*Story 1001* (Prologue)

About a year ago, I tried (again) to write a novel. I got about 40 or 50 pages in before I wrote myself into a corner...anyway, here is the prologue (un-edited--so I'm sure there are typos and such):

It was cold and rainy the night my life ended. The gray world seemed to be in mourning, even before the first drop of blood touched the grimy pavement. I was coming home from work; my stained coveralls clung to my chest like a layer of cotton skin. For the past month I’d been forced to walk home from the plant I worked, assembling automobile parts. My car having been successfully driven into the ground.

Ironic, isn’t it? A man spending the better part of his day, building something he can’t afford to use himself.

The rain was bleeding into my eyes and it was very dark.
Did I mention that already?

You make a million wrong turns in the course of a life. Thousands upon thousands of hours wasted on the wrong road. How many times had I walked those lonely streets home? It usually took me thirty minutes (give or take) to make it to my rundown apartment. On the night I died, I was still staggering around in the rain—after thirty five minutes.

Now that I think about it, the rain was the problem. It was coming down in heavy, gray sheets. I’m usually pretty good at finding my way through the darkness…so I’m sure it was the weather that killed me. Well, that and the three hoods waiting for me at the end of my wrong turn.

They were perched there, like spiders sitting in their webs. Waiting for an insignificant fly like me to wander into their trap. There was no harsh demand for cash or valuables. There was no cursing spouted from morally parched lips. Just three shadows swooping out of the darkness. A glint of metal reflected off a sudden lightening bolt. Strange, now that I think about it, I should have been able to see them. The alley was lit up in that instant, but all I saw was the curved blade as it rushed to meet my chest. I’m a big guy, always have been—but that knife knocked me on my ass so fast.

I was winded, blood curdling in the back of my throat. I’m not sure what I chocked on first, the blood or the filthy water that splashed over my head as the thugs clamored around me. Vicious hyenas of the concrete jungle; by the time I figured out what was going on they were gone. So was my wallet and my shoes.

My life was ended for eighteen dollars and thirty-two cents and a pair of used boots. It’s a strange feeling to have your life appraised so low. Surely I was worth more than that. At least, I hope I was worth more. Anyway, dying was a real bitch. Or maybe it was just a bitch in my case. Maybe dying is different when you’re lying comatose in a hospital bed. Hooked up to so many machines and computers that you become a robot. Maybe, but I’ll never know.

There was a cold rush of air, it passed over my body—pinning me to the ground. Then there was just silence. Rain was falling on trash cans, but the drumming stopped. A shredded newspaper fluttered down the length of the alley, no doubt it made a sloppy rustling sound…but I didn’t hear it. There was nothing.

And then it happened. I sat up. Just like that, no more pain…no more blood. The knife was still protruding from my chest, though. Of all the things to remain, that had to be it. Hesitantly, I reached down and pulled it out. The second the blade cleared my ribcage I started to convulse. I thought I was going to snap in half, I was writhing so hard on the ground.

Then the rain stopped, and the sound returned to the alley. The first sound I heard after I died was a cat’s soft meow. I laughed. Still don’t know why, it certainly wasn’t funny. Although, I must admit, it was funnier than the bloodied knife lying a few feet from me. I stood up, my legs shaky. And that’s when I knew I was dead. In that instant I quit my job, moved out of my apartment, forgot my friends and remaining relatives. And I did what I was always destined to do—I started walking. Just walking. No particular destination in mind. You see, for the first time there were no wrong turns—only turns. When you’re dead, you don’t have anyplace you have to be…when you aren’t trying to get anywhere in particular every way you go is the “right way.”