MicroHorror

Trevor had been drinking. He’d admit it to anyone who asked him, although the story would be the same.

He’d been to his friend Steven’s house to celebrate winning the football finals. The alcohol had been flowing freely, but when Steven had called it a night, it was a night and everyone had left.

The night was cold. He could see his breath on the night air. Random thoughts passed through his head as he walked along the gray concrete pavers. A short distance from Steven’s house there was an old house that he had always admired.

“If I won the lottery,” he thought to himself, “this is the house that I’d buy.”

It was a grand, old character home, built well over a century ago. Surrounding it was a lush green lawn and gardens overflowing with colorful blossoms, leafy ferns and climbing roses. The sweet scent of jasmine wafted on a gentle breeze that raced past Trevor and he breathed in deeply. But the thing he liked most was the white picket fence. All his life he had dreamt of a home with a white picket fence.

Suddenly there was a change in the atmosphere. He looked over his shoulder and then into the night sky but he could see nothing to account for it. There was a crackling sensation in the air, a sparking electrical sensation surrounding him, passing through him and emanating from him. Then he saw a vision.

Picket One. He was an infant on a blanket in a long forgotten backyard. Through the eyes of the infant he could see his mother, keeping a watchful eye on him from the kitchen window. Picket Two. He was six years old, school bag in hand and eyes full of tears. He saw himself grip the hem of his mother’s dress as she tried to leave the classroom. Picket Eight. His thirteenth birthday party. There was only a small group of friends but he was having fun. It was the year he got Sal, his beloved black and white Kelpie. He could see her now as a pup in his father’s arms.

As he walked, time seemed to slow every step to allow him to see the significant events of his life. He had no time to wonder how it was all happening; the visions kept coming. Each pristine white picket held a memory for him.

Picket Twenty-One. He was sitting nervously in his father’s car, waiting for the examiner to take him for his driving test. Picket Twenty-Two. There he was walking gingerly up the steps of the university towards his first lecture. He didn’t know anyone, although everyone else seemed to. Picket Twenty-Three. His first sexual experience. It was with another guy. A rushed event in a cubicle of the sports block toilets after a soccer match. Picket Twenty-Four. Graduation.

The visions rolled on one after the other. Whole chunks of his life were being shown to him like a home movie, though in actual time he was seeing each one in fractions of a second.

Picket Sixty. It was like looking into a mirror. He could see himself at the present moment, looking back at himself.

Picket Eighty-Two. He was in the future. He could see himself a little older. He was on a doctor’s examination table. He was crying and the doctor’s face looked grim.

A wave of cold air swept around him and suddenly he was back in the here and now again. He stopped and looked back along the length of white wooden pickets. Had it all really happened? And if so, what were the tears in the doctor’s surgery for? He turned the corner and hoped that the visions would continue. He had to find out what the bad news was. Maybe if he knew ahead of time, he could prevent whatever it was from happening.

But the rest of the picket fence was just a picket fence.