It’s here. I feel it.The pressure is immense, pushing on my lungs, making me gasp for every breath.
I open my eyes, as if that’s going to do any good: I’m totally blind in the dark. What the hell do I think I’m going to see? And if I could see in this absence of light, would I see what’s really here anyway? Often enough, I have caught glimpses of what might be present, framed against some subtle light filtering through the cracks in my room, only to have everything vanish into nothingness. But the presence never leaves.
My room. That’s a laugh for you. My room is my garage; my bed is an old couch. While the rest of my family sleeps in comfort, I suffer the indignity of sleeping in an overfilled garage with barely enough room to walk from the house to my bed.
I reach over and turn on my lamp. Once my eyes adjust to the sudden onslaught of light, my suspicions are confirmed: I can see nothing but huge piles of boxes stacked everywhere – the ultimate storage area. I leave the light on for only a short time. my pounding head needs darkness now. Whatever lurks here is secondary to me at the moment. My pain overcomes the fear.
It’s midnight. I have two more hours to sleep. That’s if I can return to it. When was the last time I was truly able to sleep? The pain, the constant pain, never leaving – how long have I endured it this time around? And this…this presence, whatever it is, crawling over me, pushing on me, leaving a disgusting mold-like stench in my nose. I can hear it too, making almost a cackling sound, taunting me, laughing at me, daring me to do anything about it. But I never see it. Right now it envelops me with its horror. It attacks my body and my mind. Reality and fiction are blurred. Weird visions pop in and out of my brain, tormenting me with things I have never seen before: dark and obscure beings with evil at their core, moving slowly through fog filled landscapes, their red eyes shining in the darkness, greeting everything they encounter with hideous laughter before dragging them beneath the fog.
” Show yourself, damn it! Show yourself! ” I holler out.
Whatever it is doesn’t show itself, but neither does it leave. It never fucking leaves.
I slip in and out of sleep, too restless and in too much pain to stay asleep, but needing some sort of rest. Something comes crashing down at the far end of the garage, and I hear little scurrying feet moving around towards the cracks alongside the overhead door to escape whatever is there. Even the mice know it’s here, disrupting my life, tossing torment at me from every conceivable angle. The little furry bastards have no courage: for now, they retreat, but they’ll be back when things settle down. How could they possibly refuse the smorgasbord of delight spread out before them? My wife insists on storing flour and cereal out here – easy pickings for the little vermin. And when they’re done munching on that, they hop up on my couch in hopes of…in hopes of what? Nibbling on a couple of fingers for desert? I don’t think so. I can remember nights in Vietnam, lying down in the rice paddies to avoid detection by the ‘Cong, the rats – huge, hungry creatures swarming from everywhere – running all over me. It was tolerable as long as they kept moving, but when they stopped, planted on my chest just inches from my face, it scared the shit out of me. If they bit me, there would be a chance of rabies;if I moved too much, I would alert the enemy to my position. Fortunately, I was never bitten. These little mice in the garage are not my favorite sleeping buddies, but they are not as terrifying as the rats.
Until my alarm goes off at 2:00A.M., my unseen nemesis stays with me. It relishes most the moments when I have the dream: Vietnam, having just escaped from the POW camp, carrying my best friend in my arms, running barefoot for two days and two nights through the jungle, collapsing against a tree when I finally reach freedom, only to find out my friend is dead. My tears and my angst make this monster laugh.
” You always get fucked over, don’t you? ” it says, this time distinct enough that I can tell whatever it is is male. ” You never win. you always lose. ”
Yes, he’s right, but I’m not going to give in to him. He scares the shit out of me, so close I can feel his breath on on my face and smell his decaying, moldy odor. The stench is at once putrefying and suffocating; the pressure returns to my chest. Tasting his foulness, I must get out of the garage.
I slip into the house and use the john, my adversary choosing to remain in the garage. After that, I put a mug of coffee into the microwave and set it to boiling. For me, coffee has to be hot. While it’s heating up, I down my pain medication, grab an ice cube, and drop it into a cup. When the coffee is ready, I bring everything to my recliner: my morning ritual. Every morning, it takes me a good hour to attack my headaches.The ice, so deliciously cold against my head, starts working its magic. Nature in motion; the most basic of therapies. It makes a mess at times, the droplets cascading down my face, but what difference does it make? This isn’t a fashion show; this is pain, and I need to deal with it.
This morning the pain is especially bad and it takes two mugs of coffee and three ice cubes before I’m ready to go to work. For me, going to work is a little more involved than popping the key into the ignition and barreling down the road. I run to work. The pain makes it insufferable at times, but I have to do it. The blood needs to be shoved around my body, bringing its life force to every conceivable part of me. I brush my teeth, put my working clothes and lunch inside my backpack, check on my children, and I’m out the door.
The early morning air feels good on my tortured head, the coolness helping combat the pain. It’s not cool enough for sweat pants today. That means I’ll be battling the heat on my run back.
Work is only three miles or so from my house – yes, house: I have long since stopped calling it home. My seven children are here, but I can’t live with their mother any longer. While I’ve been fighting this pain inside me, she’s been playing slap and tickle with a former flame. Good woman: I work my ass off for her and my children, and she snubs me, even to the point of admitting it to me. ” There’s enough love in my heart for both of you, ‘ she says. What? Is this the stuff of marriage? Is this the for better or worse, in sickness or in health part?
The run always helps. I would be nothing without it. Nothing. It is the one semblance of peace in my erratic day. I enjoy my work and can escape within its insanity of schedule and chaos, but running makes me feel free. It is me; I am it.
My morning run is my favorite of the two. I can’t see in the darkness, but I can feel the contours of the road through my feet, and by keeping my stride short enough so my center of gravity is always stable, I won’t tumble if I hit a pothole. it’s worth it to enjoy the solitude, the almost virginity of the day, as if nothing like it has ever occurred before. And yet…
Peace is finally hitting my pain wracked body and I begin to almost float along, lost in thoughts far removed from any I had last night. I am lulled into a sense of false security and don’t notice when a car jumps at me from the other side of the street. Its lights are off and the engine is purring so smoothly that it is almost like some sort of a phantom car. What the hell is this idiot doing driving around like this in the dark? Thinking of nothing better to do, I flip him off and holler at him to turn his lights on and watch out. This only seems to infuriate him more because he turns around, guns the engine, and comes after me again. I dart between a couple of parked cars and veer off across a dividing island. This puts some distance between us, but he makes it up rapidly, speeding around the corner like a demon possessed. As fast as I can move, I make it to some two story apartment units and run up the stairs. I’m safe up here. he certainly can’t drive up to get me. If he gets out of the car and comes after me, that’s one thing – that doesn’t bother me: I can defend myself from some road rage driver out of his car. A gonzo idiot behind the wheel of a big chunk of metal is another story.
The driver roars to a stop at the very edge of the stairs, gunning his engine, backing up a bit, and coming back to the stairs again. It’s almost as if he’s trying to decide if he can drive up the stairs. This is one hard core idiot here. After what seems like an eternity, he backs up and drives out of the parking lot. Shit! What do I do now? I still have two more miles to run before I’m at work. Do I hide up here in my safe haven and wait for the sun to rise, or do I get rid of my shackles of fear and suck it up like a man? This guy is probably just some drunk and might be stopped at some intersection right now, sound asleep and not even remembering having chased me up the stairs.
” C’mon, man. Get a grip. You’re letting everything get to you now, ” I tell myself out loud, ashamed when I hear my own scared voice trying to calm myself down.
With as much boldness as I can muster, I walk downstairs and look around before I set out a cautious pace, wanting to keep my guard up this time. I’m no more than a quarter of a mile away when the car pulls up again on the other side of the road, this time just ambling along, matching my speed but not exceeding it. It is still too dark to catch a glimpse of the driver other than the fact he appears to be wearing some kind of a hoodie. Oh, this is great: some stupid, wandering barrio kid on the wrong side of town. As for the car, all I can tell is that it’s not new, but it appears to have a shape built for speed. It looks familiar and yet…I don’t know; I can’t say for sure.
I pass the newly built elementary school and reach a big, wide open park – no trees at all, other than the skinny little whippets they plant just so they can say they’re planting trees in a park. He comes at me then, that finely tuned machine of his almost on me before I know it. It was all a trap! A damned trap that I was stupid enough to fall into. He has me now and he knows it. I’m his to do with as he pleases: the open target, his pawn, the morning merriment for his twisted mind. Stupid imbecile that I am, I deserve to be run over like some worthless pile of cow dung present in the surrounding prairies.
In one lucky stumble, I manage to fall just ahead of the lurching car. Turning again, much faster than I would have expected, he’s on me, and I run in a zig-zag fashion to make it difficult for him to keep me dead center in his sights. He nabs me a couple of times. sending me to the ground, and my body starts wracking up wounds. Blood starts flowing freely from above my right eye and pours in, blurring my vision, my already erratic stumbling getting worse and worse. Hideous laughter pours out from the open window. He knows I’m his; whenever he decides it’s time, it’ll be over.
Lights from a car going up the hill flash on some sort of huge boulder, placed – for some unknown reason to me – in the middle of the field. I sprint for it, abandoning my zig-zag approach for now; I have to get there. It’s my only hope. Just before being swept under the front of the car, I reach the massive boulder and throw myself up on it.The car makes an almost painful, hideous sound as metal meets rock. the rock wins.
I rest for a few seconds, making sure I will have the energy to give this guy, whoever he is, what he deserves. Expecting him to be in some stage of shock after hitting the boulder as hard as he did, I’m surprised to see him pulling the car off the boulder. Not trying to pull it off, but actually doing it. Any macho thoughts of mine are totally gone now: I run out of the park for all I’m worth and take the shortest street to the railroad tracks that I can find. Once there, I’ll be a lot safer. As short as the street is, I reach the tracks and am crawling in between a couple of stopped rail cars when the car arrives.
” This time you were lucky! ” the driver shouts out. ” There will be a next time. ”
The rest of my run is in pain. I run past the huge microwave dishes and slip in through the security gates, heading straight for the shower. One look in the rest room mirror confirms what I already know: there isn’t a part of me that isn’t bruised, scraped, or cut. No shaving today. I hurt too much to mess with it.
The hot, soothing water runs down my body. I’m in no hurry to leave the comfort of the shower. Besides, I have to wait until the blood stops pouring down the drain.
” Give in to it. Let the pain go. You’ve endured enough.’
” Shut the fuck up! ” I holler.
The blood finally stops flowing and I get out of the shower. No one is here. What do I expect, anyway?
Oh, shit. Like I really need this. I almost get killed running to work, and now a voice, the same voice that I heard this morning in my garage, is talking to me at work. How much more of this can I take? I can see myself walking into the VA and telling them about phantom cars chasing me, voices telling me to just let go, and unseen monsters pushing down on my chest. Here comes the white padded room. No one can drive a car into there, though. I would be safe within the confines of the room: unless the monster pushed a wall down on me.
I sit down on a chair next to the shower and take a breather. This will not be an easy day: no rest last night and this morning’s escapade through the streets have gotten me to the point where i can hardly move. Blood starts flowing into my eye again. Shit! And that disgusting mold odor is in the room as well. I retch on the bile rising from my innards and just make it to the toilet on time, forced to crawl on my knees because I can’t stand up any longer. Everything lets loose. The acidic mess flows out, replaced by blood. My hands slip on the puke/ blood mixture on the toilet seat and I fall to the floor.
” You can’t get up, can you? You’re finished; you just won’t accept it.”
I refuse to answer this time. He’s goading me, pressuring me into giving in to his maniacal demands. Demands for what? If I give in, I’m dead. Forty years of pain and I’m going to quit now? I haven’t fought this long for nothing.
Once more, I drag my worn out carcass across the blood stained floor tiles toward the shower, the grout already a disgusting shade of brown from the fusion of blood. I have to take another shower, damn it! The last one was difficult enough. At least I hadn’t dressed before: my clothes would be a bloody mess by now.
Slower than before, I get into the shower, hugging the walls so I won’t fall down. Thank God the water is still hot and I can steal its rejuvenating powers. The blood stops flowing, and I get out again. It’s somewhat easier this time because my stomach’s not forcing me to barf, but the rest of the pain and the weakness is still there. No more voices this time, so I towel down, get dressed, and do a sort of hobble, stutter walk down the hallway to the shop. It’s a long walk – almost 100 yards through this cavernous area – but by hugging the wall, I make it to the door of my shop and slip my badge across the door security code device.
I walk in and plop down into my chair, leaving the light off. I need to rest for a while. No one else will be here for another hour yet: I’m always early. Maybe I can even catch a few winks.
” No sleep for you! ” the voice shouts.
Blood pours into my eye; unbearable pressure forces itself onto my chest, forcing me to gag on the blood coming from my throat; and I taste the mold before everything goes black.
Everything is swirling around me, a slow motion display of sights only visible to my left eye, my right eye still covered with blood. Nothing is as it should be: colors blend in with one another, there being no distinct boundaries; and the rigidity of firm objects takes on a fluid form, much as a rubber raft following the contours of an ever changing wave pattern beneath it, the ocean being its master. Closing my eyes does nothing to change the fabric of normalcy with yellow spots chasing blue ones around in random patterns, and then wham: a bright streak of red erases everything, only to have the senselessness resume. My mind is working hard to make some kind of connection with reality, but the fine line between sanity and insanity is close to being crossed.
It takes a major effort to breathe. Blood is still coming out of my throat. I gasp for air, choking with every attempt. Is this what it’s like to drown? : this suffocating feeling, the sense of helplessness, feeling as if every breath is my last. The only difference is that if I am drowning, it’s in my own blood and not in water.
” Easy now, fella. Just relax. Take it easy. We’re here to help you. Slow, easy breaths. C’mon. You can do it. ”
What the hell! What’s going on? I’m not alone, but who’s talking to me? I don’t recognize the guy’s voice.
I try to sit up so I can look around and see what’s happening, but I’m stopped by the pain and some sort of restraints.
” Don’t try to move, sir, ” a woman says. ” You’ll only bleed more. We’re taking you to the hospital now. No need for any worry. ”
My clothes are unbearably sticky from the dried blood. How long have I been unconscious? It must have been quite some time for the blood to have dried like this, and yet there’s a lot of moisture as well. Shit, that means fresh blood as well as the old.
I’m ready to ask some questions about where I’m going and what’s going to happen to me when that fucking odor returns. The pressure on my chest comes back and the blood comes pouring out again.
” Quick, we have to get him out of here! ” the woman hollers. ” Get moving! ”
We move through what appears to be a gauntlet of sorts, formed out of my co-workers. It’s difficult to recognize faces as we rush up the stairs, but some of the voices are familiar. Whereas just an hour or so ago I was the plaything of a deranged driver bent on my destruction, I will now be the fodder for conversation in the break room today. They will mean well, but sympathy is something I want nothing to do with. I’ve fought this shit for forty something years and can damned well face it in whatever form it wishes to attack me.
In just minutes, I’m loaded into the meat wagon and we’re on our way. People are scrambling all around and over me, giving me shots, wiping off blood, trying to keep my air passages clear, telling me things I can barely hear. The revolting stench of my tormentor has joined me. No one else seems to notice. Surely I can’t be the only one to smell his stench. The odor is horrendous and I know I would puke my innards out again if I had anything left inside. Dry heaves, interfering with my already labored breathing, are all I muster up for now. Thank God for that.
The ride to the hospital is a short one, and it doesn’t take long for us to wheel up to the emergency door entrance, where I’m rushed through the newly constructed, ‘ quick unload ‘ area and wheeled into the emergency room proper. I’m surrounded by white jacketed doctors, each one having his own special task, it appears. My body is poked, prodded, and humiliated in every way imaginable. My clothing is cut off and my naked body set on display for all to see. After a while, someone sees fit to throw some kind of covering over my genitals. It’s of minor concern at the moment, but a kind gesture nonetheless.
” Are you in pain, sir? ” some idiot whizzbang asks. ” Give me your number. ”
This is no time for math. Of course I’m in fucking pain. And how the hell am I supposed to answer anyone with all these things coming in and out of my throat? Stupidity to the max.
” Shit, man! ” someone else hollers out. ” Yes this man’s in pain. Look at him; he’s bleeding from everywhere. Have we gotten his medical records from the VA yet? ”
” Yes, sir.”
” What are his allergies? ”
” Only brussel sprouts, tartar sauce, and scallops. ”
” Damn, we’re not going to feed him. We’re trying to save his life. Medications, man. Any allergies? ”
” None. ”
” Then get the morphine going now! ”
I don’t know if they give me a morphine shot or just slip it into my IV. Regardless of how they do it, nothing is going to get rid of all this pain. The lights that are present everywhere in the emergency room aren’t much help, either. It’s like the deer in the headlight affect. Not only can I not see, but the light is increasing my headache pain. What a vicious cycle. All these cuts, salt from my perspiration pouring into them, add to the mix now. Up until now, they were of little concern, but it’s like everything is amplified, every part of my body connecting to some sort of central pain trigger where the intensity is forced to maintain, and then to spiral upwards, bringing new levels of pain to my tortured frame. The old tens now become eights. Yeah, I’ll give them a number alright: as soon as I get some kind of an idea of how much I can handle. My consciousness starts fading as my body starts jerking around on the gurney. What…
” Oh shit, we’re losing him! His signs are gone. I can’t read anything! ”
I can’t be going! The pain is still escalating. C’mon people! Wake up. Do something.
The paddles hover above my chest. I don’t know if they use them or not. Sudden, excruciating pain comes over me , taking away all my other senses. Pain is me. I am nothing else. We are one. All the rest leaves me…
Darkness. Almost, anyway. When my head is pounding – and it certainly is now – that’s the way I like it. However, there is enough light to see an assemblage of medical equipment, most of which I’ve never seen before. Flashing red, green, and other lights are everywhere, creating some weird, moving shadows. Other shadows and moving lights flash across the ceiling and on some of the other walls. I look at the opposite side of the room and find I’m in a private area of my own: at the end of the hospital where one can see the streets, the lights caused by sparsely moving traffic. It’s dark outside too. That means I’ve been unconscious all day. It’s nice they gave me a room with a view, but with any kind of luck, I’ll be out of here soon and won’t have much time to avail myself of the sightseeing opportunities.
Everything still hurts: not just my head, but my stomach, legs, throat – everything. My breathing is coming easier, though. Oxygen tubes have been shoved up my nose; they hurt too. They always hurt. Maybe it’s because I have a large nose, but the tubes always seem to slip to one side or the other. Nurses in the past have always given me hell for having this happen. Crap, it’s not like I deliberately do it. The fact I’m lying flat on my back with my neck in a convoluted position guaranteed to cause rather extensive stiffness isn’t helping with the overall situation, either. Maybe if I move a little bit to one side it will help things some.
Nurses come running into the room and check the equipment out. One looks over the top of everyone else and says, ” We thought we were losing you again. You must have pulled some of your connections loose. Glad to have you back with us. These last two weeks have been touch and go with you, my friend.”
Two weeks? I’ve been here for two weeks? That’s impossible. I just can’t comprehend it.
.
One of the nurses runs out and comes back with a grizzled old doctor who does the usual looking into my eyes thing, checking my pulse, and all the other things the nurses have already done. It seems like double dipping, but at least everyone’s being thorough.
” Back amongst the living, sir. I hope you stay that way, ” he says. ” How are you feeling? Can you talk yet? ”
Although it’s not easy, I manage to stumble out a few words, not that they sound too coherent. I’m having problems getting my mouth and brain to act on the same wavelength.
” Don’t talk anymore than you think you can handle, but how the hell did you manage to get into this condition? It looks as if you’ve been beaten, but with what and by whom? ”
This isn’t going to be easy to explain. Who’s going to believe my story? I can’t believe it myself. Chased up a rock by a deranged psycho with strength enough to toss a large car around; someone I can’t see pushing down on my chest; voices talking to me. Yeah, right.
” Hit and run, ” I say.
” Whoever did this looked as if he wanted you dead. ”
” Maybe, huh? ”
He shakes his head and walks towards the door, motioning for who I believe is the nurse in charge to come with him. The others put me back together again and depart as well, leaving me with one nervous looking young nurse. Something is on her mind. I’m not really in any kind of shape to question her on the matter, so I wait for her to get the courage to force it out.
” I really hate to ask you this, sir, but we’ve been having some problems getting information about you, ” she says.
What kind of information, I wonder. I vaguely remember them checking on the VA information. Yes, I remember it well: the whole food allergy versus the medicine allergy thing.
” What do you need? ” I ask.
” You’ve been here for two weeks and you haven’t had any visitors. None. Some of your co-workers have called, but…well, your wife…your wife hasn’t called or come down. Who makes the decision on what happens to you? I mean, she is your next of kin. Surely she cares about you.”
Shit! I should be used to this by now, but this is a new low, even for her. Two weeks and she hasn’t cared enough to visit or talk to the doctors.
I make my best effort to laugh, but I’m sure it comes up short. My being in here has given her more opportunity to pursue her other amorous adventures.
” You don’t know my wife very well.” That’s all I say. No need for anything else.
More nervous shuffling from my young nurse. ” Who decides, then?”
” I decide: if I don’t make it, give my body to science. I’ve already filled out paperwork. Ed at work is my power of attorney.”
” You knew your wife would act this way? ”
” I knew. ”
” I’m so sorry. No one should die alone.”
” Sometimes we don’t have a choice.”
She reaches down and gives me a kiss on the forehead. Her eyes are moist and she turns in a hurry to hide them.
Before she reaches the door, I say, ” Thanks for caring. ” She turns and winks at me, then leaves.
I’m left to the solitude of my room again. More time to think, to be alone while the pain whips around me. One thing about physical pain, though: it takes away some of the mental stress. It hurts to think that all a man has after sixty years of existence is suffering. As hard as I have battled the cancer inside me, winning three times before, it’s back again; this time it’s worse than before. I’ve always taken a different approach to fighting it, never going for chemotherapy, because..well, because that would have meant I would have been weakened and unable to provide for my family. They always came first, even my wife. I never considered allowing them to go into my skull and removing the tumors. Better to use my radical anti-oxidant, mega doses of garlic, and running beyond limits that a healthy man is supposed to be able to achieve. Yes, I used the testing equiptment at the VA to gauge my progress, even enduring the rocket engine like sound of the MRI machine while it probed and tortured. I did all of this and thought I was winning. Damn it! I will win!
” So you think you’re going to win, huh? You delusional fool. You are the fool of fools, the idiot of all idiots. They’re asking what to do with your worthless carcass. Would they do that to a man who had a chance of surviving? You’re going down, and you’re going down fast!”
The stench and the voice are back to attack my mind and my body. The pressure builds in my chest, reaching new levels of pain. His laughter escalates as I start flopping around on my bed, the machines hooked up to me going haywire. The oxygen tubes are jerked from my nose and the blood coming down joins that from my throat. My heart starts beating a crescendo of pain to match that of my head. I hear people pounding on the door trying to get in, but the door won’t open. The bastard has somehow managed to lock it. His hideous laughter threatens to break my eardrums and the stench seems to invade even the cuts and scrapes on my body.
Life drains from my body as the door finally opens. I try to talk, to tell them what’s happening. No words form…
The room becomes a hive of activity, people moving around in a blur, white coats blending in with the multicolored outfits the nurses wear: flowery tops; Looney Toon shirts; and some solid color outfits. All of this speed around me, yet I can barely move. I’m going down in a hurry. The abyss awaits; one little wrong move now and it’s all over.
Bright lights, cutting through the darkness of moments before, show more than I care to see. Blood is everywhere.The white jackets are covered from its spraying. Surgical gloves and masks are the doctors’ main line of defense from anything carried in it that might cause them harm. The defibrillators are back again, although this time they might be here for naught.
The doctor’s hands come down, the paddles taking forever to reach my chest, forcing me to writhe in agony with my present pain, yet at the same time preparing myself for the anguish to come. I’m slipping fast; and then the electricity shoots through me, causing me to arc up as if I’m ready to meet my maker. A few seconds and he zaps me again. This time my breathing becomes easier, but the pain is beyond comprehension. God, please: no more! Enough pain. My limit has been reached.
” He’s back, doctor,” one of the nurses says.
” I don’t know what’s holding him here,” he says. ” He can’t have anything left. It’s impossible. ”
A new bed is wheeled in, and as soon as the blood is removed from everything, I’m stripped down naked once more and they wash me as well. In a few minutes, the room looks pretty much as it did before this episode into the nearness of everything that could have been.
One by one, the doctors and nurses leave the room and near darkness returns, and with it, the ominous shadows casting their creative selves to the surrounding walls. A dancing light appears on the ceiling, holding still, pulsing with intensity. I am too exhausted to look outside to see what the source of its power might be. But the light beckons and I have to answer its call.
It’s the car! The one that tried to kill me when this whole mess started. It’s parked across the street by the parking garage, sitting in the shadow of the building. The hooded man is sitting on the roof of the killer machine, dangling his legs to the door handles. He looks my way, but he’s too far away to see his face. I’m not really sure I want to see his face. It must be an evil face. How could it be otherwise? With the torment he put me through, he…
Oh, my God! It all makes sense now. Or does it? My mind is spinning, trying to piece this insanity together. This man is the body behind the voice. They are one and the same. But how? What is happening? Have I gone completely stark, raving mad?
The machines start making a weird sound: a steady monotone. In no time, the room is filled again. The paddles come down; again and again. Nothing happens.
” What’s the time? ”
” 2: 34 A. M., doctor. ”
” He fought hard. ”
The doctor pats me on the shoulder and pulls the sheet over my head.
I lie there for a few seconds wondering what’s next. There is no light to walk to; nor are there any spinning black entities I might have expected. There is nothing. Only silence.
The car revs up and I rise to look at it. I understand now. For so long, I fought it. No more.
I leave the hospital and walk across the street to the car. The hooded man slides down and I stare into his face, a face that I did not expect to see. I look into the face of Death, and I see my face. I am Death. We join and become one.
The car: a gorgeous creation. In 1968, I owned this car, complete with red, orange, and yellow flames, sitting out against a black body. My car once more.
Death drives a ’68 Buick.
