Emmanuel Rorty stared at his own reflection. The concrete floor of Mr. T Rorty’s workshop scraped and crunched a little under his feet as debris shifted. The mirror was somewhat convex and Emmanuel had to tilt his head at odd angles in order to be able to see his reflection properly. There was a thick-ish layer of brown dirt with a streak through it where Emmanuel had run his finger through the coppery stuff—a dimple was just underneath where he needed to look with the right angle. Tim and Joe were out the front but would come in from their lunch break soon—you can’t talk to Tim and Joe about it they wouldn’t understand, anyway this can’t get back to dad.
Emmanuel took out his phone and put the camera up to his eye, very close, while looking the other way. He pressed the button but not being able to look at the screen he missed and all that emerged on the photograph was a piece of skin. He tried again to get a proper purchase on the phone and after a run of unsuccessful attempts he managed to get a decent picture of the blood both in his left eye and then in his right. Web MD had told him that usually a subconjunctival hemorrhage caused by trauma would go within ten days—he stayed away from home for ten days—but now, back for forty with no healing he was panicky again. The swelling on his head had not gone down as considerably as he would have liked it to and now the camera roll on his phone consisted of a very long, drawn out gif of an eye from which about a millimeter of blood a day was retreating from it’s centre and escaping into the corner.
The crash had left no fatalities, but first James was believed to be dead and then Emmanuel himself was believed to be dead—both beliefs were held by Emmanuel. He had asked his dad within his first two weeks working at the Sofcan Production Company, Ipswich branch how it was possible to know whether you were alive or dead. His Dad had the same confused look on his face as he had had when Emmanuel had asked how do I know that I’m not the only person alive and you’re not just all robots, or illusions or a trap—at the age of about six. Emmanuel dropped the question in the first few weeks—plus he needed the early morning car journeys to sleep—impossible to sleep alone in the dark but impossible to tell anyone, so over the past month, apart from when drunk on weekends Emmanuel had slept for approx. three hours a night and forty minutes every morning which he totaled up to be around 23.8 hours a week when he extended the pattern across all seven days. Nearly a full day.
Emmanuel put his phone away. Tonight was a Friday and James was on his way back home, he would get some bevvies in—some nelsons—some Nelson Manstellas. Yeah. That’ll be good—we’ll go to the pub and just get a few bloody bevvies in-nothing special just the boys in our town- the locals in our local—yeah sounds good.
Despite this positive attitude, however, Emmanuel Rorty began recanting exactly everything that he had done over the previous forty day period to himself in his head while screwing the back plate onto a two-way microphone for the front of a gate while Tim and Joe recited lines from Hot Fuzz…
Emmanuel took out his phone and put the camera up to his eye, very close, while looking the other way. He pressed the button but not being able to look at the screen he missed and all that emerged on the photograph was a piece of skin. He tried again to get a proper purchase on the phone and after a run of unsuccessful attempts he managed to get a decent picture of the blood both in his left eye and then in his right. Web MD had told him that usually a subconjunctival hemorrhage caused by trauma would go within ten days—he stayed away from home for ten days—but now, back for forty with no healing he was panicky again. The swelling on his head had not gone down as considerably as he would have liked it to and now the camera roll on his phone consisted of a very long, drawn out gif of an eye from which about a millimeter of blood a day was retreating from it’s centre and escaping into the corner.
The crash had left no fatalities, but first James was believed to be dead and then Emmanuel himself was believed to be dead—both beliefs were held by Emmanuel. He had asked his dad within his first two weeks working at the Sofcan Production Company, Ipswich branch how it was possible to know whether you were alive or dead. His Dad had the same confused look on his face as he had had when Emmanuel had asked how do I know that I’m not the only person alive and you’re not just all robots, or illusions or a trap—at the age of about six. Emmanuel dropped the question in the first few weeks—plus he needed the early morning car journeys to sleep—impossible to sleep alone in the dark but impossible to tell anyone, so over the past month, apart from when drunk on weekends Emmanuel had slept for approx. three hours a night and forty minutes every morning which he totaled up to be around 23.8 hours a week when he extended the pattern across all seven days. Nearly a full day.
Emmanuel put his phone away. Tonight was a Friday and James was on his way back home, he would get some bevvies in—some nelsons—some Nelson Manstellas. Yeah. That’ll be good—we’ll go to the pub and just get a few bloody bevvies in-nothing special just the boys in our town- the locals in our local—yeah sounds good.
Despite this positive attitude, however, Emmanuel Rorty began recanting exactly everything that he had done over the previous forty day period to himself in his head while screwing the back plate onto a two-way microphone for the front of a gate while Tim and Joe recited lines from Hot Fuzz…
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