Laura's Story, John Stormm [top 20 books to read TXT] 📗

There is a world, at large around you, that most of you are never aware of and never see. It is fully populated by people very much like yourselves, and many more of whom who have lives, dreams and desires that go far beyond the pale of your limited understanding. Many of us liken you to the old cart pulling horses that used to pull the dairy carts down our city streets so many years ago. Your masters and handlers have fitted you with "blinders", so as not to be distracted by all the activites going on about you, as you steadily pulled that dairy cart along your appointed rounds, in your work-a-day job.

You appear to be fine, competent and strong enough animals for your work. But for all of your strength and mass, if you but stumble in a pot hole and break a leg in the course of your career, your handlers will have to put you down, and another team of horses will carry you to your final resting place and speak comforting words about what a fine, caring and responsible draft horse you were, and that is the sum total of what your life will have amounted to. You were but a shadow on the streets you walked down every day of your life and merely a part of that back ground scenery, of vastly more interesting and important lives around you, that you were only dimly aware of, because of the blinders that you were forced to wear.

This story is not going to be one of my fantasy novels or short stories. This is a story about a long time friend of mine, who was rarely seen or fathomed by all those work-a-day draft horses. She was living "under the radar" and "off the grid" for reasons that most of you might find "eccentric", and working an "under the table" waitressing job. As I am writing this, it was a couple weeks ago, when she was driving her boyfriend, Rolf's car home from work, in the wee hours of the night, that she was struck, head on by a habitual drunk driver and suffered extensive head trauma from the impact, and found herself comatose, and in critical condition at a local hospital. I think it was last Tuesday, when she passed away. The drunk had no insurance and no license, as he had lost those for driving DWI before and creating havoc in people's lives. It was his choice to get behind the wheel of that car in his condition.

For reasons that many of you will never know or understand, even though his condition was only "serious", as compared to Laura's "critical", because of his callous disregard for other human life, and the particular group of human lives he had made his impact upon: It would be the last time that he would ever be allowed to make any such choices again. This story is about Laura and people like her, who to most "draft horses", "muggles" and "sleepwalkers" are the stuff of dreams and nightmares. But to those of us who are very much awake and aware of our surroundings, are very real people, and will be most sorely missed for their absence in our world.

I'm one such a person as many of these, and like them, very unique in my own right. I hail from a family of hereditary witches, which people find hard to fathom or believe. It's my reality, no matter how unreal it may appear to you. After all, your handlers and the authorities you placed and accepted over you, told you many, many outlandish and untrue tales of what witches are supposed to be. They programmed you to believe that anything perceived beyond the five dogmatic senses of sight, sound, touch, smell and hearing cannot possibly exist in your world.

Anyone who professes to have garnered any information by any means beyond those dogmatic five senses is either insane or politely eccentric. But how many of you can feel the scrutiny, when there are eyes on the back of your heads? Or meet someone for the first time and have that "gut feeling" about them that, in time proves itself out? But it could not have possibly been so! It was a mistake, or just a coincidence. It had to be, because everyone knows that such things simply don't happen. They know it because they were told it was so, over and over and over again, by people they trusted more than the evidence of their own eyes and senses. So you keep your blinders firmly on, as any responsible draft horse might do and plod on, pulling that cart every day and paying your taxes until you either break a leg and get put down or die a ripe old age, and the most memorable thing you are remembered for is how much you loved your family, and that joke you told at a party once.

But the truth is: There's people around you that could pull that cart of yours, with the speed of a drag racer. People that see more options in their lives than just the road straight ahead of them. When they are at their most alert, they even see the things coming up behind them, or hidden behind walls and closed doors. People who belong to a world with a much broader panorama than you've ever seen on TV or read about in the newspapers. People with much greater capabilities than you believe, or dare to exercise for yourself, even if you had them.

It's not a whim or a flight of fancy to many of us. Not to Laura, and not to me. I came up through life with another hard reality called MK Ultra. My whole life long, I got the highest grades, not only in my classes, but in my schools. I've performed feats of strength. Punched through things that most people would not dare to strike with their fists. Been the man who brought a knife to a gunfight and walked away afterwards. I could show you a very real brick building across the street from a major hospital, on the medical campus that is run by the CIA, where I and other children were abused and experimented upon by mad ex-Nazi scientists. But people won't believe it. They could walk up to the door, only to be escorted away in the interests of "national security", and still not believe that I might be telling the truth. That many of the things I am capable of doing everyday of my life, were the direct results of the horrors that happened to me there as a child.

Our government would never allow doctors to perform such atrocities on everyday civilians without their consent. That cannot happen in this country, in this day and age! You can watch a documentary on the History Channel, or Discovery, that documents and shows you that very same building, at the very same medical campus, and how it was used to inject dozens of unwitting and unwilling test subjects with radioactive isotope for the Manhattan Project, just to see what it would do to them, and how their families never knew the truth until many decades later, when the Freedom of Information Act, made that knowledge available to them, to their shock and horror. Or never consider what the stories were all about when then, President Clinton got on TV and publicly apologised to America, for those and other foul experiments, with no assurance that such experiments ever have, or ever will stop. After all, that sort of thing doesn't happen to real people like yourselves. Just those nameless, faceless souls that you have never met or seen beyond your blinders. The building is still there, and still working secret CIA projects, both at this, and another local college campus. Very real, solid, concrete, brick and steel structures with a documented dubious past. But people like me are either crazy, or eccentric, and things like us, just don't happen in your world.

When I was a boy, my grandmother used to warn me about my showing off before the "sleepwalkers", as she called them. These were everyday people, up, dressed for work and walking about, but not seeing the same world as we see it. They were fast asleep and dreaming "The American Dream". You can't just walk up on sleepwalkers, and shake them awake, without them hurting themselves or going into shock or something. It wasn't right. You had to be considerate, and escort them gently along, and watch out for them, so that they didn't just wander in front of an oncoming truck or something. It was a good analogy. I know because in my sheer frustration and anger, I've tested it out. I showed a sleepwalking friend a house, that could only be seen in this world from one side. I walked him around to the other, and challenged him to show it to me. Of course, he couldn't. He dropped out of church, and all of his normal social circles as a very troubled young man.

At yet another time and place: When some serious trouble arose, I had told my friends at the time, that I could fix it by "dominating" or "hypnotizing" everyone who was there, into believing that something else had happened. To give you a perspective of how severe this altercation had gotten: Vernon's Camaro had been set upon and shot at by a group of very angry men. Understandably, everyone was worried about ever being able to show their faces in public in that town again. But I had some options that I knew I could play. They sat up that night, worried that I was about to do something crazy, and get us all into worse trouble than we already were. When they next saw me, a police officer had just escorted me home, waved and drove away, as though nothing special had happened that evening.

Vernon could not imagine why he didn't come in and arrest the whole bunch of us, and lay in a fetal position on my couch, shivering from his brush with a reality that he could not fathom, and could not exist in his world as a mechanic and a part time insurance salesman. I didn't just make up my own rules as I went along. I was trained to do some things, and I knew some facts about reality, that sleepwalkers never even get to consider. I would like to have had them present with me, when I went to see the people we had our altercations with, but they would have only been a distraction to me, and they would have been effected by the field I had created, and things would have gotten much worse confused, and harder to manage than they already were.

As it was, they knew what had happened that night, but the other people involved were made to believe something else entirely had went on, and that it was a normal night as any. They would have had that police officer arrest me, had they or he believed anything else had happened. No harm, no foul as they say. No "gift of gab" was involved here. I flagged down the cop when I ran out of gas trying to return to "the scene of the crime". I told him my story and he took me to where they had already called for the police.

I sat in the back of the car, but they didn't recognize me from the altercation, and as they all told their sides of the story, they were all just a little bit high and figured they were mistaken about the whole thing