Prompt #6

This is the first couple pages of a story I started writing. It was originally intended to be a very short story, but my brain kept coming up with wonderful things to add and I got all caught up in what might end up being a much grander tale than originally intended. Then again, that would mean I need to actually continue writing, so we'll see. Fingers crossed. Also, any criticism or pointers or opinions would be welcomed and greatly appreciated.

The Good Life

(it's a working title for now)

“Hello, this is Ibrahim Ahmedani calling on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance. May I please talk to Bettie Anderson?”

He sat and listened for a good long moment, but the only reply was a click followed by that repetitive beep; the one that let him know that Bettie would not be taking his survey. Ibrahim hung up the phone, only to pick it back up and try again and press 10 more buttons, hoping these ones might allow him some sort of human contact. After only a couple of rings, a gruff voice came through the phone. “Hello?”

He began, “Hello, this is Ibrahim Ahmedani calling on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance, May I please talk to Janet Billings?”

“We’re already members of your insurance, but thanks.”

“Actually, I’m calling today on behalf of Good Life Medical Insurance to ask a few questions in order to provide you with…” cut off again by that beeping. He keyed the proper code into the computer then pressed enter. The top of the screen informed him that that had been his 200^th call of the day. He had been able to complete twenty-four customer service surveys. This was definitely nothing to frown at. Steve, in the cubicle next to his, had only completed fifteen so far, and Jen across the aisle had finished seventeen. No, it wasn’t the number of completed surveys that added to the growing pit in Ibrahim’s stomach; it was the number of calls. That “200” staring him in the face. Had he really spent the last five hours calling 200 people only to talk to twenty-four of them? And those twenty-four phone calls couldn’t even be considered conversations. He had very few moments when he got to speak with somebody on the phone and he spent them asking strange and awkward questions about the persons’ hygiene, diet, and medical history. It was all too much for him to think about at the moment. So he stood up and started to walk down the aisle toward the bathroom when he was stopped by an oddly excited blast to his ears. It seemed so out of place in this drab, grey world.

“Where are you going?” Jen asked, almost looking concerned.

“I’m gonna go take my break. Why?”

“Didn’t you already take a break?”

“No.” He said, a little aggravated that this was such a big deal to his coworker. Where did she get off policing him anyway? He never really had a problem with his colleagues, but this wasn’t the best day for him. He had just had an obnoxiously self-aware moment, and had to go shake that feeling otherwise he was not going to make it through the rest of the day. Suddenly it hit him. He had taken a half-hour lunch just before noon. He hadn’t had time to eat that morning before leaving for work, so he took an earlier lunch than usual. Somewhere between the constant repetition of the phone beeping and him reciting the same introduction over and over he had lost that lunch somewhere in his mind. This did not help his situation at all. He now felt the agony of what the early stages of depression must surely feel like, and now had no way of ridding himself of those feelings. Unless, he thought, I can piss them away. So he continued down the aisle.

He stood an easy two feet above the 4-foot cubicle walls. His suit hung handsomely on his thin body. It was a little large for him, but not so much that it looked ridiculous or anything. He bobbed across the sea of office workers; just a small brown buoy on the waves of business-appropriate hair and attire.

After the relief that comes with a much needed urination, Ibrahim washed his hands and checked his hair and his whole demeanor. It was as if this clean shaven, Indian man was staring at him with some sort of derision, laughing at his very existence. Then he realized that this was probably not a very healthy state of mind, so he splashed some water into his face, rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was just him. The same face as before but this time it wasn’t dripping with ridicule.

“Every journey begins with a single step.” He recited the same thing to himself every day. It wasn’t because he felt he belonged on some grand adventure, but something about this proverb always made him feel like there was something to look forward to in life. Like he could go somewhere beyond that stupid little cubicle and find some real sense of joy out of life. All he had to do was take that one step. But for now, let’s get through the rest of the day.  He turned off the sink and dried his hands. As he stepped through the door that lead back to the office he was greeted by an ear splitting crack so loud it seemed like his ear had split open. Dazed, he clutched his ears and felt something sticky and warm running down his fingers. He looked at his left hand, covered in blood. He panicked. What was happening? Where was everybody? Why does the office suddenly look like it had been completely ransacked? And most importantly, why was he being shot at? He started to run, but after only a few steps he heard another crack accompanied by an explosion of pain shooting through his right leg. He dropped. He was helpless. His vision faded. Am I dying?

---------------------------------

The warmth of a fire relaxed him, and the smell of cooking meat filled his nostrils. He felt a sense of comfort and…Wait, is that me!? His eyes flew open and he found himself falling from a small cot or makeshift bed of some sort. He let out a small and somewhat girlish shout. He was relieved to find that it was not his own flesh he smelled, but some sort of red meat cooking over a fire. It looked delicious and he was famished. He looked around and saw nobody. After waiting a minute or so, he decided it would be a shame to let such a tasty smelling morsel become dry and overcooked. He grabbed it from the spit over the fire and began to feast.

 As he satisfied the more urgent of his needs, he realized that there was now a whole new set of problems to work out. Where was he? How did he get there? Who built the fire? Had he actually been shot?  He looked down at his leg and saw it wrapped in what looked like strips of cloth torn from a t-shirt. He jammed his finger into the middle of the blood stain. A fire raged instantly from that one point on his thigh all the way down to his toes. Yes, he had really been shot. So who had dressed his wounds? Those and so many other questions rattled through his mind and he wasn’t sure where to start. He couldn’t focus on any one question long enough to find an answer. The panic started to build again and he found himself beginning to question his own sanity. Then he noticed something he hadn’t until now, or rather, someone.