Vignettes From A Dream

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino

(Copyright January 2026)
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Scared Good Again

Casey Talon walked calmly through the back door of the modest hotel he had just checked out of, into the sobering coldness of the evening air. A dozen or so yards away from the brick building, he paused for a moment to look up at the bright full moon that had momentarily broken free from the dark clouds that were trying to obscure it; a very light, almost misty drizzle was dampening his face, as a suddenly playful wisp of wind blew through his long brownish-blonde hair. As he stood there silently, savoring the serenity of the moment, he appreciatively realized that he was no longer feeling any pain; he was as high as a kite, his usual state of mind about this time of evening.

The fairly decent hotel didn't normally allow its guests to use the rear exit, which led to a rather scary looking wide and dimly lit alleyway, but the star-struck manager had made a rare exception for Casey on this dismal night, which had been threatening rain; he knew about the problems celebrities often encountered with pestering fans, and Casey had assured him that there was a car waiting for him in the alley. Besides, Casey had obliged the friendly man on his arrival earlier that day by autographing a large picture of himself with his old rock band, which the delighted proprietor had quickly put up on the wall of the hotel's lobby. He had caught a glimpse of it as he checked out, perched proudly above the other more modestly adorned photographs, splendorous in its shining gold frame -- and it had made him smile, briefly.

And now he was smiling again, as he lingered in the squalid darkness of the alley, gazing up at the light-reflecting moon; tiny raindrops were gently gathering on his face. Surrounded by large trash bins, discarded litter of various shapes and sizes, and potted palms placed there by the hotel in a vain attempt to add a bit of cheer, he felt gratefully alone, as he wanted to be at this moment. He had become very appreciative of solitude as of late; but it was dangerous for him to be alone, under his present circumstances.

His life had become almost unbearable. Shame, sadness and paranoia had reduced his once buoyant spirit to a state of listlessness that often teetered on the brink of suicidal depression; that was why he had taken to drugging himself into a state of blissful numbness, night after miserable night. He simply couldn't face the reality of his situation any longer.

He had become expert at mixing precisely the right combination of alcohol, tranquilizers, and other substances to achieve this heavenly numbness, and it had sustained him through his worst moments, as it was sustaining him now; but he knew that his demise was inevitable. His enemies were wealthy, powerful, and seemingly bent on his destruction, and he now realized that he had been helping them achieve their ignoble goal all along, with his perilously fast and self-destructive lifestyle. But all of his unhappiness was soon to come to an inglorious but merciful end; of this he felt sure. And he had grown tired of his life, very tired indeed, and actually welcomed the thought of leaving it behind; yet he was getting a warm nostalgic feeling as he looked up, thankful for whatever force of nature had parted the clouds and allowed him a glimpse at the full moon. It seemed especially beautiful to him on this dreary night.

Then he remembered again; his friend was dead. A very old and dear friend, one that Casey had rarely managed to see as the swiftly passing years stretched into decades, but whose occasional letter had always uplifted his spirits. The news of his sad end had hit Casey hard, at a very bad time; it was like the proverbial last straw that had broken the camel's back. A stabbing sensation suddenly came piercing through the thin and delicate veneer of his artificial paradise, and he felt an overwhelming impulse to break out into tears, as he had done earlier that day in the seclusion of his hotel room. He looked down at the ground, and a painful grimace began to spread over his face -- but the comforting effects of the medicinal cocktail he had conjured up quickly kicked back in, coming to his rescue. Gazing back up at the comforting light of the moon, he managed to smile once more... very weakly.

God had created that moon... and the stars that were trying to break through the resisting cloud cover, trying to give him hope as they had always done before; hope, and the strength to go on. He'd come to rely on those stars more and more, as his life had begun to teeter perilously between periods of both natural and artificially induced bliss and stark ragged despair; they had always been there for him in times of joy or sadness, those beautiful stars, anytime that he remembered to look up at the night sky. And even now they seemed to be struggling to break through the clouds, trying to uplift him with light that had travelled unfathomable distances; it was as if the stars were pulling for him, trying as hard as they could. But he knew that some of those lights were from stars that had already burnt out and died themselves... like his sadly departed friend.

Joey Wong was the first of many good friends that Casey had met in what had been a very fast paced life, and the two had shared many unforgettable, sometimes beautiful experiences; the adventures of youth that an older person thought back on in times of profound reminiscence. These were the thoughts that dying people conjured up, to sustain themselves through their journey's end.

Casey had long blamed himself for scarring his best friend's life. If he hadn't have well-meaningly but irresponsibly shared a single joint of marijuana with him, Joey might never had experimented with drugs at all. Talented and intelligent, he surely would have made the best of his gifts, and come out alright; instead he had succumbed to the heady but dangerous influence of narcotics, and had never been able to escape. Casey now realized that like himself, Joey had associated the good times of his youth with the seemingly harmless use of drugs, and had never been able to steer clear of that mistaken notion.

Even though the high-flying Casey had respected the wishes of Joey's father and distanced himself from his struggling friend, they had continued to communicate through posted letters, and Casey had always sent generous sums of money to help Joey recover from whatever pit he had fallen into... and there had been many. But he should have been more responsible in supervising how that money was spent. He should have paid the money directly to Joey's landlords instead of just sending it to him, but he hadn't wanted to embarrass his friend, and Joey had gotten himself evicted from apartments time and again by using that money to buy more drugs. Then had come the final, inevitable reckoning.

His friend's body was found lying on a couch in his apartment by his father, who had grown concerned after his son failed to show up for a dinner appointment; the heartbroken man had found an assortment of drug paraphenalia laying about. Joey had died of a sudden heart attack after taking one hit too many from a large, discolored crack cocaine pipe. To add insult to injury, the pipe had ignited a small fire on his sweatshirt, burning his chest a bit before snuffing itself out.

Hurt and angry, Joey's father had deliberately neglected to inform Casey, whom he had justifiably blamed for his son's downfall. It seemed fitting that the sad news had come to him through his longtime friend, Danny Stokes; Danny had always been the one friend he had allowed to criticize and lecture him, and even mock his overly hedonistic habits. But Danny had broken the news to him as gently and sensitively as he could, under the tragic circumstances, and for that kindness Casey would always be grateful; but how long would "always" be? It didn't seem to matter anymore.

"Oh, Joey," he moaned quietly to himself. The bad pain he had felt earlier was threatening to intrude on his medicated oasis again; he pushed it aside with a determination born out of necessity. But the weak little smile had vanished from his face. He continued staring up at the full moon, wishing himself dead... and that wish might very well soon be granted, for Casey had heard that another person, a very dangerous person, was harboring that very same desire.

Something was telling him that tonight was the night; some inner voice was urgently warning him to beware. The feeling was coming to him so strongly now that he didn't even bother to look away from the glowing moon when he heard the sound of someone stepping out from behind a large trash bin; it seemed as if God Himself was going to grant his death wish. The serene peacefulness of the night sky was bringing him comfort, and the courage to accept his fate. Maintaining his silent vigil as the footsteps drew closer and louder, he didn't deign to even look behind him.

His darkly clothed savior saved him the trouble by walking around him. Still looking up at the moon, Casey could nevertheless peripherally make him out, taking a position directly in front of him; he was only a few feet away.

"How ya' doing there," he muttered, never taking his eyes off of the sky. The moon's bright surface was reflecting the light of an already set sun... a sun he now felt certain he would never live to see again. Something inside was urging him to cry -- but now was not the right time. There would never be a right time again; he accepted the fact with a tired resignation.

Finally he lowered his eyes from the drizzling sky; it had already done its crying for him. He didn't look directly at the assassin standing motionless in front of him, glancing instead at the large, fearsome looking gun in his hand. The man's face was devoid of any expression... the same as Casey's.

"Doing just fine, Casey, thank you," the man replied in a rather polite tone of voice... but his mean eyes warned of his ruthless intention. He still hadn't raised the gun up; Casey's own nonchalant attitude bespoke his stoical acceptance of his coming fate. The gunman's arm hung listlessly at his side, as if he had all the time in the world to perform his evil task.

Finally Casey managed a wry little smile. "I suppose Brandon sent you," he said, without a trace of anger in his voice.

The black-clad gunman returned his wry smile. "I can't answer that," he said very quietly, almost in a whisper.

"Why not?" Casey turned his head, looking all around. "Are you afraid of someone overhearing? There's no one in sight, not that I can see." His voice still sounded amazingly calm.

"Ah... you never know. Someone could be watching, for all you know." The hit man still hadn't pointed his gun at Casey. "You just never know, do you?" he calmly repeated.

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter anyway," Casey said quietly. He looked into the assassin's unrelenting eyes, seeing nothing that might redeem him. Nevertheless, he decided to make one last request of his mercenary executioner.

"Will you give me a moment... to make my peace with God?" Still free of any sign of fear, Casey's sad blue eyes fixed expectantly on the gunman standing in front of him. "I'd do the same for you," he added cooly.

His assassin let out a short, muffled snicker. "Sure... go ahead. I've got all the time in the world! He saw to that." A definite tone of derision was evident in his reply. Casey smiled once again, ironically; obviously this vile man didn't want to believe what he himself knew to be true. Why should he believe in anything but the power of might and money, with such a reprehensible job as he possessed? Contemplating the existence of a God would only get in the assassin's way. And the hitman's reply had made it clear to Casey exactly who had sent him: the most contemptible of his many enemies, a man whom he'd had the temerity to mock to his face; a man powerful enough to ensure that any unwanted witnesses would be diverted away from the killing ground. His reckless flippancy had been a mistake... or had it been? It all depended on how one looked at things.

Brandon Rongedchild II was not a man to be insulted lightly; nor was he one to tolerate any competitive intrusion into his well-guarded cocaine empire, and Casey had done just that. He had made business deals more than once with the self-deluding "king," and in the course of business had obliquely revealed his opinion of Brandon's murderously hard-line tactics. The easily offended Brandon had also taken the view that Casey was very insolently muscling in on his drug dealing racket, and the ridiculous but powerful man possessed more muscle; or so he thought. In truth, Casey could just as easily have had Brandon assassinated if he'd wanted to... these hired killers were always desperate for money, and were very easy to come by. Fortunately for Brandon, Casey's religous mind didn't work that way. Even in his fallen state of disgrace he still prayed to God, often on his knees, for forgiveness of his ever mounting sins... but those venial sins didn't include murder.

Now he actually felt grateful for the secretive nature of his murder; confident

that his deed would not be witnessed, the hit man had granted him a little time to think back on his life, and he had a lot to think about... and to be thankful for. Casey looked down at the ground, wondering what to say, or rather what to think to the God that had given him so many chances to find true happiness; he felt genuinely grateful for all the wonderful opportunities he'd been given. But somehow, in spite of all that God had given him, fate had brought him to this ignominious end; death at the hands of a couple of worms who crawled the earth on their bellies.

He had started out in life young, strong, and innocent; an avid surfer as well as talented musician, he had also been a voracious reader of most everything that came his way, and that bookishness had greatly enhanced his perspective, giving him wisdom beyond his years. Sedentary reading had taken up but a small part of his time, however; he had enjoyed an active life to the fullest extent for a good long while, aided enormously by money he'd earned at a very young age from a very profitable marijuana growing venture he'd undertaken with his older brother, Terry. But what had solidified his great fortune more than anything else was his precocious emergence as a top-rated rock musician.

The realization of that youthful dream had never failed to fill him with joy, and gratitude to a benevolent God for helping him along, every step of the way... even though he hadn't deserved it, he thought. He had launched his first and only musical band while still in junior high school; by the time he was nineteen, he and his bandmates had exploded to the top of the charts with unstoppable force, and had stayed up there for decades. As the band's primary songwriter as well as lead guitarist, he had earned his first million dollars before reaching the age of twenty, and it had been an all uphill climb from that point on... until everything had started to go downhill.

That downward slide had begun in his early thirties. It seemed to have been set in motion some time before, after he'd learned that he wasn't his parents' natural child, like his older brother and sister were; he had been adopted, under circumstances that had remained very mysterious. It seemed that his parents and siblings either didn't seem to know who his real parents were, or else didn't want to divulge the truth about them, or what had happened to them. And so he had allowed the matter to drop... or to put it more accurately, to fester. But Casey had never been one to press an uncomfortable issue with anyone, even his own family; he'd been gifted with that innate sense of tact and poise, even from a very young age. And so his beginnings had remained shrouded in mystery, and though he had come to accept it, that unexplained mystery had eventually started to subconsciously bother him.

But that vexation had not in itself caused his downfall; looking back on his youthful excesses, he had to admit to himself that his weakness for drug-induced euphoria had been the biggest contributing factor. It was just his natural calling to chase after rainbows, to over-indulge himself with heavenly days and nights... especially nights.

It was the nature of the rock musician to revel in the night life; that was when the parties usually occurred, and he had loved the social interactions with his many friends and fans, and especially other musicians. If he wasn't actually on tour, most of the parties eventually morphed into all-out jam sessions, which were sometimes better than the concert performances. That avid but debilitating merrymaking had become addicting, but his counter-balancing love of surfing had kept him from indulging in too many all-nighters... at first.

He had been very fortunate to have something as compelling as surfing as his main recreation; the physical requirements of surfing well in all sizes and shapes of ocean waves had demanded that he maintain good health, and he had respected those demands for a long time. But by the time he realized that he was burning the candle at both ends of the stick, it was too late; the partying and fast living had taken its toll, and he gradually found himself less desirous of challenging the bigger waves that he had loved so much. Eventually his health had deteriorated to the point where he began avoiding the waves altogether, soothing the loss with more self-destructive indulgences. He had hardly even noticed that it was happening; then one sad day he realized that he had given up altogether on surfing, his first and most faithful love.

Then there was his other love life. His fame and wealth had made it far too easy to skip from one romantic affair to another, never wanting to commit himself to one binding relationship; girls just seemed to get in the way of all the fun. They became just another high to be experienced, then discarded when they became too pressing. It had taken many years for him to see through the superficial veil and realize that he was living an empty life, devoid of any real meaning; and although he had tried hard not to be false with anybody, he had come to realize that he had hurt many fine and beautiful girls with his fickle ways. And that realization had brought him pain also.

But what fun he'd had, before the fall! He had surfed extremely well for many a year, and although his musical career eventually caused him to abandon the surfing competitions that he'd loved so much as a kid, he had made it a point to find the time to sneak in a few here and there. He'd taken the greatest pleasure in showing up at a big contest as a wild card entry, always with a beautiful lady on his arm, and beating the more established competitors every time. The top surfers vying for the world championships had always viewed his sudden appearance with the utmost dread.

And the proud satisfaction of producing an excellent chart-topping record had only been surpassed by the glorious feeling he had gotten from the thunderous applause of thousands of wildly appreciative concert-goers, a fitting reward for working so hard to rehearse and render an excellent live performance. That was a feeling that could hardly be described, or equalled; it had been another towering high, almost superceding the ecstatic pleasure of riding a perfect ocean wave. It had all been so fabulously, almost heavenly blissful.

Slowly Casey's jeweled remembrances began to fade into a shadowy obscurity. The visions of his previously happy existence and eventual fall from grace had taken only a few moments to flash before his eyes, and they had brought him some kind of comfort and peace. But now as the fine memories fled away into the night, the reality of his grim situation was coming back to him... fast, hard, and nightmarishly foreboding. Making the sign of the cross over his chest, he sighed and let go of the past.

Looking back up, he found himself staring into the eyes of his destroyer again, but the gunman's expression had changed; a cruel, almost sadistic smile had come over his face.

"Well? Did he forgive you? Your savior, God?" The murderous rogue let out a loud, very mocking laugh. "I hope he forgave you pal, but I don't think he's gonna' save you... because here we go!" Grinning sardonically, he raised his deadly weapon, cocking the hammer as he leveled it at Casey's forehead.

Then something happened that would haunt Casey for the rest of his life. As his finger began to pull back on the trigger, the assassin suddenly hesitated, and his hand began to quiver. A small tremor at first, it steadily built into a seemingly uncontrollable spasmodic shake. Slowly his arm began to bend inwards.

Casey could only stand and look on in horrified fascination; it seemed to him that the foul bastard's suddenly bizarre behavior was just a disgustingly sadistic put-on, meant to prolong his agony. It was exactly what a fiend like Brandon would order an assassin to do; any hope Casey had entertained of a quick and merciful death was gone. This was going to be a long, sadistically drawn out process. But now he realized something else; the gunman's face had undergone a dramatic change; his expression had changed from a mean smirk to one of unmistakable, pitiful fear.

"What are you doing?" The gunman's words came out in a shaking, tremulous tone, exhibiting genuine fright. Casey stood stock still, frozen in a state of disbelief as the mercenary's shaking arm continued its inward bend. Something else had taken over, something that was obviously beyond the man's control.

As the killer's mysteriously possessed arm brought the weapon completely around, pointing it directly at his own face at point blank range, he let out an abject scream of terror.

"No!!" The man twisted his head violently around in a hopeless effort to escape from his own bullet; a split-second later the explosive sound of a single gunshot resounded through the night, truncating the assassin's last pleading shriek.

Casey involuntarily recoiled backwards as a stream of blood burst violently out of the dead man's temple, momentarily splaying off the barrel of the gun and squirting out in opposite directions, before his lifeless hand dropped the weapon to the ground. A moment later the now unchecked projectile stream hit Casey full in the face, and his world went blood red.

Staggering backwards, frantically trying to clear the thick fluid from his eyes, Casey could hear the noise of trash cans being knocked over, as if somebody was hurriedly attempting to flee the murder scene as fast as their feet could carry them; it sounded as if at least two people were bolting away. Still sightless and in a state of bewildered panic, he turned and started to run in the opposite direction, but quickly tripped over a large box that some unknown litterer had discarded in the alley. Reacting swiftly, he extended his arms out in front of him to lessen the impact as he went down hard on the wet asphalt.

Managing to wipe away enough of the blood to see, Casey struggled back to his feet and turned to look behind him; he could make out two figures running away into the darkened depths of the alley. In spite of his now overwhelming fear, he stood and stared as they fled around the corner and disappeared from sight. A moment later he heard the screech of a waiting car's tires as it accelerated away at top speed.

He stood there motionless, as the profound impact of what had just occurred began to register in his disbelieving mind; he had surely witnessed the hand of some unseen, all-powerful God, the same entity that he'd humbled himself before many times on his knees. He quite simply could not fathom what else could have saved his life. Long seconds passed before he was able to move again, but the unseen force was still at work, making him tarry. By some incredible miracle, he had been given another chance at life... even after he had wished himself dead.

For some reason he felt compelled to look up at the sky again; it had stopped drizzling, and the moon was still glowing in full light. He stared at the glowing orb for a few seconds, lost in a hypnotized trance. Then he suddenly remembered his villainous enemy, Brandon Rongedchild II, and desperate thoughts began racing through his mind. Brandon would surely try to pin his goon's self-murder on Casey; even though his fingers hadn't touched the weapon, in his panicking state of mind he felt certain that the vile little monster would somehow be able to make it appear so. His mind began to convolute as he wildly pondered what he should do next; then another horrifying thought gripped him.

There were four ounces of pure, uncut cocaine hidden away in his nearby car; in his ever-present paranoia, he'd parked a few blocks from the hotel in an effort to avoid unwanted trouble from any annoying fans or suspicious policemen. He'd completely forgotten about the contraband after Danny had contacted him with the sad news of his friend's death. His immediate imperative now was to get to his car and find a place to dump out the cursed powder, disperse it thoroughly, so that no other person would ever imperil their soul if they happened to come across a large discarded bag of the devil's drug. To do otherwise would be an act of ultimate ingratitude to God, his eternal savior.

He turned and began running down the alley again, as fast as he could manage. A long, wretched chapter of his life was about to end... and a new one was beckoning him onwards. As he ran through the darkness of the cold night, he swore a silent oath to the mysterious entity that had miraculously delivered him from disaster; he would not waste this second chance at life, the gift that he had been blessed with once again.

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Vignettes From A Dream - Scared Good Again - Copyright January 2026 by Charles Adrian Trevino.