Prologue for “Home Street” – A Preorder Update

This is the prologue for the upcoming novel “Home Street,” which can be preordered here.  If you’d like to read the forward for the other upcoming novel, “Sick Day,” head on over to this entry.

Note: This book does contain some rather harsh language.

 

           This is one fucked up way to start Christmas.

Not the most eloquent final words, but they were exact to the situation and had entered his mind in whole.  Of course, he could not speak them out loud.  Not down here.

No more words.  No more deeds.

As a boy, he had never been able to open his eyes while submerged, but somehow he was looking around in the murky, muddy water, shady and blue.  His whole being was telling him if he could not save himself, he would breathe it all in, filling his lungs.  The world would darken around him, and he would sink into the quagmire below.  He would have to act quickly if indeed he wanted to live.

Only, he wasn’t convinced he did wish to live.

No more dreams.  No more nightmares.

I can’t believe I rented a tux for this.

He had had enough of this world, and the world seemed to know he thought so.  After all, it was the very earth which was trying to swallow him up.

Bubbles rose from his nostrils as he looked at the thick sheet of ice above his head.  He couldn’t see a break to the surface, but he knew if he’d looked hard enough, he’d find the opening his body made on the impact that had landed him in this silent, frozen hell.

No more debts.  No more harassing creditors.

Dammit.  I lost a shoe.

There was no telling how long he’d been in the water, but he knew there couldn’t be much more time before everything would start happening.  Already, his fingers were numb.  Already, his chest and stomach were crying for warmth.

Somehow, he found serenity in it all.  Maybe it was God’s hush bringing this calm.

Yeah, maybe, but it was probably just the head wound.

No more hair loss.  No more tooth decay.

Did I tip that waitress?

Blue hands hung in front of him.  Suspended in the water, they reminded him of the limbs of a tree, blown lightly by a passing breeze.  He knew they were his, but he couldn’t feel them anymore.  In a way, they already belonged to the grave.  This was all there was left.  Just to float.  And then to die.  No fanfare or trumpets or a flickering film of life passing before his eyes.  Just this.

Just cold water and a painful death.

No more sunrises to break the dawn.  No more stars burning overhead.

I wonder if they’ll ever find me here.

He forced himself to recall the events of his life, to remember the moments that led to his demise.  He conjured the faces of those he loved into the dusky bog, but it suddenly felt wrong to do it – to bring them all down here with him, so he simply closed his eyes.

It seemed life had one lesson left for him: How to let it all go.

No more fading memories.  No more moments to look forward to.  No more.

Oh, God, no!  I’m not the only one down here.

 

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