Category Archives: fiction

Update and Excerpt

If you saw my post from last week, here’s an update: It hasn’t gotten any better. Basically, if it can go wrong, it has. On the flip side, a lot of things have also fallen into place. Don’t patronize me with, “Oh, good, look at the positive.” The only things that are falling into place are a direct result of things that have gone wrong. I’m not making any forward progress, actually, going in reverse lately. It is not exactly balancing out. The bad is outweighing the good to me this week. The low point was last Friday. It was the lowest I’ve been since my failed suicide attempt last year and many of the same thoughts about death ran through my head. I spent about 10 minutes on the side of the interstate with my broke down pickup truck debating life and death before I called for a tow truck.

I blew a tire. At 75 miles per hour. Front driver’s side tire. It messed up the wheel well, the bumper, the hard-plastic mud flap behind the tire. And surely messed up the front end alignment, as one tire was facing straight and the other tire was off at an angle. Somewhere around Tuesday I realized how lucky I was that I maintained control of my vehicle at that speed and didn’t get myself killed. It sounded like an explosion and felt like I had run over something. The weird thing is, it was just the steel belts that flew off. The tire still held air, but the truck was not drivable. The tow truck driver said he had never seen a tire do that before and still hold air.

Whatever. I’m alive. Moving on to other things. Last week I mentioned that I might do an excerpt from the book I’m writing. I think I’ll do that since I don’t much feel like writing more about my week. Let me set it up for you. First, this is fiction. Yes, I use my life experiences and those of others, but the characters are fiction, this is not an autobiography. The main character, James, is a young war vet trying to figure out life after he failed to kill himself. The story I am writing will take you through the process and days that follow his attempted suicide and him coming to terms with the fact that he is indeed still alive. This excerpt is from Chapter 3.

James laid down in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He was restless and rolled to his side. He saw the dresser and remembered thinking about what reason they would want him out of his room earlier. He jumped up and opened the top drawer. It was still empty. He proceeded to check the rest of the drawers. Nothing. He was still paranoid. He looked under his bed, around the sink, peeked inside the shower room. He looked around the other side of the room where a roommate would be if he had one. He found nothing to confirm his paranoia but also found nothing that would put him at rest. He laid back down and tried to figure out the dream from last night. Perhaps he was dreaming within his dream and all this was just still a dream. But he knew this was real. And he knew he was really losing his mind.

James went back to the bed and laid down. In his head, he recounted the story he told to Dr. Andersen. Every detail. Every word. Every moment from last night that he could remember, he told the doctor. He hated that he survived, that he was still alive. He wondered what he did wrong, it should have worked. Or at least he thought it should have. He was becoming upset that the doctor didn’t fix anything for him. All that talking James did and Dr. Andersen didn’t fix a thing. He pondered the motives of Dr. Andersen. Was her plan to get him to talk, tell his story, and admit that he wanted to die, just so they have a reason to keep him longer? He realized that he got suckered into talking. How could he not see that coming? It was a scam and he fell for it.  James was angry with the doctor, the cops that brought him in, the paramedic that checked him out, and everyone he encountered since his incarceration to the psych ward. But most of all, James was angry with and hated himself. All James wanted to do was die. He couldn’t even do that right. And since his best effort had failed, he was now stuck in the psych ward.

James did not trust anyone in the psych ward, except maybe Nurse Angie. But even his trust in her was conditional and almost nil. He was paranoid of everyone and their motives. To make matters worse, he was now becoming paranoid of his own mind and thoughts. He wasn’t sure he could trust what his own mind was thinking or if it was even real. The dream he had was all too real. What if he did in fact venture to some other hidden place in the mind and that’s where his truth was hidden. What if he had become immortal and could not kill himself? Just thinking about these things, James felt crazy. He felt he had no control over his thoughts. And he certainly wasn’t free to have control of leaving where he was. He was trapped in his mind and in the hospital.

A nurse he hadn’t seen before showed up in the doorway to his room. She scanned the clipboard she was holding. “Hello,” she said, looking up “you must be James. How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I want to get the hell out of here,” he said in a dry monotone.   “Where’s the other nurse that was here earlier? From when I woke up?”

The new nurse looked down at her clipboard for a moment then asked, “Was it Angie? If that’s who it was, she’s checking on some patients in the other ward. But we’re all here if you need something and we’ll all be checking on you.”

“Great,” James said, showing no interest.

“Did you get shown around? Did you see the daily schedule? Were you shown how to use the phones when they’re on between group sessions?”

“I’m not going to group sessions,” James said. “I already told the other one. Ok? I really don’t want to be around anyone, thanks.”

“Well,” she started, “going to group sessions will be a way to show that you can function around other people so that you can get out of here. I highly recommend going. The better you do in groups and the more you go to, the quicker you get out. Why don’t you go down the hall and at least be around the other patients and get comfortable. There’s a group session starting in 10 minutes. You can make a good start on the road to getting better and out of here by going to it. It’s not as bad as you think. Let me know if you need anything, I’m Sue. I’ll be here until y’all go to dinner.” Sue smiled at him and left the room to continue her rounds that required all patients be check on every 10 minutes.

James laid there thinking about life and about how much easier it would be had he succeeded in his suicide attempt. He had no desire whatsoever to go to a group session. He also had no desire to be stuck in the hospital. He had no desire to be alive. How did he get in this situation? Could he find a way to escape or would he have to wait until they decided to release him? And how long would that be? He was frustrated and hated his life. He tried hard to figure out how he went from being a warrior to the sorry excuse for a man he was now. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore. He was a Soldier, or at least used to be. And he was good at it. He never feared anything and now he was scared of himself. “Who am I anymore?” he asked out loud as if someone or something could magically give him the answer he wanted.

It’s a work in progress. I know it needs some work, but it’s coming along. Thanks for reading. Good day, God bless.

Dave

The Cage With Prison Bars

I’ve met them all and put them in their respective places. I know each of them by name. We’ve come to agreements that, quite frankly, don’t benefit anyone involved, but there had to be agreements, whether they mean anything or not. I can’t make them leave, they are part of me and who I am now. I can get along with every one of them very nicely. Except one, except the one that wants to kill me. I keep him locked in a cage with prison bars. They are all my demons and I have them under control.

I entertain them occasionally, just to make sure they know I’m in charge, if I am in charge. Except the one that wants me dead. I won’t let that one out of the cage. But all the others come around once in a while, and if I feel like it I will pet them and send them on their way. They are free to roam because they have learned the rules and boundaries. Except Suicide. That one stays locked up. Behind prison bars. That one cannot be tamed like the others. That one does not play by the rules. That one scares me, even from behind the bars.

When all my demons ran wild and controlled me, it was chaos. I locked myself in that cage with prison bars to stay safe. But that didn’t work. They poked and jabbed through the bars. They laughed and made fun of me and threw things at me. And Suicide was the worst of them. That one won’t stop until you do. And I believed them for a while, every word. And they were right, they convinced me anyway. Except that they were wrong, I learned that later, after it was almost too late. It was hard, but I put them in their places, even the one that tried to murder me. Especially the one that tried to murder me. That bastard is behind bars now. But that one still scares me. That’s the only one I’m truly afraid of.

I look over my shoulder occasionally from time to time to make sure my demons are staying in their places, where they belong. They are for the most part, even the killer that is locked in a cage with prison bars. When I look over my shoulder at that one, it smiles calmly, not bothered at all about being locked up. That one knows that even from the cage it can get me if it wanted to, if I let it. I have all my demons under control except that one, which is befuddling to me since that’s the only one locked up. In a cage. With prison bars. No freedom to roam. Suicide stays quiet in the cage making plans for a reunion. I have no intention of showing up to that party.

But if you have demons of your own, maybe we can get them together for a play date party.

Immortality, A Little Fiction For Your Enjoyment

[I decided to take a break this week from writing my story directly. Here’s a little fiction I’ve been working on. It’s part of a larger work I’ve been putting together. Except for the poetry I mix into some of my posts, this will be the first fiction I’m sharing here. Enjoy, share if you like, and let me know what you think. Thanks for reading]

He lived his life in such a way that his only regrets would be the adventures he did not pursue, the things he did not try, and the words he never spoke. His life seemed exciting to him for the many ways and times he cheated death over the years. He knew most other men would not survive the life he’s lived. Not because he was boastful or proud in a condescending way, but more in wonderment. He couldn’t understand why he was still alive after all the near misses. But certainly, no regrets.

As he contemplated his life, he fell into his own mind, searching for answers. The maze of memories was hard to navigate. He did not recognize all of the memories that were flashing through his brain. He wondered if all the memories were his. He wondered if it were possible to have someone else’s memories. He wasn’t sure if he had even really lived the life he remembered. All the countries he visited, the people that he met, the good times, the bad times, the food, the colors, the smells, the animals, the mountains, the rivers, the cultures, the wars. Were they really his memories?

He dug deeper into his mind. He didn’t like what he was finding. He started to doubt his existence. He started to believe that he wasn’t the person his memories portrayed him as. It occurred to him that he might be just be a figment of someone else’s dreams or thoughts. This bothered him. He felt used. Why would someone else create him and this exciting life just for it to be a farce? There is no pleasure in life when you find out that you don’t exist. And he knew that.

He was perplexed. He pondered his options. He wanted to find a way to escape from whatever or whomever it was that forged the memories in his mind. He wanted to prove that he existed. He wanted to stop being a pawn. None of this was helping his sanity. He knew he was losing his mind, but couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or if it was under the control of someone else. And then it hit him. What if he was the one creating his own memories that weren’t real or familiar? And where were his real memories? All of this compounded his feeling of being either artificial or insane.

He came to the only rational conclusion that made sense to him. He would have to die. He figured if he didn’t really exist it wouldn’t hurt or matter. He figured if he wasn’t really who his memories say he is, it would simply be for the best. Either way, he was certain that being dead was the solution. He no longer wanted to feel artificial or insane. The only question he had was if he died, would this work? Certainly if he were insane it would work, but he wondered if he were just someone else’s made up existence with fake memories, would that work? He wondered if the person who made him up would even know that he died. There would be only one way to find out.

So he did it. He let himself die. He ended his life by his own hand. Afterward, he just lay there. Nothing seemed to change. He tried to figure out if he were dead or alive, real or imaginary. He felt no pain or emotion. But that’s how he felt before he died. He was confused. He wasn’t sure if he had done it right, or had even done it all. But now something new was happening. He could hear a voice. He could hear a second voice. He didn’t recognize them. He couldn’t see them and he couldn’t tell what they were talking about. He wondered if they were talking about him. He wondered if they could see him. He wondered if they knew who he was.

He tried to move. This made the voices he was hearing more excited. He knew they weren’t just voices in his head, they were real. He knew they could see him, but he still couldn’t understand what they were saying. And he still didn’t know who they were. And he couldn’t see them yet, he couldn’t see anything. He was starting to regain some consciousness, but still couldn’t open his eyes. Even so, everything was becoming more clear. Most of this had been a dream. He could now remember his memories. They were all his memories, it was indisputable now. He had tried to kill himself in his reality, in his real life. He remembered. Now he couldn’t figure out why it didn’t work. His memories were real; he had in fact cheated death a number of times throughout his life. And suicide didn’t work either. There could be only one explanation. He was immortal.

He imagined that Heaven and Hell got together, sitting across a table from each other and argued which one would have to take him when he died. He guessed this meeting happened every time he was close to death, dozens of times in all. Heaven and Hell could not come to an agreement, so he was forced to live on as immortal. This made the most sense to him. Some men might think that immortality would be good. However, in his case, he still aged, he had pains that wouldn’t go away, and he most certainly lost his sanity. None of these dreadful things should come with immortality. He could find no benefit for him to be immortal. He wondered what he would have to do to be able to die like a normal man.