Chicken&Fish III

Detective Valance rubbed his eyes, then his temples. He let out a heavy sigh before looking at the few marks he made in his legal pad, “OK. So let me get this straight. You two were in a fight and a truck came to help. You think a car crashed into it and spilled whatever was inside of the truck onto the two of you, resulting in…this.”

John and Sam nodded.

“Jesus. Ya know, I’d normally say you two are full of shit…pardon my French, but no debris of an accident, No truck. Nobody saw or heard a goddamn thing! But here I am…seeing what I’m seeing—you two and…I…I don’t know what the hell to think.” He went back to rubbing his temples, throwing his pen on top of his pad and leaning back for a moment.

When can we get out of here? I’m done with his shit.

No idea. Doesn’t look good. John and Sam shared their frustration with Valance’s constant questions—they had no other choice.

“I know you two are sick of this, and neither of you wanted this, but it doesn’t stop what happened. Look, I’ll take what you’ve told me and try to figure it in to the investigation but…” Valance sighed, “I can’t make heads or tails of this shit.” He finished, just above his breath.

Let’s skip the hospital. Sam thought to John.

Who knows if we can even walk? John fired back.

I do.

John froze and tried to figure out what Sam meant for a second, before realizing Sam could hear him. Instead he lay shocked; his best friend attached to his side, and thought nothing of it.

Valance left a half hour later, fatigued from the results of his questioning. No sooner had the door closed when Sam lifted his left leg high into the air. John wasn’t aware of it happening until he saw with his own eyes.


While you were dreaming about our fight—and that shit was trippy, I practiced lifting my leg. Easier than it seems.

“Still don’t mean we can walk at all.” John said out loud, tired of feeling insane for talking to his thoughts, true as it may be that they weren’t his own.

Try it out. Sam answered in thought.

And John did try, but couldn’t budge his leg at all.

Here, lemme help.

John’s leg shook for a bit, resistant to Sam’s advancement to John’s limbs, but finally raised high in the air.

“Cut this shit out, Sam!” John snapped, wanting control of his body back. Wanting control of his mind back. Wanting Sam as far away from him as possible.

“We can leave, John.” Sam finally spoke. John tried to remember the last time Sam had spoken directly to John since the accident.

I haven’t. We can leave. Sam recalled in thought.

The nurses were in the room every half an hour checking vitals and pretending they’d seen a case like this before, sometimes every 15 minutes. Getting out of the hospital would be damn near impossible for the welded pair. Sam was set on getting out though, and as soon as a nurse left the room, they’d practice sitting up, making it as far as the edge of the bed.

How do we get these IV’s out? John thought.

Yank ’em. Sam offered.

2:12 AM, three days after their accident, John and Sam laid wide eyed in their bed.

We can do this, John. We have to do this. We’re going to be somebody’s experiment if we stay here. Fuck that. We’ve been bullied our whole lives, John, remember? Less than a fuckin’ week ago? And that shit is here too. Told where to stay, told we’re going to be touched and hurt and feeling less than human. We’re NOT, John. We’re TWO humans now.

Sam’s tone sounded more like a declaration of war than an argument for escape, but it pumped adrenaline through John none-the-less, and he was ready to leave as soon as possible.


At 2:13 they pulled IVs out of their forearms, spilling blood everywhere. Fed up, the two wiggled their toes, worked out of bed, and began walking.

John was certain he was in control of what was happening. Certain he was half-responsible for their grand escape. When they smelled spring night air, it had felt like years. John tried to take it all in, but his senses numbed after a few seconds.

We need to focus here, John.

By 2:20 AM, the two were running through the woods, free from hospital beds and questions. John realized two minutes ago that he was in less control than he thought he was but made sure not to think about anything Sam was making them do, say, or feel. His fear was mounting, but he wouldn’t let it take over. Or Sam wouldn’t let it take him over. John couldn’t tell anymore.


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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