Beyond the Pain

Prologue

Death was calling him.

He remembers her most recent call. May first-twenty ten.

He had just moved into his apartment. Beginning a new life. Alone. Hopeful. Joyous.

Then it all turned to shit.

Somewhere around noon. The witching hour. His mood dropped. Crashed. Plummeted. Lower than a salamaner’s belly. Lower than a cockroach’s. Lower than a snake’s.

Winnie Churchill had called IT his Black Dog. Depression. The Big D. She came to visit that noon. That first Saturday in May. He had done his yoga practice. He had picked up the keys from Mike.

Just back in his apartment. Lunch made. Consumed. Standing in his living room. The depression started in the bottom of his feet. Icy. Crept up his legs. Like water. Like liquid fire.

Exactly like the eighth of March nineteen eighty five.

This time the depression took six minutes to capture his body. And, his brain. His mind. Neurochemicals one and all. Fixed in his blood.

How long this time, he thought. Three months. Six. A year.

Not those. It turned out to be exactly one hundred thirteen days and three hours.

Three in the morning. August twenty first. Three in the morning. His life ended. Almost.

His front bumper rocketing into the concrete sound barrier. A second later his neck slammed into the shoulder strap. His seventh cranial verterbra cracked. Then the second verterbra followed. In rapid succession: His upper body smashed into the steering wheel. It bent. Cracked. Shattered. Severak ribs cracked. A rib on the right puncturing his lung. His lung deflated. His forehead smashed into the front windshield. The ridge over his right eye impinging first. The skin ripped. Blood began cascading out. Soaking into his T-shirt. Dripping onto his jeans. Soaking his running shoes. Then his right carotid severed. Almost. Blood seeped into the flesh surrounding the artery. Pumped directly to his mid-brain. Ballooned the artery wall. A haemorhagic stork followed. The best or worst event. For last. His right foot had been planted firmly on the gas pedal. His Oldsmobile was rocketing at ninety kilometers per hour. His right heel bone shattered into a dozen pieces.

The Olds came to brief stop. The contents of the trunk smashing through the back seat. They came to a stop. Cushioned on the back of the front seat. Compressing his spine. The Olds rocked back.

Ten seconds. And, his life was over. Almost.

Or, had it just begun.

Pre-publication Draft, Copyright Lyle T. Lachmuth, ALL Rights Reserved

Part 8

“I am in a car. An Oldsmobile. In the front seat. The passanger seat. I glance to my left. I am driving. I am dressed in jeans. Cinched with a blue cloth belt. Red T-shirt. Peeking through the neck of a leather jacket. Black socks. Grey runners. We are driving on Glemore Trail. About to go around the corner to Crowchild. And, an close encounter. Of the fatal kind. The bus stop waits. The concrete wall is approaching. Fast. Fast. Fast. A crash is inevitable. I can do nothing. Trapped. Helpless. Trapped. Helpless …”

I wake. Another fucking control dream. It’s two o’clock in the morning.

“And I need you now.” My dendritic brain skates to Lady Antebellum’s song. Of the same name. A song that aches in my heart. And brain.

I played that song endlessly. Over and over. In the dark. Hunched over my laptop. Ear buds inserted. Must a been a thousand times. Well. Maybe a hundred. Before the crash. The almost fatal crash.

That was to ultimately muliply my pain. But, intended to kill me. As the Scots say, of intentions and other plans, `gae oft a glae`.

I got out of bed. The usual way. Walked through the darkness. Of my apartment. Though not stygian dark. I did not have any drapes. The street lights shed their amber glow. Through the windows. And, the glass balcony doors. Turned into the bathroom. Peed. Pivoted. Proceded. To my left. Another quick left. On the carpeted floor. Stepped right. Onto the linoleum. Of the galley kitchen. Opened the fridge. Stared into it.

No orange juice had magically appeared. Left by the faeries.

I closed the fridge door. Pivoted to the right. Reached up. To the cupboard over the sink. Opened the cupboard door. Reached in. Took a blue plastic glass out. Pushed the door closed with the glass. Ran the cold water for two. Or three minutes. Put the glass under the faucet. Filled it. Shut the water off. And, drank the water down.

And, filled another glass. In the same way. And, drank it down. Too.

Pivoted three sixty. Retraced my path to the bedroom. Laid down. Tried to sleep.

The bedroom light came on. In the window of the apartment next door. Just four feet from my window. I had looked into that window. Countless times before the crash. But never saw a soul.

This time was different.

A young woman had entered the bedroom. Raven haired. White as porcelain. Clad in a pink towel. And, nothing else.

It reminded me of the opening scene in Bedroom Eyes.

`Richard saw a light come on in the second storey bedroom across the alley. A young blond woman was standing there. Clad in nothing.Naked. Great tits. Brown nipples. Like silver dollars. American silver dollars. The blond was scrubbing her hair dry. With a large white towel. Slightly jiggling her breasts. Great tits.

Richard couldn`t see her …`

I had written that novel beginning thirteen years ago. Now it was coming true.

Or, so I thought.

Pre-publication Draft – Copyright Lyle T. Lachmuth, ALL Rights Reserved