Devoted Eyes: Part Three

And here is link to Chuck Wendig’s 3nd part of the 200 words competition:

Larry woke up. The dream was fresh in his mind at least as fresh as dreams can be in that place between asleep and awake. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes wiping away the last bits of the dream.

Well, everything except the eyes. He could still see the eyes. It wasn’t the first time they invaded his sleep, it wouldn’t be the last.

The memories faded as he went about his morning. Breakfast, shower, clothes, his morning followed a pattern he set his mind to years ago. Variation, unthinkable. He woke at the same time, dressed at the same time, ate the same thing. Science and predictability were the cornerstones for the perfect routine.

He opened the garage and pulled his red Stratus down to the road. Red the color of safety, the same as every car he owned had been. The sun crested the horizon, as he pulled onto the road.

Larry left for work an hour and a half early every morning. He preferred to avoid rush hour. Most days the stop lights were still blinking.

His billboard had changed overnight. For the longest time a show for the MGM Grand graced the board. This morning it was unfinished. The picture was gone. A portion of a new one in its place.

The eyes, the ones from his dream followed him as he crashed into the car in front of him.

“Yeah, let’s just stop in the middle of the road, asshole,” he said into the empty car. When he closed his eyes to clear his mind, he saw the other eyes staring him in the face—red, glowing, hate-filled—that much was obvious. But the most terrifying part was the familiarity in them. A paralyzing terror took over his muscles, effectively binding his hands onto the steering wheel. Every time he blinked, he saw the epitome of hate staring back at him.

Three loud knocks on the window jolted Larry out of his paralysis. “Get out of the car, sir. I think we need to exchange info.” The voice making its way through the glass was muffled, but clearly understandable. “I hope you have insurance, sir.”

“Just a minute,” Larry said. The drum solo going on below his sternum caused his right hand to shake uncontrollably. It took him three attempts to do something as trivial as unlatching his seatbelt.

He clenched his fists, stepped out of the car, and confronted the furious man.

Soon, Larry was crouching by his red Stratus front door, holding his stomach, blood dripping from a gap in his mouth. He, who had felt so safe, up until now, he of the early, peaceful morning drives. Larry looked up and saw how the hate-filled red eyes from his dream had replaced those of the man he’d been confronting, after he’d punched him first. There was no longer the shadow of a doubt that what Larry was being faced with was the true horror of his earlier dream mutated into a bewildering nightmare of mind-boggling consequences.

Larry found his balance and stood up again.

“What did you do that for?” he asked.

“You’re asking for more?” his opponent retorted, dialing a number on his mobile, “I wish to report an incident at 3 Trafalgar Street, Annandale, officer.”

This was more than Larry could bear. How could his peaceful morning routine end in such a battle of unreasonable wills and wants? He felt that all things red had taken some significant importance. Animosity filled adrenaline stirred within Larry’s guts: he forgot about his aching body and lunged towards the other driver, meaning to tear his glowing, bloodshot and evil eyes out.

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