Short Story Project
On the flip side
Mark
I wake up with a parched throat, headache, and my eyelids struggle to open. I walk to the kitchen, to search for orange juice. I'm greeted by my wife and son but do not have the energy to start up a conversation. A quick "good morning" does the trick and I move on with my morning. I turn on the television in order to break the silence of the room. For a brief moment, I gaze to the T.V., still exhausted from my restless night of sleep. The headline news is about a serial killer here in Denver I flipped channels to avoid the details. With my head clearing, I stumble in to my room to get ready for the day at work.
Finishing a strong cup of coffee, I open the door to my office and prepare for another day of trading stocks. Before I buckle down for the day, I close my eyes for just a minute. Vague but exciting thoughts flash through my head. I open them back up to the disappointment of reality and push my swivel chair in line with my computer. As I begin to type, I notice a thick substance underneath my chipped fingernails. I take a closer look and it appears to be blood. I lick my thumb and the iron taste washes out with coffee, it was surprisingly strong. I decide I must be chewing my nails too short. Although, they had never bled before from my nasty habit, what else could it be? I continued with work until my day came to an end. Then I sat in Denver traffic stalling my arrival home.
"Dad!" yelled Tyler as soon as I get home. "Today at school we got a flyer warning us about a killer."
"Don't worry about it son."
Our conversation continues about the killings in Denver and then we switch the conversation and talk about our vacation to Mexico in the summer. Night time comes around, we say goodnight and off to bed I go.
"Goodnight Mark," my wife says.
"Goodnight," I say yawning.
Ethan
Walking down a dark street at night I begin to see lights. I look down at my black apparel and prepare for my thrilling hobby. I find the perfect house for a kill. Grabbing hold of my knife I slide through the glass door that remained unlocked. I see a petite woman dozing off on the couch, the light of the television hits her face and for a second I thought I recognized her. I tiptoe my way further into her suburban home. My fingers slide down the textured walls of her house. I stand behind her; and faster than a blink of an eye my piercing knife slices through her clean pale neck; she drowns in her blood. I quickly walk back to the sliding glass door wiping the blood from my knife with bare fingers. The blood seeps under my chipped fingernails.
Mark
The pounding in my head wakes me. My body hardly feels rested. I think about calling in sick, but I decide against it. My wife and son must be gone because I don't hear the usual spoons clink against the cereal bowls, and their conversations about the weekend soccer games. I scratch my static scalp and gather my thoughts. Today is Wednesday, which means our receptionist will be bringing in breakfast for the office. I eat a banana to hold me over until then and pop a few Advil in my mouth. I swallow hard and it sends a sharp pain to my head. I continue to get ready and soon enough I'm out the door.
Swinging the door open to my office, I see a temporary receptionist. Selfishly, I am disappointed that there will be no breakfast. I walk up to the desk and ask where Josie is. The replacement tells me that her husband called in distraught but gave no explanation as to why she wasn’t coming in today. I shrug my shoulders and plop down on to my worn out chair. Before I am able to get to work, four police men hustle in, two holding guns the other two grab me and hand cuff my arms. I have no idea what is going on.
Ethan
I know exactly what is going on. This was my biggest fear. I do not remember being in an office nor do I remember seeing the police men approach me. I try to fight back but they are strong enough to hold down a wild tiger. People around the room are shocked, they cling to each other and their eyes are as large as bowling balls. The cops haul me out of the office and I can hear words flooding out of people's mouths behind me. The officers take my picture and ask me my name.
"My name is Ethan, Ethan Craft."
"We are not joking around," he pauses and reads from a piece of paper. "Mark."
"My name is Ethan." my voice cracks.
"Hah, alright Ethan," he says sarcastically. "We're gonna take you to the station." He slowly says, as if I was four.
Mark
My mind is spinning and for some reason my memory seems to be skipping out on me like it did when I was a child. I do not remember getting in to the police car. Nor do I remember arriving at the station. Two officers approach me and I try to swallow down the lump in my throat.
"Ethan we are going to need to ask you some questions."
"Ethan?" I knew they had the wrong guy. "My name is Mark, why am I even here?"
The police men looked at each other in confusion. One of them pulled out what appeared to be fingerprints. They pulled out a pad of inky sponge and forced me to press my index finger in to the soft pad. I then laid my finger on the clean sheets of paper. They took the papers in to another room, and another man appeared in a suit. He sat down in front of me and showed me a picture of a man with dark brown slicked hair, he had blue eyes and crocked teeth. He looked like your average guy "up to no good".
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
“This man has been killing people around Denver for years now. His name is Ethan his name is also Mark, he is you.”
Don’t listen to them Mark.
Mark
I wake up with a parched throat, headache, and my eyelids struggle to open. I walk to the kitchen, to search for orange juice. I'm greeted by my wife and son but do not have the energy to start up a conversation. A quick "good morning" does the trick and I move on with my morning. I turn on the television in order to break the silence of the room. For a brief moment, I gaze to the T.V., still exhausted from my restless night of sleep. The headline news is about a serial killer here in Denver I flipped channels to avoid the details. With my head clearing, I stumble in to my room to get ready for the day at work.
Finishing a strong cup of coffee, I open the door to my office and prepare for another day of trading stocks. Before I buckle down for the day, I close my eyes for just a minute. Vague but exciting thoughts flash through my head. I open them back up to the disappointment of reality and push my swivel chair in line with my computer. As I begin to type, I notice a thick substance underneath my chipped fingernails. I take a closer look and it appears to be blood. I lick my thumb and the iron taste washes out with coffee, it was surprisingly strong. I decide I must be chewing my nails too short. Although, they had never bled before from my nasty habit, what else could it be? I continued with work until my day came to an end. Then I sat in Denver traffic stalling my arrival home.
"Dad!" yelled Tyler as soon as I get home. "Today at school we got a flyer warning us about a killer."
"Don't worry about it son."
Our conversation continues about the killings in Denver and then we switch the conversation and talk about our vacation to Mexico in the summer. Night time comes around, we say goodnight and off to bed I go.
"Goodnight Mark," my wife says.
"Goodnight," I say yawning.
Ethan
Walking down a dark street at night I begin to see lights. I look down at my black apparel and prepare for my thrilling hobby. I find the perfect house for a kill. Grabbing hold of my knife I slide through the glass door that remained unlocked. I see a petite woman dozing off on the couch, the light of the television hits her face and for a second I thought I recognized her. I tiptoe my way further into her suburban home. My fingers slide down the textured walls of her house. I stand behind her; and faster than a blink of an eye my piercing knife slices through her clean pale neck; she drowns in her blood. I quickly walk back to the sliding glass door wiping the blood from my knife with bare fingers. The blood seeps under my chipped fingernails.
Mark
The pounding in my head wakes me. My body hardly feels rested. I think about calling in sick, but I decide against it. My wife and son must be gone because I don't hear the usual spoons clink against the cereal bowls, and their conversations about the weekend soccer games. I scratch my static scalp and gather my thoughts. Today is Wednesday, which means our receptionist will be bringing in breakfast for the office. I eat a banana to hold me over until then and pop a few Advil in my mouth. I swallow hard and it sends a sharp pain to my head. I continue to get ready and soon enough I'm out the door.
Swinging the door open to my office, I see a temporary receptionist. Selfishly, I am disappointed that there will be no breakfast. I walk up to the desk and ask where Josie is. The replacement tells me that her husband called in distraught but gave no explanation as to why she wasn’t coming in today. I shrug my shoulders and plop down on to my worn out chair. Before I am able to get to work, four police men hustle in, two holding guns the other two grab me and hand cuff my arms. I have no idea what is going on.
Ethan
I know exactly what is going on. This was my biggest fear. I do not remember being in an office nor do I remember seeing the police men approach me. I try to fight back but they are strong enough to hold down a wild tiger. People around the room are shocked, they cling to each other and their eyes are as large as bowling balls. The cops haul me out of the office and I can hear words flooding out of people's mouths behind me. The officers take my picture and ask me my name.
"My name is Ethan, Ethan Craft."
"We are not joking around," he pauses and reads from a piece of paper. "Mark."
"My name is Ethan." my voice cracks.
"Hah, alright Ethan," he says sarcastically. "We're gonna take you to the station." He slowly says, as if I was four.
Mark
My mind is spinning and for some reason my memory seems to be skipping out on me like it did when I was a child. I do not remember getting in to the police car. Nor do I remember arriving at the station. Two officers approach me and I try to swallow down the lump in my throat.
"Ethan we are going to need to ask you some questions."
"Ethan?" I knew they had the wrong guy. "My name is Mark, why am I even here?"
The police men looked at each other in confusion. One of them pulled out what appeared to be fingerprints. They pulled out a pad of inky sponge and forced me to press my index finger in to the soft pad. I then laid my finger on the clean sheets of paper. They took the papers in to another room, and another man appeared in a suit. He sat down in front of me and showed me a picture of a man with dark brown slicked hair, he had blue eyes and crocked teeth. He looked like your average guy "up to no good".
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
“This man has been killing people around Denver for years now. His name is Ethan his name is also Mark, he is you.”
Don’t listen to them Mark.