife? Where’s my daughter?” I ask frantically.
“They were going to come spend time with you after you woke up, sleepy head. I’ll go tell ‘em that they should come see your lovely little face.” She pinches my cheek, “Now that you’re up and at ’em,” she coos like I’m some infant.
She catches a glimpse at the beat up door and her face turns from sweet to astonished. “Whoa! Did you do that? When you were banging at the door?!?!!!???”
“No…” I lied.
“Okay, back to bed, sweetie.” She says, but I can tell she’s not convinced. She hurries out the door.
I’m thinking now. How did I do that? No, really. How the heck? It was definitely the experiment going down my shirt. Hannah! But I don’t know. For once I don’t know. I don’t even know what the specimen is. I’ve been experimenting forever but I don’t know. My grandma gave it to me the day she died. I remember that day, when I was nine, holding her hand in a hospital bed as she said her last words.