REM cycle ends again. Awake and aware. Same ol' same ol'. Abner lifts the seals from over him, releasing all warmth held within. The cold stings the muscle. Winter's welcome was that of daggers and industrial refrigerators; things that never stated, "I love you, let's spend the day together."
Having received the message loud and clear, Abner proceeded to lift the sheets back over him and nustled his head back into the Abner-shaped indentions, his eyes shifting, scanning the always-familiar ceiling, still searching for the hidden message he absolutely knew for certain the construction crew left within the texture.
"Hmmmm..." Abner grunted disappointedly, yet again stumped by the ceiling, then closing his eyes and recalling.
"Hmmmmmmmm..." Abner grunted again, but this time with more of a sardonic tone, sending the message of "Well this figures!" to the ever-present audience behind the fourth wall.
As the teenaged, doughy male lay motionless in his bed, his mother proceeded to the break the calm by opening the door with the subtlety of a gung ho SWAT team in search of a cop killer. Abner expected this and thought it funny how even without his abilities, this would still not have been a surprise.
"Honey, it's 11:30! Let's try and be a little more productive today! Get up get up!"
Abner got up, knowing exactly how his next odyssey to the living room would pan out: Out of juice, dog barking, discussion about mother's family, Martha makes a shrimp dish that is EXQUISITE (her words), so on and so forth until his next news feed.
As Abner shuffled into the living room, seemingly depressed by the dreary weather loitering outside. This was no surprise for Abner, neither was the fact that he stepped in cat droppings, which he knew was there. Who was he to go against the script written for him, no matter how much he hated a certain scene? Yes, Abner was certainly a gifted young man. Gifted in the fact he awoke every morning aware of the banality he was to experience. Gifted knowing every mistake, every foible, and every goof up he was to make. Yep, he knew the set up and the punchline before the comedian even got on stage.
Why and how was this possible? Abner could only guess. There was no tumor residing in brain, no powerline over his house, not even a freaking power plant outside of his town. He wasn't birthed from a line of carnies, IN FACT, there was not a single mystery in his family line. Just a bunch of hardworking, dirty-faced lower class immigrants and, later on in the line, a few doe-eyed, standard caucasian Americans, complete with forced smiles and an air of "the middle is just DANDY!". Abner couldn't even recall a single time he felt he could've possibly been abducted, although surely the aliens had the foresight to erase that certain compromising piece of evidence, those darn martians and their superior knowledge and planning.
Abner did get the feeling he was part of some sick experiment, as if doctors and government officials were taking notes in a bunker underneath his backyard, snickering at every action made, every tick developed, and every awkward near confession. Confessions, by the way, were out of the question. Nobody could know of this quirk, this little plate or chip or antennae from either aliens, governments or scientists. If not for the obvious reasons of the poking and prodding he would receive, than also because of the social implications that would come with the reveal: Constant questioning. "What happens to me?" "Do I have the same cat?" "How pronounced is my pooch?".
Even after the reveal that he could only see what he did that day, then the more personal questions of "What perspective do you see it in?" "Does it hurt?" "What's your best future-seeing moment?" "Can't you use this for good?"
"Good..." Abner thinks too himself, "I can hardly help myself with this curse..."
Abner then realized the irony that he knew he would think this thought and also that he already knew he would realize that irony.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
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