Bits (rought draft): A Work of FIction Pt. 2

He awoke refreshed.  His alarm had 5 more minutes left and he turned it off, then remained in bed for two more hours.   He would call in late for work and deal with it all later.  He had an epiphany and needed to explore what happened:

He broke up with his girlfriend.  This led to a strange epiphany and a feeling of being held back.  After making his way home in the rain last night he began going through boxes attempting to clean his house.  He found a box full of old school papers that he took from his parents attic after they passed away.  In it (the box—the attic was another story) he found old poems, old essays, and old stories.  They were good/bad.

They were good/bad.  In his newly enlightened and seemingly freer life he realized that perhaps his skills were good.  For ten years he’d been without confidence and without clear vision.  The rain and the breakup broke something down.  His mind began to see things he had not noticed before.  There were stories to be told.  Ten years of living and research and all of s a sudden there were stories falling from his brain.  He had stood in front of his girlfriend’s house for a long time.  His brain had opened and he began to see. He stood, a man of 27, 40 pounds overweight, looking deep into the night, seeing back into time to when he was 17.

            He sees how far removed he is from who he was, and he is a mere three months away from being able to salvage any of his previous life.  He turns around attempting to look forward into time to see if he can see another version of himself looking back, but saw nothing but the wet brick front of Stephanie’s house.  A crack of thunder, quickly followed a streak of lightning somewhere behind him.

He kept his gaze in the distance but moved further back in time.  It was the summer after his senior year in high school, and he was 18.  There was a girl he had some interest in at his summer job as a waiter in a crab shack on the shore, but he never once said anything to her.  She had the same name as the daughter of a famous writer.  Douglas could not think of a single reason he’d never said anything, and the feeling rang a familiar bell.

The bell caused a chain reaction.  He closed his eyes, and began to walk away.  He did not see the house nor did he want to, but it was not disgust or disdain.  He was apathetic towards it.  He missed it as a passing of time.

The ringing continued.

He opened his eyes wide but saw only a blinding light.

The rain.

He came to his senses and sought his car.  He had to return to Stephanie’s house.  He stood up right and returned back.

He could feel his synapses firing.  It was a new experience.

He has no recollection of the drive home.

He simply remembers opening the boxes.  He found hope.