The autobiographical novel I have been working on for years is based in Pensacola. In an effort to complete and change a few things, it required going back in time. For the last week a ghost has been stalking me. The ghost lived here years ago in a past life. I know her well; maybe too well. She is me.
The story of a life always has some darker parts that must be dealt with. It’s amazing that you don’t get to forget the things you really regret. The mind has a way of making you remember them. Some are clear as yesterday and others are as indistinct as yesterday’s dream.
Here is an excerpt from my soon to be released book:
Copyright © 2014 by Robyne Highsmith. All rights reserved.
I awoke alone, lying on a gurney in a small, white, spinning room. Multiple black cats were running around under me, screaming at the barred windows. They were larger than the average cat, misshapen faces with large teeth, like animals in a Lord of the Rings fantasy. Lightning bolts cascaded to the floor, shattering into brilliant shards that then ricocheted about the room in all directions.
Dark, hooded figures appeared, then faded into the white walls, their black gothic faces never changing expression; their toothless open mouths each a never ending pit in which you could see a tormented soul.
Slowly the spinning subsided. My long blond hair was dripping with sweat, and the white sheet by my arms was speckled red with drops of blood. Maybe this is some type of dream in hell. Have I died in my sleep? Was I in a car accident?
The reality of where I was started filtering in through the subsiding dizziness. My eyes looked around the room to grasp what was going on. Where am I? The distinct smell of urine filled the room, and fear began to set in. I felt something coming up from inside, but I could only turn my head slightly as the gagging started. Unable to lift my head, warm stinky puke trickled down the side of my face, running into my hair and my ear.
The possibility of my being in a psychiatric ward started to get a foothold in my mind. Visions of being in a white straightjacket, locked in a padded cell. Thoughts of being wheeled down the hallway, strapped to a stainless steel table, while screaming “No, help me!” Thoughts of electric shock therapy; of walking like a zombie; of babbling to no one all day: life spent living in a state of eternal, wilted consciousness.
I have to get out of here! I tried to sit up, but was slammed back on the table; the straps held. My breathing rate increased and I could feel panic setting in. It is strange how fast a frightened heart can beat…
He was an older man with grey hair, a sun leathered face, deep brown eyes ringed by studious black glasses, all dressed in a white coat.
“My name is Dr. Storm.” I asked where I was and if this was hell. He smiled and responded, “No, you are in a hospital." Two nurses entered, stared at me a moment, and checked the IV fluids. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
The doctor mentioned that sleep deprivation causes hallucinations. In some people they are pleasant. In others, nightmares.
I lay in bed feeling that I was giving up my body to strangers as a type of deliverance from… something. From myself? The demons of the mind have lots of names: depression, multiple personality disorder, bipolar; the list goes on.
The story of a life always has some darker parts that must be dealt with. It’s amazing that you don’t get to forget the things you really regret. The mind has a way of making you remember them. Some are clear as yesterday and others are as indistinct as yesterday’s dream.
Here is an excerpt from my soon to be released book:
Copyright © 2014 by Robyne Highsmith. All rights reserved.
I awoke alone, lying on a gurney in a small, white, spinning room. Multiple black cats were running around under me, screaming at the barred windows. They were larger than the average cat, misshapen faces with large teeth, like animals in a Lord of the Rings fantasy. Lightning bolts cascaded to the floor, shattering into brilliant shards that then ricocheted about the room in all directions.
Dark, hooded figures appeared, then faded into the white walls, their black gothic faces never changing expression; their toothless open mouths each a never ending pit in which you could see a tormented soul.
Slowly the spinning subsided. My long blond hair was dripping with sweat, and the white sheet by my arms was speckled red with drops of blood. Maybe this is some type of dream in hell. Have I died in my sleep? Was I in a car accident?
The reality of where I was started filtering in through the subsiding dizziness. My eyes looked around the room to grasp what was going on. Where am I? The distinct smell of urine filled the room, and fear began to set in. I felt something coming up from inside, but I could only turn my head slightly as the gagging started. Unable to lift my head, warm stinky puke trickled down the side of my face, running into my hair and my ear.
The possibility of my being in a psychiatric ward started to get a foothold in my mind. Visions of being in a white straightjacket, locked in a padded cell. Thoughts of being wheeled down the hallway, strapped to a stainless steel table, while screaming “No, help me!” Thoughts of electric shock therapy; of walking like a zombie; of babbling to no one all day: life spent living in a state of eternal, wilted consciousness.
I have to get out of here! I tried to sit up, but was slammed back on the table; the straps held. My breathing rate increased and I could feel panic setting in. It is strange how fast a frightened heart can beat…
He was an older man with grey hair, a sun leathered face, deep brown eyes ringed by studious black glasses, all dressed in a white coat.
“My name is Dr. Storm.” I asked where I was and if this was hell. He smiled and responded, “No, you are in a hospital." Two nurses entered, stared at me a moment, and checked the IV fluids. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
The doctor mentioned that sleep deprivation causes hallucinations. In some people they are pleasant. In others, nightmares.
I lay in bed feeling that I was giving up my body to strangers as a type of deliverance from… something. From myself? The demons of the mind have lots of names: depression, multiple personality disorder, bipolar; the list goes on.
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