The Defender

Pushed, or more like propelled forward by a gun—more precisely a Smith & Wesson 36 caliber revolver—lodged deeply into the center of my back.  My Pusher had plans for me.

Five o’clock in the morning my Zen alarm clock retrieves me from deep within my dream world, two and a half hours before my first client.

“This is the only time you have to work on your extra writing assignment due tonight,” the familiar voice screamed.

Dead to the world, I responded against the deep soulful silent wail of my flailing body by crawling out of my warm bed into the frigid autumn air.

My writing assignment—isn’t this supposed to be fun?  I struggled up the stairs to feed my meowing cats and then, coming back down the stairs—with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson pressed up against me—it happened: a stand off.

“Shower, dress, make a cup of tea and get to work, you know how much better you will feel when you finish.” My Pusher exclaimed.

The story of my life, I groaned. And then, to my surprise, I heard the words I had been longing to hear.

”You have got to be fucking kidding me! She’s exhausted, let her sleep.”

Someone in me had finally stood up against the strongest voice of all.  My Defender had surfaced in my moment of need. There’s hope, I whispered half-asleep.

Standing between the doorway to the bathroom and my beckoning bed, sleep caked between my squinting eyes, I took advantage of this stand off. Diving headfirst back into the comfort of my organic 400 thread count sheets I found myself back where I had been only minutes ago.

Re-setting the alarm for six o’clock I bought an hour.  As I re-entered the portal back to my dream realm, I knew that I found the topic that I would write about.  And an extra 60 minutes of sleep.