-June 21st, 2007
-2:00pm
-Somewhere between Atlanta and Savannah, GA
Eric Cohen stopped the car and let his head out through the window. Not a single car could be seen within a mile’s radius. The Sun’s brutal rays fell sharply over his balding head. He was blinded for the split second before he puked, for the third time. Puking felt good momentarily. But then Eric was too high to enjoy the release fully. His head was like a dead washing machine not even trying to start itself. He sat back straight on his seat wiping his mouth with Kleenex. As he put his hands on the wheel again, the churn in his stomach returned. Nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing. Not even the strongest joint he had ever fixed in his life.
Three minutes passed. Three very long minutes. Eric wanted to start the engine. He really did. And intermittently between the clouded nirvanas, he thought that he actually could. He had been feeling this way for weeks now. And especially when he was high on marijuana, he believed he had finally earned the right to do this, finally….
Eric realized he was crying when he felt his tears wet his track pants. His favorite track pants. Simple black, with two white stripes running down the length. He had 5 other pairs, all lined up in his neat closet. Eric was obsessively meticulous.
Rubbing his eyes, he started the engine. The radio turned on. It was playing Nine Inch Nails’ head like a hole. His Chevy Avalanche screeched out of the shoulder into highway at 65 miles an hour. A Toyota Highlander crossed him. Eric cranked up the radio and pushed the accelerator.
-September 14th, 2006
-10:00am
-Somewhere in Florida
The abortion clinic was 15 minutes away. That meant they were running behind schedule by fifteen minutes. Eric’s schedule that is. Shyla never stopped crying to actually plan anything. Ever in her entire life. She was blond, rail-thin and twenty-two, eleven years younger than Eric. They had met at a party and had made love. She had had two vodka shots and at least two pina coladas. Eric never drank anything. He was sober when she had pulled into his arms.
Eric mouthed curse words incessantly at everyone on the road. He hated everything at this moment. His life, Shyla’s life, his car, the road, and all other drivers . But most of all, he hated himself. Actually, he had never loved anyone since he was ten. Till then he had loved his mom. When she died of an accident, he had stopped loving and started hating. Now more than twenty years later, he still was the same. Cursing a lot and hating himself. Perhaps that gave him a better reason, to live.
(To be Continued ....)
-2:00pm
-Somewhere between Atlanta and Savannah, GA
Eric Cohen stopped the car and let his head out through the window. Not a single car could be seen within a mile’s radius. The Sun’s brutal rays fell sharply over his balding head. He was blinded for the split second before he puked, for the third time. Puking felt good momentarily. But then Eric was too high to enjoy the release fully. His head was like a dead washing machine not even trying to start itself. He sat back straight on his seat wiping his mouth with Kleenex. As he put his hands on the wheel again, the churn in his stomach returned. Nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing. Not even the strongest joint he had ever fixed in his life.
Three minutes passed. Three very long minutes. Eric wanted to start the engine. He really did. And intermittently between the clouded nirvanas, he thought that he actually could. He had been feeling this way for weeks now. And especially when he was high on marijuana, he believed he had finally earned the right to do this, finally….
Eric realized he was crying when he felt his tears wet his track pants. His favorite track pants. Simple black, with two white stripes running down the length. He had 5 other pairs, all lined up in his neat closet. Eric was obsessively meticulous.
Rubbing his eyes, he started the engine. The radio turned on. It was playing Nine Inch Nails’ head like a hole. His Chevy Avalanche screeched out of the shoulder into highway at 65 miles an hour. A Toyota Highlander crossed him. Eric cranked up the radio and pushed the accelerator.
-September 14th, 2006
-10:00am
-Somewhere in Florida
The abortion clinic was 15 minutes away. That meant they were running behind schedule by fifteen minutes. Eric’s schedule that is. Shyla never stopped crying to actually plan anything. Ever in her entire life. She was blond, rail-thin and twenty-two, eleven years younger than Eric. They had met at a party and had made love. She had had two vodka shots and at least two pina coladas. Eric never drank anything. He was sober when she had pulled into his arms.
Eric mouthed curse words incessantly at everyone on the road. He hated everything at this moment. His life, Shyla’s life, his car, the road, and all other drivers . But most of all, he hated himself. Actually, he had never loved anyone since he was ten. Till then he had loved his mom. When she died of an accident, he had stopped loving and started hating. Now more than twenty years later, he still was the same. Cursing a lot and hating himself. Perhaps that gave him a better reason, to live.
(To be Continued ....)
Comments
---BUT---
FINISH IT FINISH IT FINISH IT!!! :)
Pray, continue!
apart from that, the story seems to have promise and i assume you already have a story line planned. waiting for your update:)