Monday, May 12, 2014

12:34 (Blogophilia 12.7)

Fading into the gray, the dream of the asshole pigs and mother was replaced with faint images of Sarah and delicate lavender flowers, dimming into the black of death.

The blackness stayed for such a long time he thought had death had really come. He wondered if the next sight was going to be Pastor Galloway, that false prophet,  saying “We are gathered here today…” But who would pay for a funeral for him? The thought drifted away almost as fast as it was formed.

A slight glow grew in the lower left of his vision. He turned toward it, almost without being aware. Drifting on the tidewaters of never, he could feel something ebbing away, shadows of coral and whistles of the deep calming sore synapses.   Like a cork released, the sensation on rising, lifting enveloped his being. The round sun came through the surface like rippled glass. 

Suddenly, there was Pressure. Pressure against his nostrils and chest, pulling him back towards the deep.  He was drowning. Thrashing wildly, the light came closer.  Something felt wrapped around his ankles as he struggled toward the light. It was more than a touch of darkness. It was infinite darkness, the evil from which Mother and the Pigs had sprung. Sarah was the light.  She had to be saved.

The red glow seeped into sight.  12:34. Did that mean something? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. 

As the rest of his consciousness slowly caught up with him, the clock glowing in the dark came into focus. The clock.  It is dark, so that means it is after midnight. What day? Friday? Can’t be, it was Saturday when he was at the bar, wasn’t it? The switches in his mind were maddeningly slow.  He was in bed with no covers, but he wasn’t cold at all. That was strange. 

Turning on to his back, he could make out the round jar shape that was the ceiling light. It spun slowly counterclockwise. He really did tie one on, didn’t he?  He sort of remembered making it in the door and he vaguely remembered the conversation with the pill bottles. The rest was just a blur. 

He vaguely remembered waking is his wet pants and taking them off.  Too scared to lift his head, his hand felt down.  Yes, he was still naked.  Nobody had bothered to check on him, not surprising. Mindlessly, he played with himself.  An image of the gypsy girl he had brought home projected on the far wall his bedroom.  

She had come with him, hoping to recreate something he never had.  A chubby sprite with small breasts and stringy dyed blonde hair, she had reminded him of Sarah. But she stank of cigarettes and hard times and she laughed when his part didn’t work. It took him a week to clean it all up.  What was it she said? There were false truths and honest lies? She was rose food at the Botanical Garden now.  No one missed her, just like no one misses me.  He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his throbbing head.

Temper was always his enemy. Things would go out of focus when the rage came. When he would lash out at Mother, she would send the belt across his face. But the pain was worth it. Rage was replaced with pain, and with the pain was focus. There was a word he heard used when was in the ward, aprosexia, to describe the condition of one of the clients.  Client, isn’t that a lovely way describe somebody?  It had something to do with concentration.  Pain chased distraction and increased concentration.  He was grateful to the hateful bitch for teaching him that. 

Slowly, he stood, testing his balance.  Once he was comfortable, he reached around the bathroom door frame for the switch. Nothing happened, and then he remembered. It had done blown and so had he.  But he didn’t care anymore. A freedom was running now in his mind. Fumbling around for the faucet, he turned the shower on. 

Roaring water against porcelain hurt his ears, but he didn’t mind.  The cold water leached away the scum and dream sweat.  The bar of soap made it into his hand without slipping, and it travelled up and down his shapeless form.  He had never been one for working out.  His body was a shell and prison, not a temple.  He lived completely in his head. And this head was ready for the extermination project.

He was clean enough. Shutting off the water, he found the old, stiff towel it its home on the back wall.  The sandpaper effect against his skin brought him further into focus.  He needed to be clear and well behaved during this planning stage, even if he didn’t want to.  If they got an inkling of what he had in mind, he would be back in the white room.  No he wouldn’t.  It will end for him before that, he was quite sure.  But he wanted to take as many pigs to slaughter as he could before that time came.

Much steadier on his feet, he switched on the lamp next to his bed and looked the clock.  1:15AM. He decided the first thing was to drive out to the farm, but he didn’t want to do that until daylight.  Reaching into his dresser, he saw he only had one clean shirt and one pair of boxers.  Laundry would kill the time until after morning rush hour, when he could slip out on the highway unnoticed. 

Smiling to himself, he thought about the young TV newscaster with the sparkly eyes from the bar.  She’s going to have something to sparkle about soon enough.   And he will have the last laugh. 


  1. Wow! The line "Drifting on the tide of never" really grabbed me! This whole story is going to be epic!
    8 points Earthling! :)


    1. Thank you. Between the alcohol and what is left of the SSRI's he's had quite a ride.

  2. Oh man!!!! What a riveting and chilling write! Diary of a serial really took us deep inside this guy's head. Amazing write, Christopher! :)

  3. Intense story. Is this the first chapter or have I missed some?
    You are continuing, right.
    Intense. Very intense.


    1. The first installment for this set is "3 Sheets. Roll back there and just read forward.

  4. Temper as the enemy - a very right brained reality

    Good stuff - TM

    1. Jeremy lives only in the right brain. He probably is an Asperger's patient to start with and he has never had good experience with emotion or feeling.

  5. Amazing storytelling. You're so very talented.

  6. I have been following this story quite intently. Not wanting to comment because I am so into it and it also your character, Jeremy and my grandson are similar but hopefully my grandson is not plotting anything even close to what Jeremy has in mind! This is indeed a fascinating story

    1. Thank you. Sadly, there are a lot of Jeremy's out there. Damaged, broken and despised through no fault of their own. Forgotten until they make us remember.

  7. I'm still having problems concentrating. I must spend more time with your words. It would be worth my while