Excerpt from “Some Stones Don.t Roll” a Kindle memoir about a paranoid-schizophrenic’s last day.
I would have said Bill what’s wrong. And he would have said shit I forgot my medication. And I would have taken him to his pills. Would I have also said the equivalent of, You do not have to be gay if you don’t want to? You do not have to murder someone to deal with those voices you are hearing? Your will is capable of snapping those demons out of there in a trice? Faster than a flying pool cue? Oh Bill, Bill. I failed you then. I fail you now. Of course you needed your pills! Of course life hangs as much on chance as rules. Of course everything hangs together but for some it hangs wrong. At least if the object is to stay alive. Let’s drive down to Alice’s Church and get those goddamned pills. It’s not too late. Get the pills. And I, my eyes are open now. I see you are crazy. I will hang with you even more than I have, recognizing that what has been going on these last weeks has been naked need masquerading as a guy just like me who writes songs and has no idea about the music business … yet.
No, you can’t go home again. Who wants to? That house is sold. Dick’s table is gone. Bill’s parents are gone. This is a new century. And we stumble Peircingly into a glass half full thesis to ward off the demons of a truly nihilistic abyss. Life is comedy not tragedy. Life is adjustment not finality. But then I contemplate three cousins of mine, New England-sired, with predictable genes belonging to one five-thousanth of the population of Massachussets and Vermont. And Bingo! Wilson’s Disease. It strikes all three down as they arrive at the beautiful time of adolescent flowering. Yes, I lost cousins, playmates, others. Families I never knew were burying the remnants of their WW2 war-riven dead. Who wants to go there again? I see death as natural, but it is not at all so. It is sudden in many cases. My parents are the exception. They got to the chain-breathing stage and expired peacefully at home at 97 and 102. Bill was how old? Somewhere in his thirties. Younger than I. And saddled with an inexplicable cranial capacity to hear, not the back and forth that peacefully guides us through the rapids of life, but the officious, mocking voices of glass-half-empty discouragement, instructions to follow demonic visions to lethal conclusions.
I felt the abyss. My sweetheart is back from her weekly walk to the bank and now is off to work. She is my angel. My salvation. That abyss was me going off and never coming back. I knew none of the mechanics for avoiding panic attacks. Had there been plastic bags at the time and had someone told me about the chemistry of breath I might have licked it. As it was, time licked it. Time and events. I have no notion why I am still here. Nothing is the same. Even my dreams have changed.
Some Stones Don’t Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose Book 1)http://buff.ly/1qygkmy