Out of Time., J Morris [reading list .TXT] 📗

he asked the conductor.
“Wallsend. End of the line.”
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!” Simms exclaimed. It was 50 minutes back to Westwood Station. “Please,”
he said, “I fell asleep. I need to get back to Westwood. It’s an emergency.”
“Well,” said the conductor, “you can stay on for the return trip, I guess. Don’t go to sleep this
time.”
It was dark when Simms reached Westwood Station. He stumbled to the gate and slipped
under the turnstile, and exited to the street. It was only a 3 minute walk to his old apartment if he
took the shortcut through an alleyway, which opened across the street from the apartment.
2 minutes into the journey, he struggled to stay on his feet; staggering and holding onto walls
for support. Simms's internal organs felt like jelly, shifting and settling in the lower part of his
abdomen, and it caused him to feel bloated. His heartbeat was erratic. One moment it pounded in
his chest, and in the next it raced and then fluttered, before pounding again with no sense of
rhythm.
Simms stumbled through the alley. He saw his old apartment block across the street. His legs
were now bowed, and they buckled under his weight. He fell to the ground, dropping his gun.
Every part of his body ached with a burning pain as he struggled to crawl commando style along
the concrete. He stretched his hand out for his gun, and managed to rein it in with his fingertips.
The sound of a closing door drew his attention to the young man across the street, walking down
the front stairs onto the sidewalk.
“Tom!” Simms called but his voice was weak and he went unanswered.
“Tom! Tom Simms!” he called again, fighting the pain in his chest and throat.
Tom Simms jnr stopped and turned his head, seeking the source. He didn’t see Simms lying in the
dark alley, and after a few seconds of silence, continued on.
“Tom Simms!” he called again.
Simms jr turned again and squinted in the direction of the alley.
“Who’s there? What do you want?”
“I have something for you” Simms croaked, his finger on the Glock’s trigger.
Simms jr stood silently for a moment. “Do I know you?” He crept halfway across the street, his
eyes searching the darkness.
Simms tried to speak, but the pain was consuming him. Simms jr, having received no response,
turned and resumed his journey.
“I know what you’re up to,” called Simms, the words gurgling in his throat.
Simms jr stopped in his tracks. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know Jack Shit.”
He edged his way across the street, straining his eyes to see who was in the alley.
Simms lay on his back, his vision blurred, his face a hideous distortion of loose, creped skin.
Simms jr stood over him; his eyes adjusting to the low light. “What the fuck happened to your
face, man?”
Simms’s lips twitched, but he couldn’t speak. He knew his time was running out. He thought
about all the hours, the months, the years, the lifetimes that he brutally stole from his victims. He
wished that he somehow could have saved some of that time; to use now, to undo the crimes of
his past; prevent the crimes of his future.
He summoned all his remaining strength to raise the gun, but it was like lead, and his hand
remained on the ground, his strengthless finger still on the trigger.
Simms jr spotted the gun. He bent down and wrenched it from Simms's grasp. He turned it
over, and studied it from different angles. A Glock, he noted. He raised his eyebrows and nodded
in approval, and then slipped it into the waistband in the back of his jeans.
The faces of his young female victims flashed through Simms’s mind; Sally’s being the most
prominent.
“Please...please leave her alone,” said Simms, but he alone heard the words as they echoed in
his mind. His half-closed eyelids froze, and his dull, vacant eyes stared up at his younger self.
The young man searched through Simms's pockets. He took out the wallet and pocketed the
small amount of money. With a brief, final look at Simms's lifeless body, he turned and headed
toward the city. Imprint

Publication Date: 01-13-2022

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