The windmills of your mind
This is the start of a short story. If you have the time to send me a quick email, I'd love to know where you think it's going and whether you find it interesting.
***
I’m standing at a window. It’s a dull day, overcast enough that I’ve switched the light on. I can see the room behind me reflected dimly in the glass, table and chairs and a sagging old sofa with dents in the cushions. It’s 5 o’clock and I’m hungry, and all of this would be so mundane that it’s not worth remarking on, were it not for two facts.
I’ve a gun in my hands.
And I can’t remember why.
The gun is heavy, unfamiliar, awkward in my hands. I look down at it: the long barrel, the sights, the heavy stock. The word Ecton is engraved on the side. None of this feels right.
A footstep sounds behind me. I turn to see a woman of about my age, maybe a couple of years younger. Long dark hair, frightened brown eyes. She backs away from me, saying something I can’t hear.
I lift the gun to my shoulder. Her chest explodes in a cloud of gore.
***
“Wynne,” a calm voice says. “Wynne, can you hear me?”
“What’s going on?” an anxious voice interjects. “Is she all right?”
“Don’t …” The first voice fades then returns, starting and stopping like a video stream with bad wi-fi: a low rumble that rolls right over the attempted interruptions of the other. “… very normal for a subject to … expect some initial disorientation … succumbs fully to the process.”
“What process?” I ask hoarsely.
“Wynne.” The second voice looms nearer. “You don’t have to do this.”
I don’t think I open my eyes, but nevertheless, I can suddenly see where I couldn’t before. A man is beside me. I recognise his face. He is … my lawyer?
“I think I killed someone,” I blurt out.
He throws a nervous look over his shoulder at the other, waiting motionless in the shadows behind.
“There was a gun in my hands – I saw her die –”
“Wynne, I advise you not to say anything more.” Scowling, he turns away from me. “This isn’t fair, doctor. She’s confused. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“What she says is immaterial,” the shadowy man – the doctor – replies. “It’s the content of her mind that matters.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “It was wrong.”
Now the doctor joins the lawyer at my side. “What was wrong?”
“The gun. It was a rifle. But I think …” Every memory before here and now is small and out of focus, as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope. “I think it should have been a pistol.”
“Yes,” the doctor says. “It was a pistol that killed Sarah.”
Sarah. My sister.
I’m standing at a window. It’s a dull day, overcast enough that I’ve switched the light on. I can see the room behind me reflected dimly in the glass, table and chairs and a sagging old sofa with dents in the cushions. It’s 5 o’clock and I’m hungry, and all of this would be so mundane that it’s not worth remarking on, were it not for two facts.
I’ve a gun in my hands.
And I can’t remember why.
The gun is heavy, unfamiliar, awkward in my hands. I look down at it: the long barrel, the sights, the heavy stock. The word Ecton is engraved on the side. None of this feels right.
A footstep sounds behind me. I turn to see a woman of about my age, maybe a couple of years younger. Long dark hair, frightened brown eyes. She backs away from me, saying something I can’t hear.
I lift the gun to my shoulder. Her chest explodes in a cloud of gore.
***
“Wynne,” a calm voice says. “Wynne, can you hear me?”
“What’s going on?” an anxious voice interjects. “Is she all right?”
“Don’t …” The first voice fades then returns, starting and stopping like a video stream with bad wi-fi: a low rumble that rolls right over the attempted interruptions of the other. “… very normal for a subject to … expect some initial disorientation … succumbs fully to the process.”
“What process?” I ask hoarsely.
“Wynne.” The second voice looms nearer. “You don’t have to do this.”
I don’t think I open my eyes, but nevertheless, I can suddenly see where I couldn’t before. A man is beside me. I recognise his face. He is … my lawyer?
“I think I killed someone,” I blurt out.
He throws a nervous look over his shoulder at the other, waiting motionless in the shadows behind.
“There was a gun in my hands – I saw her die –”
“Wynne, I advise you not to say anything more.” Scowling, he turns away from me. “This isn’t fair, doctor. She’s confused. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“What she says is immaterial,” the shadowy man – the doctor – replies. “It’s the content of her mind that matters.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “It was wrong.”
Now the doctor joins the lawyer at my side. “What was wrong?”
“The gun. It was a rifle. But I think …” Every memory before here and now is small and out of focus, as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope. “I think it should have been a pistol.”
“Yes,” the doctor says. “It was a pistol that killed Sarah.”
Sarah. My sister.
