The wind flared up each side
of his tattered brown hood,
and with a waving motion, it closed
around his faceless form, pushing forth
the smell of rotten meat, forcing it upon my senses.
And I gagged as his beast-like screams scurried
from his mouth and into my ear canals,
small streams of fog following behind.
His presence zoomed-in to mine, standing
just inches in front of me. His hand: as cold
as bare feet in the snow when he laid it upon my
trembling shoulder.
Fear stuck in my eye like an icicle,
and my tongue began to bleed. I turned
and spit warm plasma into his hollow eyes.
And the ground laughed beneath us.
Suddenly I heard the metal-on-metal screech
of a thousand trains slamming into my head.
"Please God, I don't want to die!"
"My daughter just turned two years old. Please God no!"
"Sir. Sir, can you hear me?"
My ears were like two big-screen television sets
with the volume turned all the way up,
blasting white noise into my mind.
But after some time,
some words managed to escape through:
"Does it hurt anywhere, sir?"
"My neck. My neck hurts."
It felt like the top of my head exploded,
like my spine had splintered somehow.
"Sir, do you know who Christopher Reeves is?"
As I heard these words,
I can remember the sweet smell
of perfume from the hands
that pulled my head out of the glove box.
"And you have seen him after his horse back riding accident?"
"Yes."
"Then don't move or you will be just like that! Okay?"
"Okay."
"You may feel a slight pinch, sir."
Shortly after what felt like a large bee sting,
a warm sensation traveled up my arm and spread
over my entire body. My shirt: cut up the middle
with cold scissors chilling the skin on my chest,
my favorite pair of jeans, cut up the seams, shredded.
And Death seemed to be pacified,
perhaps even satisfied . . . for awhile.
But sometime later, after the holes in my head
and the vertebrates in my neck mended themselves,
He came calling again. My arms were weak with weary
and my mind was amiss. The day was all too dreary. I don't
think my head touched its pillow for about three days. My eyes:
swelled, cracked, wide-open. I recall the miserable heat, hot
shower-like, stinging-sweat made viewing anything almost
impossible, but I continued to build. The rough, rectangle-
shaped, massive truss slid through my hands until it abruptly
stopped and pierced them with tiny splinters of pine; This
is the last memory I have before I was flipped upside-down
and driven headfirst, over a story, into the concrete floor.
Death is a sensation like no other.
"Joe! Joe! Take care of my kids, Joe!"
"Okay Eric, I will, don't worry!"
"Son-of-a-bitch! I'll never live through this one!
No one could live through two broken necks.
Tell me the truth! I'm not stupid."
"No, you're not stupid," the nurse said as she held my hand
tightly and asked if I could feel the pressure from her squeezes.
My wife sat caressing my other hand, my cold and lifeless
fingers as I entered a different realm, one that exists only on a
psychological and spiritual plane. One might think seeing and
hearing your father, who passed away eight years previously,
could be shocking, but quite the contrary, it was rather
comforting. The helicopter ride: exhilarating.
Another pair of jeans cut from my shivering body:
priceless.
Now, on this day, I take nothing for granted, appreciate
even the slightest aroma of the Rose of Sharon
and the silk-like feel of its petals against my skin.
The sound of my children playing on a warm day,
any day, sends me into a state of bliss.
And although contentment seems a gentle breeze,
I sometimes listen to the ground for hoof-beats . . . or a laugh,
knowing that the Omega Horseman,
someday — will ride again.
But this time, I’ll be ready,
turning the darkness
into light.Labels: Omega Horseman
