by Jon R. Jackson
Copyright 2012 Jon R. Jackson
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In the beginning, the man awoke again; his breathing was harsh in his ears, and his eyes saw only light and darkness without form. He blinked, his mind wanting to make sense of what he saw. Then his vision cleared and he saw the inside of his pickup.
The truck! A flash of memory, headlights coming at him, and then no more. His mind snapped back to what-was-now and he was upside down, hanging from something. The man moved his head. His eyes did not quite track with that movement, and that made him feel dizzy, downright nauseated. He screwed shut his eyes and blindly felt around his waist.
A memory came back of childhood and trips with his dad and mom and three brothers. A memory of smooth plastic seats and nylon lap belts with big metal buckles emblazoned with the Fisher Body logo on the big button in the middle of the side.
He pressed the side of a small, palm sized box at his side, near his waist. Nothing happened. His truck didn’t have those. His truck’s seatbelt release was orange, plastic, and on top. Finding it by touch, he pushed it and fell to the ceiling, lay there, and experienced the world revolving around him.
He was going to vomit, he was sure of it. Until he saw the moon. Out of the passenger window he saw it, low, large, and orange; it hung half above the trees. He focused on it, staring at the burnt-orange shape and willing the world to stop. It did, and he blinked.