Justine McNulty
Prof. Bea Opengart
Creative Writing
3 December 2009
The Constant
Waking up.
Face up on the hardwood floor.
Red paint splattered down my front.
On my neck.
On my hands.
Footsteps patter beside me.
You kneel.
Your hands cup my face.
You smile.
Waking up.
Helicopter blades slice through the air.
A man with a pointed gray beard and tan, leathery skin.
Another with black ringlets of greasy hair and dark, smoky eyes.
I tear the headset from my ears.
The yelling is muffled by the blades.
Flying over the clear blue ocean.
Waking up.
Laying in a stiff bed
with scratchy blankets and an iron frame.
The sergeant screams incoherently.
Jump to my feet.
Marched outside,
the rain pounding on our heads.
Sit-ups in the mud.
The icy water stings my eyes.
Waking up.
Standing on the deck of a rusty ship.
The man with the greasy black hair is talking, holding into my arm.
A dozen other men I don't know.
Who are you?
I don't know you.
Break for the edge.
I feel my stomach lurch and churn.
I don't know you.
Waking up.
Oxford, England.
Collegiate buildings dotting a sprawling green lawn.
A man lanky man with long brown hair.
Set the device to 2.342 and 11 hertz.
Who put you up to this?
I know about Eloise.
Waking up.
Run to the command area of the rusty ship.
Scramble to pick up the phone.
Dial the numbers:
7946 0893
Your voice on the end of the line.
You answered.
I've been looking for you for three years.
You answered, Penny.
Where are you, Desmond?
Is it really you?
Yes Des, it's me.
I'll find you.
I won't stop searching.
I love you.
I love you, too.
Fall asleep.