It All Fell Apart

A Story by Dakota

The unnamed hero of this story is on a quest to clear his mind of personal demons, the first chapter of this short story gives a brief background to our hero,

It wasn't very interesting, all some kind of ploy probably. It was, however, a memorable event. I got comfortable, probably too comfortable. I can't describe the feeling I got, it was...um...unreal. Not that it matters because I'm fairly certain the whole ordeal was brought on by the copious amounts of hallucinogens that I had ingested before the wreck. Perhaps it was the dopamine my brain had released to make dying easier. Didn't help, though, did it? Here I sit, trying to recount the faint memories of lying face down in a puddle of my own blood, but I am alive. How? I haven't the faintest idea. I recovered with almost no adverse side effects, well mostly no side effects. I have a terrible lingering feeling, one that really cannot be described by any word in the English dictionary. I see things in my peripheral vision. Unsettling figures haunting my waking moments. I feel that they are as real as the keyboard I am stroking, but no one else sees them. I went to a psychiatrist to talk about this, which was of no help to me at all. He put me on some kind of anti-psychotic medication, to abate the hallucinations. All they did for me was make me feel even more disturbed. I stopped taking them yesterday, the feeling of being hollow was too much for me.

The dreams, or nightmares, are a constant variable every night. I wake in a puddle of sweat and tears. I can never fully remember what I had dreamed, but that's probably for the best, right? I sit, total darkness engulfs my body and touches my soul. How wonderful it is to feel like the natural forces of this universe tried to kill me. I survived at the spot where I was supposed to die. Now I am being perpetually punished. It's not something I would wish on my worst enemy. I lost my job, my house, my car, my wife, and most importantly, my mind. What kind of sick punishment is this? I'm living out of a hotel room, I'm not going to give the information as to where, but it's somewhere in Nevada, on a road with no town in sight. I originally hail from Tennessee, in a quaint little town called Cleveland. As far as I know, It's the only Cleveland in that state. I wouldn't go looking for it if I were you, well unless you like boring little towns that are run like a cult by the Church of God. Yeah, it wasn't hard to make my living there. There aren't a lot of smart people, so I took full advantage of the situation I was given.

I didn't go to college, I was paranoid that it was going to ruin my creative process, so what I do know about writing, was all self-taught. I made a name for myself in entertainment pieces in the Newspaper, grossing roughly 50,000 a year. It may not seem like a lot for someone who lives in, let's say, New York. You have to understand, though, it is a really small town. The price of living was very cheap, so I had money left over for various luxuries, but I didn't really go out of my way to live lavishly as most in Cleveland would. No, I kept to myself most of the time, my wife was my only real friend. Or she was the only other human in town that I could tolerate. I use to live in a small cabin, nestled in the woods. I didn't really have the nicest house in town, but it was cozy. That was enough for me. I have little tolerance for fancy things, and probably the nicest thing in my possession has always been my car. Yes, it was my prized possession for the longest time, but that changed. It's kind of funny, I was always told that as soon as you get the car paid off, it breaks. Well, it broke alright. I had a pretty good view of it after I had been slung through the windshield. It was a red 2015 corvette, I obtained it at a pretty good price. The car dealer I bought it from happening to be a fan of my work, the perks of talent at it's finest. I think we settled on 20 grand. I paid that off within the year. It's 2016 now, mid-summer, and hotter than a stove in hell.

I did have my problems, and for them, I pay dearly. Psychoactive drugs were the tool that rocketed my writing to new heights. They were always done in large amounts, mostly before I wrote an article, sometimes just for s***s and giggles I guess. There was nothing quite like crawling around in the woods, thinking you're getting attacked by the legions of hell. That was mostly reserved for the strongest of acid trips, though. I made sure to pace myself when I had work to be done. I felt like it freed my mind, and opened the creative channels. I don't really touch the stuff anymore, and I don't feel like I should have to tell you why. No, I sit as sober as a priest, but as paranoid as a whistleblower. Even now, I see a dark figure lurking in the corner of this little roach infested hell hole. This isn't the kind of hotel your family would stay at. It's the kind of hotel for social outcasts and drug-addled scum that doesn't stay in one place for too long. I have always been a social outcast, but this is a whole new level of anxiety that grips my soul. It makes me see everyone as a potential threat or a figment of my imagination. I don't trust anyone, but I really never have. My ex-wife, sure, but beyond her, no. I took my savings and got out of that little town shortly after my wife and I got a divorce. It didn't really shock me, I expected it. I don't know what kind of sane person wants to hear screaming and crying at all hours of the night. I never really figured out if she felt sorry for me, or just hoped I would commit suicide so she could collect the life insurance and be done with me.

After the divorce was finalized, I started on the road. I don't really know why it was just something I felt was necessary maybe I could find somebody who could help clear my mind of these horrible demons. I stay afloat financially by doing freelance writing for various websites. I don't really need much, just enough to afford hotels, gas, and cigarettes. Food hasn't really been much of a factor in my day to day life anymore. I eat to keep my body alive, god knows my soul died in the wreck. Maybe I am just on autopilot at this point. I could just put a bullet in my head and be done with it, but that damned human instinct to survive won't let me. Sometimes I hear voices, telling me to end it all. I won't let them win this, so I drink until they fade. I'm sure whatever has possessed me has a shot liver at this point because my life must look like a pickle. Sometimes the demon drink snubs out the nightmares, but most of the time they happen regardless. Yes, what a cliché life for the tortured author. An alcoholic with no real reason to continue living. I guess what separates me from them, is I used to love life. It was a joy to wake up, drink coffee, eat breakfast, and drive through the mountains. I enjoyed being in nature, experiencing the magic of random occurrence. Not now, it became clear to me that life is scary. It's the number one killer of all humans and animals alike. You live it, then you die. Well...most of the time you die. I didn't, but I wish I had.

I'm pretty sure at this point, people look at me and see a dead man walking. I can go look in a mirror, and be greeted by a man with a long scraggly beard, hallowed out eyes, and the palest skin allowed on a white male. A homeless ghost, a drifter, and a zombified husk of what I use to be. It's only been a few months, but I'm already borderline insane. I catch myself talking to no one in particular, not even myself. Maybe I do talk to people, unconsciously spurting off automated answers to generic questions. The same song and dance that people spend their whole life learning the steps to. Me? It's a petty inconvenience at this point. I do things without thinking, and maybe that sounds great for people who can't be bothered to think about what to do or say. Enjoy your independence, it's what makes you unique. I don't think I can carry on an in-depth conversation at this point. I can write fine, maybe not as good as I use too, but it's enough to get me by. The only time I open my mouth anymore is to buy necessities, and rent rooms out. I don't pay attention to the way people look at me anymore, but I know that they look at me like I'm some low life crack head. That's how I look now, skinny, pale, and highly disturbed. I'm not addicted to anything but finding somebody to help me. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places, I think I may head to Salem, Massachusetts. If a doctor can't help me, maybe a witch can. It's a long shot, but maybe I did bring something back from the dead with me.