A LOST CAUSE

The hot sun is beaming down on a deserted, grey, tarmacked road stretching off into the distance for several hundred miles. A light neon green sign etched with white lettering is seen with the words "No Hope." A symbol for gas is present at the bottom of the sign. Three hundred miles next exit forty three. The scene pans away from the sign. Vultures begin to circle overhead, casting a shadow of a faded dark circle on the tarmacked road. They start to squawk loudly, echoing off into the distance. Two huge canyons begin to emerge side by side, dwarfing themselves in magnitude and height. A straight road runs through them both, splitting them straight in the middle. "Oh, bugger off," the man shouts throwing his free hand into the air, cocking his head back, and adjusting his tinted glasses complete with gold rims.

"I am not dead yet," he shouts at them, lowering his head back down and running his hand through his dark brown, greasy hair wicked to the side of his face with beads of sweat. He continues to run his free hand through his hair several more times, as if trying to remove something that is crawling about within his head. A white hospital band, with a distinct bar code etched on the side, of his arm. A swirling of liquid is heard as a dark bottle is raised in the air. He continues to rock the bottle from side to side, holding it up to the blistering sunlight.

"Bottoms up," he says, downing the rest of it. "Ahh," He lets out a loud expression of relief, flicking the bottle neck and holding it between his fingers. He pulls it back over his shoulder and throws it forward as a baseball. He grabs another clear bottle of vodka from his box, twisting off the cap and jamming it to his lips. He throws his head back and takes several gulps of the liquid. He pulls it away from his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and grimaces from the taste. "God damn it, that stuff is strong." He places the bottle be side him and in it down into the dirt in a circular motion. A cardboard box holding several more bottles of vodka. His legs are cracked at ninety degrees, sticking out in front of him. He dig his fingers into the breast pocket of his white t-shirt, searching for something. He sticks out his tongue, finally grasping what he is looking for.

"Got it," he exclaims excitedly, producing a rectangular object from his pocket.

He looks at the black, rectangular object an swipes across it with his forefinger to make it light up. The black object lights up; he raises it into the air, searching for something. His eyes narrow, looking at the corner of the screen, waiting for the bars to come to life telling him that he has a signal.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" He throws both of his hands in the air, nearly flinging the cellphone in the other direction. He turns around, his eyes narrow, trying to focus on the origin of the voice.

"I was trying to make a phone call," he snickers at the distant voice.

"Are you that stupid?" the voice speaks once more. He clasps the cellphone in both hands, placing it close to his chest. "Will you bugger off? I need to make a phone call ... I need to call ..." He purse's his lips, turning his head left in the direction of the voice, lowering his gaze, trying not to make eye contact with the distant voice. "I need to call mother ... She loves me very much ... and .. and .. she will be there at the institute on Friday and she will be very upset knowing that I have escaped." "You're so predictable, Al, it disgusts me, actually; it disgusts me to the point where I want to throw up all over myself again, and again."

"I am sorry to make you feel that way," he replies curtly, cautiously trying not to anger the distant voice.

The man appears into view, moving along the side of the road kicking stones up, turning the ones over that spark his interest. He stubs one with the tip of his shoe, slightly irritated by my answer. His pointed black snakeskin boots are moving along my focus, "follow those pointy boots." This is my alternative ego; the alter projection of myself that I have come to hate and admire at the same time. Two emotions constantly beating themselves, trying to assert dominance over each other.

His name, is Fred; Freddy is what he prefers to be called. "Give me that damn cellphone," he leans forward, holding out his arm. I remove my hands from my chest, open up my palms, and present it to him in a submissive gesture. As if saying, here you go, you are right, I am sorry. I return him an innocent puppy look, like a dog that got caught peeing on the carpet.

He leans in, grabs the phone, looks at it for a second, turns, hurls it off into the desert. Turning around, his gaze beaming at me. He is wearing a white suit, red shirt, Hugo Boss, an open collar, and a red handkerchief is stuffed into his left breast pocket. A gold Rolex watch on his wrist is glinting in the sunlight. His wrist. White pants haven razor sharp creases in the middle. I know he is mad, but the man has style; he does have quite some taste for a dead man haunting the living. A bet that I fear I will never complete nor rise up to the challenge of it.

"That was uncalled for, Freddy ... You didn't need to throw it away ... All I wanted to do was call mother." I plead with him, my connection to the outside world has suddenly been severed. I begin to sob, big blobs of tears begin to stream down my face. I reach for the only thing that gives me salvation in these troubled times that plague my life, my situation at current demands it. A spoiled brat who always got his way now has someone denying him, his well deserved satisfaction. Denying him his medicine. His addicted drug that numbs the pain slowly.

I grab the open vodka bottle, bringing it to my lips, and tilting my head back, gazing up at him and thinking of how rather dashing he looks in white. "Is this what you want so you can call her up and go back to the mansion?"

Freddy shouts, flaying his arms angrily in front of me. His face turns red before my eyes. He continues to rant and rave, scolding, insulting me for my weakness. I need a drink. I continue to listen, taking big gulps from my vodka bottle. The alcohol starts to work, doing what it does best.

It numbs the pain; the pain that makes my heart ache for so much more than this. I hate myself so much. I cannot even look at myself in the mirror without turning away, disgusted, and appalled complete and utter hatred for oneself.

It is a burden. It is taxing. This dark creature stares back at me. Freddy's voice drifts in and out, growing louder, suddenly, fading to a dull roar. My eyes try to stay focused on him.

"And the suits, flashy cars, clubs the grovelling weasels that you call friends those worthless pieces of trash, the nine to five, the hard body wife, smiling and giggling at us as she smiles once more ... To reveal those pearly white teeth. All I see is smoke bellowing from that dark gaping mouth! ... Instead of pearly white teeth, I see teeth that are serrated row upon row, hissing loudly, grabbing the hearts of the innocent, and shoving them into her mouth, the blood dripping down from its corners!" His voice reaches a crescendo, spitting hate on us.

"She is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand with dark, long chipped nails.... She wraps those claws of death to the arms of a soulless demon, and that is only filled with greed. She wraps them around us, holding us in a loveless embrace,...