Struggle Within

By D. A. Rally

Following a devastating car accident on a rural route in Kentucky after a wonderful vacation with his family, Albert Trenton awakens from a coma to learn that his beloved wife and three children are dead.

While facing his loss, the widower discovers haunting demons from his past that he had left long buried. Voices in his head, torturous dreams, and drastic changes in his personality lead Albert onto a path of spiritual revelation in his quest for answers.

As the terrible truth of a childhood trauma reaches its hand from a stony grave and grabs Al by the throat, he is forced to delve into a world he never thought existed in an effort to salvage any sense of himself and the life he once held.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984568076

D. A. Rally

Born in the city of Pittsburgh and raised in a nearby suburb, D. A. Rally has laid the groundwork of his storytelling with the first two published novels of The Triad Series. Dan lives in Aliquippa, PA with his beloved Rottweiler, holding his loved ones within reach at all times.

Book preview

For Jill Marie, and your undying dedication.

For Monet. You are my inspiration, my

Muse, my Sunrise. For Jonzey, and

the Quiptown Crue. Always for

Osiris. You have shown me

the power of Love in the

Universe, my Baby

Boy.

For Dave Hardesty. You were there with me in the beginning. Your Love and Laughter will be missed in this world. I will see you in the next!

Copyright © 2018 by D. A. Rally.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2018913912

ISBN:              Hardcover              978-1-9845-6809-0

                        Softcover               978-1-9845-6808-3

                        eBook                     978-1-9845-6807-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/29/2018

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

STRUGGLE WITHIN

CHAPTER 1

H E ONLY KNEW the sorrow he felt for the loss of his only true love, then nothing.

The tall, slender man tucked beneath a white bed sheet on the seventh floor of Allegheny General Hospital lay still and silent, welled deep within a coma following the fatal car accident six months before. According to his mother, the patient had taken a family vacation in Colorado and chose to visit a few sights during the drive home to Pittsburgh. They had been on their way back from seeing some rainbow thing in Kentucky when the runaway semi had slammed into their minivan, killing the man’s wife and three young children.

That was the story Carol Piscatelli knew of the man whose vital statistics she was recording, and the pretty young nurse glanced down at her patient’s pale face, her heart aching for his tragedy. Carol set her clipboard aside and reached down to fluff his pillow.

I know your mom loves you, she said to the still figure beneath the hospital blankets, or she wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to have you transported here from Kentucky. But I almost wish they would let you go, Albert. Let you go on to your family in whatever afterlife there is without ever knowing what happened. In your case, honey, ignorance truly could be bliss.

Carol glared down at the patient, convinced she had just seen a twitch in the man’s face, around his eyes. Similar movements had occurred over the past few months, especially since the man’s large friend had been coming by to visit, but had been explained away by the doctors as involuntary muscle contractions. Carol had been told not too take too much hope in the twitches, that it had been too long and the man was basically brain dead at that point. She refused to believe that, however, and leaned in a little closer with wide, watchful eyes. Nothing happened, yet Carol decided that she would sit with Mister Trenton a little while longer since she was ahead of schedule on her appointed rounds.

Are you dreaming, Al? She asked. I think you are. Do you already know? Wherever you are and whatever you’re seeing, do you know what happened to your family?

There was no response from the pale-faced man beneath the tightly tucked hospital bed sheets. Carol wasn’t surprised in the least. She reached into the top drawer next to the hospital bed and withdrew a battered paperback copy of Charles Dickens ‘A Tale of Two Cities’, opening the thick novel to the page marked by a parking garage stub. After clearing her throat, Carol found the line on the page where she had last left off, and began reading aloud.

Did he hear the words Nurse Piscatelli read aloud to him? Was the man dreaming way down deep in his comatose subconscious? Did he truly have any psychic, supernatural knowledge about his family’s horrible fate? Carol couldn’t know, while she prayed to the God of her understanding that the thirty two year old widower wouldn’t know that his young wife and three children had been killed in the accident until there was someone else around to help ease his pain.

In a soft, pleasant tone, Carol read to her comatose patient with no way of knowing that it wasn’t the first time Albert Trenton had been overtaken by the darkness.

*

Whoop-whoop, Hooted from a tangle of full brush.

Whoop-whoop, called in return from behind a fallen tree.

Out of the brush burst a young boy wearing a bandana and carrying a plastic rifle. He ran at a crouch toward the fallen tree while branches and thorns grabbed futilely at his sleeveless olive green army vest and black sweatpants. A twig snapped beneath his brown snow boots, causing a pair of large green eyes and a tangle of brown-blonde hair to appear above the fallen tree.

They’ve located us! Jump the tree, Bandana. I’ll cover you.

The green eyes were then joined by the end of a whiffle ball bat over the fallen tree, along with the sound of a young boy’s flapping lipped imitation of a machine gun. Bandana hurdled the tree with the ease of an accomplished athlete and joined the owner of the wide green eyes, crouching next to him.

Whoop-whoop. Whoop-whoop. Puma, where are you? We’re under attack here and could use some backup! Bandana called into the woods.

The trees and growth around the two boys was quiet, except for the green-eyed boy’s pretend machine gun sounds. Bandana pulled the young boy known as Jigsaw behind the tree.

Puma mighta been captured, he said. Looks like we’re on our own. Sweep the clearing and cover me on my call.

Yes, sir! Jigsaw yelled, then made a clack-clack sound with his mouth as he held his trusty whiffle ball bat up to his shoulder.

Just before Bandana leapt the fallen tree and faced the invisible enemies of the boys’ collective imaginations, a cry echoed from the other side of the clearing.

Wildcats, HO! A third boy emerged from the thick brush, sweeping his own plastic bat imagined as a gun back and forth while his lips flapped with the pretend machine gun sounds. He crossed the width of the clearing and ducked behind a tree, never ceasing fire.

Wildcats, HO! Bandana and Jigsaw called out the battle cry in unison, assisting their cavalry in eliminating the remainder of their imaginary enemy. When the three boys came to a silent agreement that their threat had been subdued, they nodded to each other and ceased their pretend machine gun sounds. The third boy rushed over to the tree, hopped over, and crouched behind it with his partners.

Puma, you made it! You’re alive! Jigsaw cried in amazement. You came just in time.

The third boy nodded his head in acknowledgement, while still holding his gaze over the fallen tree.

You should have replied to the signal, Bandana said. The older boy stood tall in an effort to show his command. You should have relayed your position. We didn’t know where you were and coulda shot you, for Cripesake!

Puma grinned. I saved your butts didn’t I? Get down before the guys with the AK-47’s and frag grenades get here.

I give the orders around here, not you. The boy wearing the bandana declared. And when I tell you to-,

I know, Brian, but-,

Bandana, dammit! Brian hollered.

I know, Bandana, Puma said with a sly smile, but I was just running a little recon and … OH! Take cover!

That third boy jumped up in front of Brian and fired his pretend machine gun into the woods through the sound flapping from his lips. He fired for a few seconds, hollered out, then spun and fell with one hand clutching his shoulder. Bandana and Jigsaw fired into the woods with their own sounds, finishing off the imaginary assailants and kneeling next to their injured comrade.

Puma, are you okay?’ Jigsaw asked with wide eyes. Hang on man, lemme get my med kit!"

The youngest boy of the group hurried off to snatch up a fishing tackle box full of imaginary medicines for their imaginary game of war in the woods.

You saved my life, man. Bandana said.

Just get Jigsaw to stitch me up, and we’ll be okay, Puma croaked from his bed of pine needles and crunchy autumn leaves on the woods floor. Think there’s a whole bunker of ‘em heading this way. Maybe you shoulda been watching out, instead of bitching at me, Bandana.

I know, the older boy replied, but you should be following orders. Thanks anyway.

Hey, us Wildcats gotta look out for each other when we’re in a battle like this, and take a bullet if-,

Phil! Phillip! Come and eat! A young girl’s shrill tone pierced the boys’ comfortable confines of the autumn woods, along with their wonderful army game of the Wildcats.

Just as he set the tackle box full of pretend medicine next to his injured companion, Phillip’s innocent green eyes widened even more. Aw man. He said, all traces of the brave military medic Jigsaw long gone. It’s Patrice. I gotta go now or I won’t eat tonight. The youngest boy turned and walked away with the tackle box still hanging open.

Eat? AW crap! What time IS it? I still gotta deliver my papers! Puma said as he jumped up from the bed of pine needles and crunchy fall leaves.

Sixteen hundred and forty hours, Bandana said as he looked at his new digital watch. Four forty, civilian time, he finished with a slight smile.

Shit, I gotta go, Puma said just before he reached up and pinched his round, boyish cheek without even thinking about it. My customers will complain if I’m late. Can we pick this back up tomorrow?

I dunno, Brian said as he stared at his shuffling brown snow boots. I have wrestling practice and … stuff.

Bert nodded his head in understanding. Okay. We’ll beat those commies after I do some recon tonight!

Brian pulled his eyes away from his shoes long enough to meet young Albert’s gaze. And he smiled wide. Excellent. Make it detailed, Colonel!

Bert gave his older friend a little salute, Yes, sir! he barked before showing that his shoulder was still hurting from the pretend bullet he had taken for his friend.

*

His shoulder was cramping, so Bert shifted his newspaper bag to the other side.

That’s my wounded shoulder, he said aloud, There’s still a bullet in there.

Bert had been daydreaming about the Wildcats game while he hurried to deliver his papers, and only had one road to finish.

Orchid Drive, he thought, the steepest hill in the whole damn neighborhood.

That’s for swearing, he said as he pinched himself on the cheek. It was a strange little habit he’d developed to teach himself not to swear.

Even at ten years old, Albert Trenton knew what he should and should not be doing. His parents raised him well, instilling him with good ethics and an excellent ‘school comes first’ attitude. Bert was a tall, slim boy with baby-squeezable cheeks and a prominent nose. He was the only child of Daniel and Anita Trenton, and deeply loved by both.

Bert had undertaken the paper route of his own accord, along with the hearty encouragement of his father. Anita had argued vehemently, while Daniel insisted that the experience would teach the kid what it’s like to labor, and hopefully drive him to use his brain rather than his back to make it in life. The couple raised a good boy in turn, and Bert’s social behavior reflected their efforts. He was a well-mannered, well-spoken young man with a bright future. Though he sure did enjoy slaughtering a couple dozen imaginary enemies with his friends.

Oh, well, he thought again, it’s not six o’clock yet and Orchid’s the only road I have left. Then I can eat real fast and get back down to Brian’s house. Wildcats, HO!

Thoughts of whiffle ball bat machine guns, rock grenades, and invisible enemies circled in Bert’s head, pulling a wide grin onto his round face. Plotting about how to destroy the enemy bunker he’d spotted during his last recon, he strolled across the five-way intersection toward Orchid Drive from the eastern half of Englewood Avenue.

Hey, Fucknut! Watch where you’re goin’.

Bert hadn’t even noticed that he was being followed and, as he approached the first house on the looming hill of Orchid Drive, his pursuers caught up to him. Waking from his daze, the boy wheeled around toward the sound of the voice and was promptly struck in the forehead. A cry of combined fear and surprise burst from his lips while his eyes began to water. Laughter sounded in his ears.

Hey paperboy, got any money?

Recognizing the voice, Bert wiped the trickle of tears away from his eyes and saw the face. Melvin Rossi was standing with his arms folded across his broad chest, and his two sidekicks by his side. Devon Hillshire, a queer sounding name if Bert had ever heard one, was regarding the younger boy with bright green eyes, while Dusty Sopp had his index finger buried in his left nostril, digging for green gold. Dressed in torn blue jeans and a dirty Iron Maiden t-shirt, Melvin stood several inches taller than his cohorts, while he towered over Bert. The big boy’s black hair was dirty and tangled, and at the age of thirteen or so, it looked like he needed a shave. Melvin grinned and grabbed Bert by the front of his old cutoff sweatshirt, pulling the slender ten year old close enough to his stubbly face that Bert could feel Melvin’s hot breath and smell his unwashed mouth.

You hear me, pansy? Melvin growled, Got any money on ya?

With his arms swinging limp by his side and his eyes wide with fear, Bert gasped, No.

No? We’ll just see about that. Melvin yanked the strap of the newspaper bag off of the smaller boy’s shoulder, allowing it to drop to the ground. After pinning Bert’s arms behind his back, he said, Guys, check his bag.

Dusty and Devon jumped at their master’s command, shuffling through the newspaper bag and wrinkling the last few papers in their fruitless search. The two stooges simply stood there, Dusty in his khaki pants and plain white t-shirt and Devon in his too tight blue jeans and purple sweatshirt, regarding their grizzly leader with as much emptiness in their eyes as was in their hands. Dusty gazed up at Melvin with his light blue eyes, his thin white hair blowing in the cool September breeze.

Nothing, Mel, he said with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

Nope. Devon agreed.

Melvin lost what little bit of patience he even had to begin with. Well, check his fucking pockets then, you idiots! Christ!

Yeah, okay, Devon’s squinting green eyes brightened at the idea.

No, please, Bert whimpered, I told you I don’t have any money.

Shut up, pansy! Melvin barked, tightening his grip on the younger boy’s arms. I don’t wanna hear your cryin’. Go on guys.

Devon was the first to plunge his hand into the paperboy’s pocket, feeling first for money, then sliding his hand over Bert’s crotch, making him scream.

Quit it! Melvin clamped a hand over Bert’s mouth. Shut the fuck up!

Young Albert Trenton then clamped his teeth onto the smelly, greasy hand over his mouth, causing Melvin to pull his hand away and shove him. Bert’s feet got tangled in the strap of his newspaper bag and he fell to the road on his hands and knees.

You little bitin’ pansy! Melvin drew a steel-toed boot back for a good, hearty kick in the pansy’s ribs.

Hey! What’s going on over there? You boys quit that right now! Old Mr. Babich was yelling from the side door of his house.

Melvin halted his swinging foot long enough to show the old man a toothy grin and hold up his middle finger before following through with his kick. Bert cried out and fell on his side, holding an arm across his ribs.

Melvin Rossi, you worthless little bastard! Mr. Babich yelled, Leave that boy alone before I call the cops!

Mel, let’s go. Forget it. Dusty pleaded.

Yeah, c’mon, Devon agreed, looking nervously across the five-way intersection toward Tempest Avenue. I don’t need no more trouble from the law.

Right. Melvin said, as he examined his wounded hand and thought of the impending cigarette burns he would suffer if his father got another call from the police. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.

Bye bye, paperboy, Dusty crooned as he leaned down and wiped a large, gummy booger on Bert’s cheek.

The boy lying in the street, wrapped in the strap of his own newspaper bag and holding his ribs, could only let out another sobbing whimper.

Melvin nudged the helpless paperboy once more with the tip of his boot, I’ll be back for you, biting sissy pansy. You can fucking count on it.

Go on, get outta here! Mr. Babich yelled as he crossed his front yard.

Dusty and Devon were already running down Orchid Drive, toward the intersection with their sights set on Tempest Drive. Melvin turned to show the old man his middle finger one more time. Fuck you, old wrinkly dick motherfucker! he hollered before turning to follow his lackeys down Orchid Drive, his sadistic laughter echoing against the surrounding trees.

Goddam punks! Mr. Babich growled, walking over to where Bert sobbed and sniffled as he struggled to his feet. You okay, son? You bleeding? You wanna come inside for a Pepsi and take a break? He asked while handing the boy his newspaper bag.

No, sir. Thanks, anyway. Bert sobbed. Thanks for scaring them off, though. You never know what could have happened.

Ah, glad to do it, son. I was just watchin’ for my paper was all. No offense, but you’re runnin’ a little late today. Then I saw those kids roughing you up like that and, well … if I was a lotta years younger, I’d put that Melvin Rossi in his place. Mr. Babich emphasized with a fist held out in front of him.

Sorry I’m late, Mr. Babich, Bert said with regained composure as he handed the white haired man his newspaper. It’s a little wrinkled, so if you don’t want to pay for it, I’ll understand.

Aw, nonsense, Bert. Wrinkled is still readable. If it was wet, well then we’d have to see about that. He said with a sly eye looking down at the boy’s gaping mouth, then burst into laughter as he tussled Bert’s hair. Just kidding, son. Now go on and get your papers delivered before the others call in and complain, damn tight asses. I’ll keep an eye out for ya coming back, okay? Then maybe you can take a little time for that Pepsi.

Yes, sir, Bert said with a little grin. It felt great to