Trapped

"Jerry! Get your ass out here and move this load! We've got another truck coming at 3 and I don't want to see this heap of junk for another second. Damnit Jerry!" Mark Harrison, owner and operator of the Millstone, KS junkyard blew cigar smoke out of his nose as he wiped sweat from his brow. The summer of '58 had started out hot, now a month in he felt it couldn't get any hotter than this. But being surrounded by black metals soaking in all the heat turned the junkyard into a heat trap. The pile of scrap laying before him, the size of an impala, leered at him as it radiated heat in his direction. Jerry, his young assistant, was meant to cart the dumped pieces from the drop off zone to the back of the yard but he was slacking off again.

"Sorry boss."

"Don't be sorry, just do your job damnit." Mark blew smoke out again as the truck he was waiting for pulled up.

"Shit." Mark said under his breath. He jogged over to the driver who was blowing his horn. The junkyard was inaccessible until Jerry moved the junk and Mark's driver, Gary, had a tight schedule. At least three more pick ups for the day.

"What's the hold up Mark?"

"Why are you so damn early? The sheet says 3." Mark chewed on his cigar, sweat dripping off his brow. In the background Jerry hitched the load onto the back of a truck and started to drag it from it's spot. The screeching of metal pierced Gary's ears making him plug up his right ear, Mark didn't seem to mind.

"Smaller load than we thought. So I'm back early."

"Fine, fine. Just dump it. And go get the rest."

"Since I'm early, can I take a break?"

"A break?" Mark laughed and spat on the ground. Gary realized his request was a waste and dropped it. Mark hopped off the door and walked to the office building to mark off the new drop. In the office, only slightly cooler than the yard, a radio was playing and the small fan on his desk was being hogged by his dog Murphy.

"Murph!" Mark yelled and the border collie raised his head, panting, tongue flailing. He hopped up and went over to Mark looking for a head scratch or maybe for a reprieve from the heat. Mark provided neither and simply sat in front of the fan. Jerry came in a minute later wiping his hands and face with a rag.

"This heat, it's unbearable."

"Did you move Gary's drop?"

"What? No."

"Then why the hell are you in here?" Mark said his eyes fierce. Jerry sighed and walked back outside without a word. A few minutes later Mark heard the metal hit the ground in a loud thud and screech followed by the screech of it being drug back by Jerry. With a pencil he marked off the drop and leaned back in his chair. He scanned the room and his eyes felt blurry. He rubbed them, but that only made things worse. The sweat was so bad, it started to cloud his vision. He heard the door open and Jerry came back in. 

"Are you ready?" Jerry said.

"Ready for what?" Mark said still rubbing his eyes. He tried to look at Jerry standing before him but he was more blurry now. Mark cursed, he must have got something in his eye, a fly or oil or something. He rubbed more frenziedly.

"Are you ready?" Jerry asked again, now he seemed behind him.

"Why do you keep asking that?" Mark said still rubbing his eyes. He blinked but the image kept getting more and more faded. Was he going blind? He wanted to stand and scream but his legs failed him. He felt heavy in his chair. Was he having a heart attack? Did you go blind before a heart attack? Mark tried to reach for his eyes again but his arm grew heavy and fell into his lap. He blinked feverishly. 

"Are you ready Mr. Harrison?" a softer voice spoke this time, a woman's voice. Mark Harrison blinked and felt the air rush from his lungs. His eyes focused and he was in a white room, cold and clean, staring at the middle distance, not focusing on anything. He could feel a presence behind him and his eyes tracked slowly across the floor to his hands. They were old and worn, blue and marked with bruises. He tried to move his head to see the face that spoke to him. His neck was working against him or simply not wanting to move. He felt stuck, only his eyes obeying his commands of movement and he felt a tension grow in his chest.

"Aaaaa...." Mark tried to speak but his breath failed him. His attention was brought to his mouth, dry and unmoving but open, the air moving slowly from the room to his lungs with great pain. The presence behind him came closer and grabbed onto his chair. A wheelchair. She moved him out of the room and Mark felt afraid. He felt a tear start to grow in his eye, as if it had to gather all the liquid remaining in his frail body to create one single tear. The junkyard he was standing in was gone, the smell of metal and the sound of Murphy barking now fading in his head, one last thing to be burned out of his head. A memory he felt he'd never get back.

"How are we doing today Mr. Harrison?" the soft voice spoke again. Mark concentrated on moving his mouth to speak more fully and felt control start to return to him now that he wasn't fully consumed by the memory of his old job...or was it his old school? What had he been thinking of? Something in Brandon, MO? No....?

His jaw finally moved from its slack position and reconnected his lips to help him speak. "I...was at home." He forced out with a weak breath. He had been at home surely. Where was he now? His eyes moved from side to side trying to find some sort of familiarity with the hall he was being pushed through. He saw his hands again, old and withered.

"Where am I?" Mark asked weakly but with a tinge of fear.

"You're home Mr. Harrison, Pleasant Hills Nursing Home. We're going to give you a bath." the soft voice spoke. Mark felt a haze go across his eyes again. A nursing home? Time for his bath? He looked at his hands again. As he stared he felt his eyes grow dim. He felt tired and heavy. But his heart still beat, very slowly inside him. The world dropped away and he felt warmth. How many memories were left? How many days? How many....