Flash Fiction

The Everyday Horror Of Jackson Clark

The Everyday Horror Of Jackson Clark

The shrill of the alarm clock didn’t even phase Jackson, he had been laying there awake for hours by the time it went off. The screaming voices, the shrill of sirens, the unrelenting thumping in his head, it never stopped. For good measure he reached over and ripped the clock's cord out of the socket and hurled it in the direction of the opposite wall. His tantrum did nothing to silence the voices, but they did quiet down to a low rumble.

He managed to maneuver to the bathroom, ignoring the young girl pleading for mercy, and the older gentleman who told him daily to go die in a hole, though not in those exact words. He knew which path to take from his bed to the small bathroom across the hall, even with his eyes screwed shut and his fingers stuck deep in his ears. “Please. Help us!” “Get down!! Cover your head.” “Go to hell you scumbag!” The screaming came from inside his own personal hell

For the last year and a half Jackson had been home, he fought this battle daily. Get up, try and bring himself to some semblance of public worthy appearance, all while ignoring the voices that never stopped. Some days were better than others. He could threaten the voices to leave him alone, and they would hide behind his well constructed walls just long enough for him to work, shop, or talk to his family. Other days, their demands and threats would bring him to the point of despair. He’d shut down, explode at everyone, and sound like a down right lunatic. Today felt like it was going to be the latter.

There was the time last summer when he thought he had them beat. The screaming had started when he was in church, in time for Father John’s homily. Since he was in the packed church, he couldn’t stuff his fingers in his ears and yell back. But he closed his eyes and saw the young girl again, as plain as day. He told her to run, to get out of the way, reaching for her just as the RPG exploded across the street. He saved her that day. It gave him great pride, and he had been able to get through church and Sunday dinner in peace. Even his family commented that they hadn’t seen him smile like that in years. But that reprieve had been short lived.

He stood at the bathroom sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t stand what he saw reflected back to him, too much pain and desperation. His once smooth, dark, skin was now marked by lines deeper than the craters in the desert. He looked older than his thirty years. The unmistakable sound of a missile flew over his head, making him take cover in the tub. Smoke filled the air, cries of babies, the unrelenting screams. He screamed back at them to shut up, reaching for a side arm that was never there. “God! Please make it stop!” His screams turned to sobs as his fists beat the tiles.

Forty minutes later he walked out of the bathroom. His face scrubbed clean, his bloody knuckles bandaged, and his too big clothes hanging loosely from his thin frame. The voices were quiet, for now. They had come to an understanding in the bathroom. Let him make it to his appointment, try to call his wife who hadn’t talked to him in months, and then they could do their job. By tonight it would all be over.

The cab of his truck was unnervingly quiet as he drove. The voices hadn’t been this quiet ever. Truth be told he kind of missed them. For all their unrelenting torment, they did keep him company. His wife hadn’t answered. In Fact the number was no longer in service, he glanced at the thick envelope he had found leaning against his front door when he left.

“Run. Hide.” Jackson shook his head, he was no quitter. He put the truck in drive and mashed the gas pedal down. The screams around him turned to laughter, he never lifted his foot. The old man told him the hole was right up the road. He aimed his truck straight for it.