Prologue – Part 1
Prologue
Death was calling him.
He remembers her most recent call. May first-twenty ten.
He had just moved into his apartment. Beginning a new life. Alone. Hopeful. Joyous.
Then it all turned to shit.
Somewhere around noon. The witching hour. His mood dropped. Crashed. Plummeted. Lower than a salamaner’s belly. Lower than a cockroach’s. Lower than a snake’s.
Winnie Churchill had called IT his Black Dog. Depression. The Big D. She came to visit that noon. That first Saturday in May. He had done his yoga practice. He had picked up the keys from Mike.
Just back in his apartment. Lunch made. Consumed. Standing in his living room. The depression started in the bottom of his feet. Icy. Crept up his legs. Like water. Like liquid fire.
Exactly like the eighth of March nineteen eighty five.
This time the depression took six minutes to capture his body. And, his brain. His mind. Neurochemicals one and all. Fixed in his blood.
How long this time, he thought. Three months. Six. A year.
Not those. It turned out to be exactly one hundred thirteen days and three hours.
Three in the morning. August twenty first. Three in the morning. His life ended. Almost.
His front bumper rocketing into the concrete sound barrier. A second later his neck slammed into the shoulder strap. His seventh cranial verterbra cracked. Then the second verterbra followed. In rapid succession: His upper body smashed into the steering wheel. It bent. Cracked. Shattered. Severak ribs cracked. A rib on the right puncturing his lung. His lung deflated. His forehead smashed into the front windshield. The ridge over his right eye impinging first. The skin ripped. Blood began cascading out. Soaking into his T-shirt. Dripping onto his jeans. Soaking his running shoes. Then his right carotid severed. Almost. Blood seeped into the flesh surrounding the artery. Pumped directly to his mid-brain. Ballooned the artery wall. A haemorhagic stork followed. The best or worst event. For last. His right foot had been planted firmly on the gas pedal. His Oldsmobile was rocketing at ninety kilometers per hour. His right heel bone shattered into a dozen pieces.
The Olds came to brief stop. The contents of the trunk smashing through the back seat. They came to a stop. Cushioned on the back of the front seat. Compressing his spine. The Olds rocked back.
Ten seconds. And, his life was over. Almost.
Or, had it just begun.
Pre-publication Draft, Copyright Lyle T. Lachmuth, ALL Rights Reserved
