Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part five…

02 Oct

Welcome to this weekend’s SoCS post, today hosted by Joey from Joeyfully Stated, acting as Linda G Hill’s substitute for a week.

This is going to be a fairly short addition to the story which began a few weeks ago, because I’m also busy preparing the manuscript for my novel, which (in a development I still find truly surreal) has been accepted by the publisher on my very first attempt.

Joey has determined that for today’s post, we should;

“Write about things that are awkward. “Awkward” is your prompt.”

Ok then, let’s see what happens…

The Accumulator, part five.

The shot lingers on the older Patrick Busey’s smiling face, as his eyes slowly close and his regular breathing tells us he is once more sleeping peacefully. Then the image dissolves into;

Scene: A modern-looking and brightly lit laboratory, location unknown.

The young Patrick Busey is seated in a doctor’s chair, apparently at ease. He is attached by various sensors to several pieces of specialised monitoring equipment and a nurse is monitoring the readings. It is twelve years ago.

Patrick’s voiceover begins again.

“After I had been at The Department’s facility for about a week, the man who had rescued me from Dr Braithwaite came to my room and introduced himself as Endicott. No first name, just Endicott, but I seriously doubt that’s his real name, since lying is second nature to these people.

He was very polite and conscientious; enquiring about my health and well-being and making sure I had everything I needed to be comfortable in my new accommodation, but it was clear that he wanted to be done with the social niceties and move on to more important matters.

However, that first encounter yielded nothing of any significance, at least as far as finding out what had brought me here was concerned. All I managed to glean from his visit was that I was to be subject to some tests, to determine whether or not I was suitable to participate in something he would only refer to as The Programme.

I don’t know what it is about these cloak and dagger types, but you can always hear the capitals when they talk about themselves and their grubby little projects. Maybe it’s just their underlying insecurities, the same ones that made them want to play James Bond in the first place, but whatever it is, they all have it and I always found it amusing.

You can see me here, being put through one of the barrage of tests I took part in. As you can see, the nurses were very professional, although what their personalities were like I couldn’t tell you, since I didn’t get a single word of conversation out of any of them in the entire time I was there. Not even smalltalk about the weather, so they’d obviously been briefed to keep me in the dark about the outside world as much as possible. The only time I heard them speak was when I was trying to eavesdrop in the restaurant.

You’d have thought that this would make for a rather awkward atmosphere but, funnily enough, I soon got used to my silent companions and even made up names for them. The young lady that you see tending to me here, I christened Darcy, because she reminded me of the ballerina, Darcy Bussell.

There was also a Philippa, a Bridget, a Nancy and an Ermintrude, a great big, humourless German woman who I could tell didn’t like me. I called her Ermintrude, partly because in German it means “universal strength” and I thought it might piss her off, but mainly because she was a right cow.

The others seemed perfectly nice and would smile at me occasionally when I made bad jokes or addressed them by their made up names, but Ermintrude and I were never going to be friends, no matter how long my stay lasted.”

As Patrick continues to tell his story, the camera shows us a selection of scenes; from him being tested in the lab, to him walking in the extensive, landscaped gardens around the facility, to him eating in the small restaurant, to shots of him in his comfortable living room; sometimes alone, reading or watching television, sometimes with the man known as Endicott, deep in conversation.

And in all these images, we can’t help but notice that he still wears the black leather gloves, even when eating dinner at a table alone, surrounded by quietly chatting members of the medical staff and other, less easy to identify diners, all of whom carefully avoid any social interaction with him, almost as if they are frightened of him.

“Anyway, just as I was settling into my daily routine of being poked, prodded and probed by my tag team of nurses, taking a stroll in the garden, or catching up on a bit of culture, Endicott came to see me and told me with some satisfaction that I had passed all their tests and had been accepted for entry into The Programme.

I asked him what exactly that entailed and he just smiled that rather chilly smile of his and told me I’d find out before much longer and that I should be patient. He congratulated me on my progress, whatever that meant, then told me I should get some rest, because the next stage of my training was to begin very soon.

I remember very clearly that it was a Sunday, because on Monday Darcy was dead.”

The camera abruptly cuts to a close up of the older Patrick’s eyes as they snap open.

Rapid fade to black.


To be continued (using next week’s prompt {which can now be found HERE})…

Pingback to (not)Linda G Hill.

For those of you who didn’t get the Ermintrude reference, this;


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6 responses to “Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part five…

  1. John W. Howell

    October 2, 2016 at 18:12

    Very good. Will now be interesting to find out why or how Darcy died. I like the scene consistency. The changes are terrific when they occur.

    • dalecooper57

      October 2, 2016 at 18:51

      Thank you. What do you mean by “scene consistency”, exactly.


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