Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part four…

Here we go again; it’s time to plunge into the literary lucky dip that is SoCS and continue this strange tale by pulling out a prompt from Linda G Hill, who this week left us this to play with…

” “bus.” Use it as it is, or find a word with the letters “bus” in it. ” 

Well, at least three didn’t turn up at once…

The Accumulator, part four.

Scene: A large, comfortably furnished living room. It is a pleasant late summer afternoon and sun streams in through the window, which looks out across open countryside to a line of low, rolling hills in the distance. It is twelve years ago. 

The young man is sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette while he reads a book. He is dressed in a loose cotton shirt with short sleeves and pale chinos, for there is still some heat left in the September sunshine, so our attention is caught by the fact that he is also wearing a pair of black leather gloves.

The shot holds steady on the young man as he reads, then a voiceover comes in:

“I look pretty content don’t I..?”

We realise it is the young man’s voice we can hear and, as he continues speaking, his image fades and the scene is replaced by that of the white room. 

Two medical staff are assisting the young man as he tries to sit up, swinging his legs round and helping him stand next to the bed, where he sways unsteadily and looks blankly at the mirrored wall. Then the voiceover returns and images unfold on the screen as the young man continues his story.

“…But I wasn’t having such a happy time three years ago;

I spent another two days at the house in the country, before I was transferred to a facility run by The Department. I don’t remember much about those first few days in my new home, only that I was glad to be away from Dr Braithwaite and his “treatments” (little did I know that it was to be but a brief respite from the horror) and that I was left alone for the most part.

Perhaps before we go any further I should introduce myself. My name, if the good doctor is to be believed anyway, is Patrick Busey, although that fact is largely irrelevant, all things considered. But I know what it’s like with these first person narratives; you always feel more personally connected if you know who you’re dealing with, more invested, if you like. And I’m not kidding when I say I need all the personal investment I can get at this point, because let’s face it, I think this is going to be my swan song. 

Ok, so I might have left it a bit late to provide some context to all these flashbacks and fancy narrative devices, but, you know; being in a coma and all that, it kind of puts a crimp in your chronology recall and I was waiting for a hint or a nudge to the old sleeping grey matter. Well, those EST sessions were just the nudge I needed, the memory of that certainly kick-started some neurons into life. I reckon I could probably now bring you up to speed on the rest of my backstory myself, without having to resort to any more clever jump-cuts and SFX editing than absolutely necessary. So if you’re still interested and since we appear to have broken that mythical “fourth wall” that seems so de rigueur at the moment, I might as well tell you how I came to be trained as an assassin by a shadowy international organisation…”

Scene: A hospital room, seen from above, the present day.

The flashback scene dissolves, fading back to Patrick Busey as an old man, still lying, handcuffed to his hospital bed, his eyes still staring blindly up at us. But now there is the hint of a smile on his lips…

**********

To be continued (using next week’s prompt)…

#SoCS

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