Chapter Twenty-Seven
Time had no relevance.
No hours.
No minutes.
No seconds.
Subliminal blips on the screen, only they weren’t persuading me to buy cars, cologne, liquor…or love.
They were random glimpses.
Of Life.
And Death.
Glimpses of Clark’s horrified expression as Death won the final match.
Glimpses of Martin, speaking soft and low. Brushing bloody, sweaty hair from my eyes. Squeezing my hand. Whispering my name.
Glimpses of activity. Commotion. Screeching. Crashing. Footsteps in a frenzied shuffle—like runners escaping a stampede of angry, charging bulls—followed by obscure voices. When had I been transported to a death metal concert?
One voice in the distance—a child’s lullaby in comparison—familiar but worried.
Ramirez.
Time, sound and sight intertwined until I welco
