I'm the Load My Mother Should Have Swallowed.

So I guess you've figured out something was wrong.
Maybe I am easy to read and a little predictable. Oh well.
Some people never change. Most change for the worst of course.
They told me to go to the doctor, but for years I refused.
The moment I realized I had feelings for you, I couldn't help but let them run free like a convict fleeing prison.
The moment I realized I was wasting my time, I sent hundreds of guards after the convict.
Empty handed they returned.
Heartless I became.

My feelings are bankrupt and you're rich with my depression.
Now I'm less than just predictable; I'm just a suicide bomber standing alone in the vast desert.

The time wasted on you will never be gained back.
Not enough apologies and sympathetic hugs could deactivate the convict's bomb that would leave the bits and pieces for the guards to find.

"The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage."
Mr. Chuck Fucking Palahniuk.


Most teenagers think about sex for the majority of the day. I think of the thousands of ways I could kill myself. From the most subtle to the bloodiest. The most painful and slowest of the possible suicides are my favorite of course.
I am not afraid of death.
Everyone assumes something is wrong and they couldn't be any more correct. Yet, I always shrug it off and say nothing. For some reason, they believe me.
I am not afraid of my problems.
Everyone has flaws. No one is perfect. These two things have been drilled into my head since I was a little boy. Everyone just has less flaws than I do. Everyone is better than me. We're joined by our flaws and imperfections.
I am not afraid of being alone.
I prefer the solitude. The silence does just fine keeping me company. I feel comfortable telling my deepest secrets to the other voices. I think their stuck in my mind, but trying to escape...
I am not afraid of the complicated.
It gives me something to focus on. My suicidal driven thoughts get jealous, I'm sure. The quietest of the voices just urges me to off myself.
I am afraid of being afraid..

RE: I love you

I've been thinking a lot
And I needed to tell you,
I love you.
I'm scared I don't tell you enough,
That it won't be the last words you hear.

I take so much for granted,
I take life for granted,
I give the benefit of the doubt
to people who don't deserve it.

I regret every time, every single time,
That I have been upset with you.
I regret being somewhat nice
When I should have been a prick.

You don't deserve this.
I love you.

[]

[]-one
"The world is going to die some day, and so are you. What are you going to do about it? What can you do about it? What will you do about it? We live on a wasteland. We bury people where children play. We scatter ashes over some of the most beautiful places in the world. We're truly disgusting. You should be sick of yourself. Suicides and homicides; accidents and neglect. We are all liars, never once speaking a word of the truth. We are all sinners, never guaranteed that spot in heaven church told you about. They tell you things like: 'You have a seat with you name on it in heaven.' 'You will have everything you could ever need or want.' Well, what they don't do is show you this proof. How do you know you have a spot in this so called heaven. Where is the evidence of all things you could ever need or want. What about you're desires. So many questions left unanswered. Sure, you people think about them, but you distract yourselves with other things. You preoccupy your mind with meaningless bullshit. Just like this god damned seminar. I'm trained to tell you these things. I'm bringing all your hopes down. It's my job. Why? Because I'm good at it. It's not about who's right or who's wrong, it's about who wins. You say Dr. Pepper is better than Pepsi? Well, I disagree. But here I am sidetracking you. I tell you about something I know is correct. Something I know is this so called truth. Now, who's thinking about soda? You're not. You're thinking about this new found truth. I've just won. So what if I'm a fuck up. I'm right, you're wrong. I just won the argument. We're all going to die someday. Life is so unexpected. If you knew how you would die, you'd be expecting it. Then you would fuck up. If you found out you were going to die in an airplane crash, you'd never get on an airplane now would you. Well maybe someone that died on September 11 knew they would die in a plane crash. Maybe they avoided flying all their life. Well, do you think they woke up thinking, 'Shit, I'm going to die today. A fucking passenger plane is going to fly into my fucking cubicle and fuck shit up. Fuck.' They lived their whole live avoiding airplanes just to die in a terrorist act. Maybe life is really planned out. Maybe you have a destination every single time you take a 'different' turn. Either way you're still dead"
I can't help but side with this man preaching to a crowded room. Not crowded with people, but crowded with silence and space. There can't be more than twenty-three of us sitting in this church, but shit, who would blame them with a crazy fuck like this in line to talk to us. I look to the woman closest to me and wonder what she's thinking. Could it be she's trying to change the way she lives, maybe be more spontaneous? From there my thoughts lead to how nice her tits are. Maybe I have a shot?
My thoughts come to a halt as the sound of a shotgun being fired obliterates the peaceful tranquility of this douchebag's speech. I don't even care who is dead, just as long as some strange fuck is dead.

Roman Numeral

[One]
Before I start and get any odd comments from anyone, I'd like to say this before any accusations occur. The following story is indeed fictional, but based upon a friend. The following characters names have been changed for confidentiality. If a name seems familiar to you, it's not. I do hope that my friend does find the courage for her. That is all.

Dear beautiful,
You don't know me, and I don't know you. I see you around, but I'm sure you don't see me. I see you every day. I want to say something but I cannot. You are four steps above me as a person, and I am too shy to even get closer than a few yards. I feel like a stalker when I think about you. When i can pull your scent from a crowd. There is so much I want to say to you. Even more I'd like to do with you. My desks are carved with your name. I swear it feels like a heart attack when you even glance in my direction. My stomach has the most intense butterflies, I feel as if I'm a helium balloon. It's strange we're friends with the same people, yet you don't know me. There is so much I want to know about you. I know so little about you, but for a fact, I know that your boyfriend doesn't deserve you. I do. I do more than anything and I hope to god someone will realize that before it's too late.
Sincerely,
Me.

I know I'll never give you this. I wrote it a week ago, and I can't stop rereading it. I wish it was as easy as it was to write. Shyness always added to my flaws. What is fate? What is love? Is our love our fate? If only it were. You're all I want and all I need, but I can't even seem to start a conversation with you. If I were in the same room as you, I might just explode. Hopefully one day I will have the courage to at least give you that note. Maybe if I do it well enough, the mysterious side I lay down might turn it into a mouse chase.
I've got no backbone. You'll never read this.

Sempiternal Realm

[i]
I pounded on the walls wondering if anyone outside could hear me. The pounding slowly became kicking and screaming which has evolved into slamming my body as I ran the length of the room into the wall. Over and over I would continuously smash my entire shoulder into the wall. Yet, nothing was coming of it other than an enormous pain erupting in my sides. My bones were getting tender and the wall just laughed at my stupidity in trying to break free of this cage. I leaned against the bullied wall with my back to it. I almost didn't trust turning my back on it after I had tortured this damned thing for it might start to torture me. Staring into the dim lighting of this chamber, thoughts emerged in my mind. Before I could finish my thought process, a figure emerged from the dimmest part of the scarcely lit room.
It's footsteps echoed across this vast darkness. All fell silent went it stopped. All but my accelerated heart rate. Reaching four hundred fifty beats per minute, I could hear nothing but my internal double bass drum. A sharp pain in my neck has began as quickly as the pain in my bones and muscles ceased to exist. The double bass drum slowly fell to the standard beat that we all experience on a daily basis. Then it fell to a slower beat than that. Motionless and almost unconscious. there was little I could do. My eyes rolling around the room, I noticed the figure get closer. It was something I had seen before, but where? It seemed furry. It seemed short and furry. Full of warmth and love. I noticed all of this before I fainted.
I heard a low vibration as I slowly came to. I wasn't leaning against the undamaged wall anymore. I wasn't near it. I had bars all around me. I surveyed the lot more in a panic. A pool of blood was trembling beneath my feet by the vibrations of a cell phone lying in it. I looked up into the hellish blindness of high wattage light bulbs. I quickly looked down squinting. Thinking back to the blood, I checked to see if it was mine. I tasted no iron in my mouth and felt no pain elsewhere. I raised my hand to my head to wipe my brow of sweat under this heat. At that instant, the cell phone hollered high-pitched dissonance irritating my ears and causing the lights to flicker. Maybe it was just my eyes that began to tweak at such an awful pitch. I fell to my hands and knees landing in the pool of blood snatching at the cell phone to stop this screaming. Before I could even touch it, something outside the cage had exploded. I couldn't see what it was, which was strange with all the lights above me. It was as if I had blackout curtains all around me, and a blitzkrieg were going on. Just a few inches separated the explosions and what I assumed to be blinding lights from me. The noise finally stopped, or maybe I had fallen deaf. I screamed just to hear myself. Before I could let out a faint yelp, I was shocked numb. Motionless and speechless, I lie here paralyzed awaiting my death.
[ii]
I opened my eyes to see my legs chained to several others. That's all I could see. Seven or eight of us linked by our legs with the candle light in the center of our circle. All of us had a corner or two full of drool. Most of us had come to, but there were still a few that were still seeing stars. My jaw popped if I opened it to far and my ankle creaked if I moved it around. Maybe that was the chains. I could really only move my eyes around, as if my neck were locked in one spot. I surveyed the other people here-- not one of us alike at first glance. Maybe there was something deeper.
As the last few came round, the rest of us could move a little more than just a few bones. I would like to think I was the third person to open his eyes again. The two that I saw speaking with their eyes, or screaming, were forming sentences again. I haven't tried, nor was I about to. The person on my left, he started to stand dragging me with him. My involuntary jump to the feet was followed by the rest of them. I was either the second from the back, or the second from the front. Their were no decisions on which side was the front for none of us could really talk.
The loudspeaker roared from all sides, "It would be wise to establish a leader," then silenced itself. It was the most beautiful female voice I had heard. She sounded like heaven and left my ears ringing with sweetness. After it was completely silent, there was mumbling and grumbling, only few complete words. The person on my left that had stood up was calming everyone down and trying to get them to shush. After everyone quieted down, he pleaded that everyone that wanted to be a leader raise their hands. It seemed he was taking charge, but he didn't raise his hand. The two at the opposite end me violently raised their hands. This man attached at my ankle told them to pick a number between one and one hundred. Whoever was closest was to gain the role of leadership.
"Forty-nine!"
"Fifty-one!"
The so far man in charge was sighing in discontentment. You both got it. It was fifty. Let's try again, but on a scale of one to ten.
Instantly, both men screamed "Eight!" simultaneously.
The man on my left fell to his knees almost in tears saying that's exactly what I was thinking. He pondered other strategies out loud. "Rock, paper...no. Election...no. Eenie meanie miney..." he paused, "NO!"
Both men staring each other dead in the eye both mutter the exact same words to the group. "I pick you. No...you!" Pausing in confusion, they look at the man on my left and holler for him to be the leader. The man to my left backs up in hesitation and I start to follow him involuntarily again. It wasn't until now, I noticed I had been mouthing the same things as he.

Untitled

I was on a train headed nowhere. A train headed somewhere. I had everything I needed. I had nothing. Sitting in a compartment fit for four, two other men joined me waiting four our fourth. The door slid open revealing a beautiful brunette not much taller than five feet. I wasn't the only one staring that is for damn sure. She was flawless. Her hair just to her shoulders, her breasts perfect and perky, her eyes the color of the ocean. She squeezed between me and the wall. It seemed as if this compartment for four should have really been a compartment for me and her. We all sat in an awkward silence that was appropriate for the time being. All catching the glare and stare of each of the other people in the closet of a room.
The silence was abruptly interrupted by a deep crackling voice booming from the speaker above. "Hello, one and all, headed nowhere. Please get acquainted with your roommates for the next few evenings. You are all hear for a reason now find out why. Goodbye for now," whispered the voice as the crackling of the speaker stopped and the loudest thing was the four different heart beats. No one wanted to be the first to speak; they would seem too eager to spill their life story.
I was the second to arrive after a shorter male with much stubble. He wore a black and white striped gown and cap. We didn't make eye contact until the female had graced us with her beauty. He wouldn't stop looking out the window, or maybe he was staring into his reflection looking for an answer. Waiting for himself to blink, I let him be. The other guy stumbled several minutes after me. I threw him an interested look, but he disregarded it and buried his nose in the newspaper. Revealing so much to uninterested people was a different feeling. One I had never experienced before. We all have are past lives and can tell however much we are willing to. We also have the choice of telling the truth.
"I'm the manager of a local business. I'm younger than thirty but older than twenty. My first love left me and it's never been the same since. I don't judge people."
Her voice was more hypnotizing than her deep blue eyes. Soft articulation with a gentle flow between words. Perfect pauses when needed. She was the bravest to break the silence.
"I'm a professional mascot. For football teams, beer and cigarette companies, and even fast food establishments. My age is a prime number between twenty-five and thirty. I've died twice."
He looked around at the three of us with a puzzled and shy look and then buried his nose back in the newspaper to avoid further eye contact. I could smell his fear. His nervousness lit up the room.
I looked back at the muscular man staring at his reflection. I'm yet to see him blink. I assumed that since we were going in order of last to arrive, that I was up. I didn't know what to say. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Then I just stopped thinking about things and just let everything just happen naturally.
"I'm a writer. I love coffee. I'm a Scorpio from the year of the Tiger. I think to much and say too little."
I blinked and snapped back to consciousness. I had nothing to hide behind. So I pulled a deck of cards out from the magazine holder just below the window and violently shuffled them.
The man dressed in the black and white, horizontal striped gown finally broke his stare. Without saying a word, I could tell he had a raspy voice. Very tough built, but soft spoken. He seem terrified of everything except his own reflection.
"I'm a convict. I killed my family. I've never loved anyone. I'm twenty-nine years old. I want to trust all of you. Give me a reason to."
The speaker crackled again. "My name is Boris. I'm glad you have all gotten to know the basics. We have a live feed into each compartment and will be making frequent check ups. If you look under each of your cushions, you will find a menu. Please use the phone to call in your order. Thank you very much for cooperating." The crackling stopped. As hungry as I was, I had no intentions of finding the first menu.

The Cure

After realizing I seriously have had writer's block for the past few days, I stumbled upon an interesting website full of many prompts. The prompt: "Write from the point of view of a spoon inside the dishwasher." Here's it goes...
My vision slowly transferred from a blur to a speckled clarity. I can't remember much; just a form of torture I suppose. Whatever this mammoth beast was, it kept placing me in a loud dark hole inside them. This slimy red thing wouldn't leave me alone. All the weight pressing down on top of me; I couldn't take it anymore. Finally it stopped and water was poured in and all over my companion Mr. Bowls. This giant creature was taking us somewhere new. It wasn't located inside it thank god. The first orifice was terrible enough for my lifetime. I watched as Mr. Bowls was carried onto the top shelf of this hell. I didn't want to be alone in here. I was tossed into a box with no top. I almost landed on a fellow fiend I swear I knew from somewhere. We shared the same room. He seemed very nice once you got past his serrated edges. We shared a tough stare before he spoke.
"New kid, eh?"
I looked up in confusion. He seemed wise and older. I trusted him completely for some reason. "Where the hell am I?"
"You're in hell my friend. After you're scrubbed free of you misery by the steaming hot water, it gets more humid than a sauna."
The way he is talking is scaring me. I couldn't help but burst into tears when I heard a locking sound from outside. This can't be good. He was right. The water started flying out from underneath my room. It was hotter than I've ever felt before. I looked up to see Mr. Bowls screaming in agony. Then he started giggling. I wasn't sure what to think. Several minutes passed and the water stopped spraying. It began getting very muggy. I looked around for my new friend. I couldn't see a centimeter in front of me. Walking over to the other wall, I tripped and fell. I was helpless. I couldn't get up. Everything faded to black.

Something Violent

A.

"How could you leave me like this?" Those were the last words I can remember before the echo of a gunshot filled the entire cul-de-sac with fear and confusion. In this normal little town that we call home, we aren't familiar with this sound. It's almost too perfect. The police officers don't carry guns or handcuffs. It's like there is no crime here at all. The small population where no one has the same name and everybody knows everybody. This is a city where people run to...to die old, or just hide from past problems. Born and raised here, I didn't know what a real gunshot sounded like. Not in person at least. Sure, I had head them in old western movies, but those were just sound effects and cap guns. This booming crack silenced the neighborhood. No one moved or said anything to anyone. Moments later, a second gunshot created pandemonium amongst the streets. Parents uprooting their crying children from playscapes; couples running away clinging to one another, but no one knew why.
I looked down on the neighboring house to see movement from my window. This husky man with a large, built body paced across the window. Gun in hand, blood on shirt. He was unrecognizable. I had never seen this character in our town before. I couldn't grab words as I gazed at the sight of murder. But looking at the chaos in the streets made me chuckle a bit.
My girlfriend, sitting on my bed in tears, was slowly becoming my ex-girlfriend. I was leaving her, for good. But then I was interrupted by the double murder. Her eyes glistening in salty tears made me want to be that man with the gun, putting a bullet right between her perfect pair of blue eyes. I 'love' her and all, but who's to say that I don't think she should die. You don't even know what the whore did to me. Fucking skank...
I would always try and avid getting involved with people's problems, but this mayhem that lie just yards away was calling to me. I could have forgotten about the half-naked woman sitting on my bed. I never realized how ugly this slut was. She would take off her clothes faster than it takes the average cigarette to light up. Without even thinking, I dodge the vase being thrown at me.
"What the hell you crazy bitch?!" I scream at her. She doesn't even acknowledge me, but I'm fine with that. She wiped the tears streaming down her face with my blanket. Cunt. I don't regret anything with her, accept that I actually asked her to be mine. I was entirely oblivious to the fact that she was some psycho. Always coked up. If it wasn't coke it was ecstasy. Certainly, if it wasn't ecstasy, it was acid.
Another gunshot silenced her sniffling, but this time, it wasn't from the neighbor's house.

B.

The blood drips down her nose as she falls back in self enjoyment. The cocaine has reached her brain. Her eyes are glazed, but nothing like an overdose. Just a high. One higher than the last. She built a tolerance after so much abuse. The drugs aren't getting more expensive, she is just buying more to get that greater high. One to surpass the last. I can tell what she's feeling. She's useless without the drugs. Even more useless with them. I don't mind listening to Aphex while she rolls back in forth swatting at spiders that aren't even there. She smacks to the roll of the bass drum. If she saw herself like this, she might understand why I'm leaving her. She isn't worth the time and money. Not even the slightest bit. She's ugly, too. Oh how I wish she was gone. I wish she would just finally take so many fucking drugs just to get a buzz that she might die. Knowing my luck, that wouldn't happen. It's never this easy. Just like everyone thought Steve Irwin would die from something hardcore like a King Cobra, I thought she would die a painful drug-related death.
A year later, and she still hasn't cleaned up. She's at least tripled the amount of her first hit just to reach the buzz. I swear you could fry an egg on her head when she's fucked up. Probably some fucking bacon, too. Why won't you just die already? No one fucking loves you. Not even your parents. They left you when you were born. They figured you could make it on your own. Sadly, they were sort of right.

C.

"Holy shit! What the fuck was that?" Those were the last words I can remember before me and my little sister were uprooted from our bedroom. We were just playing Monopoly and all the sudden Mom and Dad tore us off of the floor that had the cute princess layout from my elementary school days. My parents were more frantic than I had ever seen them in all of my life. I love my iPod. It's saved me more times than anything.
From trance to death metal back up to indie. I've always had music to fit my needs. Right now, Death Cab for Cutie was saving the day with all of there lyrical bliss. Granted, it wasn't enough to distract me from the questions running through my head. "What was that noise?" "Who was that boy?" "Where am I going?"
I didn't know the houses in this neighborhood even had basements. Or cellars. Or dungeons. Whatever you would like to call them. I didn't know we had one, but it was more of a shelter than anything. It was underground and stocked with water and dehydrated foods of all sorts. Ice cream to watermelon. Shuffling artists: Nine Inch Nails. The questions in my head transfered to miscellaneous thoughts. "I'm ready for death." "I hope no one misses me when I'm gone." "I hope my last meal will be more than extravagant."
The crank-powered television broadcasts a shooting. The address looks familiar. The next camera view shows a police standoff in front of my house. Except, not my house. My neighbor's. I then think about how I've never really seen him or her before. I've always assumed that house was vacant and kept tidied up by the community. I wish I could see this first hand. I skip the next track. And then The Cure comes on. My mind kicks into overdrive. Not miscellaneous thoughts anymore, just a jumble of images. Fuzzy. Dark. Bright. Blinding. Wings. Flying. Death.

D.

Cuddled under the stars, we listened to the crickets chirping, but didn't think much of it. The wind was blowing ever so gracefully in the cool night. I think she fell asleep on my breasts because her breathing was evenly spaced and given without ease. That is the moment I decided to nap as well. At first, I started counting the stars. This was the perfect night to figure it out. How many stars consisted of this sky. I lost count at twenty-seven stars. I was gone.
When i awoke, there was no one lying next to me. Just a ladybug on a leaf a few feet away. I leaned over for a closer look to count the spots. It flew east. I'm not sure where she went, but I assume she left me. Gone forever. I should have never said goodbye on that bridge the night before. I walked back to the car and sat listening to The Mars Volta to get my mind off of her. I zoned out, again.
I was then startled by a knock on the window. It was her. She was here, knocking on my window. What does she want. I rotate the window lever two cranks counter clockwise. She leaned her head through the open window and kissed me. I tried not to kiss her back but I couldn't hold myself back. Then I tasted the alcohol on her breath. Gagging, I pushed her away. I hated when she drank.
"What's wrong, baby?"
I started the car and never said goodbye. I cried silent tears back to the place I called home.

E.

The sound of the bullet leaving the gun created a sonic boom in the room. I guess you don't scream when you commit suicide. I never expected it, but at the same time I knew it was bound to happen. Weeks of depression are usually the first signs. I should have really noticed when he gave me his stuffed kangaroo that he loved with all his heart. That's the second sign: giving away prized possessions. When Mom's gun disappeared I should have connected all the dots. If I had, I would have seen the answer. Suicide. Not really the favorite answer, but the right answer. Not the right answer but the right answer.
When you see someone's brains blasted out of their head on television, it's just special effects or really good props. They don't look anything like that. Looking at my little brother's brains spattered on my door was the worst thing I've ever seen. It wasn't the saddest thing, but it was the most startling. I didn't expect it, but I should have. Me and my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend didn't even notice him come in. But I guess that's because she was crying her eyes out and I was punching the wall. He moved into the room swiftly and silently just to blow his brains out. For all I know, he could have said, "I love you. Goodbye." Maybe he said, "Thanks for caring." Or "You asshole. I can't believe you didn't notice. I hope you enjoy life without me. Tell Mom I hate her." I'll never know because I wasn't paying enough attention.
I felt the tear run down my cheek as the garage door opened. Mom's home. But how did she get past all the camera crews and reporters. I didn't know what to do, so I just took the alternate route out my window. I'm not sure what I can say to my mom other than, "Your son, my brother, just committed suicide. Look in my room only if you want to see the inside of his head painted on my door. I love you!" I ran like there was no tomorrow. I ran to nothing. I ran to get away. Away from myself. Away from the world.

F.

I swear I don't miss her. I never even loved her. I just told her so she would be happy. I liked her a lot, but I never fell in love with her. Our relationship was weak anyway. She wouldn't kiss me in public because she didn't want to create a scene. Fucking skank. Her brother told me to never get close to her. Maybe that's why I wouldn't let myself love her. Or maybe, I just didn't love her. My parents didn't know we were together. That was the only way she could of stayed the night. I don't even think Mom or Dad know that I'm bi. I doubt my sister even knows, but she's too young to know the difference between male and female. I love how oblivious my family is. Oblivious, yet paranoid of everything. Like a shooting next door.
We finally went back up into the house late in the night. No one in the cul-de-sac had their lights off. It was brighter tonight than during a summer day. I felt the electric bill rising. I don't know what's happening to this neighborhood, but it's something big. First the shooting at my house, and now I see the neighbor across from us on the cul-de-sac digging a six-foot hole. I couldn't help but watch her from my window. She put all sorts of flowers in her garden, but the hole she dug was empty. I had never even talked to this woman before, but when she looked up at my window, I think we shared our first conversation without words. I felt so much from her stare. The power behind her eyes frightened me. I could only return a baffled look. She knew I didn't have a clue what was going on, but I was fine with that, and I think she was, too. She gave a half-hearted smile and sat in the hole. I could only see the top of her hair. The blond hair glistening white from all the lights in the neighborhood.
I never found out what happened to the guy next door. I'm not concerned enough to turn on the television. I don't think my mother likes the idea of me going out at night, especially after a murder in the neighborhood. As I walked out the door, I disregarded her argument about why I shouldn't be out this late. Fuck her. Fuck Dad. Fuck everything.
"Bye!!" I screamed as I slammed the door in her face. I can't take it anymore.

Subject to Change

For a friend.

Part One - Masochists Anonymous.
"Hi, my name is Aidan Thanos and I am a masochist.
The first time I cut myself, it was with a two-inch black pocket knife. Stainless steel, too. I thought I would taste the blood to see if it was any different than that of a paper cut or a busted lip, but it still had the same iron-like taste to it. I watched as all the crimson red blood flooded from each gash in my body like a little kid watches his favorite cartoon--motionless. I would blink every so often, my speech was very limited, I had a sigh of relief occasionally, and the blood was staining my carpet. I have always been one to inflict pain on myself."
I then sat down in the circle of about seven or eight people all sitting in identical black folding chairs. After I sat down, a man jumped into the middle of the circle looking at me.
"Thank you Aidan," he said with a bold, confident voice. "Won't you tell us more about yourself, now?"

Part Two - Aidan Thanos.
"I was born in Kokomo, Indiana. I do not have any brothers or sisters. Growing up was tough watching my father murder my mother and then turn the gun on himself. That's pretty much all I can remember about my seven year stay with with people in my family. The cops that showed up found me drenched in blood; absolutely covered. The officer pulled me aside and spoke in a quiet voice to me. 'Son, if you want to be taken to a foster home, you're going to have to get cleaned up first.' I had cried so much before I got there that all I could do was sit in silence. It's not that I didn't want to tell them what happened, it's that I couldn't. I never got adopted. I guess children that had witnessed murder and suicide aren't important enough for a home, so once I hit eighteen they let me move out of the foster home. Thankfully, I had a nice inheritance from my father's side of the family. I found a nice apartment and one of the fellow orphans who I had grown close to moved in with me. We were both pretty cozy inside a two bedroom, one bathroom apartment. When I moved into the foster home, they asked me if I had any interests. It wasn't until the age of ten where I got into music and they used some of my inheritance money to pay for a guitar for me. That's the only thing that has kept my sanity throughout these eleven years. I decided that I wouldn't dry out my inheritance and would only use it for emergencies, so I needed a source of income and got my first job working at Guitar Center."
I paused and took a deep breath before sitting back down. The guy who kept asking me to stand and announce my life to the entire room had a name tag. Kendrick in perfect cursive. I could tell he wasn't intimidated by my spiked hair standing about seven inches tall. I'm certain he was fascinated with the faded pink color soft on the eyes.
"I will hopefully see all of you next Tuesday in this same warehouse at about 7:30. Goodnight, everyone," Kendrick announced. He then dismissed us. "Aidan. Would you mind staying after a little bit? I was wondering if I could discuss a few things with you."

Part Three - It Gets Me By.
I stood there contemplating running out as fast as I could or finding out what he had to say. I know this is only the second group session I have been to, but it seems like he was picking on me asking me about my life. I turned around just as I was about to walk out the door and saw his eyes meet mine.
"Could I possibly meet with you at a later time? I am running a bit late right now."
As soon as the final syllable left my mouth, I turned and ran out the warehouse door without looking back to see if he was going to respond. My feet flailing behind me, eating pavement, it felt like I was running from death itself. I continue to run until I can barely breathe. I sit at the bus stop and wait patiently for the bus. I need a little bit of pain but I don't want to create a scene in the middle of the city. I then decide to torture myself mentally.
"You are the scum of the earth. You are an idiot. You are a prisoner to yourself. You are the monkey and the organ grinder. You dance like the puppet you are."
I look around to see if anyone is around me. Quick glance left. Quick glance right. Quick glance behind me. "Looks clear," I think out loud. I need a little bit of something to subdue the mental torture right now. I punched my face so hard that I heard my nose crack and I can now wiggle a few teeth with my tongue.

Part Four -Backstabber.
I stand up from off the ground I fell back onto and dust myself off. Swishing the juices in my mouth around for a bit, I spit red out onto the dirty ground.I bend down and see a solid white piece and realize it's a tooth. Boss won't be too happy with my appearance, but he knows better than to fire me. I am proud to be the employee of the month four moths in a row and I will continue to keep up sales if they keep me happy. I look to the left and see the bus approaching. The doors open with the sound only similar to nails on a chalkboard. Three people stumble off the bus, none recognizable. After the last person got off, I was hesitant to get on. As if I knew something were bound to happen. I just needed to get home. I stood very near to the back where there were not so many people.
As the bus slows to where I get off at, I feel a slight prod in my back. I start to turn around and I hear a dark voice mutter to me, "Don't turn around if you want to ever walk again."
I walked off the bus with this mysterious character behind me. He was very tall and lanky. Long limbs. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. It was a steady pace. I could tell he didn't have a gun to my back because it was very pointed, more like a knife. The first step off the bus gave me the advantage of a head start. Left foot first, I started running to my apartment. Hopefully Riley would be home.

Part Five - Riley Grayson.
My head twisted around in the most uncomfortable way to see if this guy was still behind me. I slowed to a brisk walk still glancing behind me. The only thing remotely close to following me was a plastic bag caught in the wind. I was almost back to the apartment. I wasn't sure if the flibbertigibbet, Riley, would be home.
The door normally isn't locked if he is home, but there are some occasions. I attempt to open the door and then dig for my key. I try the door once more and it opens this time. I call out to Riley hoping for a response. He is a great friend, band mate, and the closest thing to family I have. "Riley?" I call again. I walk to where his room is and hear the cat meowing from inside his room. I opened the door only to find Riley lying face down on his bed. I shake him conscious.
"Aidan? What time is it?" Riley questions as he is opening his eyes. "Is there something going on?"
I never understand how he always knows there is something wrong with me. "Nothing really. Just hoping that we could have a little band practice, maybe?" I watch as Riley rolls out of bed and walks to the fridge in the kitchen full of miscellaneous energy drinks.

Part Six - Slow Breath--One, Two, Three.
"I'm just so tired of living. I don't want to kill myself only because the pain is so amazing. I get so close to death and feel how great the trip to it is. Soon enough I will go to the extreme and just kill myself. The pain won't be enough. I'm tired of the drama around me. The people never know when to leave me alone. It's one big giant snowball effect. One thing gets the ball rolling, and every one else's shit just adds to the fire."
I need a life. I need to get away from writing my own problems on the internet. I want to travel the world, but I know the entire time, I will be thinking, "This would be great for my people to read." Or, "This is a nice picture for my website." I need to get away from all of this drama, these people, these lies. I need a way out of my life. I need, I need, I need. Not only do I need, but I want. I am a greedy bastard.
This all goes right into the already massive snowball.
"Going on a road trip.
--Aidan."
I tape it to the fridge.

Part Seven - Signs.
I don't think I'm leaving too much behind for now. Just a few songs with and unknown band consisting of me and Riley. I could be gone less than a week and make it back in time for the clinic with Kendrick and everyone else. But where can I go? I can't go back to Kokomo because there is nothing left there for me. Mom and Dad wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean. It was in his will according to the attorney, but I was too young to understand what those things meant. She told me in simple words that a seven year-old could understand, "When you are old enough, you will have all the money your parents ever had!" and then she gave me a smile. I couldn't tell you what color her hair was, or if she had gaps in her teeth, but I do remember the softest blue eyes. They were so gentle and I swear I saw the ocean in them.
That moment, I realized that's where I needed to go. The Pacific Coast is what was calling to me. My parents ashes, the attorney's eyes, and a chance to think about life.
I packed lightly for the few days I would be gone. A drive from Colorado to California's Pacific Coast. I grabbed my keys to my Ford Explorer and walked out the door, silently closing it not to disturb my neighbors. I started the car and drove west.

Part Eight - Dearly Departed.
One thousand miles. Fifteen hours. Hundreds of dollars worth of gas. A few days ought to do me some good. I grabbed the black , one hundred sixty gigabyte, iPod from out of my backpack in the passenger seat and plugged it into the stereo and let it play through any and all the songs in my library. The first artist, cooing to me through the vibrations of the sub woofer safely positioned in the backseat, was Rainer Maria. Caithlin's voice was calming my thoughts with her soft tone and her steady bass lines vibrating against my back; Kyle's guitar riffs putting me in my own trance; William's drumming keeping my racing thoughts in time. Thoughts like my childhood and the future were standing out more than any of the others. They were going by so fast that my mind couldn't process them.
I put my focus back on the road so I wouldn't get into a car crash this early in the morning. As I noticed the few cars that had passed me or that I had passed, I then realized I could ease up on my tension. I scrolled through the artists and once the highlighted area was over Tool, I went to settings and turned on shuffle. I stared down the blackened highway with the few red lights that meant they were leaving, and scarce amounts of white lights that meant the were coming. I was with the red lights. I was leaving for now.

Part Nine - You Are Now Entering Love.
Somewhere between the Utah-Nevada border and the Nevada-California border, my thoughts started scaring me. I never thought about the future so hard until I was alone in a car for several hours. I was never one to cry about being alone, but I have come to realize that when I'm around others, I often act happier, without trying. All I can think is the fact that I'm always going to be alone. With no one to ever tell me every thing is okay. There is hope, granted, it's most likely false hope, but I wish so much that someone will give me this sort of hope.
The sign screams, "California." The sign shows a bear. The sign welcomes me to its home. My eyes beg for rest. My body pleads for energy or sleep. I pull into a Starbuck's parking lot. The moment I walk in the door, my eyes snap open to the aroma of love. My muscles tense slightly as I catch the glance of a beautiful dark-haired woman. My heart skips a beat and I cough as it tries to jump back on beat. The moment my eyes left the dark-haired woman, I couldn't think straight. The cashier in his cute, green apron asked me what I wanted and I pointed out the woman behind me. He chuckled it off and asked me again.
"Surprise him."
The voice makes me melt. I don't know who it is, but the cool breath on my neck wants me to believe it's her. Goosebumps. I turn around and see her standing there. Her eyes smiling at me. Her hair caught in the breeze from the air conditioning above us. Her short stature and lush lips. Everything about her, teasing me.
I get a nudge from the guy whose name tag read 'Randall' telling me my drink was ready. My feet don't wait just long enough for me to grab the hot beverage before I'm dragged to the fuzzy chair. The woman follows me to the crowded area.
"The name's Jezebel, in case you were wondering."
My heart skips another beat.

Part Ten - The Chase Begins.
Posed to death in the comfortable chair, I think. I think about all the things in my life that have gone wrong and if this Jezebel woman is here to make things worse, if there is such a thing. She stares at me with her her deep brown eyes, beautiful smile, her perfect teeth. I'm sure she knows my thoughts are revolving around her. She doesn't even know my damn name. I know hers. I don't know what I'm drinking, but it tastes perfect, just like the woman before my eyes.
I drift off into a land of perfection. My father is playing basketball with me and my wife is in the kitchen cooking with my mom. I see the kids playing hopscotch in the driveway. I'm standing in the middle of the basketball court driveway like a spirit figure. The basketball flies through my face and I don't even flinch.
I drift back to reality with a splash of hot to my face. I didn't feel like wearing my drink, but Jezebel thought it would be funny to wake me up with the scolding hot coffee. I know it was her because she is giggling right in front of my face holding my cup.
"Let me show you around."
Does she know I'm foreign to this state? Does she know I'm falling for her?
She dangles my keys in front of her and runs out the door. Sure enough, I follow.

Part Eleven - What Are Friends For?
My face crashes through the windshield of an innocent car. I feel the blood run down my forehead, slowly to my lips. Still, that same iron taste. The ooze of blood down my cheeks reminds me of the nights I spent trying to sleep, stabbing my arms with the sharpest object available. My eyes start to flutter trying to get the shards of glass out of my eyes. The sharp stabbing pain leaves my eye, revealing to me that I got most of the glass out. I'm ripped out from the windshield by the collar of my shirt so hard that I hear the tear and feel the burn on my neck. As my back slams into the lamp post, I can't help but notice how beautiful the weather is on this dreadful night. I exhale and see every last part of my breath. The man standing in front of me is steaming. His body heat from beating the shit out of me creates this fog that impairs my vision. I can't see in front of me, but that just might be the windshield in my eyes. Everything has the volume turned down. All I can hear is the contact of his fist to my face.
From the sidelines, I can hear a woman cheering this heavy hitter on. Her beautiful voice still sustaining itself in my ears from a few hours prior. I can't believe she would trick me like this. Luring me out here just for a good ass kicking. It feels great, but I almost feel like this guy is trying to kill me.
I've swallowed three teeth and multiple ounces of blood. My sides are swollen from my broken ribs. There are still a couple fragments of glass in my eyeballs that will need to be surgically removed. My once white shirt is now a chalky red that only dry blood would create. I feel a nudge from my left side and it's this same bulky figure that was just beating me to a bloody pulp moments ago handing me beer. He smiles without a single scratch on his face. I couldn't feel anymore pathetic. On my right side, I have a beautiful dark-haired woman inches from my cheek about to kiss me. I don't how she could kiss me, I must look worse than a masochist left alone in the cutlery section of the supermarket.
"We'd make a great pair. You, one that loves pain; me, one that loves hurting others," the stocky guy throws me a smile and punches me into Jezebel's lap.

Woodpushers

P1His line was perfect. He was to drop in on the smooth quarter pipe for speed. Approaching the nine foot long box, he would kickflip to manual the entire length. After his drop off the box, he would push as hard as he could and tre flip the step-up. If he pulled this off, he would become one of the "good" skaters in his hometown. He had a sponsorship waiting for him at The Shoppe. All he had to do was land this on film. The skaters around him stopped to watch his first attempt in this run. People nearest him could hear his headphones blasting songs unfamiliar to them. No one knew his name, just his nickname. He hardly ever responded to his nickname for he had his headphones in all the time. The called him Spaz. He put his tail on the coping.

Working Title

(Part One)
"Fuck you!!" screamed the man in white as he ran up the stairs five or six steps at a time. The ripping sound of the canvas made the men behind him shriek. He was close to total darkness by knocking down the flames off the wall. You could hear the wind flowing in through the open door atop the stairs. He was gone.

The men chasing him let loose a sigh. He had escaped, once again. They head back to the main office thinking about what they did wrong. They stare at the wreckage as they stammer down the stairs. They approach the office and walk through the door after they are identified by there advanced technology not yet capable for the common world. The file cabinet blends perfectly in the wall as if there are drawers that come straight out of the wall. They pull out a olive green folder containing key amounts of information.

Garret Anders -
Alias - The Untouchable.
28 year old male.
Born in Beirut, Lebanon.
Level threat: Red

People don't ask questions when you don't look "normal" enough. Anything is free if you give them the "look" at the right time. I walk into the nearest department store to find clothes that fit today's society. I need to get out of this bloody apron... I find a white shirt and skin tight pants in case I need to run. I buy a tiny Jansport backpack and things for a first aid kit. Might as well get some condoms while I'm here. Just in case there is a situation on the run. I get the essentials. I need an income. I can't keep robbing places, that would bring attention to myself that I don't need.

(Part Two)
The phone rings four times. No answer. The automated voice message system explains that the person I am trying to reach is currently unavailable. Then the stupid cunt starts speaking in spanish. I hate not understanding people. It makes me think that they are talking about me. Laughing at my flaws. Scolding my every mistake. I am their jester. i put two more quarters into the pay phone. I dial the same number. Two rings later and someone is grunting in the phone about how I woke them up. I apologize quickly and then explain what is going on.
"I need help, Bran. Remember that money we put into a bank account that only we knew the pin to? Well, I need some of that money. The only problem is I can't go to a bank, so I need you to make a hefty withdrawal."
Bran decided all the little details because he knew when Garret asked for help, he really needed help. It wasn't an everyday thing for him. He knew this was serious. He came up with names that only they would understand. Bran was now Raven and Garret became Christoph. Since Bran lived in Colorado, he would need to fly to New York to meet Christoph atop the easternmost stairs in Grand Central Station. He had exactly three days to get everything together.

(Part Three)
Why won't Bran answer the damn phone. He always does this to me. Ever since grade school, he would get high off his ass and forget I existed. It didn't bother me then, because I didn't notice. I was so used to it, that I just blew it off. Now, when I really need him, he is either avoiding me or he forgot about me. I need to know where we're meeting mostly, but the other details would be amazing right now. I need it more than he needs his fix. I can't take living on these streets like this. It smells worse than the sewage line at half-time during the Super-Bowl. I try one more time in the pay phone I sleep next to in case he calls. I slip the last two quarters into the coin slot. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Garret? I got everything together. Find a way to get to Grand Central Station by six in the afternoon. You will meet me at the easternmost stairs. You most likely won't recognize me because I changed my appearance for the occasion."
The line cuts out. I worry and hang up the phone. I jump at the ring of the phone.
"Christoph is your name. I had to hang up because I may have a trace on me. They know that we were close. I will have a rolling briefcase with all of your necessities. I will be in a black suit with blue hair to my shoulders. I will be alone. If you are not there at six even, I will leave you for your own."
The line cuts again, so I quickly hang up the phone expecting him to call back. For ten minutes I wait and there is nothing to break the silence of the night. I suppose I could attempt to sleep. I wander around in search of a safe place near 42nd and Park Avenue. Luckily, I find a gentleman leaving the terminal. He notices me notice him. He knows my pain. He understood the grin I gave him was me asking if I could stay where he was staying. He approaches me and asks if I'm hungry. All I can do is act helpless and nod. The nearest burger bar is McDonald's and hands me a twenty dollar bill. He sits and waits for me to get my food. I don't order much so I can make the money last.

(Part Four)
He repeats the same question. I still don't answer. I try and play it mysterious. He offers me more money, but I cannot accept it. I know he is trying to bribe me to talk. He introduces himself as Mr. Wick. I doubt that's really his last name, but at this point, I'm glad to have this food. It may just be a few items of the Dollar Menu, but it taste like a full course meal from a five-star restaurant. The man, Mr. Wick, keeps probing to find out more about me. He can tell I am nervous about my personal life, but he wants to know who I am. I tell him my alias name given to me by Bran. "I am Christoph," I manage to put into words through the multiple bites of the burger. I want to know why he offered me food. More and more people file into the McDonald's with there black and blue business suits. I notice Mr. Wick check his watch. I ask him for the time and he says, "A quarter after nine." Less than nine hours I think to myself.I ask him where the nearest hotel is but then remember I don't have much money. He starts to answer and then is rudely interrupted by the squeal of tires and the scream of sirens. There is a blur of red and blue lights outside the window. Everyone here looks. Where are they headed. But why do I care? Are they looking for me? Couldn't be... While Mr. Wick is distracted, I run. Fast Out the doors opposite the window. He made a foolish mistake by placing his wallet on the table. My fast hands naturally grabbed it. My feet hitting the pavement, my eyes trying to find a dark alley to dive into, my head hurting worse than when I was in the dark room. Then everything goes black. I dive into an alley. Everything around me closing in tightly. I feel like I'm in a trash compactor. Then I open my eyes. I see the darkness of the room and feel the pulling of the restraints I thought I had gotten away from. I can't help but hear the murmurs of the people surrounding me. I would have to say about six or seven different voices. They must have night vision goggles or something because I can't see my nose when I look cross-eyed. My head is throbbing. I wake up in the alley clenching onto the stolen wallet. I look down and see everything is normal. Just a street. I can see again. There is light. It's very dim, but so blinding. I use the overcast of a light and flip through the man's wallet. His license does not show the last name of Wick. It's Anders.

(Part Five)
I wander the streets. I don't know how long I was out for, but it has gotten much darker in the sky. More and more people have flooded the streets to go to the bars. I stop one of the pedestrians, one that seems like a civil citizen, and ask for the time. It's exactly two. I don't remember where I am at, but I know I need to get to Grand Central in four hours. I know that if I go back to sleep, there will be no way to get there without being late. I travel down into the subway. Here, there are at least lights I can read next to. I pull my tiny Jansport backpack off of my shoulder and try and remember what's in it. I rummage through it and find things I forgot about. At the bottom of the bag, just above the first aid kit, I find a little black leather wallet. I don't know where it came from. I open it up and search it. Every pocket. In the back, I find receipts with scribbled signatures at the bottom. A name written so quickly, it's almost impossible to read. There is cash behind the receipts. Lots of cash. There are twenty dollar bills, fifty dollar bills, tens, fives, ones. I feel like I just started a game of Monopoly. I find credit cards, a Blockbuster card, gift cards to corner stores, and then I see an ID. I recognize the man, just barely. I don't bother looking at his name or anything. I grab a twenty, stick it in my pocket, throw the wallet back into the bag. I walk to a fast food place. I need change for the pay phone. Food would be pretty good right about now too. I can't remember the last time I ate to my heart's content. I crave Burger King Chicken Fries right now. I think that will give me enough change for the pay phone, if not I'll just ask. I walk into the nearest Burger King and order some Chicken Fries. When I reach into my pocket for the twenty dollar bill, I find change. I think about how great it is that I don't have to ask for change. Instead, I ask for the time. I look around as he looks to his left wrist for the time. It's empty aside from the three other people here. The man says something, but I don't catch it. I ask him to repeat it. He says it's 3:36. "Almost time to meet Raven," I mutter. The cashier gives me a weird look and the Chicken Fries.I sit down at a table and enjoy my food. It's so hot on my throat. My mind slips into a day dream stage and I see men chasing a man in a white apron type gown. "Fuck you!!" the man screams. I stir at the sound of a table falling.

(Part Six)
"Where the hell is he?" thought Raven. It's almost six. He should be here by now. He's usually early to things for himself. Selfish. Self-centered. Those words don't scrape the surface of how to describe Garret. Nothing but cockiness comes off of him all day. Off in the distance, there is the silhouette of a person. The shape is not defined as a male or female just yet. About ten steps later, a deep voice questions, "Raven?"
The response is me getting a running tackle of a hug. I flip open the suitcase to find lots of money to add to the wallet in my backpack, several fake identification cards with irrelevant names of different ethnicities, coupons for fast food places, and most importantly a new cell phone with no ties to it. No one will know I'm using it. Brand new, random ass number. The only number programmed into the phone is Raven's new cell phone, untapped by the cops. I hear Raven tell me, "If you need anything else, don't bother not calling, slut." I punch him in the shoulder and we leave out different exits.

I need to get a good nights sleep. Even if it is so early in the morning, I check into the nearest motel for one night only. I place the suitcase under in the closet and add my backpack to it and emptying the contents of the wallet into it. I grab two hundred dollars cash. Five twenties, five tens, and ten fives. After I make sure the closet door is closed securely, and the suitcase was well hidden in there, I grab the do not disturb sign and put it around the handle securely. I have a whole day ahead of me with nothing to look forward to or hide from. I leave the hotel and the first corner I turn, I see a java shop. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a coffee shop. Caffeine will keep me up for a little while longer. I get an iced coffee and walk to the convenient store just a few buildings down. I snag a monster and pour it into my french vanilla iced coffee, not for taste, but for niacin. I then add a five hour energy shot to it, also for niacin. That has to keep me up for a while longer, if I don't overdose on niacin. I walk into the bookstore and find a couple books for recreational reading. I pick up a nifty looking book called Panic, and another book titled Survivor. I don't bother reading the jackets because at this point, I will read anything. After paying for the books, I think about what else I can do. I mean, I have only wasted an hour or so of the day. I refuse to let myself sleep before nine tonight. I sit in one of the overly comfortable chairs in the bookstore and my head throbs. I curl into a ball in the fuzzy chair and my mind slips.

(Part Seven)
If you aren't doing anything wrong nobody should bother you. But where is the line between right and wrong? Pooping in public; obviously wrong. Walking across the crosswalk; seems alright. Having a seizure on the floor of a book store. What is that? It might be considered a public disturbance, but it's not like I raped a woman in the bathrooms of a local high school or anything.
I regain my composure from the sting of the stun gun. I always thought cops were assholes. They say the attacked me with the stun gun because I was threatening to "whip out my gun, and cap everyone in the store." I know it's total bullshit, but let's just play along. The tall one grabs me by the neck, picks me up, and then throws me against a wall near a water fountain. "May I?" I ask. He nods is head and I sip from the fountain. I feel like a zebra finding a watering hole after weeks of searching for hydration. He then prods me to walk back to the shorter of the two cops and tells me to sit on the floor cross legged, just like in elementary school. I feel all the eyes upon me. Looking down from each and every level of the store. I am the highlight of there day to talk about tonight on MySpace. All I can think is fuck.
I get a break. They make quite possibly the worst mistake imaginable. They turn around so fast at the sounds of a shelf falling. They didn't even bother putting handcuffs on me. Stupid pigs. I scan for where my seat was, and notice my books are still there. I have to grab them. I can't waste perfectly good reading material. They motion towards the fallen book shelf without looking back at me. This couldn't be any easier. I dart to the books and thankfully, on the first floor there is a fire escape not more than ten feet away from my chair. This has to be the scariest thing I have done in my life. The cops hear the sound of the fire alarm going off. I turn to see if they give chase and in a glimpse, I see a blue headed person running out the opposite fire door. Could it be?
Running from the cops after police brutality has occurred. That can't be illegal in any way possible. I zig zag back to the motel. I can't smell any bacon so I must be safe. I need a change in appearance. I walk into the bathroom at the lobby and find a vending machine type dispenser. For only five dollars, I can get shaving cream, a disposable razor, nail clippers, and scissors. It's loud coming out of the machine, this one night-male decor kit. I trim my hair and what you could call a beard, cut my finger nails, and then place the remainder of the mini kit into the suitcase. It's not even three yet. I need sleep, but I can't burn an entire day like this. I collapse on the half-ass motel bed and have a reoccurring thought that burns the back of my mind. Then it starts twisting it. Tenderizing it. I can't take the pain. I fall off the bed and roll to the beat of the pulse in my mind. Then it all goes a little fuzzy. Then black.

(Part Eight)
"Why am I here?" I question to where the sound of an opening and closing door came from. The only response is the worst silence. The kind of silence that makes both ears ring like the infinite echoing school bells. The ringing is so loud that I contemplate if it's my ears, or a computer generated sound sent out to murder my ear drums. The only response I know is to scream in agony. The darkness makes it seem that I am just a weak blind man. I stand against what feels like a cool, metal wall. My arms far away from my torso and my legs are spread apart. Like a five-pointed star. I know the feeling of nylon ropes. That's what holds me to this wall. Luckily, the room is well air-conditioned. My hair flows from the vent about a yard or so above. It's been a constant wind. Every time I concentrate on the air, it leads my thoughts to Chinese Water Torture but with a constant wind versus a controlled water source. Drip. Drop. Drip. The ringing quiets itself just as quickly as it started momentarily triggering my brain into realization that it was played over loud speakers.
I hear a steady walk towards me. It's a very smooth and legato stride. A click from the hard heel and then a smooth roll of the sole. Step after step. Slow like a ballad. I lose count at thirty-seven strides. The sound echoes on the cold walls. He's pacing gradually towards me like a team of football players running the snake drill. Every five yard line marker go up, then across the width of the field, up until you reach the field goal post. I am the field goal post. I repeat my question. A firm answer of the back hand with a decent sized wedding band flies across my face. Left to right. He's a married lefty. It was a down stroke so he must be taller than me. You learn to be observant when you do what I do. Pick up the little things and etch them in your mind. The way his eyes glow in the dark, the sounds his knuckles make when he pops them, the high amount of cologne on his body, the awful garlic smell on his breath, and the beat of his heart. He's nervous, otherwise it wouldn't beat that loudly. You learn to be observant or you get killed.
I wake up rolling around in a puddle of sweat on the motel floor. I look for the clock on the dresser. As my eyes glaze over the window I notice the sun setting but not quite near the horizon. The clock tells me it's a little after five. I leave the room for a minute to pick up a newspaper from the lobby. Front page story headlines that there has been a murder.
"17 Year Old Girl Found Raped and Murdered in Local High School"

(Part Nine)
Deep breaths, just like in my psychiatrist use to guide me. Breathe in, hold, one-two-three, release. I need fresh air. I glance at the newspaper on the side dresser bolted to the floor. I feel my wallet in my back pocket and leave the room again leaving the sign on the handle. The sun is finally going down and you could tell without looking. The air has a crisp taste to it and the temperature is gradually decreasing. Tea sounds tasty. I check the contents of my wallet to make sure that I have enough money. I open the black leather wallet and find a folded piece of paper. It feels like a receipt, but it has writing on it, not the normal typed letters. I can't read the chicken scratch and it looks nothing like my writing. I think nothing of it and put it behind the money in my wallet.
I walk into this little tea shop a few buildings away from an intersection. They have flavors people have never dreamt about. I can't decide from the choices so I look at the cashier and hand her a ten dollar bill. "Choose any type of tea I might like, get it in the largest size you sell. If and only if I like it, you may keep the change." After saying this, she tells me that it would be about six or seven dollars change. I look at her and shrug. Moments later I am called up to taste the tea. One sip after adding a small amount of sugar and stirring it with a honey stick, I feel the heat thrust itself down the back of my throat. Flowing evenly over my taste buds. I swallow and place the cup on the counter. I give her a grin and walk out with my tea. I see her out of the corner of my eye bow graciously.
The tea feels like mittens on my hand. The warmth spreading all the way up my wrists. I can't think of anything I need to accomplish, so I just walk and people watch. No one interesting is on the street tonight so I sit on a random bench. I let my guard down this time, for whatever reason, I do not know. A black car strolls down the street casually. After it circles the block a couple times, I try and see if I recognize the driver. I have never seen such tinted windows on a street legal car. Shaggy dark hair about to his shoulders. It's a profiled figure with a perfect nose. The next time he circles around the block, I notice he looks in my direction and stops. I have a strange idea that this could get bad quickly. I throw the half-cup of tea at his car and his tires bring up white smoke. The worst move I could make in my situation. A homeless fugitive doesn't need any enemies. Instinct makes me run.

(Part Ten)
I always wanted to be a philosophy major. In my childhood, I would trade going outside after school with my friends to read up on Plato. On Socrates. On Aristotle. They inspired me to look at life with a new perspective every day. I was solving problems from several points of views. In high school, something happened. A very bad accident. The family I had once lived with for years, was gone. Just like that. Life taken from them just as quickly as it was given to them at birth. I was a freshman at the high school just down the street, so I walked every day. I used the school pay phone to call my parents to let them know that I would not be home at my usual time, but be back tomorrow. I would be studying with a friend. To my surprise there was no answer. I tried again and still, no answer. I told my friend that I was studying with that I wouldn't be able to go with him and something could be terribly wrong at home. Instead of the usual pace I walked at every other day, I ran. My feet hit the ground a million times in a second.
I'm in auto pilot. My feet slapping the pavement, with my mind going back to the past. A car honks at me because I cut him off. I look to see if the black car is still behind me. No sign of him. I head back to the hotel. I need some rest, it's been a long day.
The sign on the door is gone. I slide my card in the slot and wait for the green light. As soon as I see the green light, I open the door and see if anything is missing from the closet. Thankfully, nothing is moved. For some reason, there is something not right about this room. Something else is in the presence. I don't know what it is, but it's here. I look on the side table and see the phone off the hook. No crazy beeping like when you usually leave the phone off the hook, but a steady breathing.

(Part Eleven)
"Hello? Is any one there?" I question the other end of the phone. "I can hear you breathing, I know you're there." I take a few steps away from the phone after slamming it onto the receiver. I need sleep, but I can't sleep here. Whoever is looking for me, knows I'm here. I grab my things from the closet and walk to the lobby. I need sleep, but I can't stay here. I can't afford to check myself out. I ask to change rooms and the attendant at the desk gives me a blank stare like I'm speaking in some other language. I have a puzzle being solved in my head. Then it clicks. I look into his eyes and see them motioning to his right side behind the counter. He is careful not to move his head to make his hint obvious. After the accident I learned that I need to take care for my self before others if I want to make it in this world. I couldn't let anyone stand in my way. I didn't need to save people, but that's just how I was. Thinking quickly I ask, "Can I borrow a pen?" and he motions me to the desk to use it. I look quickly to see what the attendant was motioning at and I see the barrel of a gun poking out of the shadow under the desk. This kid is a light weight. He can't way more than one-fifteen. I grab the back of a brochure and write "JUMP @ ME". I count down with my fingers. First three, two, one. Then the boy is flying at me. I look to see if the figure holding the gun had moved, but it hadn't. This person was smart to not give there cover away. The attendant showed me a back door on the other side of the lobby and office after we casually walked out the front. I stormed into the lobby through the back door alone to find emptiness. The emptiness that hurt. The emptiness that made me think of the torture.

(Part Twelve)
Black. That was all I ever saw when I couldn't hear people. The air, to my surprise was always on. I got used to sleeping in a standing five-pointed star.

Project

Background Check - part one
Enter Deep Ellum. Enter my life. Shitty apartment, great parties. Half of them, I can barely remember. Maybe that's for the better. I live a double life. Part time drug dealer; part time dj. I Ever since I was a little kid I was into some of the craziest trips. Experimenting with my parents pills, dropping acid with my teachers, and spiking my parents drinks just to get to know them like they know me. If it's a drug, I've done it. I never went to college. I dropped out of high school. Education...who needs it right? I got kicked out of my house sophomore year. None of my "friends" would let me stay at there place. This is where I started down the life I know now. When I was young it was pills and acid. When I hit the streets running, I got into heroine. I was cool with all the dealers in the area, so they just gave me the drop. By seventeen, I was already a mule. Transporting drugs back and forth. Then, trouble had risen. They started noticing that everytime I would bring it to them, the bag would be lighter and lighter. This lead me into The Underground. Everyone who was really anyone in this city went there. It was the place where nobody knew anybody's name. Everybody shared everything. Needles, trips, and on occasion, STDs. This is where I met one of the most known djs in the area. He had the scoop on all the illest places. I started traveling with him. Getting into music. Used my leftover drug money to buy a nice table and of course a few tabs of whatever I could get my hands on. A few years passed and no one recognized me under my alias. I emerged back into the world with a new name. Started dealing more and more drugs. Two major passions, collaborating together. I would play my shows and sell everything I had on me. It worked perfect. Got a very fine paycheck. And I'm not talking about the drugs. Twenty-third birthday in a few months. I decide to go big. I call up a friend and he hooks me up with a flier he created for the occasion. This is going to be sick.

The Sun is Rising - part two
I can only see the red on the backs of my eyelids. They are too heavy to even flutter. I don't know where the hell I'm at. I remember popping about a dozen somethings and that's all. It's all a giant multi-color strobe. Flashing back and forth. Color through color. Faster then slower to the pulse of the music. I slowly rise off whatever comfortable platform I was perched upon. The red is getting lighter. I'm walking towards the light. Automatically I turn around and stumble into a type of counter a few yards from the Texas heat. I could hear my skin sizzling in the non air conditioned rooom. The cool shade is delicious inside this mysterious room. I manage to open my eyes to see what I stumbled into. A trolley of drugs. Drawers sliding out in every direction. Cocaine. Heroine. Xanax. One drawer I can't even describe it's amazingness. A giant cocktail of the greatest pills invented. Estasy, LSD, oxycontin, opium and hydrocodone, vicodin, lortab, speed. Everything. I couldn't help but take a few handfulls. In the last drawer I opened, I found what I had been in need of. I grabbed two, popped them in my mouth which was unusually dry. Downed water from the nearest sink. What an abnormal reaction this time. I'm walking to the kitchen away from the trolly of drugs and run into an old pal.

Catching Up - part three
Normally isn't that hard, but after my run of the wheel, it's a bit difficult. Half the people I was hanging out with when I was sober, they have either gone on to better lives, or they have, sadly, overdosed. Thankfully, I am not in either of those categories. I have been making music and selling drugs and then later on enjoying the drugs with the other half of the people I would chill with. This "old pal" greets me with a stron punch to the stomach causing me to throw up whatever the contents of my stomach were. I stare at the things projecting from my mouth, none of it easy to recognize. The strong color of yellow reminds me of old, chunky, strawberry milk. When I can finally open my mouth without vomit slipping from the back of my throat, across my tongue, the taste burning my taste buds, over the tops of my manilla-white blend teeth, down to my chin, pouring to the floor, I ask, "Where have you been?" Easy answer for him. I didn't notice, but he had a badge. A shiny, seven-pointed badge. A beautiful golden, the true color without all the effects of television you never see, with dark blue letter incspriptions. He's been serving for DPD. Instantly I think about the trolly of drugs near the east side of the house. I don't react like I should, but think about how he did more drugs than me, back in the day. I ask when he sobered up. "Right before I joined the Police Academy." Instantly, I want the fuck out of wherever I am. His partner comes up and asks, "Who are you flirting with now, Sampson?" in a slurred voice. So slurred, you can barely tell his tongue is even trying to articulate the words. I run. I get my ass out of there. Fast.

Revisited

Some of you may remember one of my older entries. It was entitled "The Typical American Street". I got to revisit it the other day and it made me think, a lot. I think that is my favorite street out of this awful place I have to call home. It reminds me of where I want to be...where I need to be. It makes me think about the last time I was away from everything. I was ecstatic to be somewhere. And that somewhere was where I felt more home than I did in my room. I took a deep look down the white picket-fenced road. One deep breath. Hold. Release. Like throwing the worries of the past few months out. Letting go of reality. My emotions flew out in a quick outburst. First a tantrum from all the built up rage. Then tears because of the sadness I couldn't show. A big smile for thinking about a few of the things that have actually gone the way they should. Then my body just shut down. I fell straight to the ground with a loud thud. I don't remember much of what happened next, just people gathering around me. I opened my eyes and it gave me butterflies. I couldn't help but stare. Just the way the clouds split so perfectly by the sun. The way they would shine through down to you. I got to my feet and looked around at the little children that huddled around me. They started whispering things I couldn't understand. Obviously it was about me because when I looked at them, they would stop talking. My elbow was bleeding. I didn't care. I looked past the tiny little heads below me and saw the sun shining onto what made the neighborhood so memorable. The tree. Big as could be on the street. Casting a shadow of pure beauty. Underneath it. The white picket fence. The one that lined the street from the stop light to the school. Then I saw something that stood out yet again. The Osals mailbox. A sign in their yard saying the most devastating three words. "House for sale!" I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to react. I never knew them, but it felt as if they would have been the greatest people. I knocked on their door. No answer. No lights were on, they must have been out.

Planes and Trains

Written on the plane. June 29, 2007.
I can't begin to describe the beauty of the skies.above the blackening pollution, it's all so spectacular. Looking down from the window seat on the left side of the plane in the fourth row. The window in front. I look out of it.and get confused for a minute. It's like you're looking into a mirror below the plane and it's reflecting the skies, but in reality... You are floating on top ob the mountain ranges of skies. Forty thousand feet above civilization. The window to my immediate left show the following: Wing. Engine. Southwest.com. Blue on top of yellow on top of red all behind grey. Just as Chuck Palahniuk wrote it, "Single-serving everything.: That's all a plane flight is. The person next to the aisle. You won't know her long, because she's getting off in New Mexico. The "Byte-sized Fares: honey roasted peanuts. The plastic cup of Dr. Pepper. It's all single-serving. I'm looking out at the horizon and the prettiest blues collide with the whitest clouds. The creator this world, he (or she if you are going to get on religious on me) is the greatest artist. The mountains are jaw dropping. As we sit at the gate in New Mexico, half the people get off the plane. Then more come on. Full flight. The next single-serving friend is a math genius. Asian. He has his laptop with a powerpoint on his next project about everything he needs to know. He taught me a lot. The sun is hot now as it is rising over the morning. Then you land in LAX.

Written at the airport and on the plane July 15, 2007.
It's dark out. Hour and half to sunrise. Because the news is pointless, I sit listening to my music. I look up every so often. At one point I look up at the screen and I see Bin Laden. I haven't heard his name in a while and it isn't a friendly face when I am sitting alone in terminal E34 at DFW. All types of people. Business men and women. Pilots and flight attendants. Families big and small. Black. White. Old. Young. Cute. Ugly. Handicapped-- you get the idea. Everything is starting to pick up now. I'm scared but I don't know why. All I can do is think. About what?...I honestly don't have a clue. The iPod vending machine is quite... expensive. I have figured out that if you start to head bang and play air instruments, no one wants too sit near you. I wish something interesting would happen. Also, I want a friend. I feel so...alone and left out. Everyone around me knows someone, but I haven't a clue at who any of these people are. Something slightly entertaining, yet disturbing just occurred. Two elderly people racing on the motor scooters. That's great. I can't wait. Especially when I find something to do with my life.
Later-- During takeoff.
The sky glistens with the sun rising in the east. I suppose it's about 6:30 or so. Lyrics will be written but not released. And rewritten as well. I want to be far away. I want that smile to be real. I want everything to be understood. Everyone to understand. Meeting people for the first time is very...revealing. Sometimes, the could write a novel about how much you tell them. They find your sweet spot and you won't shut up. Are they really interested or are the just putting on an act so they can blab about there crappy lives.
A poem from a plane.
Turbulence.
Shaking uncontrollably.
Hovering over the lands we know so well.
Up and down as if you are
Sleeping on a trampoline
Full of children.
You are bound to hit the ground,
You know it.
Now he's illuminated the fasten seat belt sign.
Hold on.

Written on the train July 19, 2007.
I sit here with no one even remotely close to someone I recognize. I think about our generation. At that moment, I look at the seat to my right with all my belongings. All I see is technology. Sanyo digital camera. iPod shuffle. Motorola RAZR. We strive off of technology. The lady up one row and across the aisle has some crazy Dell laptop. In front of her is this strangely annoying woman. Phone in one ear, iPod headphone in her other. She won't shut up. It's getting dark. Imagine that. With technology, the lights illuminate the car. Don't get me wrong, I love technology, but how much do we really need. We... We are consumers. Nothing else. We just continue to consume everything consumable.

A poem from a train.
Mountain Range.
Looking out the window,
I see the mountains.
Some with a little snow.
The twinkling lights,
Off in the night,
You guessed it...
Oh so bright.
Everything slips away.
Only because I cannot stay
Awake.

You Screwed Up

There he was. Standing in the mosh of ravers at the biggest techno club in the area. All the little people... Hopped up on LSD. Snorting their cocaine. GHB floating through miscellaneous drinks in the club. Even if you claimed being "straight edge" at this scene, you were guilty of something. The people on acid, they chomped on the big pacifiers in their mouths, the coke heads so aware of everything. Noticing the sweat dripping from others bodies. All the people who left their drink unattended and came back to it...they are about to pass out from the amount of GHB slipped into their drinks. There he is. Standing in the middle of the mosh of ravers. He waits with his uzi. They didn't catch it on the way in. But you saw it. Smuggled under his fluorescent orange overalls. It stood out in the massive amount of bright emitted off of him. You watched him "interact" with the others. Slipping them drugs and other paraphernalia. You. You finally came into the picture. WIth your cute little raver outfit assigned by the government. You being your stupid FBI self. You knew you didn't fit in, but if you could take him down...you would be set for life. They would leave you alone and you could start your so called life as a young adult. Starting a family living a low class citizen life with a low class citizen job. That's what you are leaving the FBI for. Stupid, stupid you. You waited for him to slowly reach for the gun and unleash all hell. As soon as he did, you attacked. You were sure you were about to leave the life of spying for a family. During the lunge you thought to yourself, This is it. I am getting out for good. Then your shoulder got raped by several bullets and you fell to the floor. he thought you were dead, but you were just barely conscious. You watched him break into several spins unloading his clips. You were one of the few that survived. After everything died down, you reached into to call for help. You knew you screwed everything up. After a few weeks of healing, they caught the guy you were after. You testified against him and then were immediately placed into the Witness Protection program. I'm telling you this because you don't remember a damn thing. They put you on so many different medications that you started losing your memory. You. The biggest retard. You reach the bottom when someone narrates your life for you to you. You can't get any lower than this can you? Let's wait and see.
Here starts the story of your new life. Do I have to narrate this portion, too? Looks as if I do. Screw up. Your on your way to your new life via jet. Luxury at it's finest. You end up in Austin, Texas. The music city. Parties all the time. What will you do? Well, you aren't going to Disneyland you fuck up. You are starting from scratch. Everything is so new to you. You grew up in a completely different environment than this. Calm waters in Maine. Nothing like a busy area such as this. You were relocated 2500 miles away. You may be the biggest screw up of this decade. You watch as everyone gathers at a small pavilion in the northern part of town. Must be a band, you think to yourself. You follow the crowd like a stupid little cult. You don't take the time you used to when you were a federal spy. You just keep slipping further down. You push your way to the front and you don't understand what all the commotion is about. You turn around and you see everyone looking at you. You are probably thinking something like: What is going on that I don't know about? I left out a minor detail I am really sorry for this, but in the hospital, you met up with an old middle school friend. You started an electronic music group with some of the biggest success Melaphobic Records has ever seen. You are an electronic god. Being touched by adoring fans. You are in Austin for the end of the tour. Great way to end. In your hometown. Everything going as planned. Then your partner. He gets shot. Right between the eyes like the scum he is. You can't tell where the shot came from because the lights are too bright. SWOOF!. Right in the head.

Compilation

Tomorrow--
I keep saying I'll write more tomorrow.
I always push the time further back.
Turns out to be the same bullshit sorrow.
Maybe there is something minor that I lack.
I'm not quite sure what I continue to miss,
But everything will come clear in the end.
Maybe it will be as simple as this:
"You might not comprehend,
But soon enough time shall show
What will never blend.
So I command you to bestow
The knowledge we will never behold,
For it will shall not unfold."

Fool--
You there, my friend,
You are a pathetic little fool.
Do not try to pretend
As if it only exists during a yule.
Nothing will ever compare
So, good sir, I bid you well.
Oh fool, what a fool you are.
Dreaming to become a czar,
Wishing to play guitar.
You poor pathetic fool.
You.

Alpenglow--
I watched you stare out into the sun. As if you could not draw your eyes apart from the alpenglow of the reddish ring around the sun. Everything would freeze when you would look beyond the tree. Beyond the clouds. The Sun was there. Settling on the other side of the world. Disappearing from our hemisphere into the next. As if you wouldn't see it again. At that moment we didn't know. Everything was slowly stopping in it's place. Everything slowly slipping out of the rule of the universe. Every night. Something natural that has occurred for centuries would come to a halt. What were we to do?? We had not noticed early enough. It was as if it were a tumor swelling inside your brain. And then the clock struck eleven for the final time. The world had stopped spinning. The galaxy stopped sparkling. First eternal darkness as the sun was wiped out by the raging black hole. Next the other stars slowly disappeared. The moon had never looked so beautiful for those seven seconds it had in the spotlight being the only source of light for light years. In the seven seconds of beauty, you could see Mercury sucked into the supernova black hole. Next it was venus being slurped up like a noodle. Your moon. Your precious, beautiful moon that you never noticed until the seven seconds it lit the skies. Moments passed. Darkness raised. The sound was unbearable. It is all gone. One by one. Right after Earth followed Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus. Neptune. Pluto. The entire Milky Way. Obliterated.

Asphyxiation--
Abnormal breathing.
It won't stop.
You know you are going to die.
Why even try.?
You are overwhelmed with desire
Of life, you manage one last breathe.
Have you survived?
Is it the "white light"?
Or is it the light inside the hospital ceilings?

Accident

You never expect to run into those people at the bookstore. The deli. The school. They just so happen to be looking in the same section of the bookstore as you, scanning the same books. Buying the same meats and cheeses. They just so happen to be waiting at the school, 5 yards away from you, but do you notice? If you do, do you shrug it off as coincidence? You don't want to accuse them of stalking, but should you? Maybe they are cute? Interested in you? All these questions running through your head, but do you think of it as nothing or put everything together. All these details are nothing until they are together. Apart of one masterpiece. We just don't know it yet. Finally, the next time you are looking over a certain author's books, you notice this strange person is there again. Starting to shrug it off, your subconscious part of your brain takes over. You are confronting them when you didn't want to. You find out her name, some background information, and you casually bring up the fact that you have seen her around before. She replies with an obscene remark. "You know, you're right. Why the hell have you been following me?" she asks. You look at her in shock across the table and the two cups of coffee you both ordered prior to the conversation. Coincidentally of course. You gather your books and other belongings and head out. You don't know where, just out. After several weeks of forcing yourself to not leaving the house unless of a disaster strikes, you go back to the bookstore. Coincidentally, there she is again. You ponder if you should strike up another conversation with her, but before you know it the subconscious part of your brain takes control, and there you are. No matter how badly you don't want to be there, you are. Engaging in the hardest conversation of your life. And then it hits you. That this might be some accident of some sort. Days go by. Weeks. Months. Three years have passed. You left the state to a vacation home. No one noticed you were gone...except her. Your phone hasn't rang since you left. BZZZT. The vibration startles you. BZZZT. The phone rides along the table. BZZZT. You hesitate to answer. BZZZT. You figure you should see who it is at least. BZZZT. Unknown. Bz-- "Hello?" It's her. What do you do? How did she get your number? How do you know it's her? Why does she still remember you? Questions left unanswered by the sound of a gunshot....

Untitled

Imagine waking up at 10 at night to drive to LAX. Catching the red eye to Maine. Three time zones. You get there just to see the sunrise. You recline in the awkward, little, plastic chairs. You gaze out through the eastern windows. After all the drama, you fly back to LAX. Try and catch up on sleep in an awkward, little, piece of shit, plastic chair. You wake up. You run to the western windows this time. Once again the awkward, little, plastic chair awaits, but this time, it's comfortable. You have run into your first love. You came for the sunset alone, but ended up with two of the prettiest things in the world. The sun and the person that gives the sun a reason to shine.

Journey

As I slowly talked with a friend, I realized I was in a rut. I didn't know what to do. I was going insane. Nothing accomplished all weekend, and then it struck us. Let us meet at Brinker Elementary School. The perfect medium between our houses. The journey had commenced. It was now 1 AM. As I walked swiftly down Spring Creek, I felt very noticeable by anything with eyes. I felt as if at any give moment I would have to bolt down into the creek or into the woods. As I got to the middle of the bridge on Spring Creek, right before the light, I was in a dead stop as on the other side of the road storms a nightmare. Cop. After he had passed the light, I ran as if my life depended on it. I got to the light took a sharp left and continued running. As I got midway down this street, there was a field separating me and the cop that had u-turned. He was looking for blood. He was thirsty. He raced by the light in disappointment knowing that I was gone. I turned left on to Willowbend and could not help myself from constantly looking back. The first block I came to, a Scion xB turned out onto the street and my heart stopped. I knew at this moment in time that I had to play it safe. I weaved in and out of houses and alleys. As I neared the elementary school, I texted Davis telling him I was close. He said he was as well. We then arrived at about the same time. It was about 1:25 at this point. We pondered if we would be soon departing to wherever it was we were headed. We talked about what was on our minds then we decided that we would head to Wal-Mart, the one 4 miles away from my house thus meaning an extra long walk home for me. We had left at 2:08. Walking against wind was murder on your face. We travelled down Parkwood in the alley ways. The safest way we knew. We had made it to the park near Davis's house. We were very close to Wal-Mart now. Target was next to us. If we had the choice, we would have gone to Target, but they are not 24-hour. We crept through the parking lot of Wal-Mart hoping no cops would be sitting there feasting on a donut. We scanned the aisles looking for what we were craving. Food. I had picked up 3 packs of gum and a box of Strawberry Shortcake Rolls. Davis chose the bean dip and chips. We checked out and the cashier looked at us with a strange expression. She thought we were high. We walked around to a crevice that blocked the wind and contained random shopping carts and we feasted. As the march of the cart wranglers came out with their hip hop beats blasting from a car, we had decided we should head back. Walking down the streets of the Willowbend neighborhood, we thought if we get caught, we get caught together. We were set on a lot of things, but our mind had one thing etched into it. Sleep. It was surprising how little it would take to tire someone out. I had relaxed for about 5 minutes at his house. I then continued on my journey home. 3:33 AM. It was a death sentence. I had made a wrong turn and gotten lost in the riches of Plano. I was terrified. Nobody was up and awake for me to talk to. I walked this one alone. After about 45 minutes of wandering I made it to the corner of Parker and WIllowbend. I knew I was safe. I was home. But not yet. I had to walk down WIllowbend for the second time. As I neared the same spot where I had seen the Scion xB, I felt reassured that I could see my apartments now. Still, I wasn't safe. Headlight approached. They slowed in the dead silence of the night. As I neared the 8 foot fence, I swore to god that if he let me survive this cop, that I would be forever grateful. The cop had turned onto this street with his lights asphyxiated on me, I sprang into action as I flipped over the top of the fence tumbling into an all out spring for the alley. I knew someone had called the cops on me for lurking around in the night. I stuck to the alleys until there was no more alley left. I knew that I had to jump this fence to a very dangerous road. A road with nowhere to hide. A quiet road. I was hoping that this cop had not seen me spring over the wall like a kangaroo and would not u-turn. Every 2 seconds I was looking behind me for any sign of disturbance in the dark. Nothing. Then a car slowly strides down Spring Creek where I had seen my first cop. In a relief I see that it is just a normal car. As I sprinted across Spring Creek into the apartments of Creekside, I look for this gate like opening. Its locked. But only with a flimsy wire around the top. I slid it off and opened the gate. I then placed the wire back onto its rightful place. I had come up with a different plan. I would not walk down Spring Creek. I would walk through the coyote infested forest. The coyotes were nothing in comparison to the cops. I raced through the forest tripping on a log eating leaves on the dirty ground. I was not going to look back to see if the coyotes were after me. I stood up and as I brushed the leaves from myself, I began to another sprint. I jumped the waterfall and ran to my door. I was finally here and hoping no one had made any differences in the house hold. As I quietly unlocked and opened the door, I checked to see if the once closed door was still shut. It wasn't. This was a sign that somebody had gotten up and opened it but not checked on me. I was in the clear. i had survived this journey. I loved the thrill of the night but I also feared for my life with my parents finding out. The night was a success. Complete without flaw.