The Dying of Bobby Mars: Sneak Peek Part 2
I hope you all enjoyed the first piece of The Dying of Bobby Mars. So, after asking around, I decided to put out another piece of the story. Now, you may be wondering why I say piece instead of chapter (or you just not care). This is because the story is a procession of pieces or scenes, some of which are very long and others, very short. They don’t feel like chapters at all to me. Just pieces of the whole that makes up the life of Bobby Mars. Anyway, here’s the second and third (because they are relatively small) uncorrected pieces to the story.
Hope you enjoy.
This can’t be a hallucination. I think. They’ve never been anything like this or lasted so long. I can’t be hallucinating…but, then, what does that make this?
“Hello! Can anyone hear me?”
I hear the shuffling of feet, smell that plastic hospital smell mixed with the reek of newborns, feel the warmth and softness of the blanket that wraps around me like a cocoon around my 21-inch, 9.7 lbs. body that hasn’t been mine in 27 years, and taste the breastmilk my infantile self can’t suckle enough of from my mother’s tit…
The 37 hours—I’ve counted—that have passed since my birthing are marked with sleeping and feeding. I can’t sleep, however. Not me. Why is this happening? What’s happening? I ask myself. The child that is me—apparently—can, but not me…
“What’s happening?” I scream attempting to force the words out of my infant self. Nothing comes out but a soft, sound cry and a tiny yawn.
This isn’t a hallucination, Bobby-boy, but…it can’t. It can’t be real…
My eyes open and the infant me cries for breast milk. I try to stop him—me—but I cry all the same. Hungry. I’m given over to my mother and she flops tit out.
I latch on and suckle against my will. My eyes look around forcing me to take in the sight—a prevents wet dream that turns my stomach—but, thankfully, I close my eyes after a few seconds.
The milk tastes sweet. I feel my small body calm, no longer squirming or bucking.
“This will be over soon.” I tell myself, yet it’s a hard truth to swallow.
This should have been over days ago…
Could this be a nightmare or something? I wonder. Highs don’t last this long. You wish they did, Bobby-boy, but they don’t.
You could’ve fucked up your brain. Could be in a coma or some shit…
That’s possible, right?
That’s the only thing that makes since.
The thought doesn’t sit well with my rational mind.
Well, it’d make sense if someone was looking for you. But they aren’t. Plus, there’s no way they’d find you in time. Rationality says. And the people who’re going to find you aren’t calling 911. No, they’re stealing your boots, your coats, and what’s left of your stash. Ain’t nobody saving you, Bobby-boy.
. . .
I daydream to pass the time while my infant self sleeps on the car ride home. I’ve been suffering through this torture for 52 more hours, but we—the Mars family who hasn’t been a family in years—are finally heading home.
If this was a nightmare or a dream or whatever, shouldn’t it be all nonsensical and random and jumping around. It shouldn’t be playing out so painfully slow. So episodic.
Thinking of this gives breath to other thoughts. I think of things I haven’t given a shadow of a thought in years. Things that don’t deserve any such grace of the mind. Thoughts like:
What did I do to deserve this?
Answer: You’re a son of a bitch, spawn of Satan junkie, Bobby-boy.
Why is life so cruel?
Answer: Useless thoughts in a universe that doesn’t give a shit about you.
Answer: You’re going to die anyway. Fuck, you’re probably dying right now, so why not?
The idea of dying brings up in me a confliction of feelings. I’ve been counting the hours and if I’d been left out in the cold this long, both catatonic and starving, can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten—actually eaten, not this nightmare suckling—then I’d be dead.
Someone had to of found you and rushed you to the hospital. I decide only to wonder. But who in the fuck would do that? If you’re dying, no guardian angel is going out of their way to save your ass. You’ve belonged to Hell for some time now.
Then what’s happening?
My eyes open and search the fuzzy blobs of the car searching. I begin to cry, but quit once my mother leans over my car-seat close enough for me to see the details of her face.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” She says. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
She unhooks me from my buckles.
“What’re you doing?” My father asks.
“He’s hungry.” My mother says.
“It ain’t safe to—”
“Keep your eyes on the road, Jeff!” My mother shouts as the car jerks a bit. I cry. “Look what you did?”
“I’m sorry.” My father mutters. “Just don’t think it’s too safe, you know?”
“We’re almost home. We’ll be fine so long as you watch the road.” My mother says, but all I can think is that most accidents happen close to your house.
A summer rain begins to fall as we roll into the driveway. I’m looking around and moving my arms and legs in a wild way. Again I try to move my limbs, but like any nightmare, I have no power over them.
This doesn’t feel like a nightmare or a dream. This thought springs from my subconscious and feels to ring with more truth than it should.
“Well,” I tell my subconscious. “You’ve never been in a coma before.”
But I can’t shake that feeling away. It makes me wonder, Do people in comas dream?
“Don’t get him wet!” My mother shouts as my father runs into the house hauling me in my car-seat with him. A few drops hit my face. I begin to wail bloody murder.
“Look what you’ve done!” My mother howls jerking me out of the car-seat and away from my father. The suddenness of it jerks my head back and a sharp pain flashes through my neck. I cry louder.
“Go get the rest of the shit out the car!” She screams at my father as she marches and sits and silences me with a nipple.
“All right, all right.” My father sounds scared. I’ve no idea why, but his voice trembled a bit. I heard it clear as day. “Is he alright?”
“He’s fine now.”