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Jake's Journal: 8/17/02 When I left for London the Mets were four and a half games back from the wildcard. When I come back, we're in the middle of the worst home losing streak in National League history. Talk about a dramatic turn of events. Don't you wish life was as simple as baseball? Kelly is no where to be found. I called Megoth's house and left numerous messages on his cell phone but apparently they went away for August. I talked to Faith once on the phone but she didn't seem to want to talk to me. So, here I am, Jake Bruno, the boy who no one loves. Becky seems to be, however, in great spirits. Her frequent headaches have all of a sudden disappeared. Like a cloud lifted over my head, she says. If there was no bridge linking my ex-powers to her than I'm a Monkey's Uncle. She was sick all the time, my dad says. And now, since last week, all better. It could be the allergy medicine she's taking, or it could be the fact that her brother isn't wired to kill her if he bends a spoon or files ten feet in the air. Anyone reading this would think I'm strange. All this talk of superpowers and secret connections and masks and London, it's all very surreal to me now sitting here on Long Island, waiting for school to start and almost excited about football preseason (even though the Giants ain't looking too good this year, there's always hockey). And Mercy's dead. Just like that. A wall fell on her when she was in London with Faith, that's the story Jenkins said to use. A horribly tragic coincidence. No one to blame. Her funeral happened while I was in a coma in London. Wonder if I'm still in a coma. Sometimes it feels like that. Like life is all one big test. But it's not. Life isn't Vanilla Sky. I didn't sign up for any lucid dreams experiences. Otherwise, Mercy would be here. She would be here. In my room. Instead of dead. I can't write anymore.    
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EVERYTHING JAKE is TM & (C) 2000-2011 by Mike Rosenzweig. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
