Brightside

By Bradley Carter

A best-selling novel... Well, not really.

Felix Hines is a data entry specialist, and that’s as exciting as it sounds. It’s only for the love of his coworker, Brittney Masterson, that keeps him pressing on throughout each day. Since childhood, Felix has battled an uncontrollable condition that keeps him from pursuing her, or anyone else, but it doesn’t stop him from being pursued. However, he has found a way around the issue of a real relationship. When he discovers that his alpha-male boss is trying to win the hand of Brittney, and his pursuer is closer to a stalker, Felix becomes desperate to find a solution to his personal issues. When all of his problems collide, reality becomes stranger than his fantasies.

Beta-readers, editors, and fans are saying:

• "Disturbingly creepy and hilarious."

• "Never before has there been a more intimidating dildo scene."

• "This story is insane and fantastic! I love it!"

• "So many intense scenes that leave you with laughter."

• "Different and engaging!"

• "Five bright f-bombing stars!"

BRIGHTSIDE is a heartfelt satire about the things we want but can't have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bradley Carter
• Release date: Jul 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463718872

Bradley Carter

A rising author of suspenseful thrillers and dark comedy. A master storyteller in the making and a prodigy of twisted plots that tamper with your psyche, tug at your emotions, and drag you along on a page-turning ride.Born and raised in Evansville, Indiana, he now lives in Indianapolis, where he’s been sharing his fictional universe with the world since 2018.His 11th novel, “In This Room...” landed on the Amazon Top-10 Bestsellers list and won first place in the Spring 2022 BookFest Awards for the best psychological thriller.The audiobooks of his heart-rending thriller, “Bodhi Crocodile” and its sequel, “Part 2: The Button,” both won awards from AudioFile Magazine.

Book preview

Brightside

A novel by Bradley Carter

This is a work of fiction.

The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or to living persons alive or dead.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

/BrightsideNovel

Copyright © 2019 Bradley Carter

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781731412317

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Justin Bridges – Editing

Jaime Thorn – Editing

Donald Lane – Consulting

Anna Malko – Cover design

Aden Carter

I couldn’t do this without you all.

So much love and thanks!

SENSE OF FALLING

My brain takes a minute to transition from dreaming to reality. It’s an uncanny experience even though you would expect me to be used to it by now. Clear droplets fall from the edge of the kitchen sink and my toes are pressed in a puddle of warm liquid.

A moment ago, the repetitive buzzing sound from my bedroom was a civil defense siren, warning me of a hazardous leak from a nuclear power plant and that the whole world was about to explode.

Storages of volatile uranium had become unstable. A nuclear chain reaction was about to occur. The end of humanity. Flesh and bone instantly turned to carbon.

A recording of a woman’s voice was repeating over the loudspeakers in the city’s crumbling skyline. The prevailing wind direction. Chances of precipitation from the dark skies, clouded with nuclear fallout— the radioactive residue that remains in the atmosphere.

For those not in the general vicinity of the blast, it’s radiation sickness— exposure to ionizing gamma rays. Be on the lookout for symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, hair loss, and skin lesions. Bodies melt and fall apart within days.

In reality, the only thing that has sprung a leak is me. The noise is becoming even less obnoxious now that I realize that it’s only my alarm clock.

The woman’s voice is from the television, the weather highlights from the Channel-6 friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston. Today is going to be cold. Winter isn’t over yet. But later this afternoon, the sun will ease some of these bitter temperatures.

There’s no surprise here. This was bound to happen. It’s something I’ve experienced my entire life. Something I’ve grown accustomed to preparing for.

Noctambulism— Sleepwalking.

My vision focuses. The light from the windows seems brighter than usual. There’s no threat of death from a nuclear explosion but I fear something just as awful— I’m going to be late.

My white boxer shorts are crumpled around my ankles and soaked in yellow. The floor is bare and my toes are numb and turning red from the cold surface. The bottom of my white V-neck T-shirt is the only thing covering my limp private part.

There’s a reason you’re not supposed to wake someone while they’re sleepwalking. Some people believe that it’s harmful to them, but the truth is that it takes time for the consciousness to resurface from the subconscious.

During that time, the dreamer might react as if they’re still experiencing whatever scenario they have playing in their heads.

It’s like stepping into a cold shower. You have to let the water warm up gradually. Otherwise, it can be somewhat uncomfortable. For some, it takes no longer than a few seconds. For others like myself, it may take a minute or so.

Rushing through the hall, I’m careful to remove my clothes and not to let anything drip from them. I toss my soiled garments into the hamper and turn the knob on the shower’s faucet. As far as adjusting the temperature, there’s no time for me to wait. It’s like bathing in ice water but the more I shiver, the faster I scrub and rinse.

It’s not until I’m finished and ready to step out that it becomes warm enough to tolerate. My skin hasn’t completely dried before I put on a pair of clean white boxers and black dress socks.

The translucent plastic sheet draped over the television blurs the weather map on the screen. In addition to the other tarps from the couch and tables, I roll them together and toss the wad into the kitchen closet. My pantry has shelves stocked with spray bottles of all-purpose cleaners, rolls of paper towels, and stacks of drop cloths. There are no rugs on the floor. The hard surfaces are okay to leave uncovered because they’re easier to clean.

Last night while lying in bed, just as I was about to doze off, there was a jolt that shot through my body.

A hypnic jerk— The reaction to the sense of one falling.

It doesn’t happen often, but it’s my warning sign that I’m going to wake up some place other than where I fell asleep. When this myoclonic jerk happens, I have to force myself to get up. All of the furniture, carpets, and appliances have to be covered in plastic before I crawl back into bed. This is about as much as I can do to prevent soiling anything.

Nocturnal polyuria— Urinating while asleep.

When I was younger, around the age of ten, I came into my parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night. My mother tells me I didn’t answer when she asked what I needed. Standing there, staring at the covers, I pulled my pants down and peed a steady stream into her open purse that lay on the floor.

Felix Sherman Hines, she said, trying to wake me. You’re making a mess!

In my head, Mom’s purse was a black bowling ball with a sparking fuse that was burning down to the explosives inside. It needed to be extinguished. There was limited time to intervene a deadly explosion.

In reality, I snatched her purse from the floor and ran to the bathroom, tossing it and all of its contents into the toilet. Her cosmetic compact let out tiny bubbles until it filled with enough water to sink, and came to rest at the bottom next to her wallet and some coin change.

Luckily, this morning, my shriveled super-soaker had been aiming at the kitchen sink. Oddly enough, my sleeping brain knows to inform my body where it’s not allowed to pee. If something is protected with plastic, it never becomes a target. Had I left the television uncovered, somehow my other brain would have thought it needed a dousing.

My electric razor, as well as my toothbrush, hair comb, and other toiletries, are kept on top of the medicine cabinet. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach them. If they were stored at closer range, they could also become candidates for aiming practice.

Shaving is something I’ll need to do in the car today, since time is working against me. There are two minutes I set aside each morning for brushing my teeth. However, that time will have to be shortened. I could brush them while getting dressed but it’s important not to make a mess of my clothes.

One of my dress socks is shorter than the other. But finding a pair that matches and changing into them will set me back at least a minute. This is time I need to spend wiping up the puddles left in the kitchen.

It’s not so much the mess that bothers me. Cleaning up is easy. But sometimes a scent can get stuck in your head and stick with you for hours to come.

Hyperosmia— a heightened sense of smell.

This pee problem isn’t something that I’m proud of. It’s something that I live with for now, something that I’m able to manage, something I was told I would outgrow.

There’s a long running prescription I’ve had stashed away for this ailment. I don’t like to take it often because of its side effects. Well, general effects really.

These tiny, purple pastel pills reduce the body’s ability to pee. Take one before bed.

I’m not completely cured but since these incidents don’t happen as often, I don’t take the pills regularly.

This morning, the bottle seems a little light. It doesn’t rattle when I shake it and I pop off the top to see that it’s empty.

This matters because it’s important.

I have to rid myself of this disorder. To have any kind of relationship or normal life, I have to free myself of it. I make a mental note to call in a refill.

According to the clock, I only have fifteen minutes to get to work. My arrival time has to be perfect. It has nothing to do with my attendance record and nothing to do with getting into trouble.

But there’s something I have to do.

Something I have to check on.

Something I have to verify.

And if I don’t arrive at just the right moment, if I walk in a second too early or too late, everything will be ruined.

AT A MINIMUM

It’s been over two decades since high school graduation. After all this time, I finally understand what people were saying about school preparing us for the real world. It has nothing to do with education, or getting a good job. School, from kindergarten to graduation, is the same framework as real life.

As a child, you want to earn good grades. As an adult, it’s good money. If you want to stay in school, you have to follow rules and work hard and not be late or miss out. If you want to keep your job as an adult, the same system applies.

In fact, the only difference I can tell is when you do something bad, instead of being sent to the principal’s office, you get sent to a judge. Both have the power to distribute punishment. Adults are merely children in bigger bodies with more experience.

Two lanes of traffic and the cars in the right lane barely move as the left lane whizzes by. When a frog is set in a skillet and the stove is turned on, the little green idiot will sit there until the heat boils it to death. It has no instinct to hop out. The simplest solution to preventing its own demise and it doesn’t have a clue.

Figuratively speaking, the cars in the right lane are driven by toads. It’s like trying to get to class on time for school. All you have to do is go around the slow person in front of you and you’ll leave them crawling behind.

But to judge the other drivers is hypocritical of me since I’m sitting here waiting for the slow lane to creep forward. This delay is essential to the start of my day. Arriving too soon or too late could be devastating for me.

My job is about as standard as you can find. I work in data entry for the AG Loan Company.

At a company that requires me to fix mistakes, the security department can’t even get my name right.

Felix Hynes, but my last name is spelled with an I.

The only way my picture would match is if I were to come in hung over. Shadows make my skinny chin look fat. The poor lighting makes my dark hair lighter and the angle of the camera gives me the red-eye effect.

Since the lobby guards work for a temp service, their company’s turnover rate is high and every day, a different guard questions my identification. My badge could be replaced but I use this minor setback to my advantage.

A responsible person at my age of almost forty would leave home early to avoid delays. But there’s a reason I pace myself. It’s important to me. My day will go all to hell if I miss just the right moment.

Why do we need security badges that beep when we enter the building? There’s nothing here to steal. All of the money is at the banks. Are they afraid of terrorists? Who’s going to risk taking us hostage? What are they going to do, put us all out of our misery?

It never made sense to anyone why we’re required to wear these business casual corporate costumes. For the men, spotless dress shoes, khaki pants, and a Polo or button-up shirt. For the women, anything they want as long as it looks professional.

But the public never sees us. It’s a job that can be done from the couch in a living room or on the toilet.

The elevator dings at the third floor and I step off into my corporate prison wing.

On a platform in the center of the room are four desks each facing outward in different directions. This is where management sits to overlook the entire operation. These people resemble my most memorable high school teachers to a T.

My old principal, Mrs. Lida Landcaster, was feared by all of the students in school. We used to call her Old Lida and prayed daily for her early retirement or death. Today, filling that same role of a rag in charge of employees instead of children, is a somewhat younger woman, Resting Bitch-face Rita.

When the 1980s called to get their feathery hair back, the message went straight to her cassette tape answering machine. The expression she wears around the office matches her personality, especially toward men. Some spread rumors that she might be a lesbian but with an attitude like hers, it’s no wonder she can’t find a companion of either sex.

Everyone might remember at least one teacher from back in their day that could never say it, but clearly hated the kids they taught. They’d pop a quiz with super hard questions on the students just to watch them shake in their seats. Mr. Henry Lauren was mine. A man who, at one point in his life, thought he could influence the world through education but soon realized that he just aged to nothing more than a disrespected old fart.

If Mr. Lauren became a manager of the AG Loan Company, his grumpy personality might fit well in one of those seats. But here and now, in this office, it’s big, fat, Richard Head.

Yes, that’s his actual name.

His stomach is pushing the buttons of his shirt to their breaking point. His curly gray hair hasn’t been trimmed in weeks and he has the personality of a hat rack. There’s no ring on his left hand; it’s part of the reason he treats everyone like a jerk.

Then there was always the one teacher who let the classroom run wild. The kids would laugh and talk so loud, it would mute his monotone attempts to get them back into their seats. There’s only so many times you can bang your head onto your desk before you realize it’s not going to make a hole. That’s the teacher I’m reminded of when I see the third member of the management team, Todd.

I don’t know his last name but he’s about as bland as his first. He rarely speaks. In some ways he comes off as lonely as I am and I almost have too much sympathy for the man to be mean. I feel bad enough forgetting his last name. Besides, he doesn’t seem to be the cold-hearted, grumpy, upper management type. It’s almost like he doesn’t care at all about anything. He just shows up and gazes into his computer. His fingers type away on autopilot.

Occasionally, he will answer the phone with his monotone voice that sounds like what he’s saying was prerecorded. There’s no ring on his left hand either. It seems as though his solitude doesn’t cause him to be mean to anyone but himself.

The fourth managing supervisor… well, his desk is empty because he’s not here yet. He doesn’t come in until around ten o’clock.

Like my former educators, it’s quite obvious that all these corporate superiors are miserable with their dead end lives. Aside from Todd, the only thing driving the others is knowing they have power over the employees, which they most certainly take advantage of.

The rest of the room is divided into two halves. On one side are the credit people sitting at their personal desks, evenly spread apart. They talk to the customers and have power to approve or disapprove lines of credit.

Opposite of them are myself and the other eleven miserable souls that sit in cubicles, six in each row, with our back to the people behind us, the data entry specialists.

Loan companies use text recognition software when financial applications are submitted by mail instead of online. The majority of the time it works but software isn’t always perfect. My job is to manually correct what the