You Never Forget the First Time
By
Thom Schilling
“Earlier today, my car broke down in the middle of no place and my cell phone battery had died. I waited for over 45 minutes before another car approached. I flagged down the car and begged for a ride into town. The driver, an affable sort with chubby cheeks and kind eyes agreed.
We drove for a few miles in silence when I suddenly roared, “Stop the car! This is it!” Pointing to a large oak tree in the middle of a barren field I shrieked, “Right over there, under that tree That’s where he killed me. Did you know you never forget the name of the man who killed you the first time? My first was Carl Andrew Palmer.”
Fearing for his life, the driver pulled off the road and sniveled, “Please don’t kill me. I have a wife and four children. I . . .”
I interjected, “No, no, no. I mean you no harm, but this is the first time I’ve been back here since the murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, I was killed at the hands of Carl Palmer. He was not a significant man; Carl was void of notoriety; actually he was quite normal, quite normal indeed. That was until he shoved a ten inch butcher knife into the middle of my back. At the time, Carl was 53 years old, medium built, with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair wearing thick bifocal lenses. He snuck up behind me and stabbed me multiple times with the cook's knife. Oh, the pain . . . the pain . . . slashing, jabbing, cutting through skin, stopping when it hit my rib bones, sliding to the right or left until it tracked between my ribs . . . the pain. Oh the pain!”
“That sounds awful.”
I nodded. “The knife, scarlet-red from blood, dug a little deeper with each new puncture. Unable to fend off my attacker, I turned slightly to see the man who wanted to end my life. Staring deep into his eyes I did not see a killer, I saw a man stunned with bewilderment. ‘You’re not Rick!’ he blurted.”
“As I inhaled my last dying breaths he burst out, ‘You’re not my brother-in-law. Sorry mister, but you look just like Rick.’ I remember thinking, No shit! What did Rick do to deserve this? Drifting in and out of consciousness I heard sirens, screams, yelling, and felt hot and sticky blood covering my face and hands, and then silence and brain numbing cold.”
“Inside the ambulance I seemed to looked down upon Tucker, a lanky twenty-something man and Smitty, a 43 year old female paramedic who were feverishly doing their best to keep me alive as the meat wagon pulled away from the tree and sped towards the hospital, ten country miles away.”
“We’re gonna drive right passed that hospital,” added the driver.
I acknowledged with a nod and continued. “My eyes peered through two eye slits as the ambulance lunged forward. Tubes tangled around my arms, miscellaneous wires were wrapped around my torso, and there were beeps and buzzers emanating from machines monitoring every breath closer to my final breath of air. I remember thinking, Drive Faster. Hurry, dammit! My brain jumped to a new place: Where’s the guy who stabbed me”
“I heard a heavy THUD come from my waning heart, and I thought - I hope they shot and killed the bastard. But this could be my last thought. I couldn’t allow it to be so loathsome.”
The driver frowned. “Seems like a normal reaction to me.”
“Suddenly, a flashlight’s beam pierced my brain as Tucker looked into my eyes; then nothing. I felt gravity tugging on my body at every turn of the trauma truck. Finally Tucker gasped, ‘We’re losing him,’ and then nothing.”
“I know this is going to sound silly but I thought, ‘SHIT! I can’t die with unfinished business.’ I took back my last rumination, but I could not find it within my dying body to forgive the illegitimate son-of-a-bitch who stabbed me. WOOPS! Another off-colored comment bode poorly on my weakening soul.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t quite normal at the time.”
I inhaled. “One final surge of blood, a fading heartbeat, followed by B - - E- - E- - P! announcing my death on the Electrocardiogram. Another view from above shown two medics: Tucker pounding on my chest to keep my blood flowing, and Smitty using a respirator to support my idle lungs. As the medics accepted their failure, Smitty stormed, ‘He’s gone,’ followed by Tucker muttering, ‘Crap!’ in a low tone.
“Tucker bellowed, ‘Time!’ followed by Smitty looking at her watch and shouting, ‘It’s 3:56 PM’ as she recorded the time.”
“Confirming my death, Tucker pressed, ‘3:56?’”
“Smitty snarled, ‘Affirmative!’ as she packed the trauma kit and the AED (Automated External Defibrillator).”
“But?” coaxed my driver. I held up my index finger to indicate a reply was coming.
“Officially dead, I suddenly felt an electrical pulse kickstart life into my chest. I fought hard to take one breath, another pulse and a second, and then another, and another. The painfully slow beeps from the EKG (Electrocardiogram) started to beep quicker. Five hours later, the doctors stabilized my condition but it was two months before I was released from their care.”
“So what happened to that Palmer Guy?”
“He drew a 15 year sentence for attempted murder. Last I heard, he was killed in prison by a man hired by the man who was having the affair with Palmer’s wife.”
The driver pulled off the country road and parked next to a cornfield; then he opened the trunk of his car. Two minutes later I got out of the car to see what he was doing. When the driver turned towards me he aimed a snub hose .38 at my face.
In a deep, reverberating voice, the man said, “I’m pleased to know you remember Carl Andrew Palmer. My name is Henry Allen Palmer; brother to Carl. Today I’ll be the second person to kill you.”
Thom Schilling is a graduate of Hanover College, and a Neurodivergent (NPH) Competitive Writer who enjoys writing stories about the unusual, the edgy, and all things weird. Since March 2024, Thom has had fourteen short stories published in the United States & Great Britain.
By
Thom Schilling
“Earlier today, my car broke down in the middle of no place and my cell phone battery had died. I waited for over 45 minutes before another car approached. I flagged down the car and begged for a ride into town. The driver, an affable sort with chubby cheeks and kind eyes agreed.
We drove for a few miles in silence when I suddenly roared, “Stop the car! This is it!” Pointing to a large oak tree in the middle of a barren field I shrieked, “Right over there, under that tree That’s where he killed me. Did you know you never forget the name of the man who killed you the first time? My first was Carl Andrew Palmer.”
Fearing for his life, the driver pulled off the road and sniveled, “Please don’t kill me. I have a wife and four children. I . . .”
I interjected, “No, no, no. I mean you no harm, but this is the first time I’ve been back here since the murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, I was killed at the hands of Carl Palmer. He was not a significant man; Carl was void of notoriety; actually he was quite normal, quite normal indeed. That was until he shoved a ten inch butcher knife into the middle of my back. At the time, Carl was 53 years old, medium built, with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair wearing thick bifocal lenses. He snuck up behind me and stabbed me multiple times with the cook's knife. Oh, the pain . . . the pain . . . slashing, jabbing, cutting through skin, stopping when it hit my rib bones, sliding to the right or left until it tracked between my ribs . . . the pain. Oh the pain!”
“That sounds awful.”
I nodded. “The knife, scarlet-red from blood, dug a little deeper with each new puncture. Unable to fend off my attacker, I turned slightly to see the man who wanted to end my life. Staring deep into his eyes I did not see a killer, I saw a man stunned with bewilderment. ‘You’re not Rick!’ he blurted.”
“As I inhaled my last dying breaths he burst out, ‘You’re not my brother-in-law. Sorry mister, but you look just like Rick.’ I remember thinking, No shit! What did Rick do to deserve this? Drifting in and out of consciousness I heard sirens, screams, yelling, and felt hot and sticky blood covering my face and hands, and then silence and brain numbing cold.”
“Inside the ambulance I seemed to looked down upon Tucker, a lanky twenty-something man and Smitty, a 43 year old female paramedic who were feverishly doing their best to keep me alive as the meat wagon pulled away from the tree and sped towards the hospital, ten country miles away.”
“We’re gonna drive right passed that hospital,” added the driver.
I acknowledged with a nod and continued. “My eyes peered through two eye slits as the ambulance lunged forward. Tubes tangled around my arms, miscellaneous wires were wrapped around my torso, and there were beeps and buzzers emanating from machines monitoring every breath closer to my final breath of air. I remember thinking, Drive Faster. Hurry, dammit! My brain jumped to a new place: Where’s the guy who stabbed me”
“I heard a heavy THUD come from my waning heart, and I thought - I hope they shot and killed the bastard. But this could be my last thought. I couldn’t allow it to be so loathsome.”
The driver frowned. “Seems like a normal reaction to me.”
“Suddenly, a flashlight’s beam pierced my brain as Tucker looked into my eyes; then nothing. I felt gravity tugging on my body at every turn of the trauma truck. Finally Tucker gasped, ‘We’re losing him,’ and then nothing.”
“I know this is going to sound silly but I thought, ‘SHIT! I can’t die with unfinished business.’ I took back my last rumination, but I could not find it within my dying body to forgive the illegitimate son-of-a-bitch who stabbed me. WOOPS! Another off-colored comment bode poorly on my weakening soul.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t quite normal at the time.”
I inhaled. “One final surge of blood, a fading heartbeat, followed by B - - E- - E- - P! announcing my death on the Electrocardiogram. Another view from above shown two medics: Tucker pounding on my chest to keep my blood flowing, and Smitty using a respirator to support my idle lungs. As the medics accepted their failure, Smitty stormed, ‘He’s gone,’ followed by Tucker muttering, ‘Crap!’ in a low tone.
“Tucker bellowed, ‘Time!’ followed by Smitty looking at her watch and shouting, ‘It’s 3:56 PM’ as she recorded the time.”
“Confirming my death, Tucker pressed, ‘3:56?’”
“Smitty snarled, ‘Affirmative!’ as she packed the trauma kit and the AED (Automated External Defibrillator).”
“But?” coaxed my driver. I held up my index finger to indicate a reply was coming.
“Officially dead, I suddenly felt an electrical pulse kickstart life into my chest. I fought hard to take one breath, another pulse and a second, and then another, and another. The painfully slow beeps from the EKG (Electrocardiogram) started to beep quicker. Five hours later, the doctors stabilized my condition but it was two months before I was released from their care.”
“So what happened to that Palmer Guy?”
“He drew a 15 year sentence for attempted murder. Last I heard, he was killed in prison by a man hired by the man who was having the affair with Palmer’s wife.”
The driver pulled off the country road and parked next to a cornfield; then he opened the trunk of his car. Two minutes later I got out of the car to see what he was doing. When the driver turned towards me he aimed a snub hose .38 at my face.
In a deep, reverberating voice, the man said, “I’m pleased to know you remember Carl Andrew Palmer. My name is Henry Allen Palmer; brother to Carl. Today I’ll be the second person to kill you.”
Thom Schilling is a graduate of Hanover College, and a Neurodivergent (NPH) Competitive Writer who enjoys writing stories about the unusual, the edgy, and all things weird. Since March 2024, Thom has had fourteen short stories published in the United States & Great Britain.
