"The Monster"

I wake up in a dark room with a pounding headache, lying on what feels to be a cold tile floor. I try to pull myself off the floor, but scream out in pain when my ribs feel like someone is stabbing a knife into my chest. I roll onto my side, and see a body lying next to me in the dim moonlight coming through a hole in the roof. I crawl over them in complete agony, finding myself gasping for air with every inch I move forward.

I get to their foot, and shake it while saying, "You okay, buddy?"

"Fuck you!" he moans out as he rolls onto his side. "It's your fault we're in this shithole!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I yell back. "I can't remember shit!"

He rolls onto his back, and decks me in the jaw hard. "That's right, blame the whiskey, asshole!" he yells as I feel blood trickling from my lower lip. "You had one fucking job, and you screwed up royally!"

I grab his shoulders, and head butt him in the nose, breaking it. "Go fuck yourself!" I shout back as I see the blood gushing out of his nose.

I hear a voice shout out, "I see they're awake. Pull those pieces of shit out of there so we can finish this."

The room is flooded with light as a large man swings open a heavy, metal door. From the light coming off the cars outside, I can see he has to duck to clear the opening. He grabs the both of us in his huge hands, and lifts us up like we're nothing more then sack of potatoes. He carries us out of the room, and tosses us onto the ground. I wince as I land hard, learning that I do have a few cracked ribs, maybe even a broken leg.

"You two are more useful dead then fucking alive," says an older man in a very expensive suit leaning against the hood of one of the cars. He walks over to us, and kicks me in the chest. I groan as I hear some more ribs crack. "I knew it was a mistake to bring you miserable pukes along for this job."

I lay there, holding my aching torso still lost on what’s going on. It seems they are some type of mafia, and the job is most likely a robbery, but I can't remember anything. I don't even know my name, how I ended up doing this so called job, or who these people are. All I know is I'm in the middle of nowhere badly injured. I come to the conclusion I'm going to die here without even remembering my damn name.

The old man kicks me one last time, and everything goes black. I can feel my whole body shaking as the pain fades away. As I stop shaking, all I hear is screaming. Even though I can't see, I find myself standing up despite guns going off. I wish I could see for I feel what seem to be insects stinging me.

When I can finally see, I find myself standing near the burning wreckage of a car completely naked. My hands are covered in dried blood, and the air smells like rotten flesh. I look around, and see dismembered bodies everywhere. I look around, and see I'm near a deep canyon in the middle of a desert with no one else around. I begin to wonder what happened here last night, and why I'm the only survivor.

I feel myself shaking again, but this time I don't black out. I watch in horror as I begin shifting in a creature that should only exist in nightmares. I close my eyes when my skin turns into scales. I refuse to watch myself turn into some kind of reptilian monster. When the shaking stops, I open my eyes and walk over to the edge of the canyon, afraid to look down at my hellish form.

I take one last look around, and remember that I'm a monster on the inside as well. The job was a drug deal gone bad. I'm a cocaine dealer smuggling in the drugs through sugar packets, packets that are meant for local schools. I let out a roar out of frustration, and dig my claws into my neck. Realizing that I will only continue to destroy things, I leap off the edge while ripping my neck out. My last thought is there are two less monsters in the world now.

I has gude grammer!

As a wannabe novelist, this still irks me. Whenevur someone makes a typo online, there's always some person that is quik to point it out. I'm even guilty of making errors when I post online. Mainly this happens for I'm posting from a Notepad file, I'm not paying attention, or I don't care. I mean it's on frigging a social media site, and not something I plan on sending off to be printed. I'm not going to spell check when all I'm posting is something like this: "Dude, you're friggning nuts!"

Yes, I'm aware that the fact I did make tipos here, but proving a point. As long as you can comprehand it, does the speling really matter? I doubt most of us are sitting there typing out posts in Word before posting them onto Facebook, or wherever. Plus, since most people are updating social sites from their phones, tablets, anything but a PC, so running a spell check is pretty hard.

Now, I will stress. If you're going to post something making fun of someone's intelligence, or try to sound superior to everyone, and there are grammatical errors, the poster deserves to be mocked. As they say, it's not wise to throw rocks when one lives in a glass house. Then again, my finally thought is this: a lot of issues can be solved by thinking and/or researching what you're going to post for once it's posted, it's on there for good.

"A Voice On The Phone"

Despite doing tech support for the past seven miserable years, I never thought a single call would change my life forever. I normally don't pay attention to a customer's rambling during a call, but I couldn't ignore this one. It's because of the person calling that made me focus more on them than the actual call. That person was my estranged father, who I haven't spoken to in fifteen years.

What I think is a normal Friday night turns into a bad one as I find myself caught in a thunderstorm on my way to the office. I rush into work, hang my coat by the front doors, and sit down at my desk. I begin logging in as I dry my face off with a towel I keep by my desk. I sighed as I see the call queue spiking out of control. I let out one last curse as I put on my headset, and clock in. I was hoping for an easy night for the past week has been nothing but nonstop calls, but it seems everyone is going online tonight. In other words, it's going to be another crappy night at work.

Around eight that evening, I get the call that changes my life. I answer it with the generic greeting, "Thank you for calling SunCom Technical Support. This is Aaron speaking. How can I assist you?"

"Yes, I can't access my internet, and I really need it right now," says the guy on the other end in a panicked tone.

"I apologize you can't connect, sir, but I will be happy to help you," I reply in a monotonic voice.  After seven years, I've lost all empathy for the customers since the majority of the time it's their fault. "What's the account number?"

"8705551425," he replies, almost sounding like he's in tears.

"Thank you, sir," I state as I begin pulling up the account. When I see his name and the address, my entire body becomes filled with rage. It takes all my will not to end the call. I continue on with the call as professionally as I cam muster. "Name and address, sir?

"Johnathan Hawkins, 1542 E 42nd ST, Columbia MO 65207," he replies.

“Thank you, sir," I say as I have my hand shaking over the disconnect button. Every part of my being doesn't want to deal with this poor excuse of a human being, but I can't let personal feelings stop me from doing my job. "What's a good contact number?" He says the account number, and I continue,” What’s the issue you having this evening?"

"I can't connect to the internet, and I need it to find my son," he explains while crying. "I need to find a way to contact him to tell him I'm dying."

I almost blurt out that this is his son, and I don't care for how he treated me growing up, but I continue on, “The lights on the modem. Which ones are blinking and which ones are solid?"

As he tells me the light status, I find myself conflicted. I'm talking to the man who used to beat me senseless every night for 10 years in a drunken rage, but I'm force to help him so he can try to find me. The fact he's in tears makes me put aside my anger, and try to help him. If he's crying while talking to a complete stranger, it makes me wonder what he wants to tell me.

As I troubleshoot his issue, I keep fighting how to handle this. I got his information, so I could save him the time of trying to locate me. However, I don't want to bring back all those oppressed memories back out. I've spent years in therapy because of him, and I don't want to do it again if it turns out to be one of his sick jokes. If it is, I will

probably end up killing myself like I almost done in the past.

As I get him back online, he finally states, "You sound like my son."

"Just a coincidence," I retort.

"Well, whoever you are, I can't tell you how helpful you've been," he says in the sincerest tone I ever heard from his mouth. "I can't thank you enough. Now, to find my son so I can tell him about the battle with cancer I'm losing. I don't want to die alone."

"Well, good luck, sir, and I hope you find him," I say fighting back the tears. Even though he's been a total bastard to me all these years, I can't bare anyone dying alone, especially my father. I know he left Mom and me ages ago, I feel it's best we settle our differences while we still can.

"Thank you," he says. "Have a good night."

"You too, sir, and thank you for calling SunCom," I say as the call ends, quickly recording his number and address on a small notepad. I tear the sheet off, and shove it into my pocket.

That night, after work, I find myself sitting on my couch holding an unopened bottle of whiskey as the tears keep coming out. No matter how angry I was at him, the more I want to rush out there, and be at his side. I will never let go of the past if I don't make an attempt to heal the old emotional wounds.

I get off the couch, and pour the entire bottle of whiskey down the drain. Drinking tonight will lead to me doing something stupid, so it's best to get rid of it. With that done, I hop onto my computer, and book the earliest flight I can. I'm glad I did save most of the inheritance I got from Mom. If not, I would be sacrificing much more than my job to take this trip.

With flight booked, I quickly head into my bedroom, pack up a week's worth of clothes and my computer. I glance at the clock, and realize I only got two hours to kill before I have to leave for the airport. I finish packing, and make two last checks to make sure I didn't leave anything behind. Satisfied I got everything, I call the cab company, and make arrangements to have a cab take me to the airport. Once the call is done, I grab my bags, and head out, not certain if I'll ever return here.

As I get into the cab about twenty minutes later, I debate whether or not to call him as I'm driven to the airport. I know he can't find my online for I use the alias of Ron Schmidt, so unless I make the first call, he can't reach me at all. Considering how he sounded on the call, I think it's best to show up at his door. It's been 15 years since we've last talked, so I think the surprise visit while mean the world to him despite everything we've been through.

An hour later, the plane leaves the tarmac, taking me towards a place I vowed I would never step foot into again all those years ago. As the plane climbs higher, I quit focusing on what happened, and focus on the pain and suffering Dad is going through. I find myself crying as I think that no man should leave this world alone, and no father should leave this world without his son at his side. If I go, I rather have family at my side then die alone. Loneliness is the cruelest thing you could experience when you pass on. I'll be there for my Dad to know that he's my father, and nothing can change the fact deep inside I still love him.

09/15/13 Thought

Some days, I feel like a walnut in a vice. As deadlines are getting closer and closer, the pressure keeps building. One day, I'll either be released, or crushed by the stress. I'm hoping to be set free, but the vice is being closed tighter and tighter with each passing hour. I know they say "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger", but when your will is fading like the setting sun, does it matter how strong you've become?

The only thing I think keeping me going is this will be worth it in the end.  I finally can settle down forever, and hopefully, a hobby five years in the making will become a career. My dream is to write all day at home while having my three mutts keeping me company. It's a simple dream, but requires motivation, determination, and sacrifices. Nothing in life is giving to you. If you want it, you have to earn it, take it, and fucking fight for it.The last thought of the night is this: "Life doesn't make you who you are. You make life what you want it to be."