Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part six…

09 Oct

Another gloriously sunny autumn Sunday, another SoCS post, this week continuing this story with the help of Linda G Hill and her prompt;

” “coin.” Use it any way you’d like. “

Off we go then…

The Accumulator, part six.

Scene: A deck overlooking an ornamental pond, in the gardens surrounding The Department’s facility. The young Patrick Busey and the man who calls himself Endicott are enjoying the morning sunshine whilst eating breakfast at a small table. It is twelve years ago.

“I’m very impressed at the progress you’ve made since your arrival, Patrick,” says Endicott, smiling encouragingly across the toast crumbs and coffee cups, “and today we’re going to move on to the next stage of your training.”

“You keep saying that,” Patrick replies, frowning back at his mysterious host, “but asking about it never seems to get me anywhere.”

“Well, maybe today some of your questions will be answered.”

Endicott places his cup back in its saucer and fastidiously wipes his mouth on a napkin, then reaches across the table, beckoning to Patrick with his leather-clad fingers.

“Give me your hands, Patrick,” he laughs at the young man’s quizzical expression, “haha, don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to propose or anything.”

Patrick hesitantly lifts his own gloved hands from his lap and offers them, palms up, to the watchful Endicott.
At this point, Patrick’s narration returns, describing what we see next;

“He takes my hands and turns them over, then he lets go of my right hand and grips my wrist instead. Before I guess what he’s going to do, he uses his other hand to pull off my right glove, all the time staring straight into my eyes.

I try to pull my hand away, but his grip is suddenly a vice, his eyes blazing with something like excitement.

He tells me, “Calm down, Patrick, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Well that was a lie, but I didn’t know to what extent, not right then.

Endicott relaxes his grip on my wrist and I yank it away from him. But the sensation of the morning sun on my skin is such a unexpected luxury that I pause, holding my hand up and turning it this way and that, as if seeing it for the first time.

“I expect that feels good, doesn’t it?” Endicott asks me.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding, “take the other one off.”

I look at him, he just sits there with that inscrutable stare of his, smiling his tight little smile.

He nods again and I look down at my hands; one clad in my own pale, sun-starved skin, one in the soft black calf skin to which I have become so accustomed. I look back to Endicott and shrug, pulling on the pliable leather fingertips until the glove slips off.

Once more I flex my newly-liberated hand in the sun and I am about to request an explanation for this rare treat when the peace of the gardens is pierced by a short, terrified scream, one which is abruptly cut off with a horrible finality.

I don’t think, I just act. I leap to my feet, wooden chair clattering to the paving slabs behind me.

I’m up and running toward the house.

As I round the corner of the building, bringing me in sight of the front terrace and the main entrance, I see the twisted and broken body of a woman on the stone steps, her head hangs limply from a broken neck, one leg is bent under her at an impossible angle and blood runs from her ears.

Her arm has come to rest across her eyes, as if shielding them from the sun overhead and as I reach her unmoving body I cannot immediately identify her.

I reach down and lift the arm, unresisting, away from her bloody face and realise with horror that it is Darcy.

But that revelation is nothing compared to the shock I get as my hand touches the skin of her shattered wrist; an awful shudder travels up my arm and I am filled with a surge of…something terrible.

The sensation is so brief that it’s almost as if I imagine it, but it instantly brings back the memory of the old woman who died when I was with Dr Braithwaite and the feeling I got when I touched her.

I recoil in horror, pulling my hand away from Darcy’s body and, as I stand up, I catch a glimpse of movement and look up to the window above the front door. An indistinct shape moves behind the curtain, merely a shadow but it’s enough for me.

I am about to climb the steps to the front door when I hear running feet and turn to see Endicott and two heavily built orderlies heading my way.

As I open my mouth to speak and point up at the window, the nearest orderly grabs my arm in his huge, gloved fist and pulls me to my knees next to Darcy’s bleeding corpse. He silently forces my hand down onto her head, the fractured bones of her skull moving horrifyingly under the involuntary pressure of my touch and another, weaker surge of that unspeakable energy jolts into my body.

I fight against the orderly’s grip, but he’s too strong. Even so, after a few interminable seconds he releases my arm and I stagger away from him.

“What the fuck is going on here?! What have you done to me?”

“Now, now, Patrick, there’s no reason to get upset…”

“Fuck you, Endicott! How can you say that, when a woman is lying dead at your feet, have you no decency?” I point up at the window, “I saw someone up there, I think she was pushed, murdered.”

“Here, I think you should put these back on.”

He holds the black leather gloves out to me, his head on one side, as if interested to see what I’ll do.

“Maybe it was to soon for this.”

“Too soon? Too soon for what? What is going on here? Why do you want me to wear those?”

I take a step towards Endicott, my arm extended, pointing to the gloves.

He drops the gloves and takes a hurried step back. A look of panic crosses his face.

I stop, look down at my own outstretched arm, then back up at Endicott’s expression.

“What have you DONE TO ME?!” I scream at him, “Why are you afraid?”

“Hold him.” says Endicott coldly.

The orderlies hesitate, looking uncertainly from me to Endicott, then at each other.

“Well, what are you waiting for? One of you grab him,” snaps Endicott, “what do I have to do, toss a coin?”

The man on my left makes a clumsy grab for my arm and I swing wildly at him, catching him with a lucky punch which grazes his cheekbone.

I am not prepared for the result.

The man, nearly twice my size, is hurled across the terrace with incredible force. He crashes into the low stone balustrade, his back breaking with an audible SNAP as he is folded backwards over it, until his head smashes onto the ground on the other side with a soggy thump.

The second orderly bends double and vomits noisily on his shoes, but Endicott just stands there. He stares at me, then bends to pick up the gloves and offers them to me once more.

“Come along Patrick, put them back on, then we can have a proper talk and I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

Turns out the devious bastard was even lying about that; he was just waiting for a third man (isn’t there always a third man?) to creep up behind me with a needle.

Next minute I feel a jab in the neck and my vision does something it would take the special effects crew three days to replicate and out go the lights.”

The final shot is of Endicott’s face, leaning over and looking down, as we see him through Patrick’s eyes. Then the FX team take the easy option; the picture blurs around the edges and..

..fades to black.


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


Pingback to Linda G Hill.


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4 responses to “Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part six…

  1. John W. Howell

    October 9, 2016 at 22:04

    Another tense episode. I am dying (erm maybe too strong a word) to find out what Endicott has done to Patrick. I liked the FX easy way out description.


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