1.4 (Adrenaline Fallout)

He slammed the door quick behind him as he took off down the stairs to the left of the door. On his way down he may have touched two steps since footing was the last thing in his mind. Solace. Peace. Clarity. Safety. These words had left his vocabulary years ago but with every string his heart screamed for them. He was without direction and began to run. He booked it past the residential areas now compounds of cinder and didn’t think twice of the gangs inside. Bullets went flying as his legs carried him into oblivion. The stupor showed no sign of wearing off but he could not stop running. He heard a train in his mind and with each churn of the wheels he felt a presence behind him driving him. His surroundings were a blur, all he saw was what was laying in front of. Jumping, ducking, and rolling through a war torn terrain fueled him with an adrenaline rush that he had not felt in years. Though darkness surrounded him like a straight jacket his mind was locked on some sort of light beckoning him forward. He had hallucinated many times before but this was different, there was safety, at least that is what he felt it to be, so he ran.
Wolves howled in the distance. Other various and estranged noises rang through the background but he continued to run. Fear had left his face as the voice within him kept shouting, “Run!” Nothing had been the same since the treaty. There were days long ago when one could go for a stroll at night. The moonlight could be enjoyed and there was a dull sense of safety given by the fleeting passing of patrol cars. Distant memories fade so fast.

Two years ago the war had ended and peace was heralded in as the godsend from the depths of the heart of humanity. Everything was on the brink of disaster as nations were at each other’s throats. The United States had resisted for five solid years the advancements of the newly fashioned Red Army. The land was left devoured and in utter disarray. It was as if locusts had ravaged every part of society riddling it with emptiness and desolation. America fought hard, to say the least. Stars and stripes coursed through every vein in those days as hope dwindled on the beckon of air raid sirens. Power was gone and the terrified lived in darkness.
There had been talk of a man in the Middle East who spoke of peace. Rumors spread like wildfire and the hope of the nation was placed entirely on this man. He spoke of peace not just in the Americas but of the Middle East as well. He claimed to have the solution to end all warfare between the Arabs and the Jews. He had his dream, for over two years now there has not been a single suicide bomber within the confines of the Israeli nation. His name was Robert Paulson, a beacon of hope for the world; others just called him the Assyrian.
With words of peace he had led the world into a new era. Out of nowhere he seized the United Nations and European Union. His words rattled souls of all he talked to, hope seemed to pour from his smooth and delicate words and thus the world had peace.
Tolstoy cared nothing for Middle East or talks of peace. Diplomacy had always been a crock to him. Something deep in his blood yearned to return to the feudal era when men battled over power and land. In this place was the only place he found dignity. In this place he became a soldier, not for his country but for himself. His dignity was found in the slain that laid at his feet. This dignity was quickly lost. War always seemed like a good idea until the aftermath. Resolve was never met. There was no peace. In his mind a foreigner could do northing for him, let alone a puppet government. The world was in shambles yet peace was lauded from the highest of watchtowers. Some peace. The gutters were lined with the dead. Women and there children sold themselves for a buck, dignity was gone, people were just another means to an end.
Propaganda became the filter through which knowledge abounded. Anything would be devoured with sex appeal thrown in. Pornographic brochures littered the streets, shipped to the masses preaching of peace and celebration. Even in the elementary schools children were endowed with sexual promiscuity as a “higher” form of learning. They said it overcame the ADD. No one however could explain the rise in the suicide rates. Mere coincidence was the only thing attributed to it, the children fed on each other, the older they grew the younger the victims were. Every person for themselves; Darwin would have been proud. Decay was all around, all that was left was to numb the throbbing ache. Humanity had come to its finest hour as darkness consumed all that was breathing.

4.2 (Welcome Home!)

He blinked. Everything began to change. The aurora began to take definition as his surroundings became more and more clear. Or at least that was the closest way he could put it. One can never use the word clear in its entirety especially with the recent events in one’s mind. The colors danced into as brilliant flash. It was as if everything that he could remotely make out was being consumed within a sunrise that was filling the entire room. It hurt his eyes but he could not close them regardless of how hard he tried.
All of a sudden a vast landscape opened up in front of him. It was lush and green and spread for miles. Scattered throughout the land were tree of magnificent grandeur and flowers that set the eyes into a cataclysmic waltz of pleasure. There was a familiarity to this place Tolstoy thought. It was as if for the first time in his life he had peace and a sense of belonging. This was more soothing and exhilarating than even the dazzling spectrum that swirled around him just a few seconds earlier.
The sky stretched farther than any sky he had ever seen. He could not just see distance but depth. Across the boundless expanse colors beyond description danced together as particle and wave intermingled in intimate embrace. The farther up the more personality the colors had. They interacted with each other in playful harmony bounding forth in adventurous companionship. Within the colors he saw men and women dancing and twirling. Angels flew intermittently with the colors as the light refracted through the elegant wings on which they glided. The men and women frolicked like children laying hold of the vast choreography of the spectrum and consuming the playful resonance. Within the slightest entry of the smallest particle joy poured forth out of the people’s bodies in fits of laughter and songs that sounded like choirs backed with the symphonies of times past.
Lost in the array of splendor Tolstoy began to feel an explosion within his being. He looked down and light poured forth from every part of his body. It swirled around him in a mystical embrace. He and the Light were like two partners lost in an intimate dance as joy rushed through every part of Tolstoy’s now alive body. The Light was enthralled with him. There was such intimacy and words were left far behind. They danced as two reunited lovers as each one peered into the other while consuming the depths pf pleasure. The Light pierced every part of Tolstoy exposing everything that was inside. In an instant shame filled his very being. Before he could hide his face the Light burst forth into his depths covering all of his shame. The dance continued.
After what seemed an eternity of joy the romance began to slow down as a man approached him. Stopping for a second he locked eyes with the man approaching. He knew the eyes. These were the same eyes that met him a few nights ago at the club. This was the fire that burned deep within the jaded soul. Jesus was approaching and the flames of His gaze joined the light surrounding Tolstoy and pierced through every part of him. A deep warmth consumed Tolstoy as Jesus paused a few yards from him. There was stillness as Tolstoy’s heart began to throb and grow with adrenaline and passion.
Breaking the stillness Jesus began to charge at the man directly in front of Him. There was more power behind the run than Tolstoy had ever seen. Jesus came like a train at full speed roaring like a lion. The spilt seconds before impact the roar turned into the loudest and heartiest laughter that had ever been uttered. Tolstoy blinked and then impact.
Gripped by his Savior he winced expecting to slam into the soft ground beneath him. Nothing happened as air began to whiz pass his ears. His eyes were greeted by the biggest smile he had ever seen.
“Beloved, I love you so much!” Jesus chided at the top of His lungs as each word was intermingled with boisterous bouts of laughter.
Tolstoy could say nothing as He and Jesus were now heading upwards. Everything in him wanted to weep for joy but he was met with nothing more than an agape mouth and astonished eyes. He and Jesus joined the others in the midst of the colors and were loudly applauded. Each person gazed at Tolstoy and his Beloved with such excitement and delight as deep within Tolstoy’s soul he could feel their delight intermingle with The Light’s and Jesus’ ravishing his soul forging the zenith of ineffable euphoria.
“I love you too.” Tolstoy sputtered out as he fought to communicate the simple yet deep phrase.
“Oh! How I know you do!”
“Really?” Tolstoy exasperatedly squeaked.
“I was there the day you were conceived forming and knitting you into a beautiful masterpiece. You came forth as one who all of my zeal burned for in longing for the day in which I could hold you in my arms and you could enter the divine chorus of love. From day one I fought for your attention but you ran. Year after year I called your name but my voice was silenced. I saw every tear you ever cried and I was there with outstretched arms when your heart was first broken. I know when you get up and when you go down to bed. Years have I wept over your paranoia longing for you to come to me. My beloved you are here with me now and will be with me soon.” Jesus then opened His mouth and began to sing over Tolstoy. There were no words but every note joined with each of the colors in the sky and pierced the depths of his soul. Drums resounded and trumpets danced through each syllable. Divine rhythm became the new being formed as LOVE consumed the object of His affection.
As the symphony began to lightly fade Jesus took the one He loved up higher to view the vast expanse of the land below. In the distance a city of gold shone forth brighter than the sun. It warmed Tolstoy’s face as Jesus lifted his head to take a deep breath. “This is your home!” He thundered with a bellow of gleeful song. “Welcome!”

1.3 (Directional Nudge)

Fear gripped him. He wanted to do nothing more than hide away in his hole. A gloomy sanctuary was better than everything that lurked outside, at least that is what he had scrawled over his bathroom walls in bright red ink. In a manic fashion he grabbed the closest bottle of vodka and began to chug it down as fast as he could. He sat down on the faded toilet in the bathroom and stared at the writing on the wall hoping it would go away. Minutes passed. The little voice in his head calling him out of the hole kept getting louder and louder. It echoed all throughout his body, a cry for escape. It had come before but he could always suppress it. More vodka. It got louder. The cycle continued for half an hour until he slumped off of the toilet into the door jam.
Collecting his wits he stood up. The daze seemed to be clearing but the vessels in his eyes continued to throb. With several loud grunts he pulled himself up on the sink and began to peer into the mirror. It was the same thing. Day after day he looked hoping to see something different, each day grew a larger disappointment.
Empty eyes locked on the remains of a haggard shell. Eyes that were once a radiant green now had succumbed to a murky red. There was no life in them. The eyes held a perfect compliment to the rest of the man he saw. Pale and ragged. Years of pain and anguish were written over his heavily scarred face. Deep gashes ran down both of his cheeks, the one on the left still contained a shining piece of shrapnel. Grenades were never a pretty thing. His hair drooped over his face like a wispy dirge. Unkempt and thinning, the black and gray loomed as a thunderhead over his sunken eyes.
He stood there gripping the sink with all that was in him. Driven by anger and the need for stability he unleashed a fury of profanity to the man whose eyes he was lost in. His arms were weak but still held the out line of the days of triumph. Held together with a flaming skull on each bicep, he longed to sever himself from his instruments of death, the closest he came was sawing off both of his ring fingers. It hurt. A lot. A man haunted by a symphony of casualties was not worthy of love from woman or God. He had become a man who manufactured death to the masses, taken advantage of countless women, and lived only to answer the call of his Russian elixir.
Years ago he had hope. Life seemed to shine. He was twenty two years old and her name was Charlotte. She was beautiful. All he had left was that one word, “beautiful.” Nine letters, nine letters of bliss and failure. She was like a candle flickering in the dark recesses of his memory, a spark, tiny and warm. Volumes of poems had he written about her as life once poured from his trembling lips in her presence. He knew love and he knew joy but all that was left was that nine letter word and a dirty diamond ring that dangled amidst his blood covered dog tags.
It caught his eye in the mirror and a single tear began to streak down his face. It ran down the side of his nose and rested for a second above his trembling lip. With a commanding crash it fell into the sink leaving the dry well from which it came. The moment had passed and rage had been conceived. Tolstoy picked up the closest bottle to him and hurled it against the mirror with all of his might. It broke open showering a hailstorm of broken glass mixed with alcohol. The mirror stood still as the liquid drizzled down its surface.
Anger began to well up. Mild convulsions ran up and down his arms as the walls seemed to close in. Breathing became difficult as the stench of the room now began to cling to the back of his throat. He needed to get out, he knew the atmosphere in the room, it was death. Scrambling through his mess he jumped out the door with his weapon in hand and terror running across his face. He needed to get out. Everything in him screamed for escape. The night seemed clear enough. He felt safe with Ol’ Betsy. Her name was beautifully written by sharpie on both of her dainty barrels; stainless steel that rang like a teething banshee. Many had fallen to her kiss, always tactful and never promiscuous. She kept him safe from the monsters outside but was powerless against the demons in his room.

1.2 (Reminiscing)

After unlocking the four deadbolts Tolstoy took a deep breath, he hated going outside. Granted his room was a dump and a breeding ground for disease, but what loomed outside was far worse. Before the unlocking the fifth lock he grabbed a loaded sawed off shotgun off of the television and a box full of ammo from underneath a pile of shirts. Rounds in his pocket and shotgun in hand, he was as ready as he could be. Trembling, he took a final swig of vodka for good measure and inched the door wide open.
He stood on the balcony and began to survey his surroundings. Though he was fairly drunk the training he once had gave him a poignant eagle eye which was lightly mixed with a small dose of paranoia. The scene had not changed since his last outing. With the stairs heading down to the bottom level directly to his left, to the right was nothing but a burned out cavern of shoddy architecture. Looters had taken control of the hotel during the war and most of it had been destroyed. Televisions were gone, needles were everywhere, and a few of the beds were inhabited; but mostly by hookers. Suburbia had come down to this. The smell of death still lingered as fires in the distance burned bright consuming other once useful buildings.
No one was in sight. Not a soul, not even the general call girl cliental. It was silent. Tolstoy liked that. A light wind gave him solace as he closed his eyes trying to reminisce upon that which was quickly fading. The earliest he could remember was the year 2003. He was fifteen years old and all that he held onto were a barrage of flashes from multiple screens. He remembered having friends and he remembered two girlfriends. He could even remember a little sister and his parents; they floated around in his mind as faceless beings whose silhouettes seemed to bring either comfort or great disdain. He remembered the games though. They built him. At an early age he learned how to kill and laugh at the suffering. Pixels were forever burned into his fragmented memory establishing one of the only foundations for reality. As war broke out he climbed through the ranks saying a silent prayer for his upbringing. Mercy was a word he had made his enemy.
Seven years later the war began. Nobody saw it coming. Over night New York and Miami were underwater. Multiple nuclear weapons were simultaneously detonated leaving the thriving metropolises as mud and rubble. March 14, 2010. It was a day that lived in infamy. Panic gripped the entire nation as riots broke out in every other city. Within two days Atlanta was in flames. Three days later Boston imploded in an uproar of violence. Paranoia had become the proper diet of the east coast and it seemed to be moving farther west.
No one knew who it was. Some blamed the government, others the Muslims. Our eye had been on North Korea and Iran for many years at this point and fingers were being pointed in every direction. Venezuela was even a chief candidate. There were too many fingers and not a single one held clarity. Within a week the entire military had been dispatched to the eastern seaboard. Chaos reigned and the body count was high. Cities could be found by following the flocks of starving birds massing to feed. Hope was far gone as even DC was succumbing to mob rule.
It was July 4th and things seemed to be mildly contained. Nineteen million had died over the course of a few months and the government was on the brink of collapse, they still held a decent image. Despite the horrors; much of the nation west of the Mississippi though that most of the problems were mostly over. Propaganda spread like wildfire. The CIA even gained control over You Tube. 6:35 hit Seattle, Washington with a loud hum. Out of nowhere fleets of helicopters approached the city out of thin air. The city was unprepared and fell within the course of a day and a half. Amidst the ashes the helicopters landed unloading squadron after squadron of troops. They stood triumphant in the smoke of Seattle’s remaining embers. Bright red uniforms marked with hints of gold. Each one bore a black helmet and face mask for filtering toxins. Silence settled with dust as the golden gleam above there skulls shone forth a bright hammer and sickle, an empire revived like Frankenstein’s monster. Stillness alone was what they brought with them for the initial hours. The United States had begun to sink into a coma, years of recompense were about to be given to the piper.

The wind picked up as a piece of paper hit Tolstoy’s face snapping him out of his static filled flashes. He crumpled it into his pocket as he returned back inside for another drink. The night was young and he needed his hip flask if he was to do anything of any magnitude. With a sigh he dashed back in. His headache was only worsened for the disdain he had for his current situation.

1.1 (Room 238)

He stared mindlessly at the television with a solid patch of drool caked onto his sunken face. It had been three days since he had gotten off of the couch and anxiety was beginning to get to him. The lights were out and all that accompanied him was his flickering television and gallons of low grade vodka, an early retirement gift from the military. Empty bottles covered the vomit stained floor as crates towered above the morose figure enveloped in the latest breed of educational programming, it was nothing but low grade porn but it was by far the most soothing thing on he thought. “You can never go wrong with PBS.” His mother’s words still jingled in his head long after her passing.
It took all that was in him to peel his sweaty body off of the sunken vinyl. After three minutes of pushing and pulling he became unstuck and stooped over to catch his breath. After hacking up ten percent of what was left of his lungs he groped in the darkness for a light switch. Each grasp seemed futile as with every motion bought him to his knees. After ten years in the army one would assume that a person would be capable of simple tasks but all that was left was a sulking mass of bitterness and regret.
After what seemed an eternity the light was finally switched on revealing the grotesque collage of utter decadence. Forty watts illuminated this once suitable motel room that hosted throngs of people before the war. On the mirror the words “Best Western” barely held firm marking some sort of identification with a world that was once whole. That was all that was really left. Clothing was scattered on the floor, golden brown t shirts stained with sweat and liquor seemed to be the majority of articles with a pair or two of ripped jeans lightly sprinkled on top. The stench that rose was unbearable, at least for the first three months, now it had become one of mild security.
The only working light was a centralized dome on the ceiling and by some miracle had not gone out after what must have been decades of use. The murky light pieced through the cigarette smoke canvassing the orb and gave the room a warm feeling, well, warm like a funeral home. Many complained of the smog over the cities, those who did should be thankful that it had not succumbed to the hovering musk of this room, good old number 238.
The wall paper had been long since peeled away but this room held its own on interior decoration. Across the entire wall was written word for word, the book War and Peace. The current resident forged it over the course of six months; not that he particularly was a fan of the book but it gave him a place to escape from his nightmares. On top of that he had been nicknamed “Tolstoy” while he was in the army due to his love of literature and most importantly his avid affection for vodka. This was the only name he knew, the old one was long gone with the rest of his memories. Surrounded by scrawling from the motherland, there was one part of the room which was entirely different. When one entered that room the AC unit was directly to the right and right behind that was a patch of red ink. This ink was not poetic, organized, or tastefully written. Over and over again it read, “GOD HELP ME!” In moments of desperation Tolstoy would cling to his corner and madly scribble out his cries hoping one day they would be answered.
The only other red thing in the room was an old vinyl couch. He had no need for a second bed and since he found such a lovely couch he figured that it would make a might fine replacement. He eyed it one day as he walked down a deserted street sitting in the living room of a fairly nice house. The door had been broken down and clothing and toys were strewn across the front hallway. Upon entering the house he headed straight for the couch and promptly brushed off all of the shotgun shell casings that laid on top of his new trophy. For eighteen months the motel room had been home. Most of the building had been destroyed by shrapnel and only drifters and junkies wandered in and out. Tolstoy was grateful for working plumbing and electricity and spent the majority of his days tucked away in his hole basking in the light of the vintage Panasonic television. Tonight however, was a night to get out, even the stench was beginning to gnaw away at Tolstoy’s senses, some fresh air would do him good.