For forty-five minutes he’d sat there. Bradley Richards, always called Brad by everyone other than his mother, wasn’t sure if he’d been sleeping, dozing or simply vegetating. Whatever it had been, for the past forty-five minutes he was completely unaware of anything.
The television was still on, but he didn’t know what he’d seen, if anything. And the book he’d been simultaneously reading lay open on his chest as he still reclined in the chair.
When he awoke, or rather regained a sense of reality, he felt confused and he didn’t know why.
Slowly he tried to piece together the recent past beginning with the first thing he could remember with certainty – checking his email about an hour before.
There were only a couple and he’d disposed of them quickly – nothing important, nothing that needed more than a sentence or two in reply.
Then he felt tired, as if all of his energy had been suddenly drained, and his eyes became heavy, but not really sleepy.
He shut his computer and went to the living room to relax; turned on the television to a mystery channel and picked up a mystery book that he’d been reading. It wasn’t unusual for him to read and watch television simultaneously, in fact he’d often done both and did a little writing in addition – Brad wrote mysteries as well as watched and read them.
He liked stories where there was either a happy ending or someone got killed, but then those had happy endings in that the bad guys always got what they deserved and the good guys always won. He also didn’t like violence so the dead body had to become dead without having to read about or watch it happen. Brad’s idea was to follow the detective through their journey rather than try to guess the killer. But he did like the author to play fair, to let the reader, or watcher, have all the clues and take their own journey.
For Brad it was the journey that counted.
Now he had his own journey to take – the past forty-five minutes.
The television was still on, but he didn’t know what he’d seen, if anything. And the book he’d been simultaneously reading lay open on his chest as he still reclined in the chair.
When he awoke, or rather regained a sense of reality, he felt confused and he didn’t know why.
Slowly he tried to piece together the recent past beginning with the first thing he could remember with certainty – checking his email about an hour before.
There were only a couple and he’d disposed of them quickly – nothing important, nothing that needed more than a sentence or two in reply.
Then he felt tired, as if all of his energy had been suddenly drained, and his eyes became heavy, but not really sleepy.
He shut his computer and went to the living room to relax; turned on the television to a mystery channel and picked up a mystery book that he’d been reading. It wasn’t unusual for him to read and watch television simultaneously, in fact he’d often done both and did a little writing in addition – Brad wrote mysteries as well as watched and read them.
He liked stories where there was either a happy ending or someone got killed, but then those had happy endings in that the bad guys always got what they deserved and the good guys always won. He also didn’t like violence so the dead body had to become dead without having to read about or watch it happen. Brad’s idea was to follow the detective through their journey rather than try to guess the killer. But he did like the author to play fair, to let the reader, or watcher, have all the clues and take their own journey.
For Brad it was the journey that counted.
Now he had his own journey to take – the past forty-five minutes.
