Needles

*The following story is loosely based on actual events and a dream I had one night.*

Needles

by

Brandon Dues

It’s just one of those lonely weekend nights. The type of night you wish you had somebody but slowly realize how disastrous a relationship would be at this point in your life. There’s not much to do on night like this. Especially, if you’ve done all there is to do.

8:30 a.m Wake up

9:00 a.m Morning jog

10:30 a.m Shower

11:15 a.m Grocery shop

12:30 p.m Clean up Apartment

1:15 p.m Eat Lunch

2:30 p.m Take a nap

3:30 p.m Organize Book Shelf

4:30 p.m Re-organize Bookshelf

5:00 p.m Workout

6:15 p.m Shower. . . Again

6:45 p.m Read Book

6:50 p.m Video Games

8:45 p.m Nothing

It’s 8:45 p.m. . . . Now what? Restless. Out of options. Nothing to do. Well, nothing. . .

I’ll go see a movie. Preferably a long one. I don’t necessarily care who is in it or what it‘s about.. Just as long as it’s long and takes up most of my night. There’s nothing more depressing than coming back to work with no stories to tell. I almost admire the hedonistic tales of my peers. Something about that that lifestyle is strangely alluring. I’m not that guy, though.

I digress. A movie. I have to find a movie to watch. Perhaps I’ll go to the local multiplex. I always hate going to that place The lobby is always teaming with hormonal preteens. They dress like low-end versions of television personalities, spout off jargon that would make my late English professor’s head spin, and interrupt pivotal emotional thematic film moments with lewd lowest common denominator jokes that were ripped off a sitcom that will inevitably get canceled. I think I’ll pass on the multiplex.

There is the Bistro theater. That may be good option. That way I’ll be able to get a decent meal and enjoy a new movie. . .. Well, on second thought, maybe not. There’s a certain stigma associated with going to the theater alone. I imagine the stigma is magnified for a Bistro theater. Not only are you watching a movie alone, you’re also technically eating by yourself. That’s essentially twice the loneliness. Also, if I do visit the Bistro Theater, I run the risk of running into a co-worker. I’m not exactly sure I want to explain why I‘m eating and watching a film alone on a Saturday night. I don‘t have a problem with it. I just wouldn‘t want to subject an acquaintance to the awkwardness of this situation. I’ll save it for when I have a non-platonic date. Whenever that may be.

At this point I’ve decided I want to go out but I want minimal human interaction. I guess I can go to that art house theater downtown. There showing a film called “Needles”. I’ve never heard of it. It’s probably one of those obscure cult indie films that pretentious film buffs swear they love but secretly hate. The type of movie that people defend vehemently. The type of film that is described as cerebral and mind-bending. The type of film that if by some chance you didn’t like it, it automatically means you didn’t get it or were too stupid to analyze the subtext. Regardless, it seems interesting enough. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

After driving through several backstreet and back alleys, I finally arrive at the downtown parking garage. There is a more direct route but I like taking the back alleys. You see a different side of the city. The theater, aptly named The Fibonacci, is tucked in seediest corner of downtown. It’s a bit of a walk to The Fibonacci from the parking garage. It’s not exactly safe at this time of night but I need the excitement. On my way to the theater I pass the citizens that society has banished from everyday life. Homeless veterans, drug addicts, prostitutes, runaway teens. People that once had dreams and ambitions. People who now have to spend a Saturday night on the cold streets, begging for change. And I thought my life was bad. . .

I arrive at The Fibonacci. The box office employee is a very tall, very lanky individual. He studies me as I awkwardly walk up to the ticket counter. I can see his judgmental eyes leering at me through is thick non-prescription glasses. I guess I’m not wearing enough plaid.

“Hi. Can I have one for “Needles”, please?”

He lets out a loud sigh, boisterously pushes a few buttons on the register, and begrudgedly hands me a slip of paper. I assume this is my ticket.

“That’ll be 9 dollars.”

I hand him my money as polite as possible. I can’t help but wander what I may have done to deserve such a negative response. Did I pronounce the film wrong?

“Have you seen this movie?” I ask

“No. Horror’s not my thing. I only watch student films from NYU.” he says in a very pompous manner

“Really?”

“It’s the only cinema that’s groundbreaking.”

“Have you heard anything about it?”

“I heard it’s mind altering. Kind of of like ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ meets ‘Primer’. Have you heard of those?”

“Actually I have! I own them on DVD”

“DVD. . .figures.”

I thank him. He rolls his eyes.

I make my way into theater. Half of the appeal of a place like this is the fact that is unappealing in every sense, especially compared to today’s standards. The worn down wallpaper hangs loose to reveal the mildew ridden drywall. The air is moist and humid. The sour smell of a recently vacuumed wet rug lingers in the air. At one point, The Fibonacci was a staple of the downtown area. Now, it is an archaic landmark on the verge of being condemned.

I make my way into the theater. The floors are extremely sticky. This is disturbing considering The Fibonacci does not sell concessions. I find a seat that optimizes the acoustics of the auditorium. I sit down. The seat is slightly damp and I can feel the asbestos entering my lungs. That reminds me. My annual check up is soon.

Ironically, I’m completely alone in the theater but I’m oddly fine with this fact. Anytime I’m alone in a theater I feel like I’m at a private screening. .The projector starts abruptly and sounds like I paper clipped a baseball card to the spokes of my bike. The lights dim. Images slowly start the appear on the old blemished screen.

The movie starts almost immediately. To my surprise, the film is in a foreign language with absolutely no subtitles. I laugh at the lack of research I did about this film and just go with it. The film opens with a chair sitting in a room and stays there for a very substantial amount of time. A man enters the room and sits in the chair. He begins spouting off dialogue in a language I don’t understand. As the scene progresses, I feel my self getting tired. I try to stay awake but my eyelids become exponentially heavier. I doze off.

I wake up to the bitter taste of iron. I sit up abruptly not completely sure of my current location. The Fibonacci. I’m at The Fibonacci. I move my tongue around my mouth to investigate the source. My tongue reaches a small metallic bit imbedded in the right side of my mouth. I reach in with my fingers, locate the metallic item in question, pull it out, and place it on my thigh.

I spend the next few minutes studying the six inch needle that was lodged in my gums. A needle A needle? How did a needle get into my mouth? Was it something I ate? It couldn’t have been anybody here? I’m alone. Right?

I get up from the damp chair and make my way up the sticky floors to throw dispose of the needle. On my way, the familiar taste of iron returns. I stick a finger in my mouth. There can’t be another needle in my mouth. There just can’t be. Right? While probing my mouth, I prick my finger on something sharp. I draw my hand back and wince in pain. I look down and see blood trickling from my finger. In a panic, I run to the restroom.

The restroom looks like something out of a torture porn film. The floors are soiled and wet. The smell of urine and custodial neglect radiate throughout the room. I make my way to the mirror that sits above a very filthy sink. The mirror is grimy and very cloudy. I can barely see through the soot. I take my jacket off, dab a small amount of water on it, and clear am section of the mirror. I open my mouth and see the needle I pricked my hand on. I rip a small off of a paper towel, wrap it around two fingers, and attempt to extract the needle.

What the hell is going on? How did all of these needles get into my mouth? Where did they come from? Did someone put them there? Did I put them there?

It’s funny. Anytime something strange or peculiar happens, I always find a way to blame my self. Does that make me a narcissist or just a person with a very masochistic self image?

After several unsuccessful efforts, I finally extract the needle. I place it on the sink. This one is significantly larger than the other. It’s absolutely mind boggling. How did something that large get lodged into my mouth? I’m in such awe that I barely notice the pool of blood filling my mouth. It doesn’t occur to me until I see it splash on the porcelain sink. I spit it out and glance at the wound in the mirror. A river of blood streams from my mouth and onto the mirror. I wipe it off with my jacket. My eyes freeze in horror as I notice two more needles wedged in my mouth. The shock wears off and I start removing the next two needles. As I place the two bloodstained needles on the sink, three more needles appear in my mouth. With tears in my eyes, I pull out the next three. The pain is absolutely unbearable. The blood I’m unable to spit out, accidentally gets swallowed. After the next three are removed, five more appear. When I place those on the sink, eight more appear. Then thirteen. Then Twenty.

My hands and mouth are stained a deep and dark red. My teeth are stained that ugly brown color you find on tissues used to wipe bloody noses. I take out the last needle and wait for more to appear. Suddenly, the bleeding stops. I take a second to put everything into perspective. My mind is in complete shock. I glance at my self in the mirror. Blood covers my hands, mouth, and teeth. My eyes are red. My tear ducts sore. The front of my white oxford shirt is completely soiled with blood, sweat, and tears. I look like the killer in a slasher film. This was a new shirt. I had just bought it yesterday. I count the needles. Each one bigger than the last. Fifty-two in total. Fifty-three if you count the one I threw in the trash. I run water through my mouth to get the bloody taste out of my mouth. I check the mirror one more time to make sure all of the needles are gone. None in sight. My mouth is needle free.

I run some water in the sink and clean my face off. As I’m scrubbing my face, I notice something behind me. I turn around and see a man standing six feet in front of me. A man that looks awfully familiar. A man that appeared in the film I fell asleep on. A man that sat in the chair. A man that spouted off dialogue in a language I didn’t understand. The man creeps towards me in a manner similar to a zombie. With every step, I can feel another needle growing only this one’s different. This needle is in the back of my throat. With each step the needle grows. I try to move but I’m frozen with fear. Fear of what he might do. Fear of what may happen. I feel the needle puncture my carotid artery. I cough up blood and drop to my knees. I can feel the blood filling my lungs.

“Help me!” I gurgle as I place my hand out.

The man says nothing. He only creeps towards me. I try to take out the needle that’s lodged in my throat but my efforts are futile. There’s too much blood. I place my hands around my throat and try to cough up the needle. Nothing. It’s still there but it doesn’t grow. I look up to find the man standing over me. He starts spouting off dialogue but I still don’t understand. I can’t breathe. My vision gets blurry. I fall onto my stomach. Blood pours from my mouth like a geyser. The man places a hand on top of my head and. . . .

“Sir!”

. . . I wake up.

“Sir, you’re film is over. We’re closing up.” a custodian says as he shakes my shoulder.

I take awhile to come to. I feel my throat and probe my mouth with my fingers. I look at my jacket, my shirt, and my hands all at once. I don’t realize how insane I look until I see the look on the custodian’s face.

“Sorry.” .

“How was the show?” he asks

“It was. . . Mind-altering.”

He laughs “Did you enjoy it?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I fell asleep.”

“Well, at least you have story.”

“You know? I do. I do have a story to tell.”

The End