climb too high - part 1 (standard:drama, 5637 words) [1/4] show all parts
Author: snyrt	Added: Dec 27 2001	Views/Reads: 3292/2300	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
the first part of a bit of auto-fiction about a sociopath who takes a wrong turn into drugs after seeking treatment.

Part One 

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As I descend the endless flights of stairs, I take note of the
beautifully polished banisters in the otherwise untouched house.  "How 
far can these stairs go?"  I ask myself.  I feel compelled to explore 
this decrepit structure though I don't know exactly what draws me down 
these steps.  Though I must be at least a hundred feet underground, 
there are still windows on all sides of the nearly identical, high 
ceilinged rooms through which I pass.  These windows allow filtered 
light to shine through their dust-stained panes.  I look down the next 
flight of stairs and see the end.  The next hall is clean and well lit, 
but there are no windows.  Here I see a middle aged man ascending the 
stairs.  I know the man's name, but it has just slipped my mind.  He 
has dark hair with streaks of gray running back above his ears.  He is 
wearing a dull, red cardigan with a light blue dress shirt underneath.  
I do not take note of his pants.  He is walking with an unusually 
large, black dog.  Its coat shines with a glimmer only seen in show 
dogs, but the dog is old and slow.  The man is carrying a yellow legal 
pad in his right hand.  I know it is his book.  I meet him on the 
stairs. 

"Where are you headed?" he asks kindly. 

"Classes," I say.  I do not know why I said that.  The building suddenly
seems like an old schoolhouse and this man seems to be stuck in the 
past. 

"What classes?  English?" he inquires. I nod.  "Good classes," he
replies in a remarkably authoritative figure trying to be young again 
kind of way. 

"Where are you going?" I ask trying not to be too nosy. 

"Not to classes," he says.  For some reason I accept this as a perfectly
valid answer though I usually would have asked again.  I look at the 
legal pad. 

"Is that your book?" I ask. 

"Yes, indeed it is."  I pick the pad out of his hands and flip through
the pages.  I notice that the first page is chapter eleven.  Somehow I 
know that the book, if left intact, will ruin my life.  I tear the 
pages out and throw them off the stairs to the floor below.  The man 
says nothing.  I look back at him and see pleading eyes staring back at 
me.  "Please, please, I would rather die than endure this fate." 

I decide to help him fulfill his wish as a sudden surge of rage rushes
through me.  I draw my sword and try to strike him down.  Wherever I 
strike him, a red spot momentarily appears, then vanishes.  The man 
never flinches.  Suddenly, the old dog begins to attack me with energy 
it probably has not experienced in years.  I try to kill him, but he 
stays alive as well.  I flip my blade to the viciously serrated edge.  
I rip the dog's throat open and he collapses to the floor.  The man 
walks down the stairs unfazed and I follow him into a large, green 
office.  He makes his way to the desk.  I stand there a while as the 
man flips through papers aimlessly. 

I hear a dog.  There are hunting dogs emerging from all four corners of
the central room.  For fear that they too will attack me, I run out and 
begin to slash wildly at the dogs with my serrated blade. The man seems 
angry when he sees his dead dogs sprawled on the floor.  He signals to 
a door and two women emerge.  One, a short, heavyset, Asian woman with 
short hair takes a karate-like stance to fight me.  I lift my sword and 
cleanly slice off her head.  I look back at the man and the other woman 
standing serenely on the other side of the room.  I look at the Asian 
woman again.  She is again fully intact and readies to fight.  I then 
attempt to cleave her body only to see it heal immediately.  I look 
down and see gashes in my body.  How they had originated, I do not 
know.  The man says: 

"That is enough, we must take him in to heal."  I follow him into a
brightly-lit bedroom.  As I enter, directly in front of me, past a 
waist-high bookcase, is a collection of large, stuffed animals.  I turn 


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