Solon-Prologue and 1st Chapter





                                                            Detective Sergeant Daniel O’Dell


It was the first chill of autumn that greeted Detective Daniel O’Dell the evening he arrived on the scene. That cold which announced a bitter upcoming winter. A chill that threatened to cut through your clothes and freeze your bones. It made him wonder how he ever survived last winter and how he would get through the next one.

A thick and creeping fog joined the brisk air. This soupy fog seemed to caress the starry night sky like a long lost lover. It mysteriously parted for the detective like a theater curtain.

The scene was in a secluded area behind a large dilapidated pawnshop just west of the city of Detroit. It was an area that was frequented by the homeless boozers and no-account crack heads alike. It was not close enough to the downtown metro area to be under the constant protection of roving police patrols, nor was it within earshot of the residential sections for anyone to hear a victim screaming.

Dan methodically calculated and rationally categorized every facet of this evolving puzzle as he approached his uniformed colleagues. A rookie officer respectfully lifted the crime scene tape and another wrote detective O’Dell’s name on the log sheet that kept track of the names and times of all personnel entering and exiting the scene.

Dan recalled the countless times that he was assigned to keep the log on what he considered “boring” homicide scenes. He could clearly remember the looks that he wore as he stood for eight straight hours or more in the blustery cold wind or the blazing hot sun to protect what may have been that one piece of vital evidence.

The looks that he received from his fellow officers this night were not reflecting boredom. They ranged between those of ‘Now there’s something you don’t see everyday’ to ‘What in God’s name’.

This was his first homicide scene as lead detective. He wasn’t too cocky to admit to himself that those looks slightly puzzled him. They made him uneasy. Dan was extremely regimented, almost to a fault according to some of his coworkers. He always tried to plan each step out prior to entering any given investigation. However, it was no secret that these steps always included contingency plans. Plans that he would use for anything that he stumbled onto that he deemed extraordinary. He recovered abruptly and ambled over to the deceased while taking in the visual.

He stood over the uncovered half-naked woman and tried to absorb the prima-facie facts that lied there before him.

He remarked to himself that he was fortunate to have this case assigned to him. He appreciated that he was lucky enough to be working late and trying to tie up some loose ends on some of his rather dull and common cases. Cases that included a woman who had committed so many crimes using different women’s identities that anyone would wonder how she could remember her real name.

He recalled how his supervisor approached him and told him that he would be assigned and responding to a rather strange death investigation. He was advised that an anonymous caller reported finding a woman’s body that appeared to have been shredded by wild dogs.

Now, as Dan stood over the woman, it was very apparent to him that this was a homicide. The victim was a Caucasian woman in her late thirties. She had short light- brown hair and dark-brown eyes. She had a thin build and a ruddy complexion. She was staring blankly at nothing but the cold night sky. Dan couldn’t speculate what her last thought was, but he knew from that stare, her remains, and her position that it wasn’t a happy one. She was lying on her back with her arms over her head like she was dragged or had been pinned down at her time of death by someone or group that dominated her. Her dirty Levi jeans were still on her body. The zipper and button were still secure, a very uncommon find with this type of scene. But what was most disturbing about the body were the strange bite marks all over the face, neck and torso areas. Both nipples appeared to be torn or bitten off. Her right check was mutilated as well as her right shoulder region and neck.

Her blood spatter was everywhere, or at least he assumed that it was hers. Later testing would confirm that fact.

With the help of his flashlight, he located both of the missing nipples. They laid only about twelve inches to the right of her mangled shoulder.

Her dirty blue-jean jacket and gray hooded sweatshirt were only a few feet away from her. Dan strategically slipped his latex gloves on as he started at the strewn clothing. Respecting his personal safety, he cautiously removed her possessions and personal items that he found hidden throughout the many pockets amongst both jackets. Dan was hopeful that these extracted items would give him some indication of the girl’s identity, and hopefully some information regarding her whereabouts before she met her fate.

He found one half of a pack of boxed Basic menthol, a disposable purple lighter that was low on fuel, a small sample container of regular strength Tylenol containing two pills, one heavily worn, older Cingular cell phone, and a Michigan identification card.

Victoria Lynn Ash, DOB 2-25-70, a resident of Warren, MI, which was about ten miles northeast of where he was standing. Dan looked at her arms and confirmed his suspicion. She was a heroin junkie. She appeared to be a recent graduate to injection. There were track marks on her left arm only, which indicated that she wasn’t using for very long and that she was right-handed. Dan knew from his years as a patrolman that hard-core heroin users shot up in inconspicuous areas such as between the toes, under the nails, between the fingers, under the eyelids, and inside the mouth in the gums, etc. he knew those areas were only feeble attempts at trying to hide their addictions from friends, coworkers and family. That’s not to say that she was salvageable. Her death definitely put closure to that issue. 

“So, this is it,” he thought to himself. All of his graduate education spent on psychological profiling, psychological forensics, and crime scene investigation surfaced. Together they boiled in his mind like an intellectual stew that fueled his deductive reasoning furnace. Dan concluded that this was the signature of someone who killed for pleasure. He also deduced that they would definitely do it again. This murder branded SERAIL KILLER on his brain.

He broadened his scope to envision the entire crime scene. There were no tire marks, no indentations to suggest a method of transport. Therefore the victim was carried, dragged, or she walked behind this building under her own power. He checked for drag marks; none. That left only two possibilities: carried or walked.

If she walked back, then perhaps she knew her attacker or felt reasonably safe with them. If she were forced or coerced, an investigation into her personal life and friend follow-up would probably result in a dead end investigation unless her murder was the result of an issue over money. Dan didn’t think that was the case. He had never heard of an assassin that would do such a deed.

“No.” Dan figured that she knew him, and through his investigation he would locate the killer abruptly.

The worse case scenario was that this nut was just out hunting for easy prey. He hoped that was not the case.

The Medical Examiner arrived and Dan was grateful to recognize the man.

Henry Weaver was an elderly man with a very relaxed and educated persona. He was tall and slim with a closely trimmed salt and pepper graying mustache and beard. He wore horn rimmed glasses and spoke softly. He outstretched an ungloved hand to greet Dan. In his other Latex gloved hand he held the waiting glove that he would don after this respectful gesture.

“Congratulations Detective Sergeant O’Dell,” teased the polite elderly gentleman.

“Thank you, sir! It’s been a long time. Sorry to see you again under such a circumstance,” the detective nodded sentimentally.

“Yes, well, such is the business that we are in. I’m just glad to finally see you in charge of a scene, let alone one of magnitude such as this. I know you’ll do well. I have faith. After all, you had the greatest instructor,” the examiner said jokingly.

“Yes sir, I did,” Dan said proudly.

Dan excelled in his master’s degree curriculum at Wayne State University under the toughest watchful eye and scrutiny of the great Professor Henry Weaver. Upon conclusion, he was titled an “expert” and confident in his abilities as a psychological profiler.

“Well, let’s get to work, shall we?” Weaver said as he snapped the second latex glove onto his hand.

Professor Weaver confidently sauntered up to the victim and looked her remains over for a moment. Dan could see his methodical checklist as it reflected in his eyes. It was the same methodical checklist that he succeeded in teaching his fledgling student.

“What’s her name?” Weaver asked.

“Victoria,” Dan stated, not at all surprised by the inquiry. That was the way Weaver taught him, to try to identify with the victim. It was his signature. It wasn’t just a respectful gesture, to afford compassion to the victim even though deceased, as it was to identify with the victim. The Professor taught his students to place themselves in the shoes of the victim. In that fashion they may be able to pick up evidence otherwise overlooked by standard operating procedure and protocol. 

“Well, the wounds removing the nipples as well as the neck and shoulder damage are all ante mortem. But you probably suspected as much, yes?” The professor asked and waited for Dan’s answer.

“No, to be honest, I just assumed they were. I had no evidence beyond all the blood spatter and pooling that oozed out of the gaping wounds,” Dan said, slightly sarcastic as if to say, “Hello.”

“You can’t rely on that alone. That may be duplicated or staged after death. The evidence is there in the tissue itself. Look here,” Weaver squatted over the body and pointed with his Sterling Parker ballpoint to the specific region on the right breast where the nipple was removed.

“The sub dermal layers of the skin were trying to clot and seal themselves in a futile attempt to stop the loss of blood. See the swollen and inflamed area around the wound? That is a telltale sign of ante mortem trauma. If the wound were post mortem, the damage would be a clean tearing such as that of  fabric or paper.

“Didn’t I teach you anything?” The professor responded in kind.

The detective gave a slight toss of the head as if to say, “Touché”.

“You may go about your investigation now. Just be gentle with her head. I’ll need to check her at the office for hematoma or hemorrhages.

I’ll give you my pronounced time of death later when I take her liver temperature. But for now lets say,” the Professor lifted Victoria slightly off her right side to expose an area of blood that had settled in the skin close underneath the body due to gravity and lack of circulation by the heart, “judging by the lividity, I estimate the time of death to be between three and four hours ago.”

The examiner then reached for Victoria’s right wrist and bent it. Dan knew he was checking how far along rigormortis was in the deceased. Through his training he knew that rigormortis was the steady constriction of the muscles after death.

“Her current stage of rigor substantiates my estimate of four hours. Do what you need to do and I’ll take custody of her remains when you are finished.”

Dan knew not to touch any body prior to the Medical Examiner’s inspection and expressed permission. The M.E. was the chief inspector at a homicide scene. Now Dan was free and clear to snoop.

He gently lifted Victoria’s right hand. He was first looking for evidence that may be inside the now curled up fingers. He pulled the index finger open. The muscles protested as they constricted and exhibited their last sign of existence. He found no clumps of hair or clothing often found in a struggle with an attacker. He briefly inspected the fingernails for skin in hopes that she removed and obtained some of her attackers DNA during some unsuccessful self-defense. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. He would have the forensic nurse swab and cut them later.

He inspected the other hand with similar results. He bagged the hands in paper bags and sealed them with tape to ensure the preservation of any evidence that may be present.

He stood towering over Victoria. He peered at her as if she were still alive and not defiled. He spoke to her in his own head.

“I can’t be so bold as to make you a promise to find this murdering bastard and bring him to justice, but, I can promise to you that I won’t rest until he is caught or I’m dead. I can further promise that I will not allow this to turn into another cold case file,” Dan said as he ended his private eulogy with a stern grimace. He left the scene to the evidence technicians and turned Victoria’s body over to the great professor and Medical Examiner Weaver.







                             Eric the Prophet

The room was dark and dank, lit only by a single candlestick that he moved around to achieve the necessary lighting to read the old parchments.

The room was underground in the protective womb of the Vatican, in an area that was not maintained or upgraded. That evidence lied in the cobblestone walls that appeared to sweat from exertion, being the foundation for the entire structure. The ceiling hung so low that looking down the corridor not only gave the impression it went on forever but also the sense of claustrophobia.

There were only a select few that had access to the oldest areas underground in the Vatican and Eric was one of them. This was where he could concentrate on his writings. These writings were initially the ramblings and thoughts of a madman. In Eric’s early years he thought himself a madman indeed. Early years were something that only he could place as a spot on a calendar for he was of an age that had passed. His age was unknown amongst his people and even the few peers that he had.

Eric sat back in the oak chair and attempted to rub the strain from his eyes with the backsides of his knuckles. He recalled days past when he was in the thralls of the current prophecy. Those were days of constant, and what appeared to him to be, unending distress. Trying to decipher and discern the meaning of each prophecy was the hardest part of being a prophet. Jumbled thoughts and random images flashed in his conscious and awake mind. It overpowered and overcame all basic thought, even the natural and necessary need for nourishment.

“What does it mean? Not to write it down and not to speak it aloud. That’s impossible. I’m getting to old for this prophecy business!” He stated with disgust and a beet red face.

The old prophet was almost shouting as he popped to his feet and rubbed his temples. The current prophecy was of a particular concern to Eric. This prophecy dealt with an immediate threat to the entire world. That threat was so severe that the prophecy came not as a single message but three different messages. They all predicted the same foreseeable incident; however, they each dealt with a different aspect of that incident.

The first message described who was coming. The second gave a brief description of how it was coming. And the final message, which was the most vague and by far the most troubling, was how to destroy that which was coming.

This last message was the one that was making Eric most unsettled and abnormally unstable.

The message was clear enough. In fact it was one of the clearest prophecies he had ever received. Eric knocked on his head with his knuckles as he paced the cobblestone floor.

“Not write it down! Not write it down!”

He paced back and forth and stated again. Infuriated about the way he felt.

“Not speak it aloud! I knew the living world was insane. Now I feel that the spirit world is suffering from a similar fate.”

The prophet tried to settle down and think through his predicament. He thought back to one of the first prophecies that he remembered. He frequently reminisced upon the old memory, for he was unable to forget it. How could he forget?

He was a young man in a farming community in Belgium, where he grew up. He was gathering up eggs from under the chicks one pleasant spring morning. The Holsteins were mooing, the flies buzzing and the rooster was voicing his protest of young Eric being to close to his chicks.  Eric could remember how the sun gleamed on the grass so brightly that it gave a blue contrast. He could recall each blade as he looked down at his feet.

Eric felt cool water slip around his toes and over his leather sandals. He glanced down and noticed water beginning to flow all around him. He was stunned and a little shocked for he could not imagine where all the water was coming from. He turned around to look at the direction from which it flowed. He could hear it before he saw the frightening and horrific site. He was shocked and frozen with fear as he observed a wall of water coming directly at him. It was larger than the barn with a rolling white cap that had a destructive look to it as it turned forward and began to engulf everything in its path. It hit the picket fence pulling the wood poles up and tossing them like toothpicks.

The wave hit the cattle and rolled them into the water like a ball of dough.  It was like a tsunami in the mountains.

Eric attempted to scream but nothing came out except a small screech caused by a breath of air that escaped his lungs. The giant wave was almost upon him. He looked up at the thirty-foot wall of water and it seemed to look down at him also.  His lungs wouldn’t move and he could feel his face turning red from the lack of air to his lungs.  He realized that there was nowhere to run and nothing he could do as the mammoth killer wave crashed upon him.

Just prior to impact the wave disappeared and all was as it was. The flies were buzzing, the cows mooing, and the rooster was pecking at Eric’s feet, looking up at him in wonderment as to why he wasn’t moving. Eric took in a whoosh of morning air that sent the bird fluttering away.

 The sun was still shining all around him. It made him realize that he had returned from the nightmare that was visited upon him. Eric’s skin was clammy. As he touched his arms with his hands he noticed that he was sweating also. He was traumatized, terrified, and still shaking.

Eric brought himself back to reality and shook off the memory with great effort. But regret still lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. Regret for not realizing that his first experience with madness was actually a prophecy. If listened to and interpreted properly, perhaps young Eric could have prevented the death of thousands including his farm and immediate family. It was later on, some months after having his first prophecy, that he was introduced to the catastrophic event that was the root of his prophetic vision.

The rains came on so suddenly and with the aggression of an angry mother. The town was situated and established in a valley. There was no place for the water to go when the levy broke. Young Eric was up in the hills cutting firewood when the rains started. There was no way to get down to his family. And if there had been a way, he would have perished as well.

That was the only time that he failed to act upon a prophecy. He swore that it would never happen again. He would act next time. Act in a way that he would do some real good. And not just doing the dirty work of the Circle. This time it was his initiative. He knew that only through him was there a chance at avoiding the total damnation of the human race.
            “The world will be turned upside down. It will be torn in half,” the Prophet exclaimed.

He concluded that this could be the only outcome from ignoring such direct and powerful prophecies.

He must tell the circle what he thought. Not only because he took an oath but, more importantly, because he could use their assets. The Circle transcends religious barriers and political hurdles. They have power beyond finances. They seem to be made up of none and at times they seem to be all around. He hated the idea of using them though. Sometimes they were too aggressive. Sometimes they cared not for discretion.


                                   The Demon

To describe the existence of someone that lived in hell would be terribly difficult at best. That someone that is in question, a made up person lets say, would have had a life at some point. A life that was so fucked up that it landed the person in eternal damnation and as revelations states REV 19:20 “were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.”

Perhaps that person committed such atrocities as murder and rape that they knew they were going to hell and accepted their fate.

Maybe, it’s as the Born Agains feel, which is the person didn’t ask Jesus Christ for forgiveness for a life of sin and therefore they were going to hell in a hand basket. Anyone that had ended up in hell had a very good idea where they were once they arrived.

The Demons were a different matter. They were created there. Not born, but created and spawned from the intoxicated delusional ideas of their master, the Devil himself.  The Devil, not being without his own sick sense of humor, created a world solely based and established for his own entertainment.

The demons were children, mentally. Every experience that they enjoyed was based upon the suffering of others. They were like predatory fish; sharks, swimming in murky waters. Hungry for whatever sorry soul would happen by. They played with their prey, relishing their own existence merely to hand out pain and suffering. Pain and suffering could last what appeared to be a lifetime to the suffering. There was no time in that place and the wounded never died. The pain and suffering would last until the demon got bored of that particular prey. That was the business of hell. To make the dammed be dammed- Forever.

One particular demon’s existence was never fulfilled, never complete. Each time he made a soul suffer he craved a better experience. 

He happened by the window by chance. He was swimming by as normal, acting like the predatory fish that he was and he came across something that was pulling at him as if by will alone. He floated towards it and noticed a reflective and shiny portal. It had ripples and showed fuzzy images. It was like a small silver puddle in the bottom of the ocean. He looked into the puddle for a long time. Unknown to him how long, for time is irrelevant in hell. Neither did he care. He had nothing to do and nowhere to go. He just stared at the puddle. The longer he gazed into it the more he could feel. The longer he stared the clearer the images became. There were feelings in the puddle that weren’t his feelings. The only feelings that he had ever felt were the suffering of others. These new feelings were something that he had never been subjected to; remorse, regret, fear, loneliness, rejection, and hatred. The last was the one that he enjoyed the most, the one that kept him looking into the puddle.

He found himself talking to the puddle and trying to communicate with it. But it only responded in return with emotion. Until one day the Demon told the puddle what to do. The puddle did exactly that. It destroyed. Not in the demon’s world, but somewhere else. The Demon wasn’t even aware that there was a somewhere else; he was oblivious to the concept. He just liked the pictures it showed. He enjoyed the pictures of souls being destroyed. But, these were better than souls. They were something else. There was a terror in the victims that the demon became addicted to, a more fresh terror. It inflicted misery that both the puddle and the demon enjoyed immensely. The puddle started to mimic the demon’s behavior and listened to his every word. The puddle became connected to him and the demon never left its side.










                                                                        CHAPTER 1


            Sheltered from the harsh rays of the sun by a protective canopy of Oaks, Maples and other shade trees, there sat a house. Some would refer to it as a mansion. Being without a gated access it got less attention and was still considered a house. To have a gated access would sprout curious onlookers and gawkers assuming that a celebrity lived there and thus negate its own purpose. Upon approach to the house one would notice the cobblestone driveway that appeared to be ageless. Its evenly laid stones seemed to have been hand picked. Each piece selected for its slightly flattened top. There was no dilapidation whatsoever and no way to tell when it was laid. The grass that met the driveway transitioned as smooth as pastel colors off an artist’s brush and with the same pride and enthusiasm. Each blade standing tall and in line like battlefield formation. The sun broke through here and there as the tree limbs swayed slightly in the breeze.  The house itself loomed in the background like a distant mountain. There were so many peaks and gables that to pick out an individual one would give the feeling of vertigo. The multicolored dark brickwork was so detailed that European artists would be impressed. Each limestone keystone over the half dome archways had its own design and yet all blended together adding to the collectiveness that made the house stand tall, proud, and unmistakably original. 

Inside, two distinguished gentlemen were having a conversation. The first man was in his late thirties. His dark brown hair was speckled with gray and gave him a look of wisdom beyond his years. The gray was also accentuated by the wrinkles on the forehead and on the sides of his eyes, wrinkles that were stress related. The nose that sat under piercing brown eyes was at the perfect angle to support his straight wire framed glasses. The glasses sat low enough that while reading he could look up at the person he was talking to without moving his head. This accommodated his farsighted vision in a way that made him look all the more intelligent and educated.  He wore earth toned and soft colored clothes this evening along with a light pair of fluffy lined slippers. One leg was crossed over the other as he sat at the table enjoying the evening ritual of sipping straight coffee in one hand and reading the paper in the other. His build was slight and hung upon an even slighter frame, but his demeanor was such that he never gave the impression of weakness or fragility.

            The second man was slightly bigger with fewer years of apparent struggle. There was a youngness that still radiated from his high cheekbones and ocean blue eyes. He always wore suit and tie apparel. The suite hung on his athletic torso like a shop window manikin. His light brown low cut curly hair only emphasized his youth along with the constant pearly white smile that went ear to ear.   

“It’s always difficult when a new patient arrives into our home, ha Tristan?” The man sipping coffee said.

“What do you mean our home, sir?” The suit responded.

“Well it’s like your home too my friend.”

“Well if it’s my home too, then I suggest that we get rid of our tin friend over there,”

Tristan signaled with a slight nod of the head over to a sixteenth century full plate armor statue. It was mounted on an oak pedestal with soft lights pointing up so that it illuminated the entire room with shining silver knighthood.  It stood over six feet tall and appeared so real that at any moment it would come to life and lift the heavy sword once again to defend its honor and home.

“You don’t like the full plate armor? It’s one of my favorites,” the distinguished Doctor said.


“It’s a pain in the butt to keep clean and it gives me the creeps,” Tristan said as he was reminded of how many times he polished the thing.

“Many things give you the creeps Tristan, including me.” The Doctor said seriously, but still in a jesting way.


“It’s true you do give me the creeps, but after 3 years I’m starting to get used to you. Just don’t come crawling into my head with that freaky stuff you do sir, ok?”

“No problem there. You can’t afford me. I don’t pay you enough,” The Doctor said jokingly.

“You’re right, you don’t pay me enough. I’m going to start getting things ready in the office,” Tristan responded, not at all taking offense to the statement.

Tristan took his leave of Dr. Raymond High. As he walked down the hallway of the 9,000 sq. ft home, the sound of his footfalls echoed off the slate floor and throughout the 12-ft high plaster ceiling.  Tristan loved working for the doctor and the pay was actually very good. Tristan was one of the few persons employed by Dr. High. The groundskeeper and the maid only made appearances a few times per week and, truth be told, the good doctor could probably have done most of the things on his own, although most of the daily activities a normal person initiates are terribly uncomfortable for the Doctor.

Dr. Raymond High was not crippled in the traditional sense, he just needed someone there to watch his back and help him out. Dr High suffered from a disorder called A.R.N.I. (Adolescent Regenerative Nerve Impediment). It’s a rare disorder in which the nerves in the subject’s body are hypersensitive to the point where he or she can’t comprehend what they are feeling. In that simple explanation, you would think that ARNI is some kind of blessing, that someone may get superhuman abilities and be able to look through walls or have the smelling ability of a vulture. Actually, it would be considered, to those who are afflicted by it, to be a curse. If an ARNI sufferer were to place their hand in a bathtub of warm water, they would feel it at an extreme level. A hot bath would feel almost as if the skin was being stripped off and the bare nerves were exposed.

An enjoyable daily activity such as eating could be a burden. Each individual seasoning or spice added to the food gives out a distinct flavor and odor. An ARNI sufferer with taste buds that are affected would not be able to eat most foods. The food would have to be cooked bland and tasteless. The fabulous taste of a cheeseburger and French fries washed down with an iced cold Pepsi on a hot summer night could never be experienced. 

            Most ARNI sufferers are affected by only one aspect of their body, such as the sense of smell, taste, or dermatological hypersensitivity. Dr. High suffered from all aspects of the disorder. It affected all five senses of his body, making it very difficult to do basic functions such as going outdoors except on perfect days. The bright light, the pollen, the wind chill; each one was a hurdle to be overcome. Eating is a reward that we occasionally like to treat ourselves to, but for the doctor it was always a chore, he usually opted for health drinks and nutritional bars. 

Raymond had adapted very well, all things considered. In his daily struggle with life he had developed a self-fortitude that was unmatched by the average healthy individual.  He was very healthy in fact and had all the money he needed to live a fruitful life, even if it must be in the confines of his home. With all the modern amenities, Raymond was content in his solace.

The doctor was expecting his new client at 9:00 PM. Raymond only took on one client per day and only three per week, unless circumstances dictated otherwise. Other colleagues that were unable to help with their patient’s dilemma referred their clients to him. The clients were informed of the unconventional methods of Dr High and were encouraged to have an open mind. That particular term (open minded) was, unbeknownst to the listener, used to poke fun at the client in secrecy.

“Its eight o’clock now, time to get ready,” the Doctor whispered to himself.

 Raymond usually meditated prior to his client’s arrival.  There were no incense burned, no music played, only quiet and tranquillity. An initiation of focus directed to the upcoming task that was always sure to take all of his willpower and concentration.

Motionless, with his back against the wall and sitting Indian style, the doctor was in his own little world. Every emotion and thought must be secured in separate corners of his mind. His mind was a blank chalkboard with endless space for incoming information reserved for his new client and any psychological baggage they may bring into his house.  But that day he couldn’t quite stay in the groove and his self discipline was slipping slightly.

 He walked over to the bathroom mirror and stared at himself. With his palms pressed against the marble and his weight upon his arms, he gave an exhausted sigh. He gazed over his rather thin frame, noticing not for the first time, his feeble body that lacked any real muscle tone. Surrounding his eyes were far too many wrinkles for his age. His skin was pale from lack of sunlight.

“Its just common depression,” he tried to convince himself.

Then in response to his own statement, he answered. “ Yes, it is. Coupled with the fact that your life is miserable. You can’t enjoy the outdoors. You can’t enjoy the various cuisines the world has to offer. And you have no loved ones.”

He worked the hot and cold faucets simultaneously to achieve the necessary lukewarm water and splashed it in his face to change the overwhelming feeling of failure and loneliness that was taking hold of his emotions. The water was cooling very fast and the sensitive nerve endings were beginning their protest. He reached for the 800-thread count Egyptian face cloth and lightly patted his skin dry. This performance achieved the desired affect. He was able to get a hold of his thoughts and start to think about the person that was seeking his help. If that person was referred to him, then that person was a client and he would do his best to assist. He knew that this was their last stop, prior to giving up hope. They probably sought help with several other counselors and psychologists, to no avail.

Sometimes, in order to make himself feel better, he would tell himself that he was the only one that could help. That he was some sort of superhero. That he was the only person that could save these people. That type of delusional reasoning would drive him harder and make him stronger to be the best head shrinker that he could be for his clients.

Now he looked at himself in the mirror again. Some of the wrinkles had disappeared. His weak and feeble muscles seemed to perk up and have a little tone. He picked up his head and took in a deep breath.


on 7/27/2009 11:40:17 AM
Great story so far.

Moqui_Takoda   Moqui_Takoda wrote
on 7/29/2008 1:37:18 AM

Novel / Novella
writing RaymondSpringer
Published Author
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Rating: 10.0/10

This is the second place winner. A sample for you all. I hope you like it.
A Word from the Writer
Thank you Lindsay for all the work you did to put on the contest.