Distortion

By David Manoa

We saw and experienced things that horrified our souls.
Now we were fighting to survive it.
My name is Fox Hayne, this is our story about what we faced.

Contains content for mature audiences.
A survival horror/romance...

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Manoa
• Release date: Jan 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311852649

David Manoa

I am a writer based in Auckland, New Zealand.I write mainly contemporary romance.My interests are Rugby League, Cars, Gaming and Bodybuilding.

Book preview

Distortion

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David Manoa

Copyright 2016 David Manoa

SMASHWORDS Edition

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The author asserts the moral right to be identified as

The author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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Jane Colenso

11 pm October 29th, 2020

Challis Asylum

Northern Nevada.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm going insane hearing the dreaded screams of the patients. Lockdown is initiated and in my dilapidated room, I deadbolt the lock on the rusty metal door. I move the slider across to peek out watching the security personnel comb the narrow corridors, checking each door. Their footsteps provide some comfort. The mist emanating out of their mouths put me at ease.

Then the screams begin.

Never in my life have I heard human beings scream in a murderous rage, hysteria, possession all in one. The madness started six months ago when Cerberus Pharmaceuticals gave us the experimental drug for the treatment of patients suffering from PTSD. I argued with Dr. Sokolov to discontinue but he seemed hell bent on finding out the full effects.

I sat back at my desk to switch on my laptop, to check the connection again. We had no internet for the last month, let alone any outside communication. He thinks because of the elevation we are at, we are affected by the solar flares that occurred recently. I stare at the mirror above to my sleep deprived face, dark circles surround my brown eyes. My brunette hair starting to show strands of gray. My skin so pale from the lack of sun. I take out the brush to comb my hair concealing the gray with the rest of the length.

THUD THUD

The sound of the security tapping his nightstick against the door of one the patients. Only three months ago we put them all in straitjackets. I listen to the guard shouting obscenities before he opens the door. Everything goes quiet, I exhale relieved when I continue to brush my hair.

On the edges of my mirror across me is a collage of pictures, most of them are photos of my son, Jayden. My little boy, he would be turning ten this month. I miss how his smile lit up my whole world. How excited he was to start school all those years ago. An extroverted kid, with an inquisitiveness for the world. I miss him asking me questions about how things worked and why. Why mommy? Why? Why's that? Gosh, I remember when I studied as a psychiatric nurse, I brought him along with me to the library. He made so much noise we nearly got kicked out. He was never engaged in things like iPads or tablets, like the other kids, he tried to take my textbooks and read them badgering me for the pronunciation of words like schizophrenia for example.

I was so embarrassed when he could only pronounce the ‘schizo’ and started repeating it again and again making so much noise in the reading room. It was when I took him to children's section to find books more suited for him he quieted and became engrossed in the activity. I miss tousling his hair when he would flick the pages of his favorite title, Where the Wild Things Are.

A sad sensation builds up, my nose twitches and my eyes water. Jayden would read the book over and over again. I reach into my bottom drawer to pull out its charred remains from the terror attack at the New York Public City Library. My palm smooths over the surface running over his name he scribbled in the corner. The book is the only piece of him left. I flick through the tattered pages to a faded photo that falls to the floor.

A Polaroid picture a tourist took of Fox proposing to me. I run my fingers over the smooth texture wishing I can be sucked back into that time. Those happy memories come to my mind, but then I realize the pain we ended with.

I cope by burying my head into my job only realizing now that having your mind occupied only masks it when I reminisce like this. I thought about throwing away all these precious items, but I can't. The trap I'm in. I'm not in a place where I can fully