Another Reason Why I Don't Use Mind-Altering Drugs

No more going to bed on an empty stomach. I dream of what I long for. That kind of ride qualifies as a nightmare, especially when I wake and find it's not there.

I was with her. We were going to ride down with one of her friends to meet a group of people at someone else's house, maybe her uncle's. I don't even know if she has an uncle, but that's where we were going...until I couldn't fit in her friend's vehicle, funnily enough. It was decided I'd ride down with someone else. In an incongruent, dreamworld plot hole, however, I was instantly teleported to our
destination.

Two of her male friends were there waiting as well. We sat on couches in the living room and made awkward small talk. Then a big brute of a man wearing a wifebeater came in and harrassed us a bit. It was his house, he was allowed to. I stood for it, or sat, until he came back a second time. "You and you," he spat, pointing at me and one of the other apparently unwanted guests. "Start sweeping. It's a mess in here."

When he went to procure the brooms I stood up, put my welder's hat on, and made my way for the door. It wasn't worth the aggravation, curly red hair or not. On my way out I bumped into the man's wife and two girls in their twenties, presumably their children. I explained the situation and my desire to bow out gracefully, then continued down the walkway toward the street. I wouldn't make it far, though. My angered host would see to that.

I don't ever recall being hit so hard in a dream that I felt it in reality. Not until now, that is. All of a sudden I received a devastating blow in my left ear that loosened my teeth and caused my right ear drum to pop. A southpaw with a mean sucker-punch. Figures. I saw stars and wound up in the grass, the man's bare arms locked through mine as he pinned me to his lawn.

"How dare you leave without cleaning!" he shouted. "And then to tell my family what I asked of you..."

My head spun as I tried to make sense of it. This nut asked two strangers to sweep the hardwood floor of his living room for no reason and then attacked one of them from behind for choosing to leave instead. What was the world coming to? I was afraid I already knew the answer.

Somehow I managed to wriggle my hand into my right pocket and get a solid grip on my cell phone. I opened it up and went to dial the lady I'd been waiting on, but realized she wouldn't be able to help. Perhaps I merely wanted to hear her voice one last time, to tell her I loved her, to apologize for all the damage I'd done. You know: the usual. I opted for 911 instead, but immediately between thumbing the 9 and the first 1 I reassessed the situation. With this goon on top of me I wouldn't be able to effectively communicate what was going on, let alone my location. It made more sense to take matters into my own hands, or so it seemed at the time.

I ditched the phone and reached down for the razor-sharp pocket knife I always carry-- the one that mysteriously went missing at my ex's house one Christmas, thus forcing me to drop $60 on a replacement. The original turned up again almost a year later. She gave it back, even though we were through by that time. I passed it along to the friend I've known the longest in the hopes that it'd bring him better luck. My presents were great that year, but the presence wasn't. There are some things best left uncelebrated. She was peeved when she found out I gave it to him. That made it all the sweeter. I'd given her enough already, most of which could never have a dollar amount assigned to it. What's the cost of sanity?

But back to that knife. I beg your pardon. My thumb flicked open the actuator and it swung into its glory. I flipped it around in my hand so the blade was protruding from the bottom of my fist and positioned it in front of my assailant's liver. All it'd take was a quick jab and twist to end the senseless, brutal beating being doled out like I'd earned it. I hadn't, at least not as far as this man was concerned. Something inside of me couldn't make that incision, though. There was a fine line between carrying a knife and using one to take human life that I wasn't prepared to cross. For what deceptively seemed like an eternity I held the point to his skin. Finally he felt it poke his gut and wrestled it from my hand. It was all over but the screaming, as my mother used to say. I don't know where he decided to plant that sucker, but I'm aware that it slammed home. I woke with a jerk and felt like one. Killed with my own knife. What a way to go. And all of it happened while waiting for a woman, for my love to arrive. The whole scenario dripped with so much irony that my pillow was literally soaked; at least that's what I figured the thick layer of drool on my face and the linens could represent in a perfect literary world. You know us writers: always looking for meaning in metaphor though we couldn't add our way out of a wet paper bag.

I lost the girl. I didn't save the world. I had my own phallic weapon used against me. I died so hard that I woke up disturbed and haven't been able to sleep again in the four hours since.

When my kids get to the chapter on dad's first time working out of town this is the overcast sky they'll discover. It ain't easy to face the Lake Effect winds alone, let alone nuclear radiation. But like Roland of Gilead, son of Steven and last gunslinger said many times over, "Do not forget the face of your father."

Currently reading:
"Catching Fire" by Suzanne Collins.