There was a house on 2nd street

Not sure where this came from, getting back to work introduces more structured free time into my day, strangely enough, so I started writing. Started from nothing ended up with what follows. The only changes were spelling and grammar adjustments as I went along. I don't think its quite how it should be, but I want to leave it raw. So here it is:

There was a house on 2nd street. I believe it was number 4. Could've been 6, I'd have to check. In any case, its number is not the reason I remember it.

It was a dark color, brown perhaps, with fading black shingles, and a red door. I really remember the door, it was bright, too bright it seemed, especially next to the dark walls.

I wish I could forget it. But that red door will never leave my mind.

2nd street is quiet, no more than the usual number of cars ever enter its sanctum. 14 little houses sit on each side with a simple T-stop at both ends.

In the winter, 2nd street was aglow with beautiful colors, each house like a kindergartner hopping up and down with his hand stretched as high as he can reach trying to get the teacher's attention.

But the beauty and the serenity and the joy were all hollow.

2nd street was home to a monster.

Not a "dragon with wings" kind of monster, not a "from the depths of the deepest ocean" kind of monster, not even a "hiding in your closet eating your socks" kind of monster, just a simple suburban creature of the darkness.

Now this creature had particular habits. A way of doing things which it had an affinity for; it hated change. Even the slightest inconvenience was to be avoided at all costs.

Of course, on a street like 2nd, such inconveniences never happened.

This creature, I prefer to call it "Oz", rose every morning at the crack of dawn after precisely 6 hours of sleep. It immediately set about to achieve its daily goal and always completed it in time to return to bed.

It never stopped.

The story of my encounter with it begins several years ago, in a hospital.

Hospitals are by nature paradoxical. They provide life, happiness and health, but you'd never want to go to one if you're alive, happy and healthy.

I was none of those however, so the hospital was a perfectly pleasant place at which to be.

I believe white is supposed to represent cleanliness and wholeness, that is, something without blemish, but instead I find that our perception of white has shifted.

Many hospitals have begun introducing colors into the wardrobes of their nurses, doctors and techs in order to promote activity, feelings of joy or comfort, and of course, to break the monotony a white-out inevitably introduces to an area.

This particular hospital had just started the transformation, so I sat in a white room, with white walls, a white ceiling and white sheets but was attended by a black doctor in a brown coat and tanned nurses with multicolored scrubs.

To describe my stay at the hospital as successful is rather missing the point. Anytime you leave a hospital you have succeeded. Many do not. However, there were certain goals that needed to be reached when I entered.

First, I needed to be able to breathe. While most of the time breathing is involuntary, if you're lucky enough to be born with less than ideal lungs, it's the not breathing which seems more involuntary.

Second, I needed to be alive.

Most of the time, especially for humans, "being alive" has more than just a few working definitions. The brain, the supercomputer of nerves and receptors, is the primary source of what we call "life."

However, the heart, lungs and soul also play a part. Scientifically, someone can have no brain function and be "alive" because their heart, lungs and other basic processes are being managed by someone else's brain, in most cases the inventor of the heart-lung machine.

I was in another grey area, the one in which my brain was fully functioning, quite well in fact if you ask me, while my lungs were not. In this case, death would be when the lungs stop providing oxygen to the perfectly good brain and it stopped working.

And that death would be soon.

Since I'm obviously telling this story, and you've supposed that things will be happening after what happens in the hospital, it comes as no surprise that I did not experience what we so flippantly call death.

Until one does experience it though, it's hard not to imagine that some of the things we do experience are vastly more horrible and unbearable than that mystery of perpetual rest.

Dying, or the sensation that one is going to die, has been documented as the most exhilarating experience a human can endure. It has been shown to provide a high thousands of times more overwhelming than the most potent narcotics or hallucinogens.

Ignorance is never blissful, but it is often comfortable.

Fortunately for me, my story has just begun and it would be a dreadful story if it ended on page 2. I was healed. I received the touch of the healers and breathed anew. The doctor administered a treatment which solved the symptoms and the cause. The breath of life coursed through me once again.

But there was a cost.

I was no longer who I had been. My original state was altered. The lungs which had forced out my first cry were now alien to me. My own body had set itself on my destruction and it had been thwarted. Recompense was due.

In some paradoxical sense, I had been given a new body. I hadn't had a brain transplant or even a lung transplant. But a whole new set of abilities, sensations and limitations were pressed upon me.

Something was different.

That's when I met Oz. He insists he was there all along. That I hadn't noticed him, but I have no memory of him prior to that day.

He also persisted in referring to me as his, some sort of delusional ownership. No matter how much I disagreed with him he wouldn't budge on that fact.

You're probably wondering how I could just meet a monster. The first day I met him there was little indication of what he would become. Over time it became abundantly clear my safety and the safety of those around me was in jeopardy.

Oz wouldn't leave me alone. He possessed an uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings, so much so, some people didn't notice him at all, but I always knew he was there. So did my closest friends, some of whom actually enjoyed his shenanigans, while most tried to ignore him.

My wife had a difficult time dealing with Oz. She tried at times to accommodate him, give him a chance to have his way thinking it might encourage him to move on. Of course that didn't help, it merely allowed him to entrench deeper into our lives.

Other times she would plot to kill him. Unwittingly, I usually foiled the plans with my lack of awareness, but at least once she got a clean shot off. Instead of felling the beast, he grew to an enormous size and threatened to destroy our family. Thankfully, we managed to talk him down.

Living with a monster is easier than it sounds. While Oz was tireless, he avoided getting in our way as long it didn't interfere with his designs.

Being in good health, I launched out on the adventure that each of us is afforded. Family, fun and a feverish pursuit of freedom filled every inch of my life, every inch except Oz's.

We started a family, planting and growing two wonderful human specimens. We watered their minds and groomed their attitudes until we had a couple excellent products for society. When they had ripened, the Dream Weaver plucked them and set them on their paths.

Nothing tastes better than the fruit of your labor.

All the while Oz went about his work. I couldn't help but wonder what our little morsels could've been had he not been around. Despite our best efforts, he managed to bruise them both on numerous occasions and even tried to start a colony of worms in one of them.

We stopped that nonsense right away, but not without considerable strain.

At times I wondered if Oz had an ally in the home. A counterpart I wasn't aware of, I mentioned it to my wife on several occasions, but it wasn't until much later my fears were confirmed. Nonetheless, Oz was plenty of trouble on his own.

With success comes possibilities and 2nd street was our resting place.

The Dream Weaver had visited both of us when we were young and given us our portion. While satisfying every craving is virtually impossible, we felt our adventures had neared their zenith.

That's when the hideous creature began to take its nastiest shape. It became bulky, odorous and intimidating. Nobody could ignore it and even the ones that may have enjoyed his company began to lose interest.

His rank cloud of putrescence began to consume me.

A simple, pleasant address like number 4 2nd street can become such a dark place.

Appeasement failed as the beast became more and more gluttonous with each new concession. Resistance was met with overwhelming force and hopelessness began to set in.

Would we ever be rid of this monster?

The view ahead grew hazy, and each day our progress shrank as his empire grew.

It had to be stopped. But it never stopped.

I had an idea. The first time I met the creature was at the hospital. Maybe if I returned there, they would have an idea on how to contain the beast. Or even possibly destroy it.

Convincing Oz that I needed to go to the hospital was no easy task. It had become so powerful, that at times I almost regretted my hatred of it. It was all I knew, all I could see, and the fear of the unknown is paralyzing.

When I arrived, it took some time before anyone would see me. You see, I was healed, I already had been fixed and there were loads of sick people to be taken care of. Eventually, a doctor took a few minutes to see me.

"What's the problem?"

"This creature, Oz, he first appeared here, so I thought maybe you'd know a way to get rid of him."

"Oz? Oh, that. Did you get your lungs repaired?"

"Yes, that was when he came."

"Kind of, did your doctor send you any medicine home, for your lungs?"

"Yeah, but my lungs are fine, he fixed them."

"Right, but have you been taking the medicine?"

"No. I just said my lungs are fine."

"Try taking the medicine, and here are some refills. The same thing that opened your airways can also clear away dangerous pollutants. Your friend, Oz was it? He shouldn't last long, although you'll have to kill it every morning."

"Every day, don't you have another treatment, something that would wipe him out for good?"

"Yes, but you wouldn't like that."

I didn't understand it at the time, but just as the doctor said, daily doses of the same meds which cured my lung defect fought back Oz. He ever went away and he never stopped working. But his potency decreased with every dose.

Other people started noticing his weakness. Some missed him, pining for his mischievousness. But my wife and I were glad to be rid of him.

His story doesn't end with me though. You see, Oz lives on. Every day he tirelessly presses towards his conquest. Every day, individuals medicate to fend him off.

My story ends though. It ends in a hospital, just where it began. This time my body will not be stopped. Death's mysteries will be revealed.

Oz doesn't get to come.

As I closed my eyes and the machines stopped beeping I felt his grip slip off.

Humans are forever trapped on the runaway train of his life, flying headlong off a cliff, always dangling over our impending deaths. Death is the breaking of the chains, the opening of the eyes to the freedom that fills our dreams.

As I closed my eyes, they opened and I saw him. The doctor, the one who healed my lungs and drove away the monster, stood before me. He reached out and took me.

I was free.

There is a monster on 2nd street. But his clock is ticking.