August 14th, 2033
It was three years ago today that my wife Karen died. Today would have been her thirtieth birthday. The ovarian cancer that took her, took her slowly and steadily, but even in her darkest hour it was never able to break her spirit. That was hers and hers alone and she used to tell me that nothing in this universe could ever take that from her. If I thought I knew what she meant before, I certainly do now
I only hope I can be half as strong.
To say I didn’t take her death well would be an understatement. I crawled into a bottle of tequila and only crawled out for my hillbilly heroin. Oxycodone was my drug of choice, and kudos to modern medicine. I lived in a lonely self-imposed fog for a few years until I woke one day to find I was broke and alone. I’d spent every penny and burned every bridge.
Mission accomplished, I suppose.
Six months later the visions began.
But, by then it was too late to clean up my mess. I couldn’t convince my family and friends that an alien race was coming to wipe us out. It was a hard sell to begin with and I had no credit in the bank of truth. I tried, believe me, I tried. That’s how I ended up in the psych ward, –damaged, or so they thought.
Seems like a lifetime ago.