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From “The Dogs of Divorce”
By William Kenly
The late-night hour brought no relief from the smothering summer air. Even the sounds of the crickets were muffled by the thick air. The dense air held the smell of the trees and the dead leaves from the woods beyond the driveway. Breathing was an effort. The humid air pressed close to my face, my chest, my body. Even the drops of sweat trying to ooze from my pores required effort because the humid air encased me.
Not like a protective armor, but like a personal form-fitting cell, a mask of death.
On some level, I knew it was not just the air that bore down on me. It was difficult to concentrate. The oppressive air. The late night after the long day. The two-and-working-on-the-third glasses of vodka.
And those voices in my head.
The mind works on many levels. I had complete control over some of the levels, and less control over the levels deep down in my subconscious. The voices lived in those deep levels, but they sometimes flew up. They could do this because they had form and mass and energy. Like gnats. Like harpies or bats.
They were very real.
These voices are from the good side. From the uncensored side. Mostly, the voices are very, very perceptive. And intelligent. They understand life before I do. But they are also obedient. They buzz around, gathering data, trading information with each other and forming relationships; but they pretty much stay where my controlling upper levels of consciousness dictate. That way, my life could proceed without having to deal with those inconvenient truths. My upper levels of consciousness that have guided me up the corporate ladder and through 241⁄2 years of marriage and three kids remained aware, in a general way, that the voices had become increasingly urgent. And I realized at some level that if I were to listen to what the voices said, then it may mean the end of my life as I knew it. I would fall into the abyss. And my life had been pretty good, judging by conventional standards.
And that life needed to be protected.
But maybe not tonight. Maybe this would be a quiet night. This oppressive July night, as I waited on the screened back porch for her to come home from her evening shift. The kids were out on dates and sleepovers; my responsibilities had been suspended for a few hours; the world was asleep. A sudden lull. Unfamiliar and desperately welcome. I deserved the vodka and smokes.
She sometimes worked late, especially on a Saturday night. Nothing sinister about that.
“The Dogs Of Divorce” by William Kenly
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Originally posted 2013-09-28 11:56:20. Republished by Blog Post Promoter