World Gone, Chapter 7: Ray-In-the-Green

Hello all, and Happy New Year. I hope this new year finds you all in good moods, and health. I don't know where I'm at in all of that right now, but I do know that I was able to push myself into writing the rough draft of another chapter of "World Gone". To be honest, I wasn't sure that I was going to able to. Since I can't really get anyone to read the previous chapters, I gotta wonder why I'm bothering to write more. Plus, I think it annoys some who don't get enough free time for themselves, so why should I take any time for myself? But the story was stuck in there... for now. I guess I'm just being stubborn. Whatever the reason, I'm glad I was able to write some more, and introduce a character whom I think will be pretty important later on. I guess we'll see. Until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter (you who, for some reason, would bother to read this). 

These are not the trees from the story, not even close. Why would I even use this picture?!

Chapter 7 – Ray-In-the-Green

In the brisk embrace of the cold morning air, he slowly stirred from the depths of his slumbers, his body protesting against the relentless assault of yet another night drowned in alcohol. The lingering agony of a pounding hangover clung to him like a heavy cloak, a familiar discomfort that had become an unwelcome companion in the early hours of nearly every day. It was a scenario he had grown accustomed to – a consequence of too many evenings spent drowning his sorrows in the bitter solace of intoxication.

This ritual of numbing his pain with alcohol was a well-established pattern, a recurring theme that saw a significant portion of his hard-earned paycheck vanish into the bottom of a grimy, well-worn solo cup. A vessel that had become emblematic of his personal struggles, serving as a conduit for the liquid escapism he sought to alleviate the burdens of his demanding life. If only he could break free from the grip of his own vices, perhaps his fortunes might change. Yet, the grip of routine was unyielding, and his loyalty to that age-old solo cup unwavering.

Ten years had passed since he first adopted this peculiar drinking vessel, and in that time, it had become a symbol of defiance against the inevitability of change. Rita Cole’s boy, Ray, found solace in his processes, a semblance of order in a world that often seemed chaotic. His attachment to the solo cup was more than a mere habit; it was a lifeline, a constant amidst the tumultuous waves of his existence.

Ray's peculiar rituals were not born out of mere caprice but were rooted in a desire to escape the relentless grip of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) that plagued his every waking moment. For him, life itself was a series of meticulous processes, and the only respite he sought was in the numbing haze of alcohol. The solo cup became his refuge, a sanctuary where he could momentarily silence the cacophony of his mind.

Once again, he found himself awakening in the embrace of nature, concealed within a small yet densely packed wooded area. Here, hidden from prying eyes, he could freely indulge in the discreet rituals that offered him a semblance of control. The solitary act of relieving himself and replenishing his solo cup with another round of numbing elixir was a routine he clung to, a momentary escape from the intricate web of his own mind.

As the morning sunlight filtered through the dense canopy overhead, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, Ray grappled with the duality of his existence. The great outdoors, with its serenity and seclusion, offered him a respite from the demands of society, yet his reliance on the familiar solo cup was a stark reminder of the chains that bound him. In this delicate dance between routine and escape, Ray continued to navigate the intricacies of his life, a solitary figure hidden in the heart of nature's embrace.

Groggily rising from the cold ground, he ambled just a few short feet away to relieve himself of the remnants of last night's consumed liquor. The acrid scent of cheap vodka, his beverage of choice toward the end of the pay-cycle, lingered in the chilly air. These final days leading to the next payday were always arid, a stark contrast to the deluge of drink he craved. The prospect of an endless flow of alcohol was but a fleeting wish, one never granted in the harsh reality of his existence.

As he stood there, in the vulnerable act of relieving himself, a realization washed over him—soon there would be nothing left to drink at all. The last drops of solace from his dwindling bottle marked the onset of a parched period, a sober interlude that he dreaded more with each passing pay-cycle. Yet, his immediate concern was not the impending dry spell, but a startling discovery that eclipsed his current predicament.

Upon glancing down, he noticed for the first time that his clothes were conspicuously absent. A wave of bewilderment and confusion washed over him. "That's strange," he mumbled to himself, attempting to reconcile the fact that he was now standing alone and exposed in the heart of a wooded area. The details of disrobing had eluded his foggy memory, leaving him grappling with the inexplicable mystery of his own nudity.

Rather than succumb to the unsettling reality of being alone and unclothed in the wilderness, his frantic mind immediately fixated on a more urgent matter—the fate of his cherished solo cup and the precious bottle that had accompanied him through the night. The vessel that had become an emblem of his daily routine and the bottle containing the last remnants of solace for the month were now the epicenter of his distress.

Hurriedly retracing his steps to the makeshift bed where he had slumbered the night away, he was met with a horrifying revelation. Not only were his clothes absent, but his cup and the precious bottle were nowhere to be found. Panic surged through him as he stood in the midst of the secluded woods, vulnerable and exposed, stripped not only of his garments but also of the comforting companionship of his solo cup and the dwindling source of solace that was his final bottle of the month. The harsh reality of his predicament unfurled before him, weaving a tapestry of vulnerability and loss in the cold light of the morning sun.

He frantically searched the ground all around him, hoping that maybe the cup (and the bottle of course) had somehow ended up under a pile of brush, or dead leaves. He had no idea how long he had looked for his reward, but after some time he gave up, his body cold and cramping from the exertion. In his mind he wanted to scream out into the biting cold of the early morning, but found that he couldn’t force any sound out of his mouth. He was living some kind of crazy nightmare. The kind of crazy nightmare where an angry, and unforgiving God would dare to take the last ounces of solace from not only his sight, but from its very existence. And tucked within all of that worry, he couldn’t even begin to start worrying about the solo cup. This was the biggest shock for his early morning haze. His damned cup.

Frantically scouring the ground surrounding him, his hands moved through the underbrush, desperately hoping that his cherished solo cup, and the elusive bottle nestled within its insulating confines, might have found refuge under a clandestine pile of brush or beneath a layer of dead leaves. The quest for his salvation consumed him, oblivious to the passage of time as he tore through nature's camouflage, driven by the desperation to recover the last vestiges of comfort.

The duration of his relentless search remained elusive; time seemed to warp and twist in the disorienting dance of anxiety and loss. Eventually, his efforts waned, and he succumbed to the inevitable reality. Cold and cramping from the exertion, he stood amidst the desolate woods, the biting morning air seeping into his bones. The temptation to scream and release the pent-up frustration clawing at his insides hung heavy in the air. However, to his dismay, his voice remained imprisoned within, as if the very essence of sound had deserted him in this surreal nightmare.

In the midst of this bleak scenario, a profound sense of helplessness engulfed him. It was as though an angry and unforgiving deity had orchestrated this cruel twist of fate, depriving him not only of the tangible solace within his grasp but also erasing it from the very fabric of existence. The weight of his predicament pressed upon him, rendering him speechless and immobile in the eerie silence of the woods.

Amidst the maelstrom of worry and despair, there lingered a realization that cut through the chaos—the solo cup, an unassuming yet indispensable part of his ritual, had vanished into the void. A stark revelation that pierced through the haze of his early morning shock. The damnable cup, a constant companion through a decade of ritualistic imbibing, had been snatched away, compounding the surreal nightmare that unfolded around him. In the face of this unexpected loss, the significance of the cup emerged as a poignant symbol of his unraveling world, a tangible link to a semblance of order now irrevocably shattered.

Ray's desperate desire to continue the search for his elusive salvation clashed with the harsh reality of his physical exhaustion. The relentless quest for the precious solo cup and the dwindling bottle had sapped his strength, leaving him incapacitated and sprawled out naked on the unforgiving ground. In the absence of his liquid crutch, he discovered the fragility of his own resilience, realizing that much of his stamina had been drawn from the depths of the bottle.

As he lay there, the encroaching awareness of his surroundings manifested in the form of the impending "sticky thoughts." The intrusive and tormenting ideas began to seep into his consciousness, amplifying the grim reality of his current predicament. He found himself perched on the dirty, litter-strewn ground in the heart of a densely packed forest, a seemingly arbitrary dumping ground for the refuse of indifferent passersby. The detritus of others had become his unwitting companions in this desolate landscape.

Oddly, amidst the haze of his disoriented mind, Ray registered a peculiar absence—there was no trash around him. The realization struck him as profoundly strange, given the typical clutter that characterized this small but densely populated forest. His surroundings, devoid of discarded remnants, defied the expectations built upon countless nights spent in the solitary embrace of nature's refuse.

Yet, this newfound clarity also brought forth a fragment of recollection. Ray's memory struggled to pierce through the fog, revealing an image of a discarded couch that had served as his makeshift bed the previous night. Its worn upholstery and protruding springs had offered a semblance of comfort, a reprieve from the cold, hard ground. Now, however, the couch had vanished, leaving Ray to ponder the mystery of its disappearance in his addled state. The once-familiar makeshift refuge, though far from ideal, had been an anchor in the chaotic tapestry of his transient existence. Its absence added another layer of bewilderment to the surreal nightmare that unfolded, leaving Ray to grapple not only with the loss of his cherished cup and bottle but also with the enigma of a missing couch in the heart of this forsaken forest.

The weight of the waking nightmare became an unbearable burden for Ray, an oppressive reality that threatened to suffocate him. Devoid of the customary drink that served as a shield against the impending deluge of "sticky thoughts," he braced himself for the storm that awaited him. The absence of his usual crutch left him vulnerable, and he anticipated the intensification of mental turmoil before any semblance of relief would materialize.

Lying exposed on the frigid forest floor, Ray felt the chill of the morning air seeping into his bones. Stripped of both his physical and metaphorical defenses, he closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to shut out the harsh reality that loomed over him. In this vulnerable state, he initiated a familiar ritual—the act of counting. Each rhythmic count served as a desperate anchor, a lifeline thrown into the tempest of his thoughts, offering a momentary respite from the impending chaos.

As the numbers ticked away in his mind, Ray clung to the solace of this simple yet effective coping mechanism. The act of counting became a sanctuary, a deliberate diversion from the impending flood of sticky thoughts. In those agonizingly protracted moments, Ray fought to regain control over the unruly tide of his mind, using the repetitive counting as a mechanism to stave off the encroaching chaos.

After what felt like an eternity, the persistent counting began to weave a semblance of order amidst the disarray within Ray's mind. The relentless thoughts began to subside, their intensity dulled by the rhythmic cadence of his internal counting. Slowly, like a weary traveler finding respite, Ray slipped back into the embrace of sleep—a realm where the subconscious offered an escape from the waking torment.

For Ray, the dream world became a refuge, a sanctuary from the harshness of his waking reality. The promise of anything being better than the hellish circumstances he had found upon waking propelled him willingly into the comforting embrace of dreams. In the transient realm of sleep, he sought solace from the tumultuous landscape of his thoughts, even if it meant trading one set of challenges for another. As Ray surrendered to the embrace of sleep, he found a momentary reprieve from the relentless onslaught of his waking nightmare.