Writer’s Note: I am very excited about how this story is developing. I’m going back and making some minor changes which will help the story along based on reader feedback. Yes, I do listen to your feedback! How often do you see an author actually listen to his readers while he’s writing his new book? You don’t. It doesn’t happen! Get on board! Let me know what you think, good, bad, indifferent. Here’s some fantastic imagery and plot development while you enjoy your lunch! Dig. CHAPTER 5!!! Yes!
Outside the hospital, fully clothed and semi-alert, I begin meandering down the street toward home. I can feel my new stitches. My two hemispheres of skin gently and slightly passing by each other like two tectonic plates seen from a distance; if I were on the surface of the skin, there would be pain, chaos, buildings crumbling, gas lines rupturing. My new prescription medications tumbling in my pocket, a maraca with each step keeping rhythm.
I hear the friction of the wheels against the pavement before I actually see the car. I feel my legs get scooped up from behind and my head cradled horizontally. Before I can make sense of what’s going on, I’m in the backseat of the car and not recognizing the two guys beside me. My vision turns into multi-colored static, oxygen catching up with my brain from being unexpectedly tipped back. The driver, I recognize him, Dean. I’m not certain how long I’ve been gone but I know he has got to be upset with me right now. If I may be completely honest, I had completely forgotten about everything: my job, my side job, meeting Dean at the pick up location, I haven’t even figured out what day it is. Somehow, dying and then waking up to see a surgeon with your spleen in his hand takes precedence over everything else.
He could have just pulled over and asked me to get in the car; I needed transportation anyway. The screeching wheels around the corner wasn’t totally necessary, but I like to think that maybe he’s just practicing his perishable skills of operating an emergency vehicle.
Dean pulls over into a stereotypical alley where I assume they’re going to give me marks on my face that I’ll be unable to fend off and then maybe take me to rehabilitation for delivering “mail” – if I survive. Great, I might die, again, but in an alley filled with the smell of old fish and diapers.
….to be continued….