Tiny Horses Galloping
It was like a miniature Genghis Khan had set off, with a similarly miniature army of thousands. I half expected the walls to rattle and shake down around me.
They didn't. In a way, I mean. Of course.
For a moment, I considered running out of the room and all this shiny stuff and bursting through the doors and grabbing the nearest person I could and telling them about the Genghis Khan thing. My feet were tapping so hard against the cold linoleum, either because, unconsciously, as well, I was anxious to run out and spread the news, or it was just nervous energy coursing out through my toe tips. I noticed that I wasn't wearing any shoes any more. Couldn't quite place when I'd taken them off. But figured it was probably a good thing, because the last remaining rational fiber of my brain tried explaining to the rest that it was probably best to just stand here, tapping, instead of running down the hall and out.
"Besides," I could feel that rational bit just begging to add in, "Miniature Genghis Khan? Tiny horses? That'll go down real well," but keeping it down, lest that thought be too much for the rest of the brain, and push it to retaliate and actually run down the hall, grabbing people at will.
I could understand -- the rest of my brain was probably that drunk guy at the party you should really, if we were all being honest, sit down and have a talk with, get them to slow down a little bit. But no one does, because everyone knows the second you engage that person you're probably either going to a) have that guy get sick all over you. b) Not have any effect whatsoever, except for the lingering hatred that person will forever bear you for something he can't quite remember, but he'll remember you only as a buzzkill, and, even worse, not a successful one. Or c) this drunk guy is going to wind up convincing you to get wasted along with him, and then there'll be two of you. None of the scenarios were appealing.
At least I had stopped thinking about the mini-Mongol hordes advancing down upon the room. Damn, there they were again. It was deafening. I knew from reading enough books that it was probably just the blood rushing in my ears, but I couldn't fathom that no one else could hear it, as well. It just filled the room, sloshing off the walls, clattering exactly like you'd imagine horses clad for war would sound -- its own armor and that of its rider flapping and clanging down with each surge forward. Tiny as they may be.
The last thing I heard, before I passed out, was gospel singing. It started down the hall, following behind the tiny horses hooves thumping.
At the outset, I could feel panic in my head, like the last remaining rational piece in my brain was getting a foreboding feeling that it was about to be swallowed whole by the rest of the brain and was getting just a little frantic at the prospect. But the singing got louder, and louder, and I could eventually hear it over the hoofbeats distinctly, coming from somewhere down the hall into the room. I looked around the room, and the doctor looked back, nodded and smiled at the door, which I took to mean he heard it too. I resisted the urge to ask him the automatically delusional-sounding "You hear that, too?" I bit my lower lip to prevent myself. And the hoofbeats got the tiniest fraction louder, but so did the gospel singing, shrinking the room to the size of a thimble for the rest of us, with the sounds coursing through. It wasn't quite iron I was tasting in my mouth, but something tasted different in my mouth.
Okay, at least I think it was gospel singing... I think. The horde rushed over me and all was dark. And quiet.
Summary
disclaimer:
I feel like singing.
Next week, then?
The preceding, by the way, has been an excerpt from the perennially forthcoming God Coffee, I Miss You.
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