Alternate Reality

Excerpt from chapter 2-

The obsession that I was still in some twisted alternate reality strongly returned overnight, although perhaps a bit less nightmarishly. A historic inn in Colonial Williamsburg, packed with alcoholics and addicts, was where the deities of my celestial temple had placed me. I was floating above my bed. The door to my room opened and a flashlight beam stunned my eyes. The deep voice behind it asked me to report in five minutes to the nurses’ station for vital signs. What time was it? I sat up in bed, put on my psych-ward yellow footies and shuffled out into the hallway, moving down to the nurses’ station, which glowed eerily with nighttime lighting.

I spotted the analog clock behind the desk; it read 5:15. Two nurses were standing behind the long counter engaging in casual, caffeinated conversation about Donald Trump’s election-night victory. One of them was sipping coffee out of a royal-blue mug that displayed the words “Chicago Cubs 2016 World Series Champions.”

Trump victory? Chicago Cubs, World Series champs?Clearly, the celestial deities of my alternate reality had a disturbed sense of humor....


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