The Voice He Hears (Part 13)

He was watching the darkness turn to light outside. He’d been sitting at the window in the kitchen for hours, desperately trying to make sense of it all. Mr. McBride was gone. The beautiful visions of unexplained phenomena, followed by the terror of his nightmare. He couldn’t do anything but stare.

Moving about, he took himself to the basement. Not sure of what time it was, he looked at the clock that hung above his poker table. It was nearly six. He had been under the spell of the unexplained blackout for many hours. Taped on the glass of the sliding door to the backyard was a note from Rick. “Call me bro.” Mike gathered that Rick had stopped by at his usual time the afternoon before.

He didn’t want to go upstairs. His mother never disturbed him as he lied there on the floor. But, like times before, she had been known to do the same. She had made it clear that she didn’t like it when he passed out cold from drinking. Mike thought back to the time when his mother left him on the edge of the yard all night after he had drank himself under. She enjoyed it when the mail lady found him and woke him up. He was still staring off. He scooted the chair over to his sliding doors and watched the birds peck away at the feeder in the yard. What had happened was exhausting him of his comprehension.

Mike didn’t eat that day. He didn’t drink, either. His mother had stuck her head down the stairwell to ask if he was doing alright earlier that morning, and to ask if he wanted something to eat, but Mike asked that she leave him alone. He’d texted Rick and told him that he was drunk and passed out when he stopped by, and that he would see him Saturday to jam. He just wanted silence. His head was so loud from the screeching horses. They were etched into his mind. Mike had seen many disturbing things throughout his life, but the horses terrified him. He really couldn’t understand his dream—the visions from his past, the empty figures driving the horses, all of the joy that had been stripped away. Not a single bit of it was as frightening as the sounds of the horses.

He began to really think about his father and the dusty religious nonsense. How/why, would/could the series of events portray his father as being some kind of saint that dwells in a heavenly place, and also as being a burning existence somewhere within the belly of hell? He pondered. It was a life swept under the rug and forgotten about. Those days of gathering with the freaks at the Hall was, many miles, behind him. All of the God garbage was a dead topic. He quickly began to move into his standard—if Jesus, or Jehovah, or whatever, was real, where was he when his father was raping him. Where was he when all of the Jews were exterminated during the war his grandfather died in. Mike began to bounce his resting leg, extremely agitated.

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