Thread: Story Starter – George's Story

I'm inviting everyone to join in and help write a short story. Go ahead and post what you think would come next, and leave "..." at the end to say "continue this, please." Try to keep your addtion to one major plot step, and have fun coming up with something that fits the characters and plot elements that have already been posted.

George Padowski sat in his recliner, his left hand on a pile of mail more than a few days old. His motionless fingers curled around the past-due notice from the electric company, forming a rigid hook. His right hand held the TV remote balanced on his knee, his index finger lightly resting on the Tivo “pause” button, which had obviously been depressed, since Bill O’Reilly held onto a smirk much longer than even he should be able to do. George’s eyes barely blinked, staring at the frozen image, thinking he’d be more comfortable if he reclined his chair. But that required jerking his body backward, and he just wasn’t up to it right now. Soon, though, since the blood was settling in his feet, making them throb. Yes, he definitely should flip up the footrest. He’d do that soon, he thought.

While George was waiting for the right moment to adjust his chair, the doorbell rang. Then again. And a bit later, again. Then, finally, welcome silence. He thought about opening the mail, but changed his mind. He wondered what Bill O'Reilly was thinking behind that smirk, but didn't really care. Maybe he was getting hungry. He wasn't really sure. He was too uncomfortable to think right now, with his feet throbbing down there on the floor. Suddenly he jumped, if only in his gut, and turned his eyes reluctantly toward the door.

The loud knocking had come with a shrill voice calling, “George? Are you in there, George?” He didn’t move his lips to form an answer, hoping that she’d just assume he was out and go away.

Of course, he was almost never out. He was usually right here in this same spot. Not much reason to leave the house, though he worked up the will to go out to the mailbox every few days. This was a difficult trip for him to make after what had happened last year. He’d gone to get the mail and somehow the front door had locked behind him, forcing him to break a basement window to get back inside. The window was still covered with cardboard held on by duct tape. He meant to repair it. Soon, he thought. Should do that soon.

The door knob rattled a few times, and, since George was now afraid to lock the door, finally turned to release the latch. The unwanted visitor shouted, “George? Are you home?” as the door opened a crack, letting in that damn sunlight. He squinted as the door opened wide enough for the woman to step inside. Closing the door behind her, she said, “Oh, there you are!” As his eyes adjusted, he looked up to see...

...His fat, short, and highly annoying neighbor. "I just wanted to let you know that your basement window is broken." She said in her shrill irritating voice.
George felt like hitting his head against the wall. "Yes Margret, I know."
"Was it one of those kids? They always do things like this."
"No," he replied, "It was me"
"Oh," she said, "When was that?"
George held in a sigh. "It was last year."
There was an awkward silence and then Margret spoke again, "You should probably fix it."
The urge to smash his head through the wall rose inside of George but he suppressed it. "Is that all?" He asked.
"Well, I guess so." And with that, she opened the door ans walked out.

George closed the door behind her and returned to his seat. The throbbing still remained in his feet and the bill was still there. He flicked the bill onto the coffee table and decided that jerking his body was well worth it if it meant that his feet would stop throbbing. Now that he was reclined and his feet had stopped throbbing he decided to unpause the TV and listen to the rest of what Bill had to say. Soon, under the drone of the TV, George fell asleep...

... yet again. He'd been sleeping over 12 hours a day, yet never felt rested. The sleep was always sporadic with vivid dreams waking him repeatedly, and he was having one now. This time he was in a darkened room, lying on a table, his hands and feet tied to the four legs with ribbons. Satin ribbons, the kind litlte girls wear in their hair. There was a window that had been painted black, with translucent patterns of light following the brushstrokes to give a dim light to the room. He was exhausted from the screaming that no one seemed to hear, or, if they did, didn't care. He was thirsty, and giving up hope that anyone would find him. Then, as always happened, something jolted him awake. Here it was the door crashing open, letting in a blinding sunbeam. As two small figures began talking, he woke up mumbling, "Help! Help me!"

Realizing he was awake and safe, he looked at his watch. He'd slept for about forty minutes, possibly a new record. If dealing with nosy Margaret had exhausted him to that point, perhaps he should thank her, even invite her over now and then when he especially needed sleep. Feeling a bit more energy, he forced himself to stand and walk to the refrigerator, took out the milk and gulped it from the bottle, then grabbed a soft spotted banana. Lunch. By the phone was the doctor's card his son had given him last time he was in town for a visit. "He might help with the dreams, Dad. He has a great reputation. And don't worry about the money. I can handle that." He sighed softly and dialed the number. ...

...The phone rang once. Only once. A short click indicated the line was active as a chipper woman's voice rang out, "Dr. Lamb's office, this is Monica, how may I assist you?" George started to speak, but stopped himself. What the heck was he supposed to say? Taking his silence in well-practiced stride, the secretary kindly asked, "So you'd like to make an appointment?" There! She'd said it for him, nice and easy. George released his grip on the phone a bit and mumbled his agreement. "Okay, then. How does tomorrow at two o'clock sound?", chimed the once again chipper voice. Again, an uneasy feeling swept over George, and dark memories he thought perhaps were not his own crept under the heavy lidded stare he had fixed on the cockroach skittering across his wall."That's fine." Was it? Sure, he thought. I don't really do much, anyway, and I owe my son this. George hung up...

... the phone, and tried to get through the day without letting anxiety overtake him. He busied himself with opening bills and writing checks, had a can of soup and saltines for dinner, tried to concentrate on a TV documentary on African wildlife, and managed to stay awake most of the day. He hoped this would allow him a night of sound, restful sleep.

But George's sleep was more restless than usual that night. Perhaps, he thought, it's because I'm nervous about seeing Dr. Lamb tomorrow. Yes, of course. I'll have to ride the bus for quite a while, but at least the stop is near his office. I can do it. I have to. I have to stop the dreams. Have to make them go away... His mind finally got bored with the monotony of the same thought over and over and gave up as George fell asleep.

This time the dream seemed to be a happy one. He was at a birthday party. A party for a little girl with red pony tails and yellow satin ribbons tied in bows. They matched her yellow shorts. She was opening presents. As she opened the last one, a Jack-in-the-Box jumped out, smacking her in the face. She ran crying to her mom, but now her mom wasn't there. Neither was her dad, nor any of the other guests. With the tears in her eyes blurring her vision, she ran right into the arms of a shadowy figure. Another one drove up in a car and picked them both up. George was left there alone. All alone. And suddenly it got dark. Not even a sunset, just pitch black. He was afraid and began to shout, "Helllp! Somebody help!" and once again jolted awake, sweaty and thirsty.

Somehow he got enough sleep between dreams that he woke up ready to go. WIshing the clock hands would hurry, he sat again in his chair and tried to distract himself with TV. Soon he was asleep again, and dreaming. This time he was in a moving vehicle of some kind, bouncing. Bouncing, bouncing, feeling nauseaus. He heard angry voices arguing from somewhere in the vehicle. Suddenly it screeched to a stop, sending him rolling. "Helllp!" and he awoke. Looking at the clock, he saw it was time to leave.

He was glad to get out of the house this time. He began to feel more relaxed as he boarded the bus. Maybe the fresh air had helped. Maybe Dr. Lamb would help. ...

... George rode slumped down in his seat, staring out the window, watching the buildings as the bus lumbered along it's route. He wondered if Dr. Lamb would be able to help with his dreams, he knew he couldn't go on much longer like this.

The bus stopped at a red light and George gazed at the people waiting to cross the road. His eyes opened wide as he saw a little girl with a red pony tail, tied with a yellow ribbon. He was confused, was he asleep again? He pinched his arm and muttered, "help me" under his breath

"Ow, that hurt." He said to himself, and he realized he wasn't asleep. What did this mean? Was he deaming while he was awake? He leaned his head back, thinking about that dream, that was the little girl, he was sure of it. He should get off the bus and do something, shouldn't he? He sat in his seat and wondered what he would do if he did get off the bus.

The bus approached the stop he needed and he rose from his seat. He hoped Dr. Lamb could help him, now he was dreaming while he was awake. He got off the bus and started toward the medical building...

"... just across the street. Room 314 would be on the third floor, he thought as he pressed the up button.

"Take a seat, and fill out these forms. We'll call you," said Monica, the receptionist. He watched a young pregnant woman take the next turn, but she was seeing an associate, not Lamb. Then a couple were called for their counseling session. Again, not with Dr. Lamb. After an eternity of five minutes, he heard, "Mr. Padowski, the doctor will see you now."

"Sit wherever you like," motioned Dr. Lamb, with his eyes still on George's paperwork. George chose the chair farthest from the doctor. "So ... sleep problems ... disturbing dreams ... for how long?" asked Lamb.

"Maybe a couple of years. At first, just once in a while I'd have a nightmare, but later it was most nights, and I started waking during the night, losing sleep. I learned to deal with it, but it's been getting a lot worse lately," replied George, barely loud enough. "Now it's all day ... tired all day. Dreams wake me at night ... then dreams all day 'cause I keep falling asleep."

"What sort of dreams? Nightmares?"

"I guess they are ... wake up terrified."

"Describe a few for me."

"Well, they were all very different, but seemed to come in bunches. At first, they involved plane crashes for a while. Then later murder. Those were especially upsetting. After that there was ... uh ... war, or wars. Don't remember them all. But I do remember details from the more recent ones."

George went on to tell Lamb about being tied to a table in a dark cabin; about seeing children running at him like a herd of buffalo, trampling him; about his neighbor, Margaret, dressed like a child and looking ridiculous, hiding in his basement crying; and about riding a bus and missing his stop, only to end up in a dark forest with the bus and driver suddenly gone; and about the little girl at the party, and not being sure he was awake when he saw her from the bus. This last one made him suddenly stop and take a deep breath, giving Lamb a chance to interrupt. "Yes, I see, nightmares indeed."

"But why? Why is this happening? I used to sleep just fine," George asked.

Dr. Lamb, who had done extensive work with dreams, finally looked up when he finished jotting notes and said, "There are different degrees of meaning in dreams. Some are just sporadic thought patterns popping up from neurons firing randomly during REM sleep, and mean nothing more than your brain is active at the moment. But those you describe do not fit this common category. They have significant meaning."

George looked interested and a little confused, "How? What kind of meaning? Please, tell me what they mean so maybe they will stop."

Lamb shifted and assumed his professor mode. "I have found in my research that there are basically three types of dreams: those that come from our past experiences, those that come from current life events, and those that..." He paused briefly to find the words. "on very rare occasions, come from future events. Premonitions."

At that, George felt a jolt inside and leaned forward to speak, but then decided he'd rather listen. Lamb continued, "There seems to be a thread running through these latest dreams. It's naturally an incoherent mess for the most part, as are most dreams, but in general I hear captivity, darkness, fear, and a little girl, or perhaps girls. Do you have a daughter or granddaughter?"

"No, just a son. And he has two boys. My wife passed away years ago. It's just us guys, I guess."

"Do you know a child the age of the one in your dreams? Or did you have a little sister? Or a female playmate?"

George thought. "No, can't think of one. And I was an only child. Hung out with two boys from my street."

Dr. Lamb finished taking notes and looked up. "That leaves out past and present. I'd like to give you a few tests, if that's okay. It won't take long."

George absorbed the words "leaves out past and present," and repeated them to himself a few times. They didn't change their meaning. Suddenly a hundred questions formed in his mind, but he couldn't find the words to ask even one. All he could do was nod his head in agreement.
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