George Woke Up [An Original Flash Fiction]

in #life3 years ago

The trail end of morning dew, rolled over George, his skin glimmered with dew drop diamonds and brick red bubbles. His left forefinger twitched. Blood trickled to his ear, where it pooled, before spilling down his earlobe.

He gasped in short breaths and watched as nimbi rabbits leaped overhead. He tried to think about where he was, but his attention was swept away one fluffy white hare at a time. He remembered leaving the bar. Nothing made sense after that.

Was he car-jacked, beaten, and left for dead? Did he even make it to the car? George began to panic when his right hand refused to follow the simple instruction: wipe right eye. The fingers moved. That was it. He couldn't lift it.

"Don't let me be paralyzed," he cried out. He gave the same order to his left hand. With relief he sighed when it cooperated. Through no lack of effort he managed to lean up on his left elbow.

"A fallow field off an old back-road." he mumbled, crimson dripped from his split bottom lip, "damn it! Where am I?"

Upon seeing his mangled feet, he dropped back onto the grass, where he immediately resumed cloud observations. Tears mixed with the blood in his ears, a warm light pink oozed into his hairline. In no way could he walk, he'd have to crawl. And, blindly hope for a driver that didn't mistake him for roadkill.

Determined to survive, George dragged his broken body across the fallow field, under the barbed wire fence, through the drainage ditch, and onto the side of the two lane road. Time quit in the mist while he inched one-handed like Ash Williams. Unfortunately, he didn't have the wherewithal to scream.

The eighteen wheeler took the curve wide, with the bumpy roads the driver didn't even notice the double th-thump. It wasn't until he made it to the truck stop that he realized he hit some thing. He almost pissed himself when he saw the bloody hand print on the mud flap.

big rig
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