Bugged

By Eric Burbridge

          “You got plans for today?” Omar asked his wife.

            “Of course, going to my sister’s.” Charmayne handed him a card. “Happy Birthday, honey.” He got a hug and grind that aroused him. “And don’t overdo it, please.” She turned and gave him that look. The pants she chose fit revealing curves that many women her age envied. Tall women are attractive especially, Charmayne with her short hair style and big hooped earrings. She blew him a kiss goodbye, stepped into the garage, hit the opener only to hear that irritating noise the door made that he promised to have fixed. He followed her, waved her on once she cleared the door.

After he indulged himself in rib tips and fries, he was ready to party. Omar’s appetite rivaled that of somebody twice his size. “How do you stay at 180 pounds at 6 feet?” They asked. He would shrug and continue to eat. He cleaned up after himself and took the beer to his man-cave. The final preparation included; adjustment of his power recliner to the appropriate setting, ice in the cooler and all the right DVDs in the player.  He poured a shot of scotch, popped a top and got started.

*

          That first drink went down smooth and gave him an instant appetite. A rib tip took care of that. He felt the alcohol kick in just as a favorite scene in “Murder, My Sweet” came on. He drank more and ate more. He hit play for the next movie and reclined his chair slightly.

          His cell chimed…his eyes popped open. How long had he slept? The surveillance camera picked up a stranger with a clipboard and a van with ladders on it. “Keep going, I’m not interested,” Omar shouted into his phone. The guy put a card in the mailbox and left. He hated scammers, always trying to take advantage of seniors. He poured another drink and selected another movie, halfway through he went back to sleep. The only light in the room came from the cable box and the clock. He felt around on the side of the chair for the light switch that was connected to the timer. Found it. That lamp had a dimmer switch on it. He pushed it forward, nothing happened. Backward, it came on slightly and began to flicker. He tried to get up. He could not, his arms lacked the strength to push up from the chair’s arm. He rocked forward, that didn’t work. Hit the control switch. The chair moved upward into the position needed, but he started to slide down. He hit the button to stop, he continued to slide out like an egg out of a no-stick skillet. There he laid, seemingly paralyzed. He stared up at the ceiling. Did he have a stroke or something? No, hell no! Inflammation of the nerves in your neck. It’ll get better as you sober up. Wiggle your toes. See, that worked and his arms moved even though his right hand was stuck by the table leg right next to the chair. He passed out, again.

          The taste in his mouth sickened him. Get up, Omar.

          He tried to rock on his side, but his hand got blocked. Push the table leg…a bottle of beer tipped over and spilled on the carpet. Dammit! Rock more, that should free you. It worked. He laid there, sweating. Now sit up. He could not. His lower back muscles were too stiff. Roll on your other side. No good. Roll over on your stomach and get to your knees. He did it, but his face was buried in the thick piles of the throw rug he put in front of the recliner. Crawl, if you can. He couldn’t and closed his eyes.

          More sleep…still drunk.

          His lower back muscles were not as tight. Trying to crawl irritated his knees; turn over, prop your foot on the TV cabinet and push closer. He did it. His heart pounded. He felt something on his neck. Whatever it was it stopped. A bug! He hated bugs; sweat beaded on his forehead. He lifted his head to see if it was on his shirt. Nothing, the back of his head bounced on the rug. Was it still on his shirt? Don’t panic, he coughed, his arms and face itched. He reached to scratch his nose. There it was on his shirt sleeve. A centipede!! It did not move while he tried to shake it loose. Flip over and crush it. He couldn’t do it. Don’t move, it’ll crawl away. Memories of his brothers laughing when they terrified him by putting bugs on him when he slept. He screamed for his momma. “Omar, you a sissy, bugs don’t hurt.” He tried to watch monster movies with giant ants, scorpions and other bugs to prove to them he was not a sissy, but he couldn’t shake the fear. He hated them for that after all these years, even after they passed away. He thought hard, you can do it. Then he did it and slammed his arm on the floor. Got you! He raised his arm and there it was…dead. He sighed…safe. Thank God. Relax and take a deep cleansing breath. You’ll feel better when you do. Well, he didn’t…he was still drunk. He managed to crawl a few feet to his recliner. It was almost in full stand-up position. His face rubbed against the rug; he grabbed the control; the chair slowly resumed the normal position. He got on all fours and rested his head on the seat of the chair. Finally, he could probably get to his feet. He looked at the table, it was a mess with several empty beer bottles. Where did that centipede come from? He sprayed everywhere they could come from. That was several weeks ago. He grabbed at the chair’s arms, pushed up and turned as fast as he could. He made it; he took a deep breath and sighed.

          Still drunk.

          The last thing Omar remembered, he was midway in an episode of “Law and Order.” He elevated the foot of his chair to lift up his swollen ankles. He gulped down half a beer, hit the switch. Time to get up. He stood for a second, his knee buckled, he stumbled forward and hit his forehead on the TV cabinet. His face was on the carpet, again. What happened? His head ached; he felt a knot raising on his forehead. Turn over, Omar. He couldn’t…not this again. Something ran behind one of the bar stool legs. Oh no, not another centipede! His eyes were glued to that area. A big black water bug crept from behind the leg of the stool. It seemed to feel Omar watching. Don’t come this way bug! Move now. He couldn’t, he drank way too much. Embarrassing, to say the least. He stretched out his hand in front of his face. The thought of that thing crawling on him was revolting. Those things will bite your eyes out. Here it comes! He moved his hand slightly. The bug stopped. He trembled…don’t shake, Omar! Footsteps, who was that? A shoe splattered the bug on impact. “Omar, you’re drunk, right?”

          His heart rate slowed. “No, Charmayne, I’m sober.” He took a calming breath. “Push me over, grab my hands and help pull me up, Charmayne, now!” She hesitated, but did what he said. He almost puked at the sight of that smashed bug. He held on to the bar stool and leaned against the entertainment center. The room was a mess and started to spin. He wanted to dive into his chair. “I need my walker.”

          His wife went to his office and got it. “Even though you only drink on your birthday, it gets worse. You ain’t getting any younger.” She looked around. “You should be shame.”

          “I am…would you believe this is it?” That look said it all. He finally made it to the bed; he passed out.

The End

Eric Burbridge has been writing short fiction for years. He has written a collection of stories and he is currently working on a novel, but his passion is short fiction.

Digital arts mastery provides what Darren wishes a reader or viewer to take away in how their own minds are moved. His evocative stylistics are an ongoing process which sync intrinsically to the expression of the nearby written or implied word he has been called upon to render.

View the vivid energy of IVSMA (Darren Blanch) works at: www.facebook.com/ivsma3Dart, YELLOW MAMA, Sympatico Studio - www.facebook.com/SympaticoStudio, DeviantArt - www.deviantart.com/ivsma and launching in 2019, as Art Director for suspense author / intrigue promoter Kate Pilarcik's line of books and publishing promotion - SeaHaven Intrigue Publishing-Promotion.