Chapter 1
The Fury Begins
Standing from the night’s sleep, Bill stretched his 5’8” body to get his muscles warmed up for the day’s work ahead of him. The heavy thud of his footfall on the wood floor led him to glance back to make sure his beautiful wife still lay asleep on the bed. All his eyes could make out in the dark was her long hair lying across her pillow. The stillness of his wife told him all he needed to know. He had not wakened her in over five years and hadn’t really noticed any need to look back for a long time, but this morning was different.
One glance in the mirror told him something was really wrong. It wasn’t the three-day shadow that caused the alert or even the blank stare. What shocked him was the sight of dried blood across his forehead and around his eye. His thoughts roamed through the events that took place before bed; but found nothing unusual to cause what he saw in the mirror. What had he done that would have caused that?
The faucet refused to open. One hand on the hot water knob and a quick twist always got it before. Now it was like he had no strength in his hand at all. Securing both hands with a firm grip around the faucet handle, he twisted it all the way on to send water splashing in the sink. Quickly, he turned the water halfway down with the feeling of confusion and anger raging through him; he had not experienced this before. Was he really that angry and didn’t know it?
His mind reeled. Certainly I can get through this morning without this. I can’t remember the last time I was angry and now I get angry because a little water splashed in the sink. Bill, what was wrong with you? Why are you so angry?
His fingers rolled into tight fists, his elbows curled to 90-degree angle, and his shoulder muscles tightened, ready to strike on a whim. “Relax, Bill.” His mind slowed into control again. “Don’t do something stupid that you will regret. I’ll just get this blood off my face and let it go.” He reached his hand into the running water to check the temp; the washcloth was right beside the sink. He lightly tossed the washcloth into the sink for it to soak up the water. A few seconds later, he grasped the faucet to turn it off and remembered what happened when he turned it on. With slow steady control, it turned easily. He took the washcloth out of the sink to wipe his face. I’ve got to shave anyway.
He slowly wiped the washcloth across his face and around his eyes. With most of the blood wiped away, he saw no physical scrape that would have caused such bleeding. He wiped off the rest of the blood with amazement that there was no cut on his face. Where did all that blood come from? What did I do last night?
Bill shook it off with a shiver and picked up the shaving cream. The shaving cream felt cool on his face and relaxed his nerves. Finally, something that went right this morning. This was going to be a good day. With a deep breath, he repeated, “This is going to be a good day.”
The razor glided down his face, removing the three-day shadow with the greatest of ease. Bill’s mind went immediately to the many razor cuts that he got most mornings and wondered why his super beard, that never gave up easily, would surrender so quickly today and why had it grown so thick in just one night. With everything else that had gone on this morning, he didn’t argue the point anymore.
The rest of the morning went easily enough. By the time his briefcase was in his hand, lunch ready to go, and ready to give his wife a morning I-love-you kiss; he saw the clock on the wall. It was as if it jumped off the wall and yelled, “You’re late! Get in gear and go now!”
Bill flew out the door, not getting it closed completely. He jumped off the full-length porch and landed squarely on the walkway to the drive. His hands in his pocket for the keys, he spun right to shoot directly to the Mercedes Benz.
A strange voice came from somewhere inside him and said, “Don’t take the Benz, the truck would be better.”
“The truck?” Bill looked at the 70’s model F-150 that he used only once or twice a month. He hated the truck for the rough ride and body-beating torture that it created. He had no intention of taking that truck unless he had no other option. Whoever came up with that idea was a lunatic and he would not accept that he came up with that as an idea.
“I know you don’t like the truck, but I do. Take the truck.” This strange voice insisted and Bill was confused where the voice was coming from.
“I like the Benz. The ride is incredibly smooth and has the power to get me anywhere with speed and control unlike that ugly truck.” Bill knew the truck had an old, faded paint job that would not look good in any situation on his job. This meeting was very important and he couldn’t look bad in any way to make this deal work.
“None of that is the point. The point is you need the truck today because I want you to need the truck.” The strange voice still insisted and was making a case for taking the truck.
Bill had not stopped moving as he turned the corner to the driver’s door of the Benz. Fluidity in motion had always been his strong point and his expectation was the same today. His hand reached for the door handle and froze.
“I told you to take the truck. You don’t want me to force this issue. Go to the truck, get in, and take the truck. End of story!” This voice was sounding tense and angry, whoever it was that was saying all this stuff or junk, as Bill thought of it, was not going to win this fight.
In an act of defiance against whoever or whatever, he opened the door to the Benz, got inside, and slammed it. “Now what are you going to do?”
“I told you not to make me force the issue. Now you will know what price I make people pay that resist me.” The voice was not calm but rather fierce, at the edge of uncontrolled anger.
Bill attempted to put the key in the ignition but failed. He removed the key and scowled at it, noticing that he had the Ford key instead of the Benz key. He knew those keys by feel, and it had been ages since he had mistaken them.
“I told you not to make me force the issue,” the voice said with a bit of a teasing tone in the background.
Bill refused to acknowledge the voice, switched the key to the Benz key, and swiftly placed it in the ignition. The Benz turned over but refused to fire. So he tried again. His anger began to boil up from his toes. “What are you up to and who are you?”
Bill could feel sweat forming on his forehead and the veins in his neck throbbed on the surface.
“Never mind about that now. You will know that soon enough,” the voice recanted with satisfaction. “You are learning. Now will you listen to me?”
In his anger, he threw the door open, stomped over to the truck, mumbled, “I don’t know who you are and I don’t have time to deal with you now. I’ll take the truck.”
“Thank you.” The voice had an attitude. “You will learn.”
The door of the Ford opened more swiftly than expected and banged into the Benz passenger door. “No, not the Benz; I hate this truck!” Bill’s anger escalated into fury. “I’ll worry about the Benz later. I have more important things to do now.”
Bill’s face was red; fire burned in his eyes and his palms ached from his fingernails pressing into them. What is wrong with me today?
Bill flung himself into the truck, yanked the door shut, “AGH!” The door slammed into his shin with all the force he could put into it. Immediately, he felt his shin swell. He lowered his head into his hands as the pain shot from his leg through his body into his head. When the pain subsided, he slowly raised his head. His eyes fell to his hands and they were covered with blood.
