Revelator Book 1: The Neuromancer

By William Control

Through the madness I shuffle. A wretched shell of the man I was when her love possessed me. Lucifer has given me one chance at redemption. I am compelled to drag myself to the dusty finish line. Compelled by the love I have somewhere in my drowning heart and by the curiosity of a new adventure that will, one day, surely kill me. This is the story of William Control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387189045

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Revelator Book 1: The Neuromancer

Revelator Book 1: The Neuromancer

Description: Logo

Fourth Edition

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

-John Milton

To my Father Jeff.

Your suffering has come to an end, but the love I have will never be forgotten.

One.

Stranger we become through the blurred lens of violence. Visions drained of color and sound. Sometimes, I don’t recognize the monster looking back at me, and in the mirrors of my own sanity I try and gracefully look away as often as I can. An outsider in my own skin, a deteriorating sense of hope and all the music I have ever heard erased from my memory forever. Lost. I find myself wandering the halls of regret not knowing what door to open, or what staircase to fall down. Hush. Eerie silence in the dawn of a new world, it ends abruptly and I can hear the sound of gunpowder exploding from shells and glass shattering all around me. Sinew on fire, muscles bleeding out of time, and there’s an unfamiliar woman sitting next to me in a car that I don’t remember falling into. A melody is blaring through my insides, shattering me awake. Wailing and shaking, we are driving on the curb of my own mistakes and I fear, this may be my last night on earth.

The first time I saw her I was sick, malnourished and in big trouble. A strict vegan diet of rum, PCP and cocaine will do that to a young man. It’s hard to clench the ceramic sink of reality when you’re doubled over in a manic state, heaving anxiety, but the moment I laid my eyes on her I began to recover. She was the antidote and I the disease.

Description: Dagger

I’m fresh out of lock up for bogus charges of assaulting a federal agent. I had been running drugs for a big time dealer in the city that the feds were watching day and night. Normally I wouldn’t involve myself with that sort of felonious behavior, but the price of narcotics was on the rise and the degree I attained in college wasn’t exactly creating dividends. This big fat fuck of a cop cornered me down in the park just after midnight and tells me with his rancid breath that he is tired of waiting around for the chips to fall, and that if I didn’t start cooperating with him,

I’ll simply choke the fucking life out of you kid. It’ll look like some crack head committed a violent murder in a drug deal gone bad.

I’ve never been to keen on the pressure of authority. It makes me insane, creates in me the need to fight back and that night; perhaps the pressure was too much to keep a lid on.

I kick him so hard that I rupture one of his testicles.

He can’t breathe, drops like a sack of shit and I take off running.

His partner easily catches up to me about a block away.

Proceeds to punch the living shit out of me.

I don’t even remember getting thrashed.

One punch.

I black out.

I wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed the next morning with a beat cop reading me my Miranda rights. Super. 

A few days later, after my arraignment I’m released on my own recognizance. With a pending court date I return home to the eight by twelve foot room I rent in the University district. It’s in a derelict building used to house college students, but now it’s mainly comprised of dropouts and drug addicts. It was bleak, worn out, and smelled of dirty dishes. I never saw anyone cook in the kitchen, but somehow it was always torn apart. I’m pretty sure there are nothing but rats in the cupboards.

In my room I have a small dresser of clothes and a futon in the corner without a sheet. A couple of old boxes of half eaten Chinese food carelessly discarded on the floor collecting flies. I am Ralph, the Lord of the Flies, the only thing I’m missing is a pig’s head on a stick. The window is covered with broken blinds that don’t retract and the house faces east, so that when the sun rises, so do I. College had really paid of well. My wrists are still sore from the handcuffs and I think my ribs are broken. That cop must have kicked me while I was down. Dirty fuck. I lie down on the futon and wish for a new beginning.

I get call from my aunt, she explains that my father, who has been tranquilly dying of lung cancer, has just passed away. I hadn’t spoken to or seen him in almost five years. Not since the night I left home at eighteen. He had packed a bag, left it on the porch and said three words as I walked out:

Good Luck Kid

General Anxiety Disorder. That’s what I suffer from. Perhaps I’m just generally a fuck up. The booze and the drugs and the insanity are merely symptoms of deeper issues that I’m too afraid to discover. Or maybe I just like making excuses. Maybe I just love getting high.   

Stub my toe? Take a shot. Have an argument with a friend? Take two Oxycontins. Lose my car keys? Three joints and a forty will fix that. Fail a midterm? Cocaine and a week with no sleep will do just nicely. Everything is an excuse to get loaded, to self medicate. I am not opposed to medication. Give it all to me, every single easy gram. I’m a functional mess, and I have been for quite some time.

I don’t know why this news affects me so much. We had become strangers. I cringed at the drunkard he became, wallowing around in the catastrophes of his own demise. Maybe it was just the absence I detested, a yearning for a connection to the man who created me. Or perhaps this was just another great excuse to bring my self-deprecation to a whole new level. I can use this excuse. This is a good one.

I hit the night running. Tequila shots at my favorite dive bar downtown