Awake(Chapters One Thru Six)

One

Two days before a world-wide search for a missing girl occured, I mumbled the name Jack Kovacs in the middle of a weak, thin sleep. I had insomnia for the fifth day during that week, and tossing and turning was all the action I seemed to get,when I tried to close my eyes and fade away. I read a few books that dealt with sleep problems, and all it told me was to do vigorous exercises during the day and cut down on caffeine. And so, like the pages said...I did. Yet when night had finally closed in, and I lied in bed with the lights off, I closed my eyes and felt nothing. There's something about not sleeping, that really made me mad. When I had lied there long enough, there had been many times that I blurted out obscene things. Cussing myself out, even saying that this world was just damned. Stuff, that honestly, would not aid me in anyway. I wasn't too much of a person that dabbled with sleeping medicines...but, as the progess worsened, I ended up stuffing my mouth full with over-the-counter, and prescription sleeping pills. And everytime I did use it, I'd swallow them down with water, and think to myself, fake answers.
Though, the times I fell asleep, I'd wake up early. Way early. I'm talking about, early enough where the stars were still out...and the world was quiet, calm, and simply lifeless. Jack Kovacs though, I'm sure he was getting great sleep. When he first entered my head, I was feeling drowsy due to the two pills I had took. I was sitting on the couch flipping through a borrowed book, when I looked up to see that it was finally ten-thirty. I suggested that would be my bed-time, due to my lack of sleep. So, I lied in bed, covered up half-way with a sheet, with my head propped up perfectly on two pillows. I closed my eyes, drifted into black, and I let myself go. I suppose I got an hour or two of rest, but seconds before I jumped up, covered in sweat, the mans name hit my head like a ton of bricks falling from the heavens. I seen nothing. No faces, no places, just his name. Jack Kovacs written sloppy with red ink, on top of a black canvas of dreams. It meant nothing when I sat myself up, and lied my back against the wall. Just something that my mind was playing tricks with. It was normal, I thought. Simple sleep deprived normality.
Kate Taylor, was an 18 year old graduate from Chambers Limit High. She was popular, quite pretty, and involved in sports or so the news-channel said. She was on her way to a grocery store, when her mother figured out that two hours had truthfully turned into six, and there was no sign, no call, and no show-up of Kate. She was missing. Channel ten, told us that her mother tried to call her phone over and over again, leaving frantic messages of motherly worries, with bold, undeniable fear, "I didn't know what to do?" She answered a question from the reporter, "she just never picked up the phone, and the store, where she worked, never seen her. That was a day ago, and there sitll is nothing. I pray to God, she is o--"I then had turned the channel. Stuff that is depressing, isn't something I want to swallow down, when I know that when ten-thirty hits, I'll be dreading another hour to pass. On the second day of searching, the same reporter who asked her mother questions, told us sadly, that Kate Taylor was found dead in the back of a stollen four-dour vehicle.
Later that evening, a police pulled over a man that seemed to be swerving just a bit too much. He was highly intoxicated. Alcohol and drugs had polluted his mind. When they searched the vehicle, they found Kates uniform, and a locket of her blonde hair stuffed inside of a Ziploc bag. His name was Jack Kovacs; a fifty-one year old male, who had dark black hair, and a perfect example of a five o' clock shadow on his face. Two days before the news told us of the murderer, I spoke his name in a dream. Jack Kovacs.

Two

I hadn't told anyone of the so-called coincidence that had occured. I let it pass, let it slide, let it not keep me awake at night. Even if tried to pry me away from sleep, there would be no use...I was already in the boat of restlessness. Kate Taylor was buried close to my house in a small cemetery. The day of her funeral, I had watched as cars lined up behind a silver hearse, in front of my house, outside my picture window. Of course it was sad, something that deeply hit the nerves. It was a murder in my small community, something that never really made much sense. It was like prying a circle into a small square, it just never will happen or would happen. But it did. Chambers Limit, had it's first huge crime. Jack Kovacs was convicted, and sent to prison for life. It was harsh sentence, but he deserved each second behind the bars.
When I finally grabbed enough strength, I looked at myself in the mirror. I never seen what an actual piece-of-shit human being looked like. But for some odd reason, it looked just like me. I had just started to grow my hair out when the insomnia spells really kicked in. By now, my hair was pretty long, and dreadful, matted, and dirty. Now that I thought about it, staring at my reflection, I hadn't took a shower in a few days. My eyes seemed like they had began to swell, and bags, thin bags had been born underneath my eye lids. For a moment, I honestly didn't know who I was. I wasn't the manager of an office-supply store. I wasn't the child of great parents. I wasn't the brother of a fireman, either. I was horrid, the bottom of the totem-pole. I was a sick individual. I had turned on myself, I was my own worst enemy. And I'd like to thank that eight letter word for all of that.
Sunday night, I had flipped through channels until my battery died in the remote leaving me on a religious network. A preacher was stumbling around on a stage with a microphone squeezed tightly between a fat palm and wide fingers. He was old, gray-headed, and a bit top heavy. But he was sure screaming at the tops of his lungs. His face was the same color of a rotting beat, and sweat poured from the temples of his head like an Autumn storm. He was going on about how the world was today. How life as we know it, has drastically changed. How today, this day, is close to that day, the last day; of civilization, the last day before we lose our chance to repent. He said murder fills the streets, drugs pollute our air, terroists point their fingers and bombs in our directions, gays and lesbians stream freely, atheist gain more rights than Christians, babies are dying due to poor parents and horrible doctors, and people watching television right now, thinking each word that he said was false, lies, unreal. Oh it is real, he added after that in his southern, hick drawl. And before he ended his sermon he said he hoped we all get right with God before the last day hits. I was feeling tired, but knew it was a fake side effect of the pills I took, and with my eyes glued to the man, I yelled out a raspy amen, and went off to tuck myself in.
That night, it was awfully windy out. And in my backyard, the tree branches scratched against the side of my home. I decided I would just blame that for my sleeplessness. At points where the night would fade on, and the black sky turned to purple then pink, then blue...I decided that the times I was awake I'd think. I'd think a lot. About what the day held, what tomorrow would look like, what I was changing into, and I'd even think about picking up that Bible in the backroom. I figured something negative has to have something positive come out of it. Right? I mean isn't that a way to look at life, and situations? And there you go, I was already drifting into a one-on-one thoughful discussion, with my self of course. Mr. Preacher man was correct on a lot of things he said, or should I say yelled. The news blabbered on continuously without weakness about what the whole world was like, as a whole. It sure seemed to like to go on about the European countries, and their non-stop threats to our President and our country. Check that off of his list of things that were surely occuring. Secondly, a new law had passed about womens rights to choose. And that people for life, were growing thinner and thinner. Another scratch off. Last was the fact that murder, murder, murder filled each city, state, and country. Blood was shedding in wars, and blood was shedding in street corners. And due to recent events, I agreed with him about that statement. Everything was simply valid.

Three

A month had passed by since Jack Kovacs and the Kate Taylor incident had happened. I let the things that had happened slip from my mind. And as I stood there, Sunday morning getting ready for a round of church, I couldn't tell you anything about it. I had forget. It was important uselessness. Don't ask me why church had become a solution to matters, but it did. Things that seemed stressful seemed to die down a lot and lose powers. And even, somethings, there were nights I slept a healthy eight hours. An improvement I had liked to think. Not everynight though, let me stress, but some. And in my book, some was better than none. I thought still, even when it wasn't night time. Thought about positive coming out of negativity, like I stated before. That had seemed to become the biggest title for this chapter in life.
After church, I came straight home and lied down on the couch, watching another re-run of I Love Lucy and snacking a tiny-bit on stale pop-corn from the night prior. I watched as one o'clock quickly turn to two thirty, and from then to five; and I thought to myself, life travels to fast. Yet, I didn't make it to six. I could cheer on that, and add a bunch of exclamation points, but as the events occured during my sleep, I would have rathered been wide away staring at the television eating my grub. I suppose I was sleeping very deeply at this time. I was dreaming about when I was a little kid, and I liked it. Pops was running around with me, trying to pick me up and put me on his shoulders. But I hated heights then, as I do now...even if I was just six feet off the ground. I ran around and hid behind my swing set, that I helped my father build. He pretended not to see me, and asked my mother where I was. But what bothered me some about this dream, was the fact that my father wasn't calling out my name. With his sweet voice he continued to ask where James Ryan was. James, where are you? He continued looking around, "honey, do you know where in the world James Ryan is? He asked my confused looking mother, "boy I tell ya', that James Ryan sure likes to hide," and that was the point where I woke up. My t-shirt was drenched in cold sweat, and my feet stuck to the leather couch underneath them. My head spun for a moment, I closed my eyes, opened them, and assured myself I was really awake. The time, eight-fifteen.
Unlike Jack Kovacs, this time the name in my dreams seemed to bother me a lot. I sat at my kitchen table, breaking a sleep commandment, by sipping down two cups of sugared coffee. I couldn't escape the thought of my father saying the name. Over and over again. He even dared to ask my mother where he was too. I wasn't James Ryan, I wasn't even close to that. I was a confused being. I was that horrid, sick individual once more. Get out of my head. I seemed to scream quietly. Just stop bothering...I mean, I thought, why was it even bothering me as much as it was. It was just another dream, another strange side-effect of the past nights before the nap where I couldn't get any amount of rest. Dream!-Just a dream! I suppose it was the fact that a month ago, I somehow predicted in a way, the name of a cold-blooded murderer. The dream with my father, brought back the name Kovacs and Kate Taylor, and I didn't like that any bit. Jack Kovacs killed a girl, and for some reason my dad thought I was James Ryan. I needed help. Refuge. Somewhere to go.
What really urked me was the fact that I couldn't ask my mom and dad about this name, and tell them about the dream. Why?-for the fact that I was too afraid the name might pop up on some television channel, and they'd think I was a nut, or a lunatic in some kind of way. So, as I usually do...I put the cork back in, and bottled it all up inside me. At times, I thought my head just might give in. And at times, I thought it already had. I was afraid the name might come up while they sat in thier livings room at night watching the local news, and I had a great reason to hold that fear. Few days later James Ryan made headlines.
There was a botched robbery at a bank, a few miles from where I lived. James Ryan and a group of high-school flunkies dropped into a big bank, holding loaded pistols with black masks over thier head. Ryan didn't really want any trouble, but then again, he robbed a damn bank. As an innocent older woman moved a bit, while spread on the floor, Ryan cocked his pistol, aimed at her head, and told her goodnight one last time. She died at the scene, her head...uncanny, thats all there is to say. James Ryan then tried to make an escape, with a few bags of dough. His buddy, some guy named Mark Hollister chickened out, and dropped the cash when he seen the cops outside the window. James knew Hollister would nark him out, so he shot him too...this time the bullet went through his aorta, and the man bled to death. Thats two down, few more to go. The cops watched as the young kid killed his friend, and they drew thier weapons: loaded pistols, and nice shotguns hung from every car window. James Ryan walked around for hours inside of the bank, refusing to come out. He needed the money, and he needed not to go to jail. So finally, he let two hostages go. And with a fight, he let another man go as well, yet...leave the world instead of the bank.
The cops eventually took the kid down, and threw him in jail. He was charged for robbing the bank, intended to kill. And for the murders of three people. His future was screwed. And on that note, the news switched to a much lighter story. James Ryan, a murderer, was the second name I envisioned. For some reason, a mere nobody like myself, was looking into the future. I didn't want that privelege, if you wanted to call it that. I didn't want it at all. It's hard to try to live life, honestly haunted by things. My father said that James Ryan sure likes to hide, and for some reason that sentence or saying bit my back a lot. Scared me. Made me sick. Sure likes to hide.

Four

I wanted to spill the beans, or my guts, or all these stupid things that popped around my head. I wanted to drive to the police station and report a murder, even before it occured. But then again, this wasn't a comic book, and the police wouldn't end up being on my side. They would throw me in the back with all the other loons that stood around talking to myself. I was my own helper, and for those moments. I hated life. Who were these guys? These dream-stalkers, besides murderers and offenders? I'll tell you who they are...for some reason, they were my future, my thing to come, my present even.
I was beyond nervous, to the point where I paced my floor-boards, and actually kept myself awake at night(even if I knew there would be no sleep that night anyways.) I seemed to scratch away at my head, dreading what the next day might hold. I felt I was in a viscious circle, a never ending plot to ruin my life. For some reason these murderers like to pick on me, or wasn't even their faults that thiers names jumped into my head without rhyme or reason? Maybe it was all me? Maybe I brought it on myself? Maybe I was the main villian in my own story? Maybe I'm the one holding the gun?
I eventually broke down. Into tears. Into shambles. Into my fathers lap,"maybe it's like your sleeplessness has tuned you into some odd shit," he laughed, his newly discovered smokers cough clear and muffled, "it sounds like you have been experimenting way too much," another long drawl, another moment I felt uncomfortable.
"Like the time I had the dream about when I was a kid. It didn't make sense to me. You were calling me that guys name. James Ryan. James Ryan? Do you know where he is hunny?" I mocked his voice,"then I read on the news about this guy killing a few people and robbing a bank. I'm losing it. Slowly, surely I've lost my marbles."
"Kid, you just worry too much. That is all that it is. Your looking into way more than you should. It's nothing, I put my word on it. Hell, if you want...the next time you got a problem, or a name in your dream," he made an odd face, making fun of me most likely, "call me up, and we'll...step in...stop it...intervene. You know what I'm saying son?"
And I did. I understood fully. I never had thought of that before, perhaps due to the mere fact I was scared out of my mind. I was only a normal human being. Who ate, who drank, who tried to sleep, who lived thier day to day life. I didn't plan anytime soon, in interfeering with some killers plans. That wasn't my style. My scene. My likings, "alright," I shrugged, let out confusion, then looked back at my fathers withered face. It struck me that he was getting very old, and I even missed his hair color before the white made its way in, "I guess I'll...lay off for awhile. Maybe it's the pills. Maybe it's the fact that I'm too lonely. Bored, you could say. Maybe it'll all dissapear," I smiled, gave a wink, and patted my hand on my fathers cheek.

It wouldn't go away. As I told my dad that, I bit my tongue 'till I tasted copper. I knew deep down in my head that the next time I feel asleep, another name would start up again in my life. Viscious cylce. And as I thought it would, and knew it would...it eventually did. This time, a long time after my intervention with my father.

Five

It's funny to know that life has way too many ups and downs. It had been close to two years, and I still wasn't getting the sleep I needed. I was a zombie, hands down. I questioned myself and God, wondering just how am I still surviving? I grew thin, whispy, weak and tired. Bags had permanently moved in under my eyes, the color of midnight sky. My ribs poked through the stretched skin of my stomach, and what looked to me...I was losing hair. How do I deal with it all God? How do I do it? And what put the icing on the cake, was the fact my father, good man, finally passed away not too long after I talked to him. My mother told me his poor heart gave out. I cried for weeks, couldn't even stomach to look at him in his casket. In my mind, I always thought that it's unfair what a human has to face day and night. Loss of sleep isn't nothing compared to the loss of a dearly loved one. He was my dad, my pops, my best friend. And it was a damn shame they decided to get rid of him. People shouldn't have to have these things happen. But as they say, that is life. And thats when I say, life is bull-shit.
My dad told me that I needed to intervene, and with another few hours of sleep, another name had came upon me. In my dream, it was dark outside, and cold as well. September winds blew the trees, and those tree branches that scratched the sides of my house were as loud as ever. In the dream, I couldn't sleep. And instead of laying down, I walked around my house...looking outside of every window, and deep into every mirror. I was looking for someone, or something, and with my damn luck I just couldn't find it. That was the point where I cris-crossed my way back into my room. I pulled back my covers, and on my sheet...with blood was the name Marcus Greene and the number 1232. On the floor was a pair of cuffs and tape. Then, a scratch on my foot. Unexpected. A gnawing ripping at my skin. When I looked down, from underneath my bed, a hand was squeezing my ankel. The nails, ripping my flesh. When the first drip of blood hit the carpet, my eyes sprung open, and the night faded to day. I needed to call my dad, but life had dealt me the cards.
I decided to lay back for the evening and do my best to research. Marcus Greene wasn't from Chambers. How did I know this?-People search from the computer, didn't come up with shit. Mike Greene. Robert Greene. May Greene. Nothing that held importance to me. I called each number, and each time they said wrong house, and I'd apologize kindly and say have a good day. Unknowingly, the people on the other side had no idea what nightmare I was running through. I checked the local areas and there was nothing. I checked the whole state, still no luck. Marcus Greene may have just been a figment of my imagination. But we all knew, I wouldn't get off that easy.
It had been four days since my last dream. I checked the news each night, and even took the covers off to see if there was blood on my sheet. And hell, for the purpose to cool my worries,I looked underneath my bed like a five year old, scared of the boogie-man. State of Louisiana database for crooked drug fiends that had been locked up and pedafiles that were forever burned into the list was the only thing to give me a nudge for a positive match. Marcus James Greene had popped up underneath the one-time offenders list. He had got busted for heavy drug possession only a year minor. I could tell by the picture they provided that he was a fat burley guy, with the skin color as dark as train smoke. For some reason, his yellow eyes haunted me, and that grim small smile never left my mind.
They left an address that he was supposed to reside at with his mother, Miss Janet Greene. I'm sure they put it there, so it could somewhat tell people stay the hell away from this man and where he lives. I didn't think about it then, or connect it with anything...but the address was simply 1232 West Keyes Road. Marcus James Greene, perhaps, with luck I had found him.
That fourth night, I found myself dazing out naturally. I hadn't took the pills for awhile, thinking maybe they were clouding my head up at night. Giving me nightmares, and unwanted visions. I'd clock out for a few seconds, open my eyes, view the world dimly, then fall over once more...over and over again until eventually I stayed sleeping. This time there was no name, and this time there was no bed with blood on it, or some thin hand scratching away at my skin. Only a number this time, boldly, written out loud. I was staring at a calender, this month, this year. My eyes tredded over it, but only caught a few dates. The 3rd, the 23rd, the 31st. Repeatedly, unknowingly. Third, twenty third. Thirty first. And then again. 3rd, 23rd, 31st. Until I closed my eyes in the dream, and opened them in what I thought was the real life. When I made my way to the kitchen, where a calender with a picture of trees in each month hung above my sink, I stopped and looked at it, as I did when I was sleeping. Nothing had been written on those date, nothing indicating something I needed to know. With a marker, I put an 'X' through the three days that I seemed to like, or concentrate on. Three black 'X's, on a blank page. For some reason the three 'X's, reminded me of the devils number, or the Mark of the Beast, as the Bible speaks. My mind again, had dabbled too far. As I told my father before, about losing my marbles, I could put my life on it now, that they were all missing in action.

Six

I traveled lightly on the first day of October. I packed my car with a few changes of clothes and a bag of light foods. No water, and no pills. If I were to die, it would be due to the face of no sleep and dehydration. I suppose I really didn't know where I was going. Kind of guessing, free-handing it. Just letting God take the wheel, if you will. I knew I was going to Louisiana, which wasn't too far from my home. Few hours and I'd be there roaming the streets. But when it came to the point of finding the mans house, and hiding out, I was clueless. Maybe I should step out of my car in the middle of pitch black and choke him out with a fine rope? Or buy a gun and do onto others what they've done to some? Or perhaps, just perhaps I'll watch him get away with murder. Yeah, maybe I want to see the crime happen in real life...maybe I want to declare that my visions and the names in my dreams are true. Very true. But I suppose I'll decide when I get there, and somehow face my fears and view Marcus James Greene.