Seven-X by Mike Wech Page A

“Mel I need you to translate some stuff for me. There’s this crazy old lady that speaks Greek. I want to know what she said. I don’t trust the doctors. I think they tell me what they want me to hear. Okay.”
    “Okay.”
    “As fast as you can. On my notes too, there’s some writing. Figure out what it says and get back to me.”  
    After a moment of silence, I told Eddie, “I miss you.”
    “I miss you too, baby.”
    “I’m singing tonight. I’m gonna do Lonestar, for you.”
    “I love that one. Sing it for me baby,” Eddie asked.
     
    I can’t resist singing for Eddie, so I started.
    “Every time our eyes meet, 
    This feeling inside me. 
    Is almost more than I can take.”
     
    As I was singing, I heard something bang hard and Eddie yell, “Hey!”
    “What! Eddie, what was that?”  I asked.
    “Some punk kid’s at my car,” he told me as I heard him running.
    “You okay?”
    “Get out of here!” he yelled.  “Hey! Get the fuck away from my car!” 
     
    He dropped the phone or slammed it down. I called out,   “Eddie? Eddie!” then lost reception. 
     
    That was it. I received the drive and what you’ve read so far is exactly how Eddie wanted it. I had everything translated and per Eddie’s note I will continue to assemble his journal and recordings by date. 

JOURNAL ENTRY:                                          
     FRIDAY DECEMBER 10, 2010 - 1:30 PM
     
    Freak Fest continues. Some weird, little punk kid threw a deer’s heart on my windshield while I was at the Post Office in Dell City this morning. I chased him down and tackled him before he could get inside the diner next door. 
    He was about fifteen, sixteen years old, dressed all Goth with black eyeliner and streaked, black and white hair. His hands were covered in deer blood so naturally we made quite a scene outside with him screaming “You’re marked!” over and over as he swiped the blood on my face and jacket while I held him down. Within a few minutes the town Sheriff arrived. 
    Officer Prick actually let the punk go and warned me about coming into his town and causing trouble. 
    When I told him I was staying in Uphir as a guest of Dr. Haworth, he said “ he didn’t want to see me around these parts anymore” and “wasn’t going to clean up another mess.” Whatever that meant. 
    Now I’m the freak trying to cover up my blood stained sweater as my jacket sits in the car and I sit in the lobby of Precision Camera, waiting for the technician Bobby to get my camera fixed. You ever just have that feeling that you’re caught in something that you can’t get out of. I’m so close to getting this story and it’s one thing after another, distracting me, pulling me down.
    My nerves are frazzled right now. Maybe it’s the repetitive cycle of corny Christmas music playing. Or the fact I’ve been sitting here over an hour. Maybe it was spending the night in a padded cell. 
    Or Dr. Haworth’s calm, even voice echoing in my head all the bullshit he’s been feeding me. 
    Or Tyler’s scar filled face or Dobson’s screams that kept me up all night. Or the way my childhood memories seem to swirl in the air, before pouring out someone else’s mouth. 
    Or is it this annoying kid in front of me, squealing while his stressed out mom is trying to figure out how to work a fucking camera.  Or Cowboy Jim here to my left, who wants to know the difference between HD and HDV, like he’s actually going to buy the camera and do something with it. Or the sound of the bells on the door that jingle with each idiot who makes his way in and out of this place. Or the squeaking of wet boots across the dirty tiled floor, and the rush of cold air that sweeps across me as the door jangles open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut. Open and shut.
    Maybe it’s the sound of my own breathing and the clicking of keys on the keyboard, as I pound out these words in a flurry of strokes. Or is it the smell of day