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I have a million stories that bubble and collide in my brain. To get these out and on to paper is a compulsive need. An alcoholic craves the drink. A junky craves heroin. I crave the written word. ~Angi King~

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Blinded by the Light

Imagine that you are a man, exhausted from an intense day at work. Your belly is full. You're sleepy. You tuck your little youngster i...

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Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Imagine that you are a man, exhausted from an intense day at work. Your belly is full. You're sleepy. You tuck your little youngster in his bed and make your way to yours. Your wife props herself up to read a book as you snuggle down into the fresh, crisp, sheets and blissfully drift off into dream land.

It seems only minutes have passed since you fell asleep and now wake with the urge to pee. You groan as you crawl out of bed, neurons not firing in the proper sequence to make the journey to the bathroom safe, using the walls for support as you stumble down the hallway. You take care of business and rely on the wall to traipse back.

You hear your wife giggling. She has been gigling like that at her book for the last two nights. You pay no mind and fall into bed mumbling about the lump on your head because you used your head as a safety brace in the shop. You tenderly touch the bump and reach for the oversized comforter, throw it over your body, and drift back off to sleep.

You have no idea that your wife heard your painful muttering. You also don't know that her head is spinning in a million different directions. You are in the beautiful land of sleep; you have no idea how quickly she went from A-O.k. to OMG he has a brain hemorrhage.

In your dream, you don't know she's picked up your phone and fumbled to turn on the flashlight.
Your eyelid is pried open. A blinding white hot light fries your cornea and melts your retina. You try to move, but a demanding force crushes your chest. You can't breathe.
Your other eye is pried open. Panic rises as you try to fight. You turn away to avoid the blistering light. It moves with you. There is no escape. It sears through your eyes, and you feel your brain start to bubble.

Sweet Jesus on a piece of toast make it stop.

Panic claws at your throat. You don't know what to do--you can't take it anymore. Your life is ending; you're trapped. You take a deep breath and let out.....

The man scream.

Typically, this scream would embarrass you. Its 43 octaves higher than normal with a slight vibrato, channeling the agony of a million tortured souls. You don't care. You are dying. You prepare for the next wave of pain, but it doesn't come.

The weight has lifted from your chest. You exhale trying to calm yourself. Your prepubescent scream echoing in your ears.

Then the sound that has no description comes from the dark space beside you. Gasping, wheezing, part hyena, seal, and pig. You bring one hand up to cradle your horribly damaged left eye. Slowly you open the right, bright streaks move as you try to focus on the sounds next to you. You blink rapidly as your wife's form comes into focus. Your wife whom you love with everything seems to be in the throes of an epileptic seizure.

It's not a seizure; she is hysterically laughing--at you.

"What is your problem?" you ask, removing the hand and testing the other eye.
Snort. Squeal. Cackle. She tells you she was testing your pupil reaction. She snorts and in a squeaky voice says, "you sound like Michael Jackson."

You are the protector of the manor, the provider, the rock, the mighty warrior, the man who gets shit done and she is laughing at your soprano outburst of panic. You shoot her your most disapproving glare, but it doesn't phase her. Her snorts and wheezing continue.

There is only one way to exact revenge.

You know tomorrow she has laundry to do. You know that she is wearing her last clean pair of pajama pants. You know that a well placed facetious remark will send her over the edge. A manacle grin spreads across your face. You pull the covers up to your neck and ready to exact revenge.

In the most loving voice you can muster after such a traumatic experience you mumble, "Damn babe, I thought aliens were coming, and I was going to negotiate my left nut for that extra neuron."
You peek over at your wife to see if it worked. She howls with another round of laughter. Her impression of a seal reverberates off the walls. She suddenly scrambles out of bed tripping over the blankets wrapped around her body.

"Babe, what's wrong?" you ask feigning concern.

"I think I just peed my pants." She stumbles to the bathroom muttering curses.

You chuckle evilly rolling to your side. You drift off to sleep sporting a sweet smile of contentment as your wife deals with her wet pajama pants.