Post by Travis on Feb 21, 2006 7:55:01 GMT -5
Like A Flower Upon A Grave
A novella by
Travis Wilson
Chapter 1
Fell on Black days:
Misery, chemical abuse, and an overdose
Whatsoever I've feared has come to life
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile
Sunspots have faded
And now I'm doing time
Cause I fell on black days
Whomsoever I've cured I've sickened now
Whomsoever I've cradled I've put you down
I'm a search light soul they say
But I can't see it in the night
I'm only faking when I get it right
Cause I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
So what you wanted to see good has made you blind
And what you wanted to be yours has made it mine
So don't you lock up something that you wanted to see fly
Hands are for shaking
No, not tying
No, not tying
I sure don't mind a change
But I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
- Soundgarden, Fell on Black Days
Diary entry, undated from Jason Coburn’s last entry.
Life is such a beautiful tragedy. Bearing its fruit, of knowledge and, bringing with it, the knowledge of this dualistic cage in which we are all trapped in. A cage we’ve been trapped in since God kicked our ass out of the Garden of Eden.
Life is a melody of mixed grays, dreary blacks, and completing lacking in the hues of pure white.
We have fallen from grace. We are all lost souls, swimming in the same fish bowl, year after year. Solace is just a silent dream, for we are chaotic creatures with chaotic temperaments. We all have been to the point of just wanting to blow up the outside world, and scream out our frustrations and disillusionments until our throats have sweltered with bleeding blisters.
Where is happiness, where is peace? We have traded them in for materialistic wellbeing.
This is our society: home of the brave, the grand ol’ USA
Oh cancerous country of my days, oh brave new world, let your faux dreams you have laid down for me be obliterated and let me be obstinate. The American Dream is one gigantic crock of poop that has been handed down to us as gospel flowing through politician preachers for ages and ages.
frick them, frick them all.
For me, god is only .5 millimeters of Diamorphine away, but for the politicians, the religious leaders, and every one of our leaders who have violated our psyche by spewing forth opinions that they granted us for truth… they are all completely absent from his entirety. I will inject this chemical, and I will be within the heavens that have been promised by our society.
But something has led me to believe that there can be a cure to the plague of society’s id. If I had something, someone, to free me, to let me follow a path that hasn’t been set by fate; then I could engage in something that could cure me from what I was suffering from. I guess that means I’ll have to go out, even tonight to another sleazy bar.
Well, I don’t have to work tomorrow so I’ll consume some heavy narcotics and drift into another bar and not be consumed by the misery of the other people.
Not tonight.
The planets are aligned in my favor tonight, according to what I’ve read about horoscopes and occult lore, so this should be significant.
Hopefully it will.
End of journal entry.
The 4th X Club that belonged to the corner of 4th and Main Street was the last blues club in this dreary suburb of Seattle: Renton. The denizens of this nicotine-stained dive were more or less, all lost souls, drowning their tears within the last legal drug our Country had to offer besides the free-flowing second hand smoke that was enough to make anyone entering to initially choke. Within the club was a crowded lot of old men, with years pitted upon their scarecrow eye strains and yellowed nicotine blistered and saggy skin. They all sat hunched over the bar, like dead souls waiting for Charon to take them from limbo to an afterlife as far away from their current miserable lives as possible. And of course, they sat at the very front of the bar, because it offered the closet perch to the bartender, and, consequently, to the ethanol that they craved to dilute some of their sorrow.
I could only glean a few bits of talk from their rare whispers, but of which I could gleam, the subjects most talked about were the old days when they were kings in their lives, and when they still had the complete autonomy of youth… bound to nothing, and having everything to look forward to.
The littered abundance of smoke played tricks with my eyes, mostly due to my complete lack of control on my part with the chemicals I had taken before I got to the bar.
There was a couple in their late 30’s, kissing intimately near me in one of the booths. They’re eyes were closed, but you could still see them open when they automatically blinked, and could see into the windows of their souls, which seemed to indicate that both of theirs were complete empty and null. It was no surprise that their emotional outburst of intimacy had occurred, for without it, they would feel that deep pang of emptiness that resided in the very depths of their being.
There was a woman my age, very out of place(at least within this sort of place, although this was one of those kinds of bars where anything could happen) who wore too much make-up and whose dirty blonde hair swayed with the swivel of her cigarette that she seemed to cling on for dear life. She wore the default style of the time, and wasn’t in any form, ugly, she just wasn’t my type. Although she still continued to give out signs by staring at me, from across her seat, I gave her no indication of any intention… and she was left to her lonely devices, and seeming anxiety that was apparent with the way she smoked her unfiltered cigarette. It looked like a Marlboro. She would have to remain lonely; there was no place in my heart for her.
And there sat in another booth, a black hair goddess, whose face must have been stolen from a fallen angel. Pout lips, stained with black lipstick, and mascara overdone in the framing in order to have that neo-Goth look that had been an aging fashion style of the time. I looked into her eyes, hoping for her not to see. What I saw through the windows of this particular soul was a tainted beauty (beautiful in its own way) that pierced me in a way that hadn’t in a long time. Her piercing effect shed an intimate barrier in me, a barrier that had not been opened in a long time also. Only god knows how long I’ve locked it up.
The drugs were my replacement therapy for my emotions and had covered me with a thick tar countenance that had led me into a black abyss. My abysmal state I had painted with a delusional sugar-coating of countless drugs to make it into a grand façade.
Her look had taken away this barrier instantly, and shattered my thought process immediately with it.
Nothing here now made any sense to me but I didn’t think I should fault the environment for this turn of events. All these misfiring synapses, and all these masturbated chemical systems in my brain: Dopamine, Nopehernine, Opiate, and all the others that have all been labeled, for lack of better scientific terms, the reward center were flowing throughout my cortex and making me feel like I was in a dream. Not to mention that the black haired, goth goddess who fired up more stimuli in my over stimulated brain, had made my mind fuzzy and intangible.
Before I got here of course, I had taken my fix… my self-defense mechanism. Some I took orally and others intravenously to offset the degradation of chemical bioavailability: 16mg of Hydromorphone, 40mg of Valium, 150mg of Dextroamphetamine, and a joint. A drug cocktail that I used heavily now, and that wasn’t working any more due to her. To her… what happened with my sense of her aura which destroyed all of my barriers that I had put up before coming in here.
How could I survive without being nonchalant and completely shy, in this type of bar? Survival in this bar meant hooking up with people who contained the XX chromosome. It doesn’t look good for me now.
That made me wonder why I was here of all nights, and what had just happened with the exchange I had between that black rose of a beauty.
Why was I here?
Were the drugs not working as well as they used to?
This was one desperate move for me, hanging around “people.”
I took out a pill bottle of Rohypnols and my pack of Camel Turkish Royals. I had affixed a fake label for the Rohypnols, considering that they were now illegal due to the media exploiting the damn exposure the drug got.
The label read out:
Valium
10mg
Take one pill 4 times daily, as needed, for anxiety.
Dr. Black
Pharmasave
Jeez, the label reeked of the scent of pure faux. I’m getting worse everyday.
Well, at least I have something in my life that I can count on besides death and taxes heh.
I uttered a very nimble guffaw at this thought.
I took a few rohypnols, and lit up one of my camels. I smoked my cigarette sweetly and died some more. 6 Minutes more of death from my poison of choice for my lungs.
I smoked the cigarette, which has always tasted mellow and pure to me. The cancerous smoke has always has been filled with the most serene sense of lavender and azure texture that always has excited and masturbated my tar clogged olfactory system.
I blew out shapes latent within lavender perfume that escaped my thought; I was stuck within a world that could be classified as limbo. A grinning blue hue microcosm of smoke filled air poured out of my lips.
I fell blindly back into reality, with a pounding euphoria of the poly-drug orgy that I forced upon myself.
Where is she… that woman? She can be the only reason I’m here.
I turned my face to check out the dreamy goth who sat at the table adjacent to me. She was no longer at the chair. What I saw next further amazed me and made me into a whimpering school boy in love.
I saw her dancing, down at the floor of the band. She was the sole occupant. Her deep ebony hair swayed to a tuneless beat, channeled by a force other than the music. She twisted and cavorted, and reeled within her dance, almost as if she was a puppet being manipulated by a madman.
She danced like a gypsy in the rain, she danced like a shaman performing a rite, she danced like a sorceress raising the dead.
She danced like a flower upon a grave.
During her dance, her dark black hair flung with abandonment. She had a face that could subdue anyone into countless perverse fantasies. Her eyes were shaded a rich dark blue and her body was petite, almost like a eating-disorder model.
Watching this dance, I desperately wanted… near I say needed, to be in her company. Yet, I was trapped behind a wall of post-traumatic induced social phobia and she was a god-awful long way away, even if you didn’t count the mental distance.
I smoked another cigarette and died some more. I blew out the smoke with a carefree nativity, through my nostrils. I let the nicotine rush bore into the reward center of my brain, which was already occupied with Diamorphine, Rohypnol, Valium, and Methamphetamine.
I let my troubled thoughts go and became an astute observer.
But something was amiss. Where did this feeling come from?
I looked amazed as the room went hazy and my eyesight became bleak.
Did I overdose or was this a typical part of the bar experience? I thought this out haphazardly and humorously.
This was why I was here, to die.
To die.
Maybe, maybe not.
Seconds later there was nothing but black which changed into blurry colors that were faded and something out of a Kadinsky painting. The next thing I knew, I was being passionately kissed. It wouldn’t have even mattered if the person doing the kissing was not of my sexual preference, I enjoyed it. I was being warmly embraced. When I felt a pressure upon my chest, I got up out of my veil of half-sleep… my twilight embrace of the gods.
It was her, the dancing fallen angel. She was the one performing CPR on my overrated corpse.
It was the pressure on my chest that awoke me to this observation. There was a rhythmic pressure being induced on my chest by the woman who had cast a spell on me.
That’s when the paramedics arrived.
How long was I out? Why did I take so high dosages? To kill myself by manipulating my conscious reality into believing I was safe? No, I don’t know what it was.
“Get him to the ambulance! Even with the CPR he is going to be completely unstable, depending on what drugs he took!” The unknown girl yelled at the paramedics.
“Ok Lady, pipe down, we’re trying to our jobs as fast as possible. We have to move him according to protocol,” the one with the mustache said. He was fuzzier than a Picasso painting at the time.
Two men dressed in casual paramedic dress, if you could call it that, were heading in my direction with a gurney in their grasp. The look on their face was of complete desperation.
Maybe today is the day I will die.
“I think you I know a little bit more than you on the seriousness of his “fate,”(She used her fingers to gesture this word) depending on how fast we can get the toxins pumped out of his body, make his heart stable, and find out what drugs he was on,” she uttered these words in complete contempt of these health workers.
“You there, yes you, can you hear me,” she said directly to me.
“Yaesss,” I tried to speak, but mumbled and couldn’t make the words connect.
“What drugs did you take,” she asked urgently.
“Amfetaaminesss, beenzodiazzipineeess, opaaates,” I tried to answer.
The man with mustache who liked like the Picasso painting was certainly annoyed at her intervention and decided to act from what I could gather.
“Maam, we don’t need your help any more. Thank you and everything, but we need to get him on a resuscitator, maybe pump his stomach instead of giving him charcoal, and pump him full of Narcan,” the man answered to her, in almost a threatening way.
I stared at two bleak faces as I felt myself adrift in space. Everything was blurry, but I knew what was going on. I finally was put in the ambulance, and had a horrible feeling in my throat as someone was feeding me the charcoal that had been mentioned.
“Drink it all down, you’re at the point of return, and you don’t want to know what it is like to pump a stomach.” The mustache face was the one feeding me the cup. I spotted the flower upon the grave, the black rose beauty, who had saved my life.
I didn’t want to leave her. But the Picasso painting man swung the door shut and we were off.
I saw her again, before the ambulance jetted off on a jaunt composed by my carefree and naïve actions. She ran to what looked to be her car, and she immediately got in, started it, and followed the ambulance when it took off.
She was the reason I was there. It’s fate. Now she’s following me to the hospital! I am in a hopelessly infatuated state, obsessed with the resplendent lady following us.
I felt my stomach take a nose dive, and I grabbed the bucket they had in there for these occasions and vomited, violently into it. It was charcoal black.
“Good job, I think you’ll be okay from what your vitals have shown. You’re lucky I didn’t have to stomach pump your dumb ass. Have you ever pumped out someone’s entire G.I. tract, including their bile before? Argh.” He looked out the window, at the sky after he told me this.
I looked out the doors and saw her car, a few cars down, still following me.
I looked up into the bleak sky of the autumns day, and felt myself lose control again. Everything turned to that abysmal black of unconsciouness again, as I struggled to fight it off. I looked one more time out the window, and saw her face, in my mind. And everything went black.
END CHAPTER 1
A novella by
Travis Wilson
Chapter 1
Fell on Black days:
Misery, chemical abuse, and an overdose
Whatsoever I've feared has come to life
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile
Sunspots have faded
And now I'm doing time
Cause I fell on black days
Whomsoever I've cured I've sickened now
Whomsoever I've cradled I've put you down
I'm a search light soul they say
But I can't see it in the night
I'm only faking when I get it right
Cause I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
So what you wanted to see good has made you blind
And what you wanted to be yours has made it mine
So don't you lock up something that you wanted to see fly
Hands are for shaking
No, not tying
No, not tying
I sure don't mind a change
But I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
- Soundgarden, Fell on Black Days
Diary entry, undated from Jason Coburn’s last entry.
Life is such a beautiful tragedy. Bearing its fruit, of knowledge and, bringing with it, the knowledge of this dualistic cage in which we are all trapped in. A cage we’ve been trapped in since God kicked our ass out of the Garden of Eden.
Life is a melody of mixed grays, dreary blacks, and completing lacking in the hues of pure white.
We have fallen from grace. We are all lost souls, swimming in the same fish bowl, year after year. Solace is just a silent dream, for we are chaotic creatures with chaotic temperaments. We all have been to the point of just wanting to blow up the outside world, and scream out our frustrations and disillusionments until our throats have sweltered with bleeding blisters.
Where is happiness, where is peace? We have traded them in for materialistic wellbeing.
This is our society: home of the brave, the grand ol’ USA
Oh cancerous country of my days, oh brave new world, let your faux dreams you have laid down for me be obliterated and let me be obstinate. The American Dream is one gigantic crock of poop that has been handed down to us as gospel flowing through politician preachers for ages and ages.
frick them, frick them all.
For me, god is only .5 millimeters of Diamorphine away, but for the politicians, the religious leaders, and every one of our leaders who have violated our psyche by spewing forth opinions that they granted us for truth… they are all completely absent from his entirety. I will inject this chemical, and I will be within the heavens that have been promised by our society.
But something has led me to believe that there can be a cure to the plague of society’s id. If I had something, someone, to free me, to let me follow a path that hasn’t been set by fate; then I could engage in something that could cure me from what I was suffering from. I guess that means I’ll have to go out, even tonight to another sleazy bar.
Well, I don’t have to work tomorrow so I’ll consume some heavy narcotics and drift into another bar and not be consumed by the misery of the other people.
Not tonight.
The planets are aligned in my favor tonight, according to what I’ve read about horoscopes and occult lore, so this should be significant.
Hopefully it will.
End of journal entry.
The 4th X Club that belonged to the corner of 4th and Main Street was the last blues club in this dreary suburb of Seattle: Renton. The denizens of this nicotine-stained dive were more or less, all lost souls, drowning their tears within the last legal drug our Country had to offer besides the free-flowing second hand smoke that was enough to make anyone entering to initially choke. Within the club was a crowded lot of old men, with years pitted upon their scarecrow eye strains and yellowed nicotine blistered and saggy skin. They all sat hunched over the bar, like dead souls waiting for Charon to take them from limbo to an afterlife as far away from their current miserable lives as possible. And of course, they sat at the very front of the bar, because it offered the closet perch to the bartender, and, consequently, to the ethanol that they craved to dilute some of their sorrow.
I could only glean a few bits of talk from their rare whispers, but of which I could gleam, the subjects most talked about were the old days when they were kings in their lives, and when they still had the complete autonomy of youth… bound to nothing, and having everything to look forward to.
The littered abundance of smoke played tricks with my eyes, mostly due to my complete lack of control on my part with the chemicals I had taken before I got to the bar.
There was a couple in their late 30’s, kissing intimately near me in one of the booths. They’re eyes were closed, but you could still see them open when they automatically blinked, and could see into the windows of their souls, which seemed to indicate that both of theirs were complete empty and null. It was no surprise that their emotional outburst of intimacy had occurred, for without it, they would feel that deep pang of emptiness that resided in the very depths of their being.
There was a woman my age, very out of place(at least within this sort of place, although this was one of those kinds of bars where anything could happen) who wore too much make-up and whose dirty blonde hair swayed with the swivel of her cigarette that she seemed to cling on for dear life. She wore the default style of the time, and wasn’t in any form, ugly, she just wasn’t my type. Although she still continued to give out signs by staring at me, from across her seat, I gave her no indication of any intention… and she was left to her lonely devices, and seeming anxiety that was apparent with the way she smoked her unfiltered cigarette. It looked like a Marlboro. She would have to remain lonely; there was no place in my heart for her.
And there sat in another booth, a black hair goddess, whose face must have been stolen from a fallen angel. Pout lips, stained with black lipstick, and mascara overdone in the framing in order to have that neo-Goth look that had been an aging fashion style of the time. I looked into her eyes, hoping for her not to see. What I saw through the windows of this particular soul was a tainted beauty (beautiful in its own way) that pierced me in a way that hadn’t in a long time. Her piercing effect shed an intimate barrier in me, a barrier that had not been opened in a long time also. Only god knows how long I’ve locked it up.
The drugs were my replacement therapy for my emotions and had covered me with a thick tar countenance that had led me into a black abyss. My abysmal state I had painted with a delusional sugar-coating of countless drugs to make it into a grand façade.
Her look had taken away this barrier instantly, and shattered my thought process immediately with it.
Nothing here now made any sense to me but I didn’t think I should fault the environment for this turn of events. All these misfiring synapses, and all these masturbated chemical systems in my brain: Dopamine, Nopehernine, Opiate, and all the others that have all been labeled, for lack of better scientific terms, the reward center were flowing throughout my cortex and making me feel like I was in a dream. Not to mention that the black haired, goth goddess who fired up more stimuli in my over stimulated brain, had made my mind fuzzy and intangible.
Before I got here of course, I had taken my fix… my self-defense mechanism. Some I took orally and others intravenously to offset the degradation of chemical bioavailability: 16mg of Hydromorphone, 40mg of Valium, 150mg of Dextroamphetamine, and a joint. A drug cocktail that I used heavily now, and that wasn’t working any more due to her. To her… what happened with my sense of her aura which destroyed all of my barriers that I had put up before coming in here.
How could I survive without being nonchalant and completely shy, in this type of bar? Survival in this bar meant hooking up with people who contained the XX chromosome. It doesn’t look good for me now.
That made me wonder why I was here of all nights, and what had just happened with the exchange I had between that black rose of a beauty.
Why was I here?
Were the drugs not working as well as they used to?
This was one desperate move for me, hanging around “people.”
I took out a pill bottle of Rohypnols and my pack of Camel Turkish Royals. I had affixed a fake label for the Rohypnols, considering that they were now illegal due to the media exploiting the damn exposure the drug got.
The label read out:
Valium
10mg
Take one pill 4 times daily, as needed, for anxiety.
Dr. Black
Pharmasave
Jeez, the label reeked of the scent of pure faux. I’m getting worse everyday.
Well, at least I have something in my life that I can count on besides death and taxes heh.
I uttered a very nimble guffaw at this thought.
I took a few rohypnols, and lit up one of my camels. I smoked my cigarette sweetly and died some more. 6 Minutes more of death from my poison of choice for my lungs.
I smoked the cigarette, which has always tasted mellow and pure to me. The cancerous smoke has always has been filled with the most serene sense of lavender and azure texture that always has excited and masturbated my tar clogged olfactory system.
I blew out shapes latent within lavender perfume that escaped my thought; I was stuck within a world that could be classified as limbo. A grinning blue hue microcosm of smoke filled air poured out of my lips.
I fell blindly back into reality, with a pounding euphoria of the poly-drug orgy that I forced upon myself.
Where is she… that woman? She can be the only reason I’m here.
I turned my face to check out the dreamy goth who sat at the table adjacent to me. She was no longer at the chair. What I saw next further amazed me and made me into a whimpering school boy in love.
I saw her dancing, down at the floor of the band. She was the sole occupant. Her deep ebony hair swayed to a tuneless beat, channeled by a force other than the music. She twisted and cavorted, and reeled within her dance, almost as if she was a puppet being manipulated by a madman.
She danced like a gypsy in the rain, she danced like a shaman performing a rite, she danced like a sorceress raising the dead.
She danced like a flower upon a grave.
During her dance, her dark black hair flung with abandonment. She had a face that could subdue anyone into countless perverse fantasies. Her eyes were shaded a rich dark blue and her body was petite, almost like a eating-disorder model.
Watching this dance, I desperately wanted… near I say needed, to be in her company. Yet, I was trapped behind a wall of post-traumatic induced social phobia and she was a god-awful long way away, even if you didn’t count the mental distance.
I smoked another cigarette and died some more. I blew out the smoke with a carefree nativity, through my nostrils. I let the nicotine rush bore into the reward center of my brain, which was already occupied with Diamorphine, Rohypnol, Valium, and Methamphetamine.
I let my troubled thoughts go and became an astute observer.
But something was amiss. Where did this feeling come from?
I looked amazed as the room went hazy and my eyesight became bleak.
Did I overdose or was this a typical part of the bar experience? I thought this out haphazardly and humorously.
This was why I was here, to die.
To die.
Maybe, maybe not.
Seconds later there was nothing but black which changed into blurry colors that were faded and something out of a Kadinsky painting. The next thing I knew, I was being passionately kissed. It wouldn’t have even mattered if the person doing the kissing was not of my sexual preference, I enjoyed it. I was being warmly embraced. When I felt a pressure upon my chest, I got up out of my veil of half-sleep… my twilight embrace of the gods.
It was her, the dancing fallen angel. She was the one performing CPR on my overrated corpse.
It was the pressure on my chest that awoke me to this observation. There was a rhythmic pressure being induced on my chest by the woman who had cast a spell on me.
That’s when the paramedics arrived.
How long was I out? Why did I take so high dosages? To kill myself by manipulating my conscious reality into believing I was safe? No, I don’t know what it was.
“Get him to the ambulance! Even with the CPR he is going to be completely unstable, depending on what drugs he took!” The unknown girl yelled at the paramedics.
“Ok Lady, pipe down, we’re trying to our jobs as fast as possible. We have to move him according to protocol,” the one with the mustache said. He was fuzzier than a Picasso painting at the time.
Two men dressed in casual paramedic dress, if you could call it that, were heading in my direction with a gurney in their grasp. The look on their face was of complete desperation.
Maybe today is the day I will die.
“I think you I know a little bit more than you on the seriousness of his “fate,”(She used her fingers to gesture this word) depending on how fast we can get the toxins pumped out of his body, make his heart stable, and find out what drugs he was on,” she uttered these words in complete contempt of these health workers.
“You there, yes you, can you hear me,” she said directly to me.
“Yaesss,” I tried to speak, but mumbled and couldn’t make the words connect.
“What drugs did you take,” she asked urgently.
“Amfetaaminesss, beenzodiazzipineeess, opaaates,” I tried to answer.
The man with mustache who liked like the Picasso painting was certainly annoyed at her intervention and decided to act from what I could gather.
“Maam, we don’t need your help any more. Thank you and everything, but we need to get him on a resuscitator, maybe pump his stomach instead of giving him charcoal, and pump him full of Narcan,” the man answered to her, in almost a threatening way.
I stared at two bleak faces as I felt myself adrift in space. Everything was blurry, but I knew what was going on. I finally was put in the ambulance, and had a horrible feeling in my throat as someone was feeding me the charcoal that had been mentioned.
“Drink it all down, you’re at the point of return, and you don’t want to know what it is like to pump a stomach.” The mustache face was the one feeding me the cup. I spotted the flower upon the grave, the black rose beauty, who had saved my life.
I didn’t want to leave her. But the Picasso painting man swung the door shut and we were off.
I saw her again, before the ambulance jetted off on a jaunt composed by my carefree and naïve actions. She ran to what looked to be her car, and she immediately got in, started it, and followed the ambulance when it took off.
She was the reason I was there. It’s fate. Now she’s following me to the hospital! I am in a hopelessly infatuated state, obsessed with the resplendent lady following us.
I felt my stomach take a nose dive, and I grabbed the bucket they had in there for these occasions and vomited, violently into it. It was charcoal black.
“Good job, I think you’ll be okay from what your vitals have shown. You’re lucky I didn’t have to stomach pump your dumb ass. Have you ever pumped out someone’s entire G.I. tract, including their bile before? Argh.” He looked out the window, at the sky after he told me this.
I looked out the doors and saw her car, a few cars down, still following me.
I looked up into the bleak sky of the autumns day, and felt myself lose control again. Everything turned to that abysmal black of unconsciouness again, as I struggled to fight it off. I looked one more time out the window, and saw her face, in my mind. And everything went black.
END CHAPTER 1