Some stuff

Okay, a few short orders of business to attend to.

First, my personal life is hell right now. Emotional, financial, academic, physical, whatever, it's all shit. So I'm busy sorting all that out; hence the latency of any promised updates, the sloppiness in said updates once they finally do show up, and, in general, any marked turns for the negative you've noticed in my writing.

Alright. First order of business. Dr.Duke #1 is up; I'm giving him his own blog, due to his independence as a character and differences from my typical stuff. You can find his advice column at DrDukeAdvice.blogspot.com (caps aren't needed; I just put 'em in here for clarity). Warning though: it's offensive. It's a continuation of a school newspaper gimmick I came up with in high school, after all.

Second. Even with all the stuff I'm dealing with lately (or maybe because of it), I've been writing. One of them is a new short stories. It's one of those ones where two ideas just converge perfectly, and suddenly I have this brilliant idea for a story.

It's also one of those stories where the ending wrote itself first.

It's not too long; I should finish it in one or two writing sesh's. As it is, I'm about halfway done, thought it's honestly pretty rough (more so than usual for my rough drafts).

I feel pretty good about the beginning, though, rough or not. So just for kicks I'd though I'd throw that up here; give you all a taste of what's coming next. No title yet (aside from my 'top-secret' working title, which I honestly can't even remember at the moment).

So here ya go. Some new Luke fiction to stave off boredom for a few minutes.

Comments much appreciated.

Till later,
Luke

The doctors say I dreamed it all. That from the first time I saw it, my mind had been sick. I guess it makes sense, that way. That everything that happened after that is so blurred because my sanity was unravelling, thread by thread. They explained the whole thing to me; used big long scientific words. Dissociative fugue, that’s the one they used the most. And schizophrenia. I was a real mystery to them, I think, all neat and clean in their white lab coats. They couldn’t quite pin down what they thought was wrong with me.

But they tried. Over and over, questions and tests and trials. And at the end, they tried to lay it out plain in simple terms. Told me I’d, more or less, gone crazy. Imagined things that weren’t there. Created events in my mind that hadn’t happened. No, they weren’t sure why yet. There was no traumatic precursor. No physical damage they could find. But they’d figure it out. They always did.

So they sent me back out. Out of the white, shining halls. The halls where it was never dark. And told me I should be okay. That none of the damage was lasting; it had been a temporary, if inexplicably strong spell. They gave me pills just in case, told me to take them if I felt any of the symptoms come back. And more than anything else, they reminded me over and over that none of it was real.

I don’t believe a word of it.

That was three days ago. They let me out at noon. I holed up in a hotel after that and I’ve been there ever since. Hotels rooms are easy to keep bright. Every lamp blazing, every fluorescent light glowing. The whole room constantly awash in bright yellow hotel light, forcing all the shadows out of the room, leaving the walls white and bare.

I’m keeping it at bay, the only way I know how. Because whatever they say, I didn’t imagine those things that happened to me. My mind didn’t create them.

My mind wouldn’t be that cruel.

So I keep my vigil. I haven’t slept since I got, haven’t showered, haven’t even looked in a mirror to see what that place did to me. Just sat here in this bright-lit hotel room, thinking, shaking. Trying to think of a way to escape. So far, nothing. Maybe, just maybe, if I stay here long enough, he’ll forget about me. Lose me. Leave me alone.

I haven’t seen it—him—for almost a month now. The asylum was brighter even then this. He didn’t dare follow me there. I have moments where I almost convince myself that he has forgotten, that I’m free.

But they never last. I can feel it. Still. That cold, creeping ice in my stomach, that knife twisting in my gut. Whatever it was...it’s still here. Somewhere. Hiding. Waiting.