Crack3d Picture

By Trey Sullivan

CRACK3D PICTURE is a schizophrenic tale about Tony and Henry. Part one deals with Tony, a drug addicted, disillusioned college student struggling with delusional visions of responsibility, freedom and excess, who spirals out of control down a path which leads him towards losing touch with himself and reality. Part two concerns Henry, a lonely man quietly suffering from the death of his mother, is unwillingly dragged into grotesque and nightmarish scenarios by a mysterious woman with a macabre hobby on a downward spiral, only to unknowingly become the target of corrupt and overeager city officials for a heinous crime he did not commit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trey Sullivan
• Release date: Jun 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476471860

Book preview

CRACK3D PICTURE

BENJAMIN SULLIVAN

Copyright © 2012 Benjamin Sullivan

Smashwords Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

God keeps me alive to watch me suffer, says Henry in a dry, groggy voice.

He is sitting in a rusting steel chair, with his head down, scratching at his eyes with clinched fists. His eyes blink and move rapidly, but he is lost and has no earthly idea of where he is. He slowly lifts his head which is perched upon slouched shoulders and takes a look around. He has found himself in a small, unknown office, containing only a desk, and an old wooden book shelf with numerous medical and psychological texts, some hard cover others paperback. There are no pictures on the walls or desk, no framed inspirational quotes from half wit intellectual psychiatrists, only white walls, which radiate even whiter due to bright, fluorescent lights in the ceiling. The lights are so bright that he feels as if he should be lying on a hospital bed awaiting surgery. He looks extremely exhausted; his eyes are dark with heavy, purple bags underneath, as if he has not slept in weeks and just crawled from bed. His hair is a shaggy, disheveled rat’s nest. His workman-like clothes are wrinkled and his jeans have worn out holes at the knees. He is thin faced, thin nosed, but with a strong and defined jaw line. His complexion is fair, and the slightest light could burn him. Even the light in this office. He is starting to feel the heat from above. He keeps scanning the room until his eyes meet a man sitting directly across from him, in a comfortable, leather desk chair. Henry’s counselor, Mr. Hoffer, is a middle aged man with a mullet hair do. He is wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and Jesus sandals. He is holding Henry’s case file. He is constantly licking his thumb and flipping through the numerous pages.

Henry? asks Mr. Hoffer. Where are we? Mr. Hoffer’s eyes squint as he probes Henry and his response. I asked how you are feeling physically and emotionally since the crash.

Crash? What crash?

That’s just what I thought. He scribbles notes in his file. Continue please with what you were saying.

Henry clears his throat and mutters, God is a playwright. He clears his throat again. No, he is a medieval King. I’m his jester. He created Radcliffe as preternatural court for me to perform on. He throws me into arduous circumstances, and then looks down at me to give him a laugh when I struggle. I bet he sits up there with other angels with a belly full of wine or nectar or whatever it is they drink; a celestial or heavenly circle-jerk of the gods. They are all getting in a good laugh. He surrounds me with a whole bunch of Puritanical born again country bumpkins who look at me like I’m a walking disease. I am just stuck in some sort of white trash limbo.

Mr. Hoffer keeps his head buried in the case file. Man created God, why not be your own God? All you have to do is merely act as such. However by being your own God that would mean that it is you who put yourself in these situations. Who would you blame then? God is man’s invisible manifestation of blame and pain.

Henry is momentarily vexed and dejected. He can feel sweat on his palms and a bead slowly roll down his forehead. I guess it was easier that way, he says fumbling. There has always been something that pulls me into undisclosed or camouflaged scenarios. I don’t know what it is. I wonder sometimes if there is a part of my being that is undiscovered or if there is something that I have subconsciously sheltered that slowly snakes through the cracks of my deliberation.

I see. So another part of you is compelling foreign urges upon you and making you act in ways which are dissociated from your own course of thought? That has nothing to do with any God or whatever. That is you acting upon your basic animalistic impulses. There is nothing celestial, transcendental, or divine about it. It is basic, elementary. It is your right which gives you the tools to make your own meanings and shape your own life. I thought that was something you of all people should know before you started looking for a crutch. That will be enough of that. Now on to more important stuff; how is work?

I don’t hate it. I don’t love it. It just is. I do the same thing everyday, in succession; it is all part of a routine.

I meant the people, he says frustratingly. How are your relationships with co-workers? I know you have some degree of difficulty connecting.

I stopped trying. Well I guess I never tried. Why should I? I don’t pay attention to their laughs when I turn around. I just do my job and avoid. It is all I can do really to keep me going. Henry adjusts himself in his seat which grinds from the later of rust on the hinges. As a matter of fact, I think I hate the people. They disgust me. I don’t know what compels me to get up and go everyday. Every single one of them thinks they are better and smarter than me. They are no more intelligent than the trash they throw down on their own streets.

Two flies buzz by Henry’s head. He just moves his head around to avoid them, not even raising one hand.

I understand there is an anniversary coming soon? Would you like to discuss that? Remorse? Regret? asks Mr. Hoffer.

I have none of those. I didn’t do anything in which either of those feelings has crossed my mind. She made her decision and died with it. It makes me sad that she felt giving up was her only way to get through. Henry’s eyes begin to drift off, engulfed inside his head. I still dream about it. Waking up, walking up the stairs from my room to the door leading to our kitchen. Sometimes I open the door to a wall, other times I open it and see her on the floor, lifeless. But when I really look, I don’t know if it is her. It is like looking at an outagraph photo, you know where you take a picture of something then cut the subject out of the picture. But then again, I am not in the kitchen, but a room lit in red. When I turn to go back to my room, it is still my room, but all my furniture is rearranged. It is alarming to think about it, but when I am there I am comfortable. I think I have found freedom in the fact that she may be in a better place, after all it sure is not here. You have to leave this place to truly be free.

I know what and outagraph is. Mr. Hoffer closes the case file and lays it on top of his empty desk. The two flies make their way to the case files and start copulating mechanically, spreading germs and clones"

He stares at Henry, who is still not there, through a lowered brow. Freedom can be found in a lot of ways, Henry, he voice as low as his brow. People who look for freedom seldom find it. Freedom finds you, Henry. However without Hope, there is no freedom. So Hope is all but gone from you?

Henry finally leaves his visions and responds, Hope is never gone. Hope never existed.

I

The summer ends and the fall begins. A new semester at Radcliffe University is about to commence. To come to Radcliffe University is to come to the place where Satan fell from Heaven and straight to hell. Or paradise as one would say. Buried in the heart of the North River Valley, it is miles from the interstate or anything resembling normal civilization. The Institution breathes and feeds economic life into the struggling city that surrounds it. The train tracks and road, only one of each leading in and out, slither through dead tree covered mountains with steep cliffs on each side that drop like the hopes and dreams of the students and townies, back down into the Valley which itself is gashed by a river with the undercurrent that swallows lives.

One particular cattle car is the one carrying Tony. Tony is looking out the window, sitting with his feet on the seat and his arms around his shins, bare knees poking through the frayed holes in his denim jeans. He is unaware and uncaring of his surroundings. Lonely hoards of students fill out the rest of the space. His eyes are cold blue and his hair is shoulder length and golden, skin white as snow.

Nausea is settling in the stomachs of the other sad students as all they see is sorrow and poverty. Every other house on the street looks abandoned or neglected by its tenant. Boards or cellophane cover windows, boards on the front porches are rotted and upended, roofs are caved in. This is the epitome of destitute. Students can’t live in those houses. Could they? Does the City of Radcliffe allow this? The University?

All of the students eventually turn there attention to the Gate House. A large ominous, sprawling brick disaster of a building with an archway for the single lane train track and two long identical halls on each side with blacked out windows. The sign right above the key stone of the archway is supposed to read ‘Radcliffe University’ but some letters are missing so it actually reads ‘Ra-c-iff- Uni-ers-ty.’ Dead corn fields adorn the front of the flat lands of building. There seems to be spray-painted graffiti words on the two wings. As the cattle car train pulls closer and starts slowing, the words are visible: ‘Turn Around’ on the left wing and ‘Go Back’ on the right. Surprising it is that the University left this up for incoming students. The admissions office is located within. The black metal gate swings open allowing the lone train to pull through and drop the students off directly inside the University walls, where they find several desks with admissions officers ready and willing to tell each and every student where they will be staying. Tony steps off like a king, hair blowing in the breeze. He has only brought one rattle snake suitcase with him. It is all he needs. His gaze turns to the large twelve story dormitory, Fuse Hall. Fuse Hall is the largest of all dormitories, made of brick; it is the oldest as well. The cornerstone of the University, there are vines crawling up the front two wings which extend from the lobby in the middle. The wings are four stories tall and above the lobby the rooms form a tower that is capped off with a clock tower that can be seen from all over campus. The clock within has no hands and the numbers are in reverse order.

Cars are scattered all along the parking lots of the dormitories, filled with the luggage of incoming students. The cars not parked are trying to find spaces and their horns are screaming at folks trying to do the same.

Not much luggage, did you bring everything you need? says a young man, dressed as a concierge. He speaks with a caring, and nurturing tone. He is wearing a black suit and white gloves, although the fingertips of the gloves have been clipped off.

This is it. Just tell me where I am staying. You really don’t even need to walk me in, says Tony.

Yes sir. As you wish sir. Do you have a ticket or some form of identification so I can assist you further?

Tony reaches into his pocket and pulls his ticket out, which the man looks at.

Fuse Hall, sir.

I know where that is. Thanks.

Please let me show you to your room.

They walk through the large lobby that has two elevators, both out of order, so they take the stairs to the second floor. The wing hallway is long and just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. They come to a door, which is already open and when they walk in. They see a tall, skinny, and very dark black man with buck teeth wearing a white tank top and athletic shorts. His hair is dyed bright orange and spiked with glue. He sees them and sashes over to them with his hand extended. Heyyy, how you doin’? You must be Tony? My name is Fabian. We are roomies this year, says the dark man with an overpowering lisp.

Tony shakes his hand then looks down at his. He slowly places his suitcase on the floor without taking his eyes off of Fabian. I’m just going to drop these off real quick to get my other stuff. We’ll be right back, he says quickly. Tony turns and he and the young man leave shutting the door behind them.

They begin their walk down the thin hallway again back outside. The young man cannot hide his curiosity much longer. What seems to be the problem, sir?

I did my half, all Mitch had to do was sign that damn form and I wouldn’t have Ru Paul as my roommate, Tony responds.

Always someone else’s fault. I am sorry I should not have said that. Who is this Mitch you speak of?

I have a bad feeling about this semester.

I have never heard of a bad semester at Radcliffe University; the finest Institution in the North River Valley.

Again, Mitch’s fault. Did that guy have nipple rings? questions Tony.

They dodge through luggage carrying people at the elevators and take the stairs back down to the lobby and then out the front door.

I sure hope Mitch gets here soon; he said he was going to be here at about one or so. Which actually means he will be here at three, Tony continues. Each passing student or parent cannot look past his long blonde hair.

There’s something foreboding about this place. I can feel it. Something is speaking to me, he sighs. His voice is beginning to break with static.

They reach the quad outside Fuse Hall. Tony looks at a mother and son about to go their separate ways. The mother turns to him and looks into his eyes. Her tears begin as a slow drip here and there and then finally the levee breaks, she reaches over to her son, grabs him in her arms and her tears crash on his shoulder. Caught off guard he looks at her stunned for a moment and then lazily puts his arms around her. When she finally pulls away, Tony sees that her makeup has run down her face. What a terrible sight, he thinks to himself.

I love you, son, she says through the buzzing and sniffling.

I love you too, mom. Please drive safe. the son rewards her with a smile of confidence.

In a short time, you will be dead too. the young concierge says. His mouth continues to move as his voice turns to white noise.

The mother caresses the son’s face with the back of her hand. He merely stares at her hand as it glides from his temple to his chin.

Tony watches the mother walk away, still wiping tears from her face. She hops in her minivan and pulls away. He turns and looks around campus and watches other students and their families. He looks at his building first floor to twelfth. Then down at his clothes. Something is not right. The feeling passes and now he does not care. An alarm sounds. The concierge disappears.

Fucking Mitch, man, he scoffs.

He turns walks alone down the side walk towards the other side of campus. Random people stop what they’re doing and stare at him; he just ignores and continues walking. He walks with his head down hoping to blend in. He occasionally looks up at the environment around. Not the people. All the dormitories are old and made of brick. Lawns lush green and freshly cut but only for the presentation of the opening semester. The sun is has yet to shine. He finally happens upon Morelit Hall which is a wide, three-story dormitory, second largest to Fuse Hall, by the amount of rooms. There is a nice quad, with a ledge, or stage, in front of the building.

Tony walks in the front door, turns right and continues to walk down the hall. At the end of the hallway to the right is the elevator which he rides. After getting out of the elevator at the third floor, he turns left down the hallway. There at the other end is Bryan, an old friend of Tony’s, wearing American Eagle’s finest; a tee shirt, plaid shorts and flip flops. He has a beard, no mustache and short dark hair. He double-glances Tony and mumbles something disparaging under his breathe. What you know good, bro? yells an over joyous Bryan, who throws his hands in the air in faux celebration.

My importance to you is scary. What the fuck are you wearing? Did the country punk turn pretty? Tony asks in a disgusted voice.

"You’re