Dreams of Lesser Gods

Falling with every bit of gravity's worst intentions, striking its' mark true and flush, the sledge hammer landed with a deafening thud. The high pitched ring of concrete clashing with iron, muffled by the crush of flesh and bone. Flesh and bone the width of a human hand to be exact, separating stone from stone breaker.

∞ “That's... prrr-obably not gonna heal well”, David thought.

Had he said the words out loud, it would only have encouraged his interrogator to do worse. Much worse by the eager smirk on the man child's face. “And what’s with this guy's face anyway?”, he wondered, sarcasm echoing off the walls in his head. Even in extreme distress, the astral meditations were working just like Doc said they would, and thank Ra for that. “Watcher knows that ain’t always been the case”, he concludes.

Nineteen years, six months, three weeks, five days, eighteen hours, thirty five minutes, six seconds and counting. The length of time it took to learn how to control and leverage his acute schizophrenia. Leveraged the fuck out of it in fact. Straight from babbling unintelligibly on skid row into a million dollar book deal. Reigning in his disorder was undoubtedly the catalyst that sent him rocketing from internet obscurity to the best seller list.

The stories that poured from his pen were written by a built-in committee of six. So vivid was the internal dialogue, at times (usually the most awkward) it careened into the world outside his head. Like a drunken uncle tragically, belligerently, bursting into the wrong family family function. To this point, the intrusions were harmless for the most part. Except for the Oprah interview, that got weird.

When Doc found him, he was a hollow shell of a human scribbling part insanity, part genius on stretches of downtown Los Angeles pavement. She helped him realize that the voices, each unique in character, weren’t figments of a deranged imagination. No. Each was an individual spirit, occupying his six foot one inch, 170 pound frame. It was a concept he still struggled to grasp. Recently he’d been working on a compartmentalization exercise that would carve out individual spaces for the ethereal sextuplet within.

It was his current circumstance however, presenting a puzzle to be solved. Who were these torturous strangers holding him captive? Why the violent interest in his most recently published work? Where’s Ima?

∆ “Staring in disbelief at the mangled limb, a cocktail of shock and horror setting in, pondering the dull blackness of the hammer's fifteen-pound head... I feared the end was near”, dramatizes the Author Hu, breaking the internal silence.

∞ “What?! Are you really monologuing right now?!”, David barks.

∆ “Of course I am. Why wouldn't...” reasons Hu.

∞ “ENOUGH!“, David interrupts

Ω “Hu has a point Dave, It is important we record this… you can’t write this stuff” the Scribe aka Quill interjects.

∞ “This literally is not the time for all that bro! FUCK that hurts like shit! You gotta start taking shit way more seriously Hu. Let me get us out of this before you start waxing poetic! Jesus my fucking hand!” David admonishes.

∆ “ You're right David, my most sincere apologies. If I may suggest...” Hu blathers before being cut off

“∞ Just go dude! You too Quill!” David demands. Silence follows. The internal quarrel was brief but necessary.

The scream throttling from his lungs was way better dressed for the occasion. As much as he grew to enjoy the Seinfeldian back and forth in his head, this was the preeminent way to embrace the gravity of the moment. Blood curdling and heart shattered. The shriek of a specter snatched from the warmth of heaven into the frostbitten darkness of hell.

His body seized as if struck by a bolt of lightning from the fuck you finger of Zeus himself. A tidal wave of searing white pain rushed from his crushed left hand, still quivering under the weight of the not yet removed iron instrument. The pain lit up every nerve ending at once, agony quickening up the bicep, through the shoulder and straight to the center of his brain.

The howl was a stark contrast to his ego's initial sardonic reaction to the obliteration of his off hand. Admittedly, masochistically... There was a piece of him that begged to drink the pain and welcome worse. To bathe in tortures torment.

With palpable anticipation, like a blood lustful spectator sitting front row at the fight of the century, the air in the dilapidated barn stood still, focused on the tragedy unfolding center stage. Most assuredly, horror would soon fill this place.

At present, occupied by a party of four; three of whom were definitely uninvited and far from welcomed guests, the barn’s vaunted ceiling capped a kaleidoscopic contrast of shadow and blinding streaks of sunlight.

Beams of golden light spilling through two massive square barn windows reveal the dance of a trillion dust particles. Each spec a galaxy of its' own possibly, filled with worlds like this one. All with their own tales of tragedy happening this very moment, maybe. Removing himself from the agony for a moment, smiling internally David made note of his observation's brilliance.

∑ “That looks like the nexus of the universe or some wild shit like that Dave... I guess there could be worse places to die.” The Watcher chimes in.

∞“ Yeah ok Mr. positivity. Nobody's dying today.”

Since successfully courting The Watcher, David found the continuous narrative in his head more entertaining than maddening as in years past. And with great relief. Right now however, for obvious reasons, he wasn't in the mood for anything but answers.

Surrealistic as it seemed, this wasn't another one of those elaborate day dreams he was prone to. Or was it?

That's a real sledge hammer, resting on his NON writing hand ("thank God"), and this was very real pain.

None of it felt like his regular reverie, lost in worlds he would then recreate as literary magic. In fact, everything after his focus was blown by the scent of a woman not his own felt more trans-dimensional than dream-like. He was in a vacuum of sorts, held against his will. One foot in the goings on in his mind and the other physical world.

∑ “This is what Doc was always runnin' her mouth about”, The Watcher chides

∞ “Has to be”, David answers

Suddenly in a flash of blinding white pain, David was standing beside himself. Surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but notice the stark feeling of singularity. Not only were there no accompanying voices, the presence of the additional five was absent all together. Feeling both helpless and all powerful simultaneously, he watched his body tremble.

The pain intensified as both apparition and man struggled to slow the abrupt unfolding of moments to no avail. Whatever this is, it's happening right now. Half joking, the ghost lays a reassuring hand gently on the head of the avatar.

∑ “You'll get through this... (chuckle) or you won't. Either way whatever comes next is gonna be a fuckin trip yeah?!”, The Watcher quipped.

∞ “ Yeah”, David responds.

Dripping with tragic sarcasm, The Watcher’s encouragement trails off in an echo, slowly replaced by the primal scream it was drowning out. Somehow, the scream triggered a surrealistic out of body split.

The walls of the barn now spinning, David's two worlds came crashing back together at light speed.

"Fuuuuuuuuck!!! Fuck!! Oh shit! Oh my fuck!", he stuttered. His attention jumping from hearing himself as if another man were screaming, to feeling his reflexes conjuring the words from his exhausted lungs uncontrollably.

It would've been one thing had the interruption to his cypher ended as hoped, with Ima in his arms. Instead it ushered into his sanctum of towering wood, a sinister plot twist in the person of the sadistic trio standing before him with demonic intent.

Hearing the squealing of the barn doors' metal wheels was usually an announcement of David’s favorite visitor. Ima. With anticipation, he closed his eyes, envisioning a welcomed embrace from behind.

The fragrance that normally wafted in with the open country air, had a signature hint of gardenia, stealing his attention and enraptured his soul every time. Two slender arms wrapped around his neck in piggy back fashion, like always. Reading over his shoulder, her soft breath warming his ear, "I just wanted to tell you that I love you babe", she whispers. Their love was ritualistic in it’s expressions.

Her delicate hands ran slowly down his chest, pausing as they reached the draw stringed waistline of his joggers. In an instant, raising his arms, David playfully throws off Ima’s embrace, wheeling around to look his love in the eyes.

And there she stood smiling, lovely, playfully attempting to cover herself. She stood with him, half dressed at the center of the renovated barn. Shoulder length locks of brunette cascading down the sides of her face, framing her Persian features. Lovingly, she returned his gaze with the most hypnotizing pair of hazel eyes. They reflected the purity of her heart and the radiance of her soul. When she laughed her full lips gave way to an angelic smile that could warm Stallin's cold dead heart. Draped playfully in nothing more than his favorite Pendelton, her posture suggested more than a simple declaration of love.

The red and black checkered flannel hung loose, coyly giving way with every subtle move. Oversized and half unbuttoned, the shirts soft fabric clung to her breasts. "How the hell ..." David thought, his calloused hands massaging her supple skin. He pressed them up her thighs, tracing the curve of her ass, spanning the small of her back and falling to a firm rest on her hips, "...did I land a woman like you?".

In one motion, he hoisted her upward as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief and surprise. "Wait!", she yelps.

"Wait what? You came in here looking like that, and thought I was gonna be able to keep cyphering?" he responds, kissing her soft skin between each word. Ima laughed, and as if it were even possible, his endearment for her grew.

In an instant clothes were being torn away in a frenzy of passion. It never mattered much to the couple that their love making often took place in the center of the massive wooden barn, converted into David’s literary dojo.

Mesmerized by the moment, the lovers tore into one another with unbridled passion. Kissing, clawing, grasping for anything... everything on her perfect frame, every movement drew David deeper. "Damn babe" Ima moaned, her voice curiously dropping in pitch. As if to signal an imminent climax she began repeating his name, "David!" every exclamation sounding more distorted than the last, her perfectly pitched voice deepening in carriage.

"The fuck?!", he wondered. Sex with Ima was always mind blowing but never time altering. The observation settled in just before opening his eyes to a warping tunnel of visuals, expanding from the periphery, gradually replacing Ima's face with kaleidoscopic imagery, followed by an all too familiar "pop", snapping him back to reality.

God dammit. Another daydream. Before he could wonder what and where just happened, the taste of sweat and blood salted his lips. The pain in his hand pulsing, throbbing, mind numbing, returned with a vengeance.

∞ ”Mothefucker”, he mutters.

Dank and grim with foreboding, the cavernous space wreaked a primordial stench far different from that of his fantasy. His momentary mind trip had stolen him away for mere seconds, but it felt like hours. Hours in the arms of his beautiful Ima, in this very same barn, with its vaunted ceilings and sun bathed dirt floors.

God damn day dreams always felt so real. The thought was abruptly interrupted by another; "Ima!".

If his captors were so brazenly holding court with him here, what does that mean about the fate of his love?

To be continued?