Vignettes From A Dream

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino

(Revised January 2026)

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A Wronged Child's Eternal Life

The morning sun had risen just a few hours ago, and was blooming gloriously over the tall treetops to the east as Dr. Paul Westfield drove his luxurious car up the long winding drive, heading towards the large white mansion that sat atop the beautifully manicured grassy green knoll. Drenched in the perfect early morning summer light, the stately house appeared to be regarding him haughtily, as if proudly aware of its own magnificence. The high Roman columns holding up the roof of the expansive front porch reminded him of attentive soldiers, dutifully guarding the entrance to the large foyer that he would soon be passing through on his way to another day of work. Another very unpleasant day of work.

He was feeling his age this morning. Still youthful looking for a man in his early sixties, with a slightly graying but full head of light-blonde hair swirling gracefully over his ears, Paul cut a rather handsome figure in his well-tailored pale blue suit. Of medium-tall height and in good physical shape, he still loved to engage in various strenuous forms of exercise, and even some light sports. But his wife's recent, and increasingly serious illness had put a damper on his recreational activities; it was harder to enjoy them, if he even could manage to indulge himself at all. His time had increasingly been given to his ever-demanding employer, a man whom Paul, in spite of his admirable temperance, had come to dislike intensely.

The wide, perfectly paved and spotless ribbon of concrete winding its way gently up the grassy hill looked more like a two-lane public road than someone's private driveway. Some distance behind him, an armed attendant in the small kiosk guarding the imposing wrought-iron front gate made certain that entrance to anyone turning off the highway, mistakenly or otherwise, would be checked; and the equally tall, green-painted thick metal bars of the fence encircling the vast estate served the same purpose. The message it conveyed was blatantly obvious: any unimportant, lowly riff-raff personages were most definitely unwelcome here.

Paul Westfield was definitely not considered an unwelcome visitor to this splendid place. He was a welcomed daily entrant, an important servant of the elfin little man who owned the tastefully manicured grounds; a highly-esteemed and well-compensated servant, but a servant nonetheless, carefully handpicked from among a select group of highly regarded psychoanalyists, some of whom were very famous. Paul had gained his extremely well-paid position on account of several key attributes he possessed, one of them being his extremely patient approach to psychotherapy; but his seemingly lucky break had proven to be a curse in disguise, and he had long ago come to wish that he had not been so fortunate.

Sometimes Dr. Westfield was even obligated, under written contract, to spend several days on these gilded premises without leave. This was when his obscenely wealthy patient, whom he had by now secretly diagnosed as being mentally disturbed to the extreme point of certifiable insanity, was having a bad spell. These dangerous spells were occuring quite regularly of late, and Paul had grown to resent the ever-growing constraints on his personal time-off; especially since his wife was bedridden at home, sick with the latest of the seemingly never-ending plagues that now circulated constantly about the entire country. Her illness was growing worse with each passing week, and Paul had spared no expense to provide her both comfort and medical assistance; accordingly, his pocketbook had begun to feel the strain. That was why he had not yet terminated the binding, almost unbearable contract he had made with his odious but very wealthy employer, Brandon Gikhenn Rongedchild II. To have done so would have cost him a small fortune in much needed future pay and benefits.

Paul quickly cast off the gloomy look that had come over his face, as he pulled up in front of the carefully tended rose garden that fronted the mansion. A pleasant looking attendant suited in livery quickly emerged from the front doors, which were several dozen yards away; it took some time for the smiling young man to reach his car. By the time he had done so, the doctor had already gotten out and was standing beside its still open door, basking in the gentle morning sunshine. The fragrant smell of roses was brightening his gloomy mood immensely, and he silently thanked God for that; the roses always provided a much needed boost to his low spirits.

"Hello, Paul, good morning!" Sam the doorman greeted him cheerily.

"Yes, it's a beauty, isn't it?" Paul replied, returning Sam's smile; he liked Sam much more than he did his antagonistic employer. "Come to steal my car away again, I see."

Sam laughed merrily. "I would if I could, sir; you know I love driving that car. I trust you've already had breakfast?"

"Oh yes... no need, Sam, no need. Just tell Brandon that I'm here, and waiting in my chambers if he needs anything." Paul managed to hide the grimace that was forming on his face, but he felt sure that Sam could see behind his pleasant mask. Sam was not a naive man at all; the doctor had already discerned that quite readily.

Paul strolled slowly up the front walk as Sam drove his car away, savoring the aroma of the surrounding rose bushes. He actually preferred these breeds over the ones in the much larger inner rose gardens; their fragrance was much stronger, and carried further in the breeze. He was hoping that it was one of his employer's better days, and he would not be immediately needed; then he could sit and read, or stroll the magnificent grounds in peaceful meditation. Perhaps he could pleasantly divert himself the entire day, if it was a lucky one.

He soon found out that he was to be disappointed. Oscar, the main assistant to Brandon Gikhenn, was waiting for him in the foyer, and he didn't look very happy. Like Paul, he was wearing a well-practiced smile on his long, bearded face, but it looked painfully contrived.

"Good morning, sir," said Oscar, in his usual polite tone. Before Paul could utter a greeting in return, Oscar continued on. "Mr. Rongedchild would like to see you immediately this morning, if you please."

In spite of his well-cultivated restraint, Paul felt another gloomy expression stealing over his face; but he quickly hid it away. He knew for a fact that the foyer he was standing in, like every other place in the mansion, was under constant video surveillance; and the videos were not discarded after being viewed by another unseen but ever-diligent servant in some secret room. They were stored away forever, in case Gikhenn wanted to study them himself, for some twisted reason; that was how grotesquely paranoid his wealthy patient was.

The polite, but seemingly circumspect Oscar led Paul up one flight of a wide, red-carpeted stairway to another typically swank room, which abutted his patient's study/office. Through an open door, he could hear Gikhenn's shrill, annoyingly combative voice gabbling away in a hostile tone, about some trivial matter that would only interest a very sick mind; and as usual, he had his telephone loudspeaker on very high, forcing Paul to listen to his crazy exchanges. In a dejected mood, one step away from mentally cringing, the doctor took a seat close to the wide-open door as Oscar hurriedly left the room. A familiar voice was cackling over the loudspeaker.

"Guy Lucky is on his bicycle, heading northbound on St. Charles boulevard... probably heading towards Los Alto Park again," reported the unseen lackey. Paul could detect a slight hint of exasperation in his voice; it didn't surprise him in the least.

"Where is he now?" shrieked Paul's obscenely wealthy, pathetically ill patient Brandon. "Where is he now, damnit?"

"I just told you! He's headed..." Before the lackey could answer, he was rudely interrupted again.

"WHERE?" screamed Gikhenn. "Tell me exactly where, you jackass!"

"He just passed the 1800 block stoplight... he's still going down Saint..."

"Never mind! Get Jake on the phone, quick! Tell him to go stand outside his building on the sidewalk with a lit cigarette! And make sure it's really lit this time, damn it... quickly you fool, quick!"

Momentarily forgetting about any hidden cameras that might be recording his facial expression, Paul grimaced in disgust. Gikhenn was once again obsessively hounding his favorite victim, a pitifully star-crossed writer/musician named Guy Lucky. Suddenly remembering his wife and their increasingly worrying financial situation, he quickly wiped the frown off of his face and leaned forward in his chair to hear better, even though there was no need. Gikhenn had his loudspeaker turned up to full volume, as usual.

Guy Lucky was a rather novel character. A talented but unsuccessful journalist and songwriter, he seemed to be just as obsessed as Gikhenn when it came to reviling people and subjects that annoyed him, although his public writings were far more interesting and much less noxious to follow than were Gikhenn's private statements and demented actions. And his very ill patient did obsessively follow Lucky's published writings, as well as his private actions, with neither shame nor remorse. He had slyly insinuated to Paul, in some of his more indiscreet therapy sessions, that he absolutely loved to brazenly spy on Lucky. Gikhenn's many paid goons often followed and pestered Lucky, blatantly mocking his modest living accomodations, frugal personal habits, and other private things that only close acquaintances or sick peeping toms would know about; it was quite clear that Gikhenn and his contemptible lackeys were of the latter kind.

With no outside monetary support, completely at his own expense, Lucky wrote and self-published disparaging but obviously true things about people that were just like Gikhenn... vile, contemptible people. These writings he published on the world wide interforum, a free-to-all globally accessible digital medium. He had satirically exposed some of Gikhenn's close acquaintances many times, and had even committed the ultimate crime: truthfully and scathingly criticizing the multi-billion dollar little tyrant himself. For this crime Guy Lucky had paid heavily in the past, and would likely continue to pay well into the future, for the disgustingly sick clown whom Paul was now psychoanalyzing had gloatingly joked about a diabolically evil fund he had created to continue Lucky's torment well after his own death.

The voice on the loudspeaker resumed talking, after a brief pause. "Jake says he's not gonna' do it. He says no more, he doesn't care if he loses his apartment. Fifty bucks ain't enough. He said something else I don't wanna' repeat, too..."

"Tell him a hundred... no, two hundred dollars! Tell him to get his worthless ass out there right now with that cigarette! We'll see how proud he stays," Gikhenn sneered into his telephone.

Paul struggled to control the deep disgust he was feeling. He had by now ascertained that Gikhenn was intent on driving the bold but defenseless Guy Lucky into a state of certifiable madness, by employing the lowest of rogues to endlessly pester him with insanely petty and provocative jabs. Gikhenn rewarded his loathsome goons handsomely, providing them with free lodgings and new cars, among other things. The asinine multi-billionaire had inadvertantly divulged how he had tormented Lucky for decades with total impunity; he would often then turn around and whine about how the invention of the worldwide interforum had unfairly enabled Guy to start fighting back with hard-hitting editorials that cut to the bone. His hypocrisy was almost unbelievable.

One of Gikhenn's less malevolent, but favorite pastimes was paying scores of his lackey/dupes to follow and accost his bedeviled victim, holding lit cigarettes; they often placed themselves upwind of him, blatantly blowing plumes of the foul stinking smoke at close range, grinning stupidly as Lucky tried to get away. This occurred constantly whether Guy was walking, riding his bike, or even driving; his exact location was always known to the spying Gikhenn. It was well known to Gikhenn and his friends that Guy was particularly incensed by the multitudes of easily exploited smokers who polluted the rapidly decreasing fresh air while indulging their carcinogenic addiction. Lucky had scathingly lambasted the "pitiful saps" that allowed themselves to be influenced by cigarette smoking television and movie stars who were themselves manipulated by the big tobacco firms. Like Paul's own ailing wife Denise, Lucky suffered from respiratory problems which were exacerbated by the disgusting gas; he'd been forced to leave many jobs due to the legal allowance of this obnoxious habit in public places.

After a brief pause the voice on the speakerphone resumed talking. "Ok, Jake says he's gonna' do it. But he says this is the last time he's gonna' do this... he says Guy insults him real bad every time he goes by, and he's getting sick and..."

"Fuck him." Gikhenn cut in. "Now, who else is out and about? Next I want you to go... uh, hold on a second... um, never mind, I'll call you back again in a little while." Without saying goodbye, Gikhenn turned off the speaker. Paul could hear his tilting chair squeaking as the little man arose from his desk. A few seconds later he was at the open door looking at his highly valued and trusted psychoanalyst, a defiantly non-repentant expression on his face.

"Oh, hello there, Paul. Thanks for coming," the sick little man muttered. "Come in and have a seat in here, I need to talk to you."

Paul did as he was told, settling into a large comfortable chair across from his patient's large chestnut desk, as the impudent little man lit up a foul smelling cigarette. Even though he could easily afford finer, more tasteful and fragrant tobacco, Gikhenn actually enjoyed the rank flavor and stink of the cheaper ones; indeed, they seemed befitting to his odious, contorted psyche.

"Paul... it's been happening again," Gikhenn said, putting a hand to his chest. "It's been getting worse every time, and I... I'm starting to feel afraid again... I don't know what's happening to me!"

Paul forced himself to nod and display a sympathetic facial expression. "It's probably nothing more than a mild anxiety reaction, Brandon. I think you only make it worse by worrying so much. But if you like, I'll summon the doctor from his quarters..."

"No!" Gikhenn interjected rudely. "I'm sick of that son of a bitch pestering me... he'll just give me another tranquilizer, and they're making me sick! I think that jerk is subconsciously trying to kill me, out of repressed jealousy or something... what do you think, Paul?" Gikhenn asked in an uncommonly deferential tone.

"I'm sure you're mistaken about that, Brandon; John wouldn't do anything so mean-spirited, I'm quite certain." Paul leaned forward in his chair. "I really do believe, as I've told you before, that your anxiety comes as a result of this obsessive and self-destructive habit you have of revenging yourself on your enemies, for the offenses you say they've commited against you... whether they're imagined or not. I think we should talk about that, in depth. I really would advise it, Brandon."

"Well... alright, but only for a few minutes. I'm very busy today, with... other important matters. But ok, we'll talk about that for a little while, if you want," said Gikhenn, a paranoid scowl coming over his face.

Paul made a motion with his upraised hand. "Why don't we start with this Guy Lucky, this strange situation... you keep intimating that he's done something to harm you, but you never really say what it actually is. Try to focus on this subject now, Brandon; concentrate. Exactly what is it that you think Mr. Lucky has done to merit all of this... rather extreme retribution?"

"He... he keeps on writing things about me, horrible things! And my friends too, he writes about my close friends too!" Gikhenn blabbered. He had quickly become angry again, almost livid. "Horrible things he writes, then he puts them up on the world wide interforum! I hate him! I despise him!" The little man was almost screaming now.

"Yes... we've talked about his writings, many times, but we've made little headway on that. Now once again Brandon, why do you let his articles upset you so? You contend that the things he writes are untrue... is that why you're so angry with him?" Paul gently intoned.

"Of course they're untrue! He's a pathetic liar! He... he just makes things up about me, things he can't prove! And my friends, too!" Gikhenn was growing angrier by the second. "I tell you, I'd sue him for slander, if he ever made any money... but he never does, damn it." Another mean smile came over Gikhenn's decidedly unattractive face. "I've seen to that little matter myself," he sneeringly added.

"When you say, quote, things he can't prove... do you mean things that are untrue? Or are you saying that he simply doesn't have sufficient proof to formally bring against you..."

"Right!" Gikhenn interrupted again. "That's just it! He can't prove anything, nothing that would stand up in court anyway; he just ups and writes whatever he wants about me... says I manipulate people, people who are better than me! He says that I love to control people who are superior to me!" Gikhenn took a deep drag on his cigarette, leaning back in his chair. He was trying hard to calm down again. "How can they be superior to me, if I'm the one who makes them rich and famous? They're helpless, stupid little idiots... actors, musicians, writers, poli..." Gikhenn broke off his last word; he had been about to say politicians, but quickly decided against it. "They're shit. Stupid little assholes who don't understand about real business life. They're all just pretending to like me, so that I'll... you know... so I'll help them out!"

"Yes, I see... but getting back to Lucky. You've told me before that you've actually been revenging yourself on him for decades now, long before he started writing about you... and your friends." Paul managed to maintain a neutral expression on his face as he continued on. "You say that you've never actually met him, never personally interacted with him in any way. What did he actually do to get you started on this long-running, vengeful campaign? Do you even remember? Or have you forgott..."

"I told you before! He's a mean, loudmouthed jerk!" The little tyrant's rude interjections knew no limitations. "He... he tries to make us Yahoos feel bad... out of nothing but meanness!" Gikhenn was getting absolutely livid now. "No Yahoo ever does anything to really hurt him... he's just a sore loser, a mean troublemaker... a dangerous menace to society!"

Paul exhaled heavily, resisting the urge to fan Gikhenn's cigarette smoke away from his face. "I see," he said calmly. "Really, Brandon, you must try not to upset yourself so much when we talk about some of these matters; I can see that it's really doing you a lot of harm. I'm sure that's what's causing your chest pains and heart palpitations... and you're right, there are better alternatives than tranquilizers. You could try meditation... or deep breathing, perhaps."

"I tried that... it just makes it worse," Gikhenn whined. "I'm scared, Paul. I'm still having the real bad nightmares... I don't know what's happening to me... I just don't know." A very worried look was coming over his face. Taking another deep drag on his barely smoked cigarette, he stubbed it out in a large nearby ashtray.

"You might try to limit your smoking, for a start. Maybe we should try moving on to a different subject. Would you like to tell me more about your upcoming operation?" Paul shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Are you still intent on your... on this brain transplant that you've been telling me about? Would you like to talk about that instead?"

"Yes! Oh yes... it's wonderful, Paul! The scientists are making more and more progress on that... they should be, I'm paying them all a fortune. And now it looks like it's going to be possible, they... they keep on assuring me that it's going to work, eventually. They've tried it on dogs, monkeys, even hume..." Gikhenn cut his sentence short again; he had been about to say human beings, but quickly thought better of it.

Rongedchild began again. "I've been talking to Marty, my paraplegic friend, you know the one who got hurt in a skiing accident in that foreign country, I can't pronounce it... I told you about him," Gikhenn gushed. "Well, he's going to be the first guinea... the first one to try it out, I mean. He's all for it, says he can't wait." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desktop. "Marty doesn't have long to live, you know Paul; he feels like he has no choice now."

Paul found himself involuntarily staring at an ugly art deco painting on the wall behind Gikhenn's desk; snapping to attention, he quickly returned his gaze back to his patient's face. They were getting into a subject now that he found unnerving, even with all his worldly and far-reaching knowledge and experience. There were people who were actually claiming that it was possible to live endlessly, never dying, with the help of advanced transplant surgery and high-technology artificial support. Although he had read about this disquieting new development, he still hadn't quite come to grips with the reality of what this implied for humanity... and for people like Brandon Gikhenn Rongedchild the Third. The thought of his extremely vindictive patient living forever, never leaving his hapless victims in peace, truly frightened Paul.

"Yes... hmmm... eternal life," he said quietly, almost muttering to himself.

"Eternal life, Paul! Just think of it! No more of this god damned worrying about dying, and going to..." Gikhenn abruptly stopped himself from finishing his sentence once again. He leaned back again abruptly, almost collapsing into his chair.

"Going to hell," Paul said quietly, almost to himself, as he held two forefingers together in front of his chest. "You think you're going to go to hell..."

"I never said that! And don't you say it either! That bullshit is for the religious morons... the ones who can't handle life as it really is! They need this god shit, this crutch, to get through their miserable lives... because they're fools! Stupid, god damned fools!" Visibly shaken, Gikhenn was nearly yelling now.

"We've touched on this subject before, you remember, very briefly. It may have some bearing on your discomfort, your anxiety," Paul said, reverting back to his professional tone of voice. "Don't you think we should discuss this further... a bit? Or do you find it too distressing right now..."

"I'm not afraid to talk about it... that or anything else! What, do you believe in this crap yourself? You're supposed to be a... a scientific doctor! Do you believe in god, Paul?" Gikhenn asked accusingly. His face contorted grotesquely as he demanded a direct answer to his question.

Paul didn't like Gikhenn's intrusion into his private religious beliefs; discussing philosophical ideas calmly was clearly out of this disturbed little man's realm of consciousness. Searching for a proper way to handle the invasive question, he paused for a few moments.

"I don't usually talk about my private beliefs in therapy sessions, Brandon," he said patiently. "But I will go so far as to state that I can't affirm something that is so far beyond my own knowledge, nor can I deny it. I quite simply don't have standing to say whether there is or isn't a God."

Gikhenn's face fixed into a mean sneer, an expression that seemed quite in place with his repugnant personality. "Come on now, Paul... cut the bullshit. Do you or do you not believe there's a god?"

For some reason Paul found himself growing irritable; this stupid little man just wouldn't accept his answer. He decided to turn the tables and question his combative patient about the subjects of theology and philosophy, in a more roundabout way.

"Are you knowledgable about the scientific arguments regarding creation, Brandon? I mean how the universe came into being? I'm talking about things like the Big Bang theory, the Steady State theory, etc. Is creation a subject that you're well versed on... that you're comfortable talking about?"

Gikhenn looked down at his desk. "Well... no, I don't know too much about those type of things," he grudgingly conceded. Then he lifted his head up again and fixed Paul with an ominous stare. "But I have heard... from very smart, um, authorities... I have heard that we were definitely not created by god, as the religous schmucks say." Gikhenn always uttered the word god with a sneering, contemptuous tone of voice. He leaned forward over his desk once more. "In fact, Paul... I have heard that we were created by... by superior beings, with much more advanced technology than ours... that live on other planets."

"Oh? That's very interesting, Brandon. Can you elaborate a bit more on that?" Paul was being careful not to display any emotion, as was his usual professional manner. "I've read about similar strange theories myself, and like I said before... I'm just not knowledgable enough to believe or disbelieve..."

"You can believe it!" Gikhenn interjected. "I've been told, by... by insiders... that we were made by super-advanced aliens from outer space, who found a way to live on other planets artificially, because they were so smart they found a way to do that... and they watch us, and can even get here from other planets!" Gikhenn looked at Paul triumphantly, as if he had won an argument. "So you see, Paul, there is no... I mean... that would mean that there is no god. You see? If that's true, and I believe it is, there is no god! That's why they've found all these super-advanced buildings and things, like the pyramids... you know? They were machine-made with the help of super-smart alien beings, not thousands of stone-dragging slaves!"

Paul broke out in a humorous smile, an increasingly rare occurence for him these days. "I've given some thought to those theories, Brandon... and I believe that those structures were machine-built, not entirely made by human exertions. But I still find myself wondering, if that could be true, then did those smart aliens, or whoever they were, create the infinite universe, also? How did they themselves come into existence, I wonder. Do you have any ideas about that, you or your... insider friends?"

"Well... no," Gikhenn conceded reluctantly. "No I don't, Paul... I hadn't thought about that, that part of it."

"I'm not dismissing what you just theorized, Brandon; I'm just wondering how the quote, aliens, might have come into being themselves. And if they did create the universe, what came before them? And where do you think the universe actually ends... if it does have an ending?"

A look of complete bafflement had come over Gikhenn's face. Paul smiled at his patient with a hint of condescension. Beginning to feel a bit amused, he continued on. "I admit, technology has gotten so advanced in the past few years, that it now seems your theory of superior alien creators might have a very valid basis... but I'm imagining that these creatures would be of a... a more physical aspect, something that might eventually be explainable in terms that we mere humans might be able to comprehend, whereas the metaphysical and theological questions are more difficult to grasp..."

"Oh, yeah," Gikhenn interrupted anxiously. He had suddenly forgotten what it was that they had originally been talking about, and was now anxious to terminate the increasingly complex conversation... and his therapy session. "Yeah, that's something to think about... right, yeah."

The sound of the telephone loudspeaker blaring out suddenly came to Gikhenn's rescue. "Brandon!" The familiar animated voice was suddenly back again. "Guy Lucky is back in his apartment again... looks like he cut his bike ride short for some reason, heh-heh. Guess he doesn't like all the cigarette smoke you've been throwing at him," the cackling voice said. "Probably doesn't like all the poison smoke we shoot his way, either!" Paul could hear the sound of background laughter coming over the speaker.

Forgetting everything else, Gikhenn quickly turned to his phone's microphone box again. "What's that laughter in the background? Who's that laughing?" he demanded angrily.

"Um... that's just Saul," replied the lackey; but Paul could hear more than one person sniggling; there were obviously other people in the room with this fine Saul fellow.

"Why's he laughing? Why's he laughing?" demanded Gikhenn. "Tell me now, or it's your job... and your ass, too!"

"Well... we've got Lucky on the monitor, and he..." the background laughter grew louder.

"What? What's he doing?" Gikhenn was growing extremely angry again.

"He... well, he's got a picture of your face hung up on the wall, and... he's throwing darts at it! He's laughing at you, Brandon!" The background laughter abruptly died down, as if in anticipation of Gikhenn's response.

"Gas the fucker!" shrieked the livid little man. "Gas him again, damnit! Gas him good this time! Put it on full, to the max!"

"Shit, Brandon... that'll kill him! Do you really want me to hit him full bore like that? I'm telling ya', that would really... boss, I really don't think you should ask me to do that."

"Wait a minute." Gikhenn glanced over his shoulder and looked at his astounded analyst, whom he had completely forgotten was sitting there listening. Unable to hide his true feelings anymore, Paul was staring at him with an expression of absolute disgust. Gikhenn stabbed a button on his telephone pad, turning the loudspeaker off.

Paul knew instantly what Gikhenn had meant when he'd ordered his goon to gas Lucky; obviously, the sick devil had somehow installed some sinister device in Guy's small one-room apartment, something that released poisonous gas. It was a well-known tactic the Yahoos used against their poorer, more helpless enemies. He felt a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to pull Gikhenn over his desk and pummel him mercilessly.

Making a great effort to restrain himself, Paul rose slowly up from his chair. He had made up his mind, this time for good; he could no longer bear to even look at Gikhenn's ugly, criminally-insane face, let alone humor his crazed thoughts.

"Goodbye, Brandon," said Paul. "I sincerely believe that you are hopelessly, dangerously demented... you're certifiably insane! I'm terminating our professional relationship as of right now." Paul turned and began to walk towards the door; suddenly he spun around in his tracks. "As for your desire to live forever, I would be very careful about doing anything like that; you may be consigning yourself to some kind of eternal hell instead. Only God can grant us eternal life... may He have mercy on your wretched soul!" Paul turned again and walked quickly out of the room in disgust.

As he exited the abutting office and made his way down the long hallway, Paul suddenly heard the sound of running footsteps behind him. "Wait, Paul! Wait! Don't go!" Gikhenn had followed him out into the hallway; the pathetic little imp was frantic with anxiety now. "I'll double... no, I'll triple your salary! Don't leave me alone, Paul, please!"

Paul kept on walking, dark thoughts racing through his mind. He knew that his sick client could ruin him, both professionally and financially if he wanted to; that was the kind of power Gikhenn and his cursed kind wielded, and always had... probably from time immemorial. The twisted, evil little man was the devil incarnate. But he would have to take his chances; no amount of threats or rewards could sway him now. He was through with this ludicrous charade... he quite simply could take no more.

The running footsteps suddenly stopped; behind him, Gikhenn was frozen in his tracks, literally quaking in his shoes. "Paul! I mean it! I'll make you wealthy, Paul! Paul, don't leave me alone!"

Dr. Westfield continued on his way to the stairwell.

"Paul! Please don't go... I need you!" Gikhenn pleaded pathetically. "You and I are the only sane people left in this world!"

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Vignettes From A Dream - A Wronged Child's Eternal Life - Copyright November 2024, January 2026 by Charles Adrian Trevino.