Dark Highway in My Head (forerunner for a book I've been working on)

NOTE: There is use of some profanity, drug and alcohol consumtion, and themes in here some may not like

The dark road to nowhere, it’s the enclave of sounds, of busy, of people, of terror. I’m just driving along with thoughts of horror, misguided perceptions, and the paranoia of the shadow people looming over you around every bend. Otherwise, for the sake of me it is the guarantee of the freedom, the wildness of the wind will always hold the sand in the air. It is times like these it is dear to hold thoughts of better days. Sometimes, this instant, I was awakened in a dark room, alone, traveling down this highway from my bed. “Where am I in this horrid land of two rivers?” Possibly placed a strewn across this hellish countryside, or in the city, amongst men, brutal men, skilled at destruction. However all the same I keep trucking on.
Like a fish trapped in a tank does not know anything is wrong it is just aware of its space, in the invisible cage I too am aware of my space, a prisoner in my own brain. This place a place I know of many evil deeds, a place I know the sun spews a hellish inferno onto these people… I can see them through my truck window, I too am sweating. It is not so much the encore of human suffering so much it is the absolute loneliness of one trying to find their true self. Some days it may just be the simplest of human deeds and consideration that will allow me to remember, I may be isolated inside myself but I am not alone but surrounded, and these people affect me. None the less it could just be as fatal to open the truck window. The longing of absolute freedom is as compelling as one trying to cool off out here with a blow dryer. The truth is neither exist, it is only me.
The seeds of origin and the answers to existence are implanted within the consciousness inside all of us. It is imperative to lose the world around you to understand the one you want to be a part of. To unlock the truth about our exisistance begins here in this muddled dream living in the desert amongst strangers.
Is this real? As I awaken by the sound of rain droplets cascading down my bedroom window. I open my eyes to see only myself as a third person figurine still lying in his bed. These dreams, the many less than infallible scenes saw only by the window in my soul…, they bleed.
From my slumber every night I painfully pull these splinters from my brain. Where does this come from, and why can’t I remember? The rain droplets running down the window, I can feel their cool, revitalizing, streams running down my face like little creeks or tributaries from heaven, I can at least imagine through the glass. Where am I? Or as I see it where is he?
As the doctor and nurse stare at this broken man through the observation window inside the intensive care unit the lead nurse Jenny asks Dr. Philips,”Doctor, do you think he is aware of what happened to him?”
The doctor pondered the question for a brief moment and retorted with,”no one really knows what goes on in the psyche of the human mind especially after all the trauma that this man has sustained, however I am not completely convinced that he is totally unaware of things and that perhaps outward stimulus will affect what goes on in his subconscious.”
The hospital lay as a depression in the hearts and minds of all who amply stumble through its doors all with different degrees of ailments, pain and misery. For some it gives a beacon of hope to others it will be the last place they will ever see. The walls are painted of a smooth mint green as pale and plain as the horse rode by death himself. The hallways and rooms all smell of anti-septic and floor wax, it’s a slightly lemon scented disinfectant that brings back memories of childhood doctor visits and gives one the sense of all the pain locked within these corridors. The entire patient and staff body milled around going about their business some concerned about health others about their next pain med fix all but one that is. A police investigator sat outside a room in the ICU, Detective Jax Irving sat there on the bench pondering the task ahead of him. Detective Irving sat on the hard blue plastic bench outside his ”new arrival’s” room reviewing his case file taking a moment to notice the smeared reflection of the florescent lights on the floor especially paying attention to the orange distorted exit sign at the corner of the hallway.
This has been the fourth robbery murder in the past six months, the MO has it pegged to similar to be a coincidence, fortunately this time these bastards #ed up and left this poor bastard alive. Jax sat there with the crisp and new addition to his case file awaiting the doctor to show up and brief him on this John Doe that he now stands over.
The nurse has just arrived at the door to John’s room, outfitted of course with a whole array of medicine, bandages, and a book of poetry presumably to begin care of this human wreckage. Detective Jax stood over this once vibrant with life patient and turned his head to notice the pretty nurse paying particularly close attention to her ”assets” and short brunette hair and brown eyes.
“Is the doctor in?” Jax asked in his most professional tone. (Secretly hoping she didn’t catch him staring.)
Jenny could tell by dark almost endless circles flowing around the detective’s eyes, and his fist clenching files, she even took notice to the raunchy stench of coffee on his breath she knew that he was a police officer. Jenny knew that a police officer would be here eventually to follow up and make a report about this man, especially because of the malice and brutality this poor soul has suffered. Jenny replied, “The doctor will be in shortly sir, but until he arrives is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, that will not be necessary.” replied Jax. Then the detective went back to the blue bench and sat down folding his hands over his lap covering his papers and drifted off into a light nap leaving the nurse to her daily duties.
As detective Irving dozed off the seemingly vegetable like man, the John Doe was far from brain dead. John as everyone has come to know him is trapped in a lucid dream world, a world within the real world a place only he knows. The nurse Jenny starts singing to him John; he believes it to be the voice of an angel. No matter where he is in his reality that voice always brings him back to a bright place in his world, John has noticed this voice just recently and does not even realize he is in coma. He was wondering why she calls him John, that’s not his name. He knows something is different, possibly even wrong, but he cannot quite figure it out because he cannot remember. This man just lays in his hospital bed badly burnt and comatose, trapped somewhere between heaven and hell. In his catatonic state, for the first time in his life he is able to explore himself from the inside, he has a chance to free his soul. The doctors, the nurses, along with the other staffers and patients all feel a great unnerving pity for this poor soul, no one has come to claim him, much less even to report him missing.
“Excuse me, Detective! I’m the primary physician for your John Doe, I’m Dr. Philips.” The doctor didn’t realize that Detective Irving was napping; he only noticed the badge as he rounded the corner on his way to the patient’s room. The Doctor again said “Excuse me Detective!” and almost instantaneously Detective Jax jumped out of his seat as though he had been terribly frightened by the doctor.
“Sir, I am Detective Jax Irving. I have been assigned to investigate this patient, is there anything you can tell me about who this person might be for starters?” inquired the detective.
Doctor Philips kindly responded with a hint of disappointment. “Officer, when this man arrived his clothing and all his personal possessions that he had arrived with were terribly burnt to be honest sir we are not even sure how this man got here, or the faintest clue as how he survived.”
Before the detective had a chance to interrupt, the doctor continued. “As for the extent of his injuries, he received a gunshot wound through his hand that traveled into his shoulder, another gunshot wound to his upper left thigh, and as you can see he has suffered third degree burns over most of his upper body, he got lucky because we have a surgeon that may be able to reconstruct his face, and aid in the healing of the rest of his body. Now, for the coma, I have not determined the cause of the coma, it truly is unfortunate. I understand this man may be able to help you solve an ongoing investigation, that is assuming he ever wakes up and can remember anything.”
“Thank you doctor, and yes this man is of great value to me, so anything he needs, any changes, if he wakes up, I mean if anything, if he gets a visitor whatever, you call me!” Then Detective Jax handed him a business card and left the vicinity of this mess.
John’s room is painted the same bland green color and smells of disinfectant and the sweet smell of Jenny’s perfume. All his life sustaining machines and monitors are lit like a string of vibrant Christmas lights with all the bells and whistles, lest we not forget his wheelchair and walker knick knacks and the endless array of tubes and wires. His heart is steady, breathing is normal, his EKG’s however are through the roof, the monitor keeps hitting new pits and peaks, rising and falling as rapidly as Jenny continues to read to him. His fresh bandages and burn gel cover his body and face making his appearance to be like dead Egyptian royalty getting mummified while his beautiful priestess is guiding him through the land of the dead. A brief moment of silence passes as Jenny put the book down to anoint his burnt, wounded hands, she bent over and looked into the empty eyes of her ward and took notice to how blue and beautiful his eyes are, like a big blue ocean, a feeling of hope came over her as she makes a silent promise to herself to stay with him until the end.
Dr. Philips enters the room before Jenny had a chance to sit back down to continue to read to John and he moves to her left to review the machines and update his charts. He stands there in silence for a brief moment without lifting his eyes or pen from his patient log asks Jenny, “Has there been any progress with his bullet wounds?”

Jenny quasi embarrassed from almost getting caught reading to her patient sheepishly replied, “Uh, they appear to be healing, there was less bile and capillary blood on his bandages and he seems to be taking well to the antibiotics. Doctor, do you think he received the wound on his hand begging for his life? What kind of monster could do this to him?”
“Jenny, I don’t honestly know for sure if that’s what happened but this man certainly is lucky to be alive, however due to the seriousness and brutality of his wounds it is quite possible.” Doctor Philips responded you could hear the pity in his voice.
Jenny left the hospital like she usually does, down the west wing corridor stopping at all her patients rooms to wish them well, she often stops at the nurses desk to check her email before heading home for the day but today she stopped at John’s room last. Jenny slowly pushed the door open and walked over to his side bent over and softly whispered into his ear, ”Wake up John it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow.” As she left him she made sure to place the bible she had purchased him at the hospital gift shop into his neatly folded hands, she thought he would have appreciated it if he was awake.
Jenny has always been beautiful she’s always dressed in fresh and vibrant colored outfits that always match her carefully planned hospital work scrubs. She causes all the men in the hospital to stop what they’re doing to admire her beauty; she truly is an angel just as beautiful on the inside as well as on the outside. Jenny, also known as “Super Nurse” to some of her older patients glided across the main lobby wishing the security guards and valets a good day. She got out and into the parking lot allowing the warm sun to drench her soft face in the sunlight as she made her way to her car…
John stands before himself engulfed in his comatose fantasy, completely unaware anything is abnormal because after all it is all in his head. He sees himself as child kneeling before his bed saying his prayers, asking the lord to help his family have a better relationship when all of a sudden a monster rips through his bedroom closet. The earth around him shook with a certain tenor vibrating almost systematically; he falls to the ground frozen with fear, and urinates in his pajamas. Before closing his eyes he looks at the winged creature very quickly approaching his bed side and starts to cry and shriek out of sheer and utter terror. The beast had a jagged tooth mouth like a shark and appeared to have dead tree branches protruding its leathery dark brown hide its mouth open and drooling, John could feel the monsters hot breath poor over his body with claws raised ready to deliver a deadly blow, then a miracle happened, John hears the voice of an angel.
John opens his eyes and he stands as a grown man in a universe of brilliant, glowing white all around him, he couldn’t tell if there was something he was standing on there was not even a shadow it was all undiscernibly white, he was relieved he did not fight the monster. He could hear that beautiful voice again he could smell her getting closer, this place isn’t an unfamiliar place that voice always puts him in the comfort and safety of this white utopia. John always gets excited when she comes to him, her stammering beauty and soft intoxicating voice is so inviting John could possibly conclude that he is in love, he wonders if she is going to read or sing to him again. In the distance he can see her dramatically descending from above, and she speaks, “Wake up John it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow.”
“What does that mean angel?” John asked, but she just stood there and looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes.
She handed John a box about the size of a large book and disappeared, John always tries to speak with her but she never does acknowledge his advances, this is the first time that she has ever given him anything, and that alone for him was exciting enough and he was content.
“I wonder what’s in this.” John asked himself, as the white room bled into his house on Philadelphia Street.
Detective Jax Irving sits on his couch in front of his case file spread open in a disorganized fashion on his coffee table. His apartment is a substandard barely livable accommodation; its walls and ceiling where white at one time but lately they appear weathered and stained a disgusting yellow from all the cigarettes smoked within these walls over the years. The scratched wooden plank floors are hardly dressed with ragged carpets and stray cigarette ashes and empty whiskey bottles, the air was staunched and smelled of stale alcohol, his place is not what one would expect a former U.S. Marine, and prized police officer to occupy. Unfortunately, this is what happened to him after the divorce, he only usually goes there when his boss makes him go “home” anyway.
Taking a moment before he gets down to business Jax takes a drink, he closes his eyes and lets the familiar warmth of the whiskey flow into him deeply, burning his stress away. He opens his eyes and sets the whiskey glass beside the bottle in its familiar spot accented with its own ring worn into the wood from heavy use over these past rough years. “What’s the connection, how do I find you bastards?” He asked himself out loud.
Going through his case file he can deduce a few things organic to these particular crimes, his forensics team has concluded through ballistics and spent ammunition at all four crime scenes that a Colt .45 model 1911 was used, ballistics also confirm that it is a pistol used in connection with 6 other unsolved murders. Looking at his satellite imagery he has his beliefs that the crime scenes may not be as random as what he originally thought. He has his imagery laid out before him and in red marker he has circled the crime scenes and in yellow he has circled all the bars in the surrounding area, in all four locations of the arsons there is at least two bars within four blocks. Since there has not been any evidence or eye witnesses to suggest that a vehicle was involved the detective believes this may be a good place to start.
He shuffles through his crime scene photos, a whole portfolio of malice and destruction some of them are boisterous representations of an evil ravenous angst, all of that blood and charred corpses they are sickening. Jax has noticed that all victims were in bed and the origin of all of the arsons were started in front of each bedroom door, Jax thought to himself “Why the # would you little #s do it like this, they must like to build fear and listen to them plead for their lives.”
Most of the homes are now just a black scar on the face of the city, leaving little clues to follow but Jax knows one thing, he is dealing with some sick and dangerous #s. At one crime scene the one on Pershing Street, they slipped up and the crime scene investigators discovered three sets of foot prints that only the perpetrators could have left inside the home, it makes him believe that this may be gang related.
Detective Jax sat there and pondered away at his case load for a minute and picked up his coveted bottle of Makers Mark and poured himself another glass. He sat there, glass in hand, casually sipping away the amber liquid and popped a cigarette out of a fresh pack into his mouth not realizing his ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts, ashes, and liquor bottle tops. He puffed away at the soothing menthol taste of his favorite brand, Kool mediums, his arm descended down onto the table to ash his cigarette realizing he needs to empty his ashtray but instead he lazily left it overflowing and replaced it with an empty beer bottle on the floor. He snickered to himself for a brief second “Oh, the joys of bachelorhood.”
Then his mind re-cocked back to his work for about a tenth of a second and thought about his John Doe, then naturally to that gorgeous woman nurse from the ICU ward, “What a great body on that broad!” Jax thought to himself, and again naturally he wondered, “Hmm, wonder if I got a chance with that?” He then looked at his watch and figured it was getting a little late even for him after all it was rounding 3 A.M. so he decided to finish his drink and retire to his room which he fondly refers to as Sanford and Sons Junkyard for some well deserved rest…
The sounds of squeaky wheel chairs and rubber hospital booties screech against the flawlessly smooth and shiny hospital floors outside of John Doe’s room, the stark colors of the red and green lights reach out from John’s machines piercing the darkness all around him almost gently tucking him in. The pale glow of the overhead florescent lights in the hallway bleed into his room from his one and only window, almost reminiscent of the moon, this scene of serenity is all of a sudden turned into war zone.
His machines started crashing, the whips and wails of him thrashing around accented by the air raid styled sounds of his life sustaining machines crying out to the world all around him. Moments before the crash John was reliving his tragic misfortune…
It was another American summer in 2009, the air all around him was warm and teeming with life and the smells of summer and all its glory lingered in the air. The orange and pink glow of the sky hangs loosely in the heavens like a cradle to put the sun to rest after another long day. The sun dances through the matriarch of leaves and branches, it creeps up the lawns and to the doors of all the houses in the land almost wishing all occupants a good night. The last of the children are returning home from the park as the eprovescent colors of the dull blues and whites being to pour out from the street lamps all around them. It was another ending to a beautiful day, except for John.
The trio of will be attackers are just leaving there first bar of the evening, stagnant with evil and horrible intentions they decide to head to a suburban bar called “The Fox Hole” to cap off the night. They have never been to this bar but hear this is “the spot” if they want to score some high class hookers and drink themselves into a stupor if they so choose to. The three gangsters wordlessly and purposefully made their way down the 800’s block of Philadelphia Street until they arrived at their destination, a plethora of neon lights and people.
“John” was just returning home from a late day working in the construction yard, figuring he would get into his place and twist one up and smoke a little pot, maybe drink a couple beers, he makes his way into the front door. 1402 Philadelphia Street, John’s home, it was another typical home in the neighborhood some might even consider it historic, adorned with a small mostly grassless yard and a size of humble stature with red fire inlayed bricks makes this place appear to be as old and rustic as the city itself.
John gets inside and closes his door and with a quick flick of his finger turns the living room lights on so he can make his way to the refrigerator dropping his keys off on their respective hook. The refreshing look of an incandescent glow of his soft refrigerator bulb emanates through the vaporous steam coming out of his ice box is what he looks for as the ending of another day, except of course for the tasty beverage he is actually in there for. “Ah, what a day!” John thought as the fridge door was closing behind him as he left to lounge in front of his T.V. He sat down on his beaten and worn couch and lifted a wooden box from underneath, containing a large cache of weed and a pack of blunts he begins to roll himself a joint. In the coming moments John lights up and the room fills with the pungent, incense like smoke originating from his mouth, one puff after another he entertains himself by blowing smoke rings into the air in front of his face to only then cut them in half with the glowing ember of his smoldering vice. His lights have been dimmed and the somber glow of his television drowns him where he sits except of course for the almost erythematic schedule he holds while puffing away on his joint it interrupts the serenity with its shale orange glow.
John dozed off shortly after his “smoke” he didn’t have a chance the marijuana put him down quickly he didn’t even finish his beer, T.V. still on he still quite stoned sluggishly brought up the guide and noticed the time “Jeez, I’ve been out for almost 6 hours it’s already 2:15 in the #ing morning!”
He grabbed his now warm beer and made his way up the stairs to his room, not realizing in his intoxicated state he had made a terminal error…, he forgot to lock up, forgot to turn on his porch light to deter any prospective burglars. John lays there in his bed alone with his beer, still suffering the loss of his recent break up with his lover missing the company and warmth of her beside him night after he places his now half empty drink on the night stand with all the other bottles from previous nights and drifts into a deep sleep, the darkness takes him.

“Yo, # these bitches homie!” exuberantly remarks DB.
Poochie the youngest of the trio follows up to DB he fires back, “Yeah no kidding, can you believe that hoe, telling me I’m looking to grimy for her, you see this ice # her! Lucky bitch should’ve bitched smacked her fat ass all up and down that mother #er!”
“Yo, listen up you stupid mother #ers!” says Dante the leader of this trio. “Hey Poochie, you know what tonight is right? Time for your ass to man up and be one of us!”
Poochie, Dante, and DB are part of a local gang sect “The brotherhood” these guys are some mean thugs, they only care about money and the glory of violence, they kill for fun with no intention “murder in murder out and get that money” that’s their motto. Tonight is the night for Poochie to get his “Blood Stripe” or his right to call himself a “brother” he has to choose a random house burglarize it and murder its occupants. Unbeknownst to Poochie, Dante is a fire bug he’s got a flare for the extreme and likes to be dramatic, after Poochie “proves” himself he’s got other ideas about what will go down next. DB is the thief he’s got a thing for armed robbery anyway, actually enjoys knocking off small convenience and liquor stores, so he figures he’s going tag along anyways, “For kicks” as he’d put it.
The small group of thugs makes their way down Philadelphia Street casually and calmly walking along until they get to 1402, “Yo! Stop nukka’s this is it we going to clap this place and the sorry mother #ers inside it!” Rejoices Poochie, the other two their unbiased and don’t really care which one it is, they just want to see Poochie “smoke” someone.
“Look my lucky day.” Whispered Poochie as he didn’t even need to shimmy the door open with a screw driver, he was overjoyed to turn the handle and creep inside. The three of them staying quite start searching around the dimly lit abode using the pale lights in their cell phones to slither through the house. Poochie starts his ascent up the stairs trying to find his target or targets, he walks ever so carefully as to not make a sound, he thought to himself “Yea nigga not even Santa’s this good!”
Poochie’s shadow appears blacker then black against the coral colored wall behind him as the little trinket lights of Johns cable box and cell phone charger silhouette him as he gets to the top of the stairs into the hallway where john’s asleep. He makes it to the door to John’s bedroom and slowly turns the tarnished brass doorknob open so carefully is makes only a whisper out of the usually noisy handle, he slowly opens the door and crosses the threshold, his heart is pounding his adrenaline is in a free fall so much so that he can actually feel his eyes dilating over his alcohol induced buzz…
The other assassins, DB and Dante are snooping around all of John’s possessions without getting to ambitious of course they want to make sure they own the situation they want to own this house for the moment until it is raped and left to ashes. They carefully and quietly pilfer through every drawer and cabinet like busy, busy, busy little bee’s rummaging, stealing any little thing just waiting for Poochie to get back down and give them the green light on his mission. DB makes his way into the television room and notices an ornate, almost nostalgic looking box sitting on the floor under the worn raggedy couch he approached and picked it up. DB sat there on the couch with the box in hand he ran his fingers over the intricate wooden carvings on the exterior of the box, “it feels like a dragon or maybe plants of sorts,” DB thought to himself before carefully opening the box. As the box opened he could smell that familiar odor of marijuana wafting out of the box and dance around his nose, DB couldn’t have been happier so he pocketed the weed and blunts and set the empty box back down on the couch.
Poochie lowered his head down the stairs really carefully through the wooden slats supporting the maple hand railings on the outward side of the stair case as quietly as possible and hissed, “Psssst, got a live one up here, ready to do this #?”
The gang started to gather up all garbage, papers, anything flammable and started to stack it all up by the bedroom door as swiftly as possible without making a sound like a pack of predators stalking, hunting moving in for the kill. Poochie opened the door just enough to lift his Colt .45 model 1911 through the crack, he was sweating it was beading on his brow like a collective rain swelling in the gutter he tried to fix his site on his mark the best he could in the darkness but his hands trembled something fierce and the front site tip bobbled to and fro…
In his mind back at the hospital John relives the horrid night that condemned him to this eternal twilight, the moments leading up to his machine failures were indeed cruel and strange and perhaps necessary for the sake of him.
…It was another American summer in 2009, just another day that is except for “John”. On this evening “John” was awakened out of deep drug induced slumber in the middle of the night by the sound of gunshots slicing the air all around him. As he scrambled out of the security of his bed horrified, looking for cover and his pistol his eyes were drawn to the dancing flames creeping into his room from under the bedroom door. His mind raced with all kinds of thoughts, none of which are good, “Am I being robbed, what did I do to deserve this?” he paused to catch his breath, breathing heavily inhaling the thick viscous smoke and fumes drowning the air out of his room (The familiar smell of burning paper and chemicals set ablaze reminds him of his days in Iraq) “Oh my God! What do I do?”
The fear set in instantly like a rapid trickle of snake venom raging through his veins, he knew the only way out was through that door. Through the smoke, through the darkness he could see the paint bubbling off the bedroom door, he could hear the air puff out of the blisters and the crack of the moisture exploding from the heat, “God save me please?”
The sound of shuffling feet manifested outside his door squandering over broken glass in what he assumed to be the hallway, hoping it was the fire department with a lung fired smoke filled breath he managed to cry out a plea for his life “I’m in here, HEEEELP! I’m over here help me please…Over here!”
His pleas were answered, only it wasn’t the fire department in his hallway. His screams were answered by another volley of gunfire into his door, through his wall and door molding, he could feel the wooden shrapnel bounce and ricochet off his face. The last thing he saw with his own (physical) eyes was a plume of flames burst through the bullet holes in his door in a back draft fashion. His last feeling became a calming blue like a solitary winter not so much a state of mind but a state of being, it rapidly engulfed him, drowning him like being baptized in the Arctic, he never felt the heat as the flames consumed him his last conscious act he could feel his lungs fill with smoke it burned and choked him, he heard in the distance over the roaring flames one word “Poochie”.
Back at the hospital Dr. Philips raced to John’s room the whipping and wailing of the emergency alarms were his guide. Dr. Philips made the corner towards John’s room he could see the swirling crimson light above his door, he made it to the room just in time and with a mighty heave he flung the wheel chair sized door open and rushed to his aid. The good doctor started analyzing the readings on the monitors, assessing John’s physical reactions he started working to stabilize him. By this time the doctor’s team has arrived and they started working like men possessed. Dr. Philips started a drip of sedatives into his I.V. tubes to control the seizures, while the night nurse put a bit into his mouth to restrain him from biting off or swallowing his own tongue. Hours past as the night bled into morning, the exhausted team of doctors and nurses depart John’s room for some much needed rest, content with a job well done they all filed through the oversized hospital door. Dr. Philips headed to the make shift “bedroom” in the ICU ward to lay down for a nap he carefully sat down on the military style heavy wool blanket as for some reason not to disturb it and begin to remove his non-slip hospital shoes thinking to himself, “Damn I’m tired!”
He lies down on the top of the cot above covers and let his eyes close for a moment and began to let images of his wife and family roll through his head, Dr. Philips begins to feel guilty about his own feelings reflecting on the fight he had a couple nights before. “Dammit Michael, when are you going start acting like you love me, when are you going to start treating me like a wife?” are the words of his wife Mandy that echo inside his head.
He knows he needs to tell her at some point that he is bored with her, he feels guilty after 11 years of marriage through all the sleepless nights in the hospital two children and almost a lifetime of beautiful moments, he doesn’t even love her anymore. Dr. Philips slowly drifts away into the “fuzzy” place between sleep and diluted awareness; he was fantasizing about sex with Jenny.
John unaware of he is having a seizure and is flirting with death he lay there existing in his “dream world” having just relived his last moments of his so-called-life he sees himself standing before a great mirror upset with God because he is so confused he actually believes he is dead, he thinks he is in the great void about to cross over to the kingdom of heaven, but he (God) never comes to take him.

Thread will 404 in 4,3,2,1..

reply to post by Frankenchrist


Thanks for the vote of confidence did you read the whole thing? Did you like or dislike any of it?

reply to post by Brotherman

That was really good friend
Such great descriptions and feelings. Very well done.
-nat

Normally I would try to struggle through the endless wall of text, but I'm too tired. You need to put spaces between your paragraphs if you want more people to read this. Sorry, just trying to be helpful.

reply to post by Night Star


I tried to it looks so much different in the post when i was posting them and then when it appears on here I really really tried to put normal paragraphs and spacing them but wouldnt post the way it looked if you know what i mean

Oh, ok. Well maybe tomorrow I can try and struggle through then.

reply to post by Brotherman

I didn't have trouble reading it at all. It captured me, I really enjoyed the descriptions and details. I could see it and feel the emotions . I personally did not see it as a wall of text. I think you did a very good job and glad you shared it
-nat

reply to post by natalia


there will be more to come i promise

Brotherman, it kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. Dude you can write! The descriptions were wonderful and never felt forced, true depth and feel for the philosophical musings of life in all it's glory, hopes, and agony. Legitimate suspense. Bravura.

Yeah, I want more...

reply to post by The GUT


Thank you for reading, There is a whole lot more to come I will only post when I feel it is polished enough at least for rudimentary review, the way we all see and feel the world is infinitely different, I just try to describe the realities of how I may see things in the outside looking in, on the inside looking out, on the inside only , from the outside completely etc etc. I probably have to much time on my hands. Thank you for reading

reply to post by Brotherman


Nice work!

You know, when you do art, you NEED to take the time to produce it. An artist NEVER has too much time on his hands.

No go and make them busy, them hands, so we can read the rest!

reply to post by NowanKenubi


Thank you for taking the time to read through all of that, what did you like about it so far? what didnt you like?