Salvation Road

Chapter One: "Phlegm Party"

BENJAMIN

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Benjamin Carlston's head felt like it was going to burst.

He was sprawled on a puke-green carpet in what seemed to be a hot-pink ante-room. Black circles danced in his eyes, and he moaned, coughing up phlegm from his mouth. The cough, however, had not adequately propelled the mouth-goo, so it stuck to his cheek. Slowly, he shook his head in an effort to get it off. For some reason, he knew that he would regret moving his arm to swipe it off. Some great curse—or worse yet, sharp pain—would afflict him immediately thereafter. So he thought it best to find whatever means necessary—barring, you know, reaching toward his face—to get the phlegm.

Not once through the whole ordeal did it ever occur to Benjamin to leave the phlegm be, to go back to whatever slumber from which he came. Benjamin Carlston, simply put, was a perfectionist, and borderline-OCD. He had always been so—not to mention a major germaphobe. Benjamin would not—and could not—stand something being out of place. A dancer out of step. A singer off-key in a chorus. If it wasn't supposed to be there, Benjamin would make sure that it wasn't. And so, the phlegm simply had to go. The slimy, oozy wetness and the uncomfortable warmth that it emanated had to go.

Euch. Benjamin mouthed the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious in a final effort—to no avail. The ball of phlegm stayed stagnant as ever. Benjamin could only see a fraction of the mass of icky goo from his peripheral vision, but he could imagine—somehow, quite clearly—that the phlegm (which was now somehow sentient) would stand up on it's non-existent hind legs and taunt him, waggling a gooey, ever-shifting ball of goo in the general shape of a finger in his face. He sighed. What was happening?

Making going back to sleep no easier was the room itself. Benjamin wasn't sure exactly where he was, but he assumed that it must have been a nursery—there were bluebirds painted along the wall, side-by-side with what seemed to be . . . pigeons? Below them was a thin forest of misshapen trees painted sloppily on top of a neon-pink hill. A bright sun with a bandana (why exactly . . . ?) shone in the corner, rays of sunlight running from it in thick, bold stripes of a sickly yellow that contrasted terribly against the pink background. If Benjamin had to guess, he would think that it was either drawn by a modern artist portraying what the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust might look like . . . or a gaggle of five-year-olds attempting wall-painting.

So yeah. Falling back asleep was not an option.

Groaning with frustration, he buried his face into the carpet. And then smashed his face in

again five more times for good measure. And yet, as he turned onto his back once again, shifting his body carefully—as not to provoke his arm and kick-start whatever horrible thing might happen as a result—the god-forsaken slime had not left his face (which was now red with carpet-burn). In fact, it seemed to have spread, now covering his entire cheek, stretching down to his chin, and near the corner of his eye. He grunted. Blinked. And yet, it would not drip down his cheek and fade into the vast, unbroached expanse of vomit-colored carpet. It clung to him, as if he were its last lifeline, the only way it would ever survive.

Do phlegm have . . . feelings? Benjamin wondered to himself, and immediately thunked the back of his head into the carpet. Two minutes spent on a upchuck-looking carpet in a garishly-decorated room and he was imagining phlegm feelings matter parades. The thought revulsed him.

He decided to sit up. A change of pace might do him some good. Again, with some strange, innate intuition, while he knew that moving his hand would be of the utmost imprudency, that very same way he knew that whatever gods/higher beings that were watching this whole slow-motion trainwreck would be indifferent if he decided to sit up by his own power. He was tempted, surely, to stretch his arm for a split second to help himself up, but after much internal debate, he resorted to shuffling uncomfortable onto his side and—bending his knees—fought his way to an upright position.