A Short Story; or NaNoWriMo

For those of you who don't know, November is National Novel Writing Month. For those who don't know what that is... Link! In short, for this event you are supposed to write fifty thousand words of almost completely unplanned prose in thirty days time. That works out to about 1700 words a day. A fair typist can do that in about one and a half to two hours.

In preparation for the grand event, I've decided to practice by writing short fiction that is at least that length and at least that unplanned. Today I did just that. I wrote a short story of 2425 words in about three hours with no prior planning. You lucky bastards get to read it. So, this story is actually kinda gory, so be warned. Also, it looks a lot longer than it really is because I put a whole line break between each paragraph. So, don't let that discourage you from reading it. It only takes about ten minutes to read. And, as always, feedback is welcome.
With only very little further ado:

The Mirror;
or
The Telephone

There’s a body on the floor. Female. Bloody. Did I kill her? Don’t remember. Well, my hands are clean. My shirt is white and crisp. My blue tie is straight and tight. Pants and shoes are good, too.

She looks sort of blue. Or gray. I guess she’s been dead for a little while. She’s lying next to a bed. Queen size. The sheets are all disheveled. The pillows are laying at the foot. One on the bed and the other one the floor. Oh, and there’s a table lamp on the bed. The cord is taught; the plug end is wrapped tightly around the dead woman’s neck. I don’t believe she just tripped on that cord.

I guess this place is a hotel room. There is only the one bed, a table and a couple of chairs. I turn around. Also, a dresser with a crappy old television. “Free HBO,” a small card says, stuck to the front of the TV.

I turn around again. There’s a trail of dragged-through blood on the floor that leads from the dead lady to the bathroom. I follow it. Can’t find the light switch. No, wait, there it is. I nearly inhale my teeth. There’s a lot of blood. It’s everywhere. The bathroom mat is a Rorschach test of horror. The shower curtain is a duel color neo-surrealist camouflage painting from hell. The towels… the towels are… well, wet, and a little dirty. It looks like someone played in the rain and just towel dried rather than bathed.

I pick up one of the towels and use it to push open the shower curtain. There is a pile of bloody clothing in the tub. A pinkish stream of blood and water leads to the drain. These are men's clothing. Not the dead woman’s. The killers. Mine? I’m not sure. I don’t want to touch them to see if they are my size.

I look away from the mess in the bathtub. There is blood and something else in the sink. I go to look. Teeth. Three of them. I look up to the mirror. Wow. I look older than I remember this...morning? I don’t remember this morning. I give the mirror a lifeless grin. These are not my missing teeth. Not even the same size. Must be the woman’s. I look around the bathroom again. Only blood. No clue as to how it left the lady’s veins. I should see if she’s missing any teeth.

I leave the bathroom. The dead woman is lying face down. Her red hair has fallen around her face so that I can’t see any of it. I know you shouldn’t touch a body. Not before the police do. But I’m curious. I carefully kneel beside her left arm. There’s a pen and paper on the bedside table. I take the pen and use it to carefully move her hair. Damn. I can only see an ear and a cheek. Her face is looking away from me. I grasp the back of her head and roll it over. There is a sticky sound like stirring macaroni and cheese. Oh God. Where is the upper jaw and nose? Is it somewhere in this ragged hole in her face? Could be her missing teeth in the bathroom. Not sure though. Nothing here to compare them to. The bottom row is complete though.

I glance around looking for more teeth. None here. There’s something under the bed. I lean across the body and pull it out. It’s a purse. I go to the table and turn out the contents. There’s a ring of keys, a folding mirror, some make-up, a roll of quarters, Ah, and a wallet. Let’s see. Alright. A driver’s license and some credit cards. Arizona. Born June 23rd, 1973. Huh. She looks too old to be in her twenties. I imagine death ages you a bit though. She has a ridiculous grin in this picture. I glance toward the body.

“You were prettier with a face, babe.” she doesn’t answer. Her name probably isn’t babe. It’s Susan, actually. Susan Brenner. “Somebody killed you, Susan. Killed you pretty bad. I don’t think you’re gonna pull through.” I hope it wasn’t me. I look at her picture again. She was actually quite attractive. Something about that grin. She had some rather large front teeth, but not big enough to turn me off. I think I could have dated this woman. Maybe even loved her, given enough time. Could she have liked me? I look over at her feet sticking out from behind the bed. Yeah. Sure. She probably could have tolerated a few farts. Maybe even laughed about it with me, if I gave her a sheepish grin when I ripped a good one.

I put the wallet down on the table. Perhaps I should call the police. Perhaps not. I probably look pretty suspicious already going through this stuff. Why did I do that? Why did I touch anything? Stupid. Damnit. Well, wait a minute. Who’s to say this stuff wasn’t already on the table? Those damn fingerprint guys, that’s who. And I touched the body. There’s probably blood on my hands now. Gloves? I’m wearing plastic gloves! OH my god, I must be the killer. Why on earth would I be wearing these damn gloves but to keep from laying fingerprints?

I’ve got to get out of here. If it’s dark outside, maybe I can get away without too much notice. I go to the window and look out. Shit! There are a bunch of police cars out there. It looks like the cops are in the motel office. I quickly close the curtain. What do I do? I’ve got to get some of this evidence out of here. Tell them I found the place like this. But why am I here? Damnit. How can I make up a lie if I don’t know the real fucking story? I guess that’s actually pretty easy. There are an infinite false stories and only one true one. Pretty unlikely that I would accidentally make up the truth.

I turn around to look at the room again. What? There is a briefcase on the dresser next to the television. How could I have missed that? I rush over to it. It’s open. There is a nice camera and a manila folder inside. There is a label on the folder that says, “S. Brenner.” I grab it and tear it open. Photographs. Three of them. The first two are action shots. And the third… my face has gone cold. My jaw is slack. It’s me. And Susan. And we’re smiling. I back up dropping the folder. The pictures fall out and float wildly to the floor. The one with the two of us lands face down on the bloody floor. There is writing on the back. It’s large girly handwriting in blue Sharpie marker. It says, “Never forget us.” What the hell does that mean?

I startle. There is a knock at the door. Instinctively, my hand goes to my left armpit. There is a gun there in a should holster. “What, am I in the mob? Susan! Why can’t I remember any of this? Did you hit me in the head with that fucking lamp?”

“What?” A muffled man’s voice comes from outside the door. “Open the door. It locks from the inside.” God, he knows I’m in here now. I grab up the manila folder and wallet and look around frantically. I pull open the middle drawer of the dresser. There is a rotary telephone in it. A very bloody and dented rotary telephone. It looks old and heavy. An effective bludgeoning weapon. There is another knock at the door. “Hello? Open the door!” He sounds irritated now. Suddenly the phone begins to ring. I look down at the bloody receiver. Wait. It’s not this telephone. The sound is coming from the table. I go to the table and drop the stuff I‘m holding. The folding mirror is vibrating and ringing. I pick it up. Wait, this is not a mirror. It’s some kind of small cellular telephone. Before I can figure out how to turn it off or answer it, it stops ringing.

After a moment the doorknob jiggles. My hand goes for the gun again. The lock disengages and the door opens. A tall man in a brown suit comes through it holding what looks like a credit card. “What are you doing, killing someone in here?”

“NO!” I scream and pull the gun from the holster.

“Whoa, whoa! Frank, Put the gun down!” he yells and puts his hands out in front of him. “It’s not even loaded anyways.” I glanced down at the cylinder. He’s right, I can see light through it. “ I was just joking, man. I know you haven’t killed anybody.” He has a mixed look on his face. Embarrassment, and regret, I think. I start to lower the gun. I’m shaking all over. My back is cold and sweaty.

“I… I haven’t?”

“No, man. Look, I realize you’ve forgotten why you’re here.” He says more calmly. I’m still shaking and looking at him. “You have a condition. You can’t make new memories. You forget everything every fifteen minutes or so. Quicker, if you lose your train of thought.” He looks at me pensively. He fully expects what I’m about to say.

“What?” I ask. "What are you tal-”

“Look in your briefcase there.” He motions toward the dresser. “Your wallet and ID are in the pouch.” I look at the briefcase. At the pouch. There is an obvious bulge there. I grab the things out of it and open the small leather ID case. There is a police badge and an ID card. There is my picture on it. And my name. Frank Brenner. Wait.

“My name’s not Brenner.”

“It is now. Witness protection. From the guys that tried to kill you… and damaged your brain.” He is eying me now with a terrible look. A look full of sorrow and pity. It takes me a moment to realize why. And suddenly, I feel wet drops on my cheeks. I look down and there are wet drops on the ID card and badge. I am crying. I think I am crying because of this terrible revelation.

But I’m wrong.

I turn around.

“Oh no.” It comes out as a small pitiful whimper. “Oh no, Susan.” I am sobbing now. “No. No. No….” I stumble toward the body on the floor. I fall there, by her right leg, and plant my face into the fold of her knee. “Susan Brenner.” I scream now, “My Susan!”

The man touches my back. “I’m sorry. When I told you she was killed, you wanted to investigate it for yourself.” I don’t say anything. I can only sit there, quietly sobbing now. After a few minutes my breath evens out.

Finally, he speaks again. “Look, man. I gotta tell you something else. Something real hard to say.” I look at him. He has another pitiful look on his face. And something else, too. Nervousness, I think. I stand up and walk over to the table. I pick up Susan’s license. She was very beautiful. I can see that now. An angel. I look at her and rub my thumb back and forth over her picture. Trying to feel her former warmth.

I put down the card and pick up the cellular phone. It’s so small and sleek. I see now how it flips open. A list of missed calls pops up on the colorful screen. “Look, Frank…” I can feel him looking at me as he speaks. “I think… I think Susan may have been having an affair. I think they were taking advantage of your condition.” The last call, the one from right before this man came in, was from someone called "Loverboy". The previous four calls were from "F.B." Probably me trying frantically to call my dead wife.

“I see.” My heart is pounding now. “but…sorry, what is your name?” I turn to look at him.

“Oh, no problem. I’m Detective Alfred Bormann. Your partner.” He’s looking into the drawer with the gory telephone in it. I walk over next to him.

“But, how did you find out she was having an affair?” I ask Alfred. My voice floats out coolly, not matching the gallop in my chest.

“Well, I had the boys trace her phone logs when I left the room before. Remember, I told you that? No, you probably don’t, I suppose.” He is looking at me now. I look down at the heavy old telephone. I pick it up, careful not to touch the icky parts.

“Oh, yes, Alfred, you probably did.” He looks at me again, smiling.

“Oh, Frank, my friends call me Freddy.” Suddenly a softball finds its way into my lower guts. Freddy. Freddy Bormann. F.D. I swallow hard. My back is cold again. I shift the heavy rotary phone from my left hand to my right."The guys say that her cellphone was called a few moments ago by an unlisted number."

“Freddy,” I almost whisper, and bring my eyes to his mouth. "The phone rang while you were at the door. How could you know who called?"

“What are you trying to say, Frank?” he asks, still smiling. But fear has crept into his voice. He has a full set of slightly off-white teeth. Those ones I found must belong to Susan. I look Freddy Bormann in the eyes and smile. Without blinking, I swing the telephone up and knock loose a flap of skin on the side of his head. He reels in a comical pirouette. Stumbles. Almost falls. He is holding the side of his bleeding head.

“Fran…” he sputters. I lift the phone above my head and smash it into his gaping mouth. The two front teeth tear loose and bury deep into his tongue. He now looks like a ridiculous vampire hillbilly with blood pouring from the corners of his mouth. I swing again and destroy his upper lip and nostrils. Gore sprays the wall beside him. I swing again and he falls backward into the bathroom. I follow him and swing again. His left eyeball dislodges and lands in the bloody sink. He trips over the edge of the tub and falls in. He never moves again.

I am crying again. Sobbing. I drop the ruined telephone on the floor and stumble back out of the bathroom. I find my way to the bed and collapse there. I sob for another few minutes. Slowly my breathing regulates. I close my eyes and just try to breath. I take one last deep breath and, finally, open my eyes.

There is a body on the floor. Female. Bloody. Did I kill her?