Torn

This is another work in progress although it is actually finished I am going to release it in sections. Feel free to critique...please do.

Chapter 1

Oct, 31 Tuesday 6:44 a.m. 1993

He awoke. Slowly becoming cognizant, he remained shut in behind the lids of his eyes. He had hoped that this time he would not awaken, that his sleep would be a forever one, but once again, he was conscious. He gradually became aware of a rising pain behind his eyes, a pain, that while now was merely an annoyance, threatened to become a magnitude seven headache.

He opened his eyes to a half lit room; the dawn was upon this part of the world. The rest of this quiet neighborhood was waking to pots of coffee and laughing children, they were readying to leave their homes and venture into the world But he only had hopes of grabbing onto the robes of death and to end this day, now; right here. But a natural death was not in the stars, he would have to end this himself.

A sliver of light began to pierce the space between curtains on the window. Dust particles danced and curled in the light. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The smoke from his lungs joined the dance in the sliver of light and began to whirl. Inhaling deeply, the smoke burned his lungs as the first cigarette of the day should; coffee would be good he thought, but coffee had long ago become a luxury he could not afford. Alcohol however was a necessity. He and alcohol had a love hate relationship and had had since this all started. Alcohol had, at first anyway eased his mind and dulled the razors edge of his thoughts; it killed the voices.

He rose from his prone position on the floor, the smoke and dust twirled

violently in their spotlight as his body passed through. He walked to the window and put a finger on the curtain, cautiously drawing it back ever so slightly. Children played in the morning sunshine, dressed in the uniform of another school day. They ran and laughed as children do unaware that life will not always be so carefree.

An ash from his cigarette fell on the windowsill, he waited for a moment, remembering, remembering how his son's had played out there on this very street. The basketball goal still stood, well the pole at any rate.

He turned away from the window, and sat in the chair in the middle of the room. There, on a small table by his chair was a picture of his ex-wife and the two boys he had lost. He picked the picture up and examined it. Then that feeling of loss returned to him, he held the picture and curled himself up and sobbed.

The sobs came in waves and his body heaved violently with each one. Finally, exhausted, he laid the photograph on his lap and reached for the bottle beside the chair. He gulped the harsh liquid as if it were water, and then sat the bottle beside the chair where it had been. He reached to the table and found the gun.

"My God, I can't"

He held the gun to him as he had the photograph before, his sobbing decreased.

"I am not crazy!"

But he had to be, insane, or else how could he have done those things. But he knew the truth and insanity was not part of the truth. If he were insane he could pull insanity over himself like a warm blanket and wipe reality away. He could disappear into a certainty of his own creation and fill it with his wishes and make all this go away;but he was not crazy.

He heard the laughter of children on their way to the bus stop. He remembered laughter, his, his wife's, and his children. He looked at the picture in his lap then reached for the bottle but stopped as he thought of meeting God with liquor on his breath. He laughed out loud startling himself, he laughed again at the thought of his laughing.