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Writer's pictureAdam Gaffen

Taylor's Time


An artistic depiction of a character with long, flowing black and golden hair illuminated by soft, golden light. The figure has sharp, elegant features and a calm, confident expression, with strands of hair swept by a gentle breeze. The text "Taylor's Time" is prominently overlaid in cursive, glowing white font, adding a sense of warmth and energy. The background is subtly blurred with a gradient of light blues and soft gold, complementing the radiant and serene tone of the image.


Dedication:

To the man who inspired this book. The bravest thing you've ever done was continue to keep living even when you wanted to die. You are forever my example, forever my friend and forever my reason to keep going. 


To those who are struggling, someone out there is grateful that you exist. Please, don't give up. 


“All consuming, so confusing, the questions that keep me awake, 

Would anyone care?

Would anyone cry?

If I finally stepped off of this legde tonight? 

Would anything change?

Would you all be just fine?

Cause, I need a reason to not throw the fight. 

It just might save my life!” 

Citizen Soldier “Would Anyone Care?” 



“Sometimes,” he said, “it gets so bad that I just want to pull my truck over, curl into a ball and die.”


To this day, I can't forget his words, nor can I forget the smell of rain, the sound of it hitting the roof of his truck. I still remember the feeling of a pit in my stomach, the soft glow of a street light through the drops on the wet window as he described the night he nearly took his own life. From his lungs through the dark, through the flashes of lighting and crashing of thunder, came a story of survival, tragedy and most of all, resilience. my mind replayed all of the stories we'd shared in that truck, stories of our struggles with anxiety and our childhood abuse. I remembered everything. And I remembered this: He came to us, curled up and sobbing, with his coat over his head. 


Chapter One

Stranger in the hall 


I awoke to a resounding thud. Surrounded by the familiar darkness of my brother's bedroom, I listened carefully. There was something unfamiliar too, the voice of a stranger sliding its way into the hall through the other side of the garage door. I couldn't clearly hear what was said. All I knew was that it was male and high pitched. 


“TJ's here.” Alisha said, tiredly. 


Alisha was my brother's wife. I'd come to visit her, my brother and their two kids for the winter. Now I was cooped up in their bedroom with them, plagued by COVID and forced on bedrest. I turned my face and coughed into the sleeve of my shirt. Despite the fever and exhaustion that lingered, I wanted to meet this stranger, who let out a nervous laugh just outside the closed door.


Suddenly, it occurred to me that this voice was familiar to me. I had heard it on the other end of the phone as he spoke to Derek, Alisha’s father, who was also living with them. Like now, I didn't hear exactly what was said, but I could hear the same pitch, with an overlay of frustration, the tension leaking out of the phone. He was being kicked out of his own house, for what and by whom, I'd never know, because I'd never ask. It was none of my business anyways. He was here a week earlier than we'd expected him. That must've been why I heard Derek's truck speed out of the driveway. 


But why had he driven away with such urgency?


I heard steps in the hall, followed by the stranger and his dogs, one big, one small. They walked by our door, down the hall and into the living room that was open to the kitchen. I wanted so badly to open the door, to see this stranger with my own eyes, but I was dragged back into sleep again. Right before I drifted off, I heard the stranger's voice trickle through the hall again, talking to Derek, whose steps had paused. 


“I'm sorry you have to do this,” he said. “I'll do my best to stay out of the way.” 



A view from outside a pickup truck on a rainy night, showing the rain-streaked passenger window. Through the window, a figure is curled up on the seat with a coat draped over their head, conveying vulnerability and despair. The dimly lit interior is softly illuminated by the warm glow of a nearby streetlight, with reflective patterns from raindrops visible on the glass. The empty driver’s seat emphasizes solitude, while the background shows a dark, rainy environment with faint flashes of lightning illuminating the scene. The atmosphere is heavy, reflective, and emotionally charged.



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