It was a dark and stormy night as all such stories go... but this story is not one of those. It all happened whether it was day or night stormy or
calm char1 was unconscious so he couldn’t have known what I am about to tell you.
It was dark but not night, there were clouds but only in memory... as char1 woke it was if the dead had risen. His mouth dry and eyes crusted over and
out of sorts... and she was there; but he did not know that. Was she just visiting? Or was she from another world? Char1 had asked himself that many
times apparent by the many conversations we had over the course of knowing him as he presented himself in layers. A mystery for the mysterious and
keeping oneself stranger is sometimes at arms length instead of behind closed doors.
Some keep arms length, closed doors and closets firmly locked... too scared to venture on the other side; with all of the corpses and seeing them self
as some sort of ghoul. So the mask is “this is me” this entire thing of course isn’t about me... as I am just; a teller of this tale.
CH1 Sombre days are here again...
Before the sombre days there were the sober days... the days of ignorance feigning and fending happiness in a chosen stupor of that drunkenness only
sobriety and have seen too much can bring... close the curtain, shut the drapes, close and lock the doors I have gone too far and need a public mask
from the horrors of life outside the norm.
That’s the real monster; the one looming ready to break out unmask you and wear your face as you have stolen it’s own... of course char1 ignorant
of this; but she was not. He was smitten at first glance the darkness creeping out of the closet he longed to keep away. As any siren song goes... the
tea was totaled and about to be on the rocks. Would it save char1? Would she?
...but remember these are the sombre days not the sober or on the rock days the just kidding myself days; the everyone knows it is because of my
nervous little laugh days. As my art of faking it has yet to ripen into a full blown sociopath days... those sorts typically take to the cloth, so
confident in themselves they can make all sorts of devils heavens and hells for people, out of their closets... however condensing them down to the
classic is easier in doing so, in order to hide the real beast... those days are yet to be mentioned.
Sombre has a ring to it like a fine glass of wine and only a tune the rim with a wet finger can attain. Each have their days of wine, and in between
others not wanting to listen including oneself? Those are the days called sombre... no adversary no armchair psychologist just blank... in sense
drifting in a self induced purgatory, others just call it stuck. A burden no one else could lift... every attempt back breaking for others, because
they are not the ones that put their legs to it all to begin with.
Such a weightiness... where no angel could help, and no demon could be blamed. The paradise of innocence lost in a sea of yesterday, to one’s
craving eating at them to feed it. That big looming creature called future seeking comfort in anytime any place and anything but here... some Greeks
liked to think and imagine the folly of youth dancing halcyon among the meadows with not a single care, while they know full well it is the Elysian
fields already fallen in battle to each and every whim and fancy... or has yet too.
The prelude to sombre days if you will...
Ch2 Chr1 shrugs...
The space between yesterday and tomorrow is that pesky thing called eternity, some take it down to the smallest moment possible and at the shortest
distance is that a Max Planck in your eyes or are you just happy to see me... going no where being no body in such a short expanse of time... smiling
not so grim as one might imagine when all is out of closets, out from behind doors, and not at any arms length.
Chr1 wipes his eye crust away, smacks his dry mouth and yawns in a cool sweat... his blinking rapid and the sweat turns to heat as his mind shifts
into focus. His nose catches her sent for a brief moment, his mind races in a grasp and it all starts flooding back to him in a moment of terror and
longing but not for her... as his heart beats again so he notices it. The day has finally come alive... the sounds from outside echoing in. the
ceiling fan spinning it’s own slow dizzy tale of dust me... dust me... dust me... dust me...
The scent of a woman changes over time; the scent of the one you love like a flower never does... transcending time and space love beats against the
breast beats against the ground as step by step one inches out of that eternity into yesterdays dream trying to shuffle future into place. How will
the seconds, minutes, hours stack up as the cards are played out... will it matter when one ends up face down at the end of everyday? Depends if one
deserves to be rolled over come morning out of that grave to face the ol rinse and repeat.
The shower streamed down over chr1’s shoulders, he had to duck or else hit his head on the spout. Even though this had occurred many times he would
still arch back in a stretch and clunk! almost like that was the alarm to stop stretching... and the good feeling from the stretch immediately lost.
Clouds looming fogging mirrors as darkness retreats back into the space where nothing to see or know here exists...
Wiping away the mirror with his razor in hand was a mistake; and he knew it... instantly as it caught the trim flipped it and cut his finger open
flipping the razor on the vanity and towel dropping onto the floor... why do I even bother crossed his mind. The bother... blanketed over everything
and not just steamy mirrors. It could be called morose or even sombre... but those days have yet to come. Picking up the towel his back popped a flood
of dizziness over took him from the hot shower as his knees buckled; his bloody hand lands again on the razor trying to not fall over...
Yanking his hand away just when he needed it, in a yelp that neighbors might accuse him of having a dog against lease prohibition; the morning wins
with a royal flush as his head strikes the toilet... knocking him out cold.
Still bleeding... which is what the towel was supposed to do; irony by any other name would have been the wrinkled shirt hanging on the door yet to be
ironed. For a day chr1 never saw.
A banging on the door didn’t wake him, yelling didn’t wake him, three days after being in a hospital did. Chr1 stared blankly at his hand brows
furrowed almost coming to a point but none could be made... reality had changed too many senses to be a dream. But unconsciousness has a way of doing
that when so many senses cannot be denied... people used to pinch themselves just to make sure pain was still there as in dream one supposedly will
not feel it. So dream with an dream typically left to thought as chr1’s eyes drifted down the IV tube down to his arm and to the needle taped
aggressively to his arm.
Ham handed not typically a good nursing trait... as they have gone mechanical in operation as if one was a floor getting a broom just to get it done
because so many other floors to sweep through in the mind going round and round. As his eyes crossed the room too stereotypical of hospital rooms to
mention, one thing stood out... he had a roommate behind a screen and they had the window spot meaning silhouette and no other view of outside to see
the source of natural light.
edit on 24-2-2018 by BEBOG because: sp. clar.