Sometime back in 2016 or 2017, I began writing a story that is kind of a neo-noir, thriller. I didn’t get very far, but I’m going to try and start writing it again. To keep me honest, I’ll try to release pieces of it as I go. Below is the original first pass, with only a few minor grammatical corrections.
Chapter 1
Birds.
Birds, cars, traffic, engines, and noise. The sounds of a city street at 8 am are pretty distinct.
It’s dark in here and I can barely move. I tried to get up. In doing so, I smashed the back of my skull on what felt like an iron bar. Something was jabbing me in the stomach as I lay face down in pitch black with my legs bent to one side. I managed to roll over onto my right arm, scratching myself in the process. I noticed a small, quarter-sized, beam of light shining on my stomach. With some effort, I struggled to bring my face closer to the hole so I could peer out. It was a street, sometime in the morning, bright and with casual traffic. Cars were passing by, no one seemed to be alarmed. Where am I? I slid a finger through the hole and fished it around. I felt a catch, and began to pull down on it. The catch was released and within an instant; freedom. I pulled myself up and out of the back of what appeared to be a car. I fell to the street below on my hands, pulling myself out, and closed the trunk of the car. Trying not to think of the numbness in my hands and legs. “Oldsmobile Cutlass,” I read to myself. How did I get into the back of this old, beat-up car? What the fuck? How long was I in there? How did I get in there?
I brushed myself off, examining myself; jeans, button-down, plaid shirt, gray hoodie, and Chucks. Surprisingly, I wasn’t too dirty from sleeping in the trunk of a car. I decided to take a seat on the edge of the curb by the car; the back of my head was still throbbing. Somehow, I don’t think the pain is entirely from the trunk of the car. While feeling around my jacket pocket for a cigarette, I searched my thoughts. Why can’t I remember anything? I looked around me. Directly in front of me, a giant brick church sat with several large columns out front. Surely someone had to have seen something? I looked to the left down the street. There were some cars parked along the side of the road, people walking across the cross walk; a pretty busy intersection for being a two-lane road. “E Ponce De Leon and Virginia Highland,” I read to myself aloud the names on the street signs. None of this was ringing a bell to me.
Once the pain started to become manageable, I stood so I could try to search the trunk for some answers. I opened the trunk only to find some maps and a wallet. It looks like it could be mine, the guy on the driver’s license looks vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place the name. Mark Fennway. DOB: February 4th, 1984. I walk over to the side view mirror just to check. A slight resemblance for sure, but not me. Close enough to pass as a fake to a bored cashier or dim club.
I made my way to the front of the car to see if there was anything else that could help me out. I peered in the driver’s side window. In the front seat lay some books, empty coffee cups, and a flat, rectangular, sort of tablet device. I tried the handle. Success. Who leaves their car door open on a busy street anyways? I grabbed the tablet device and tried to power it on. No go. I shoved it between my pants and the small of my back, and started walking the opposite way from the main road. I noticed a coffee shop nearby. “Coffee is always good,” I thought.
Walking into the coffee shop, I scanned the place, noticing only a handful of people, including a girl sitting in the corner by herself. She wasn’t thin, but not overweight. Her heart shaped glowed just under her short hair that was cut in what is referred to as a faux hawk. She was kind of cute in a bookish sort of way. Her big round glasses sitting awkwardly on her face added to the allure. It just so happened that she was working on a similar tablet device to the one I had. I ordered my coffee and decided to head over to her table. Awkwardly, and with a feeble tone, I say, “Hey, sorry to bother you.” She looked up at me, startled, and then smiled. “My tablet died on me. Mind if I borrow your cable for a couple of minutes?” “Sure,” she replied and handed it to me. I hadn’t noticed before, but her arms were covered in tattoos. Cute little images of dancing fruit, cakes, and cartoonish cats.
I found a table not too far from the girl. Just so happens there’s a socket to plug into. I plug in the tablet, and sit down at the table; my back to the girl, looking out a window over my right shoulder. I began to sip my coffee, burning the tip of my tongue. Fuck I hate that! It sends a jolt of energy up my spine and my hairs stand on end. By then, the tablet pings as if it’s ready to be powered on. I fumble with the device for a moment and slide my finger over the power button. The tablet lights up, and displays a logo. I’ve seen this logo before; I can’t place it, though. A feeling of discomfort washes over me. I look up, scanning the coffee shop again. Each person inside the coffee shop, lost in their own paper-tablet-mobile device-video call. I wonder what these people are doing? “Don’t you have some place else to be?” I think to myself. I look back down at the tablet, the interface has loaded now, I begin searching through the folders, hoping to find something that will give me some morsel of insight that will fill me in as to where I am..or even better, who I am. . So far, there’s only some music files, and a clip of a video.