THE OLD PUMP - LAZARUS T K (top 100 books to read .TXT) 📗

THE OLD PUMP

It’s dark out there. I mean, really, really dark. I open the heavy front door and lookout into the night, and if it wasn’t for the little light from behind me, I wouldn’t even see my own hand. It’s as if someone turned off the world. No stars, no moon to light up the neighborhood.
The stark, gloomy darkness is tugging at my being like a black hole, trying to suck my soul into its unseen vortex. I gasp, feeling choking ebony fingers reaching out to caress me, to lull, to serenade me into stepping out to its beckoning icy grip.
No sound comes to tickle me ears, not even the whispering of a gentle breeze. I truly believe that if I stepped out pass the front, I probably would fall like Alice, down some bottomless pit.
With all my will and physical energy, I slam the door, and slowly as in a nightmare I struggle to sit on the bare, wooden floor in the center in the family room.
No sofa, no carpet, not even a chair to sit on….just a cold hard floor in a dimly lit ten by twelve space.
Nail and screw holes are barely visible where curtains and the many pictures had hung on the walls. Gone. I notice that even the ceiling fixtures are missing, replaced by a single bare bulb hanging by a worn wire.
Where are my kids, Jason and Jared? And my wife Constance. Surely, they couldn’t have vanished into thin air.
I feel faint, so I forcefully walk to the small kitchen to find that not only is there no cupboards, but the water has been turned off.
Walking slowly back to the living space I see my reflection in the bare window pane, and I’m shocked at what I see. “That’s not me! I have a full set of hair, whereas the old man in the window is nearly hairless and wrinkled like my old grandpa George.” I look at my hands and see paper thin skin blotched with liver spots.
“What the hell is going on?” I scream out loud into the deafening silence that envelopes my total being….my total miserable being. The only sound is my panicky breathing, and the thumping of my frustrated heart.
I lie down in the middle of the floor and curl up in a fetal position, and start to cry uncontrollably.
After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes to find that ….. I’m getting hungry and my throat is raw. My stomach feels as if it has been invaded and scrapped dry. I try to find my way back to the kitchen. Maybe this time ……I’m hoping this time; there will be some water to quench my terrible thirst….or even to wash away this acrid taste on my tongue.
The tap is gone. I see an old pump in its place. The kind you will still find at some ancient farms. The multi layers of chipped paint sings out its old age.
“I wonder if it will yield me some relief.”…I ask out loud, surprised that I still have a voice.
I pump the rusty handle and hear some gurgling far down the pipe.
Hope! I double the effort. The pump emits a squeak, squeak, squeak, as I earnestly encourage it to be generous and allow me to have some of the liquid.
As I struggle with this contraption, beads of sweat cover my body. They nudge first gently. Then become annoying in their effort to wake my dull senses.
Now, along with this pestering, there comes a faint buzzing.
“What’s going on? Someone please tell me. Confusion is all around. I demand answers!”
The sound gets louder: almost comprehensible.
A distant voice says, “Must be an overdose. Or someone has put something into his drink when he wasn’t watching. It happens much too often. This guy is one of the more fortunate ones.”

Publication Date: 04-25-2010

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