Excerpt from D.R Breshears’ up and coming novel: Under the Influence. All Rights Reserved. [Photo on cover used with open rights from Pixabay]
Before the pain hit him Flynn was a seriously okay guy. No really. Some people say that just to say that, maybe to get some concerned distant friend from high school that is convinced you’re going to off yourself now off their backs, but he was pretty okay. He was happy at least 50% of the time, had a paying job, and got to party during the night and be work/goal-oriented during the day.
His life was torn, happily, between a mix of successful graduate in constant search for a bigger and better career and a stoner party boy who got the girl and got to play his various games well into the night. As an American human being in today’s society, with all the knowledge of the wicked world and impending death weighing on his burgeoning anxiety daily, he was seriously doing stunningly okay.
If you look underneath all those lines, all the drug-infused brain matter and stress-filled worry wrinkles amid his once gorgeous face, you will find a man whose life was taken away in it’s prime. Father Time (as we liked to call him, again not due to his age but due to his time under) had so very much to give to this world, to his fiance, to his family he was dying to start. Flynn, again, was 15 when he first noticed his unique ‘position’ in life. When the pangs had begun he didn’t fully understand or feel them to their extent for another 8 years. It is important to remember, however, that though he did not feel it fully, he still did feel it, and those 8 years were by no means easy.
When he was 15 years and 143 days old Flynn Telv Rodnier was riding his bicycle to his best friend and lawn mowing business partners house exactly 3 blocks away (to the east, remember that) from his own home. He was peddling as fast as he could up the hill in between the first and second block, you know those hills that as a kid annoyed you, but didn’t break your spirit, and he suddenly felt a pang, a small but intense shoot of sharp pain in his head, right behind his left eye. He immediately brushed it off, as most young and invincible boys do. And that one tiny, then insignificant moment in Flynn’s life began what would soon become a lifetime of outstanding misery.
When Flynn, with his handsomely brilliant blonde hair, hit 18 and graduated he moved away to college about 135 miles away, to the east. He met many girls, one he particularly was keen to by the name of Leslie, and fell in love the way you are supposed to: hard, quick, and deep. It was almost painful how much he desired and needed her. It was actually painful, on the other hand, how much his headaches hurt him by the time he was 19 years and 234 days old.
When Flynn and Leslie were 23 years old they were talking marriage and babies, though Flynn was gathering already many wrinkles and lines across the map of his face, his head an absolute train wreck of daily aches, pains, and heart stopping pangs. On the 56th day of his 23rd year Flynn died. Leslie watched. On the 57th day of his 23rd year Flynn came back to life, bitter, miserable, and still painfully in need of Leslie’s daily love. On the 301st day of his 27th year Flynn met me, watched me die, and helped me come back into this life against every single fiber of my will. I hate Flynn.
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