Morning...I hate morning.
Every time The sun comes up, I have to look out my window at the gift civilization has given us.
It isn't pretty.
The Second Civil War was no different than the first. Some bunch decided that they didn't want to be part of the U.S. and that they were going to pack their toys and leave. Uncle Sam, however, decided that he was categorically against the idea. The consequences of that little dust-up lie beyond the dirty glass of my apartment.
The gift of civilization is the realization that no one knows what the hell they are doing. And the ruins of my city are the bones of proof. So from where in those ruins did she come from?
Yes, I said she. I met her through my dreams, my dreams of Rhonda. Rhonda was my girl, my friend, my soul mate. And I repaid her love by losing her on the plains.
Oh, the plains weren't real. They were a product of my imagination. My subconscious coming out to play. But the shadow of death that took Rhonda was real enough.
It was after one of these dreams that I met her. Despite my pain and guilt, I was found by an angel. Or maybe a demon.
I had one of the dreams. The shadow came, and tore me, panic-stricken, into the light of morning. Out of habit I reached for the mostly empty bottle of Jack. Me and Jack Daniels had quite a few talks lately. It was the only way I could sleep. I had just reached the counter...
"You don't want that, Jack."
I nearly screeched in fright at the feminine voice coming from directly behind him. I spun around, dropping the bottle, hearing and seeing it explode in a symphony of broken glass and amber liquid across the floor.
"Whatβ¦w-who the hell are you?" I managed to gasp out at last. "Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me! And how did you get in here?"
The object of my curiosity sat in my favorite chair, reclining languidly across the arms of it, as if she had been waiting there for quite some time. She was pale, nearly white, with flowing red hair and blue eyes, eyes the color of the North Sea, and with as much warmth in them. Her nose was perfectly sculptured, set above a set of gorgeous pink lips that I suddenly and inexplicably wanted to kiss. She was dressed in black leather body suit, French cut, with a keyhole neckline and a silver chain belt. It stretched deliciously over her perfect breasts and accentuated the curves of her hips, almost a second skin on her. Black thigh-high boots with four-inch heels graced her shapely legs, and a pair of black elbow gloves completed the outfit. Well, if I'm going to hallucinate, it might as well be a girl like her. Might be worth going to hell for her, too. I instantly had twinges of guilt. Rhonda hadn't been away, (no, say it, she's dead) a month, and here I am thinking about kissing this woman. But she wasn't real. She couldn't be real. Oh, I am waay goneβ¦
"No, you aren't, Jack," she murmured. "Not gone at all."
"What? How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because, I've been there. I know what you are feeling, what you dream of."
I turned around to the counter, my hands clutching for an invisible straw. "What do you know of my dreamsβ¦who are you? Death?"
"No, but we talk frequently. She isn't as frightening as you may think."
"Why am I talking to a hallucination?"
"Am I so hard to believe in, after what you have been through these last weeks, Jack?" she sighed. It sounded like the wind in the trees, soft as it passed between her lips. "Remember what you have seen."
"I'm trying to forget."
"You're trying to die."
I recoiled from her words. They were the truth. A truth I didn't want to face. The truth that if Rhonda was dead, I wanted to be too.
"I want to be with her," I whispered hoarsely. "I can't live without her."
"And you can't help her if you are in the bottom of that glass."
"I can't help her now anyway. I thought you were all knowing."
"No. You've got me mistaken for him," she smiled, pointing up through the ceiling. "And I don't know what he's thinking. He isn't speaking to me lately. Something about sins I may have committedβ¦"
"Who the hell are you? What are you?"
"Don't you think you'd better pick up the glass?" she asked.
"What? Oh, yeahβ¦" I bent to pick up the glittering shards at my feet. "Ow, damn it, got a piece in my foot."
"Come, sit here," she said as she pointed at the bed. "Give me your foot."
"Aren't you going to take your gloves off? You'll get blood all over them. Just look at my floor," I said, pointing at the blood trail leading from the kitchen to the bed.