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**02-28-2015, 09:43 AM**

Our hero’s story begins not unlike his storybook counterparts; mired in tragedy and heartbreak, this is not a story of redemption. No, let this tale instead serve as a reminder, a reminder to cherish one’s closest relationships while they serve as more than a fleeting memory, dancing about the tortured soul of a broken man. Cherish them vigorously and whole heartedly, for there is no tangible expiration date a man can place on those he holds dearest. Life can, and often does, craft it’s own cruel and callous blueprint. These words ring especially true to our hero, a man whose life would be on a drastically different course had he only been warned of the twisted and jagged path that fate had laid down before him.

Our hero’s story begins not unlike his storybook counterparts.

However, his journey is far from textbook.

This is not a story of redemption.

Rather, a story of rebirth.

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Born Marcus Jean-Baptiste, our subject’s formative years were nothing short of ideal. Loving parents, a sharp mind, and the instant approval of his peers were all things that were seemingly gifted to him at birth. Where Jean-Baptiste really stood apart, however, was his athletic prowess. Always taller, faster and stronger than his playmates, Jean-Baptiste was always sure to draw a crowd whether on the hardwood, the baseball diamond, or the gridiron-his preferred sport. The community was aware of the special type of athlete that Jean-Baptiste had become, as talks of him playing in ‘the pros’ one day followed him around before he set foot into his high school’s hallways. Naturally, the allure of being labeled a ‘sure-fire’ pro prospect would be enough to skyrocket the typical adolescent’s ego into the stratosphere, but not him. Jean-Baptiste’s parents continually preached the importance of education and humility, and their efforts were rewarded by his humble approach to his athletic career and his unyielding focus on his studies.

Three and a half years into his high school career, Jean-Baptiste become something of a local legend. After playing four different sports his freshman year, he concluded that he needed to commit to just one of them in order to meet his self-imposed studying standards. His sophomore and junior years he became one of the top high school football players in the country, a linebacker combining incredible speed and strength with a knowledge of the coverages that would impress at even the professional level. His senior year would be no different, as he was the reason his weekly opposition had their matchup circled on their calendars. Those games drew unheard of crowds for high school football events; each week the stands were filled to capacity with eager onlookers wishing to watch the local boy who would surely make it to the NFL one day. And for his part, Jean-Baptiste did not disappoint, despite the added pressure of knowing college scouts from around the country were seated front-and-center at each of his games, his senior season became a thing of legend in Louisiana high school history.

His ferocity and tenacity on the field had become the focal point of many a Monday morning water cooler discussion, yet the juxtaposition of his off-field demeanor, which was kind, caring, and gentle, was nearly as noteworthy. Everyone knew the smile of the high-school football captain, they would often see him arm-in-arm with his high school sweetheart, Nicole, browsing their shops. It wasn't Oklahoma, Arkansas or Texas, but Jean-Baptiste managed to bring that caricature of a small town All-American to their quiet community, and they all appreciated him for. Even more so when it was time for him to announce his college choice. As he sat at the podium in front of the ESPN cameras, with his parents proudly hovering over him and his smiling girlfriend nervously clutching his hand, he made the entire state proud with his decisive and enthusiastic decision to place the Louisiana State University cap on both his, and his girlfriend’s heads. He was going to Baton Rouge, and she was coming with.

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Two years into his college career and Jean-Baptiste had found himself in a situation he had never faced before: Failure. His freshman year, as he expected, saw him become a fixture on the team’s bench as he soaked in information about the defensive schemes and reading the opposition’s offense. While he yearned to make it out onto the field and make an impact for his team, he secretly relished the opportunity to become just another face on the team. For the first time since he reached puberty, he wasn't being treated as if he were a god that descended from Mount Olympus. Between his his freshman and sophomore seasons, Jean-Baptiste learned that he and Nicole were expecting a child. Overcome with equal parts joy and uncertainty, he swiftly asked her to marry him. They wasted no time and married within a few hours, determined to not have a child out of wedlock. Everything seemed to be falling into place, until one case of mistaken identity changed everything.

On the fateful night, the largest fraternity party was raging into the late hours of the night. Jean-Baptiste and several of his teammates were in attendance, where they were being given the superstar treatment: Women, alcohol and drugs. Jean-Baptiste was not one for the party scene and had promised his wife he would be home early that night so he wished his teammates well and left. Late in the evening, the group of remaining players corralled a few women into a room upstairs where they engaged them. One of them was the underage sister. The girl went to campus security with names and descriptions. Jean-Baptiste, whom she had met earlier but mistakenly identified as one of the attackers, was shocked when the police showed up at his doorstep.

While he and Nicole maintained his innocence, the university had to treat him as a special case. The rest of the football players in attendance had been arrested and were facing prison time. Several witnesses did testify that Jean-Baptiste was the party, which he did not deny, but none could place him at the scene at the time of the attack and their was no DNA evidence to prove he was there. Still, the community was out for blood. In a move to save face, the university kicked Jean-Baptiste off campus as punishment for conduct detrimental to the university, effectively ending any chance he had at a professional football career.

The next few years were a dizzying mix of depression and happiness. Jean-Baptiste’s daughter, Beatrice, had finally been born. In his eyes, she was nothing short of perfect. Her birth was the happiest day of his life, erasing a large portion of the pain he still felt from his failed college football career. Yet, there was still a lingering resentment. Despite his wife, his daughter, and a job in construction that kept the family living comfortably, not a day passed where Jean-Baptiste didn’t have the thought of the professional career that never was, wander across his mind. Equal parts shame, anger and despair were evoked whenever the faintest of reminders of his college days appeared. The first couple years after Beatrice was born, he was able to block it out. He had a new focus, and that little girl’s well being was the most important mission he had in life now.

But eventually the sorrow would win. It started innocently enough: A beer after work once or twice a week, a few extra minutes in front of the television before bed, and very rarely an uncalled for outburst directed at Nicole. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of a trend that would see Jean-Baptiste spiral into a cycle of despondency, being unavailable and detached. The transition was not a hasty one, but the change in demeanor was notable on a daily basis. The occasional stops at the bar after work turned into a 12-pack each night to unwind. Those extra minutes in front of the television turned into hours, and all that extra time turned the once chiseled physique into a soft, doughy one more reminiscent of a midwestern plumber than a former athletic prodigy. The outbursts towards his wife continued to the point where their marriage was merely to keep up appearances. He still dearly loved the woman, but the overwhelming anger and sadness that flooded his mind rendered him incapable of showing it. For her part, Nicole simply couldn’t bring herself to leave the father of their daughter. Beatrice suffered the most, she knew that her father wasn’t the same man anymore and that her mother was growing cold towards him. Bea put on a brave front whenever her father missed a dance recital, waving it off as if it didn’t matter to her but deep down it hurt every time she looked into the seats and saw the vacant one next to her mother. But still, Bea tried her hardest to bring her dad out of his funk. And she knew he appreciated it. The only time he would crack a smile was when she was hanging off him and making funny faces. The only times where Jean-Baptiste still felt human was when he was around that smiling girl. And even that couldn’t last.

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This Wednesday evening was fairly typical in that Jean-Baptiste couldn’t be bothered to leave the couch and a few bottles of beer, so Bea and Nicole left in Nicole’s SUV to make it to Bea’s dance practice. There was nothing good on television, typical of a Wednesday night. The only thing that was out of place was the rain that night. He knew, he watched the forecast, there wasn’t supposed to be any rain. He looked occasionally over to window next to the couch being pelted by the heavy rain drops, concerned with nothing more than the jackass weather man getting things wrong again. It never crossed his mind that Nicole had complained earlier in the week about the grinding sound coming from her brakes whenever she had to stop. He promised her he’d look at it when he got a chance, which she should’ve just taken as a ‘I’m too lazy to do it myself, take it to the shop.’ Unfortunately for her, the fleeting amount of trust she had in the man allowed for just enough to believe that he wouldn’t allow something potentially harmful to his own family. So she took him for his word this time.

The phone rang moments later. Five, six times before it stopped. Jean-Baptiste simply huffed at the annoying ringer, believing it to be a bill collector or telemarketer. The phone starts to ring again. Five, six more rings before it goes silent. Jean-Baptiste looks towards the clock on the wall. 10:37. He found it puzzling that the girls hadn’t made it home yet, they usually were back no later than 10. The phone rings again. Five, six rings before the sound cuts out and Jean-Baptiste sits up on the couch, exhaling slowly. He looks over to the phone, a look of concern suddenly washes over his face. He knew no bill or mail-order back scratcher was this important. He brings his arms to his knees, rubbing them nervously, his gaze never averting from the phone. His eyes close and his teeth clench. He begins muttering a prayer to himself as he shakes his head. A single tear streams from his eye as he brings his hands up to his face. He doesn’t need to hear it. He already knows.

But the phone rings anyway.

His eyes slowly open.

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The feeling that night was one that his brain could never conjure on it’s own. He sat next to Nicole’s bed, tears streaming from his face. The rain. The brakes. The drunk driver who ran the red light. Nicole. He didn’t know who to blame, but not a single moment could he bring himself to blame the true culprit: Himself. Nicole hadn’t been feeling well, she wanted him to drive that but he couldn’t be bothered to leave the couch. His brakes were just fine. Had he been driving, he would’ve seen the guy careening through the intersection and he would’ve been able to stop in time. But he just couldn’t see it that way, not yet. He sat there for what seemed like days, weeks, years. Waiting impatiently for Nicole to wake up.

When she finally did, he was overcome. His eyes swelled and he broke down. He bowed his head and sobbed loudly as Nicole looked down on him.

Bea…

But she knew. She was there, he wasn’t. As tears gathered in her eyes, she shook her head at him disgust. He reached for her hand but she pulled it away from him quickly. She didn’t need to say a word, the look she gave him spoke for itself. At that moment he knew that he had finally lost everything. He wasn’t wrong, as in just a few short months after her release from the hospital, she would serve him with divorce papers. The day he reluctantly signed those papers marked the last time the two would ever see each other. Perhaps for the best, as being around each other only elicited memories of Beatrice-memories that were too painful for either of them to bear.

The next year was spent in a drunken haze. The house was sold in the divorce, and his share would be used to purchase a rusty Volkswagen bus and enough cheap vodka to fill an olympic swimming pool. Holding down a job was out of the question, so his days were spent sleeping off the ill-effects of the previous night’s drinking. A vicious cycle. Often he did not move his vehicle for days on end, parking next to river banks underneath overpasses with a supply of booze and what little junk food he needed to get him by.

The money wouldn’t last forever however, and he knew that in order to continue numbing the pain he would have to scare up some money. The van was a candidate, but he couldn’t wait that long. He needed more self-medication. As his supply of bottom-shelf vodka dwindled he drove into town, blind drunk and without a plan. He parked on a side street, knowing the cops rarely frequented those areas. Taking pulls from his last bottle of vodka, he stumbled down the street, heading towards the mini-mart with the word ‘Lotto’ lit in LEDs. That’d be his meal ticket, he thought. That’d get him enough to get by for a while longer. On his way, however, something caught his eye. A sign reading ‘communicate with lost loved ones,’ adorned with crow skulls and a dead snake. Jean-Baptiste laughed to himself, but before he could mutter the words ‘bull shit,’ his hand was already tugging the door open. In he walked to Madam Giordeau’s Voodoo House, where everything would change.

He stumbles around a bit, giggling at the various 'voodoo' dolls and artifacts. He pauses at a large tarantula, roaming free on top of what looks to be an authentic human skull. Not believing it to be an actual spider, he sticks his finger up to the spider, which has turned and taken notice of the large man.

“What manna’ of fool so willingly tempts death?” The voice stops him in his tracks.

He turns away from the spider as the figure of a slender, old woman emerges from the back room.

“A drunk one. It appears.” She says as she motions to a chair next to her. “Come chile’, tell us what ails you.”

He sits down in the chair, staring ardently at the woman in an attempt to cure his double vision. She takes a seat next to him and places her hand on his head. “Sleep now, chile’.” She whispers to him as his eyes roll back into his head. His view of the world is suddenly even cloudier and more hazy. He briefly attempts to stand in protest, but a newfound urge to sleep washes over him as he slumps back into the chair. The woman smiles and grabs his hand, bringing it into her lap. She produces a small needle from her hair and proceeds to prick his finger, drawing a small trickle of blood down into his palm. The woman closes her eyes and begins chanting, before bringing the hand up to her face and licking the blood from the palm. She drops the palm and exhales deeply before being struck with a single, jarring convulsion. She brings her hands to her head, massaging her temples as she shakes her head. A tear rolls down her face as she opens her eyes and looks down on the man.

“Poor chile’. You comin’ ‘ere, it were no accident. You done went through sumtin’ that no man should experience. And I be of the belief that Legba himself brought you and I together. That beautiful babe, she was pure and was taken too early.” She kisses the unconscious man on the forehead. “She comin’ back to you my dear. I can’t promise everting’ gon’ be the same, but I can can promise that it won’t ever be this bad. When you wake chile’, you will have your precious girl back. A second chance. Don’t waste it this time.” She whispers to him before dropping his head.”

Jean-Baptiste awakens in the chair he was offered the night before, but nothing else is the same. The room that was filled with jars of spices and dead animals is now completely barren. The shelves holding the menacing tarantula and human skull now house dust and cobwebs. He struggles to shake the figurative cobwebs residing inside his head as he attempts to make sense of what happened to him last night. A drunken hallucination? A dream? He shrugs it off and exits the building. He looks toward the mini-mart, his previous objective, but his desire to get intoxicated is nowhere to be found. He walks back to the van with his newfound clarity, a state of mind that he hasn’t felt in what feels like an eternity. He reaches the van and opens the door, stumbling backward at the sight inside: A small white chihuahua, wagging it’s tail and barking enthusiastically. A pink name tag reading ‘Beatrice’ dangles from it’s neck as it extends it’s paw several times to Jean-Baptiste. He can’t break his gaze from the tiny animal. Was this a joke? The words whispered to him by the Voodoo woman ring in his head, but this couldn’t be what she meant. Could it? He approaches the dog cautiously, but it wastes no time in jumping into his arms and licking his face emphatically.

And for the first time since the loss of his precious daughter.

He smiles.

He gets into the van and Beatrice sits in the passenger seat. He smiles to her as the van takes off down the darkened street. As the scene fades out, the sound of screeching tires is accompanied by the bright flash of brake lights as the van comes to a grinding halt. Nothing can be heard for a moment before an exasperated cry escapes the van.

NOOOOO! DON'T SHIT IN THE VAN!

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Part I: A story of rebirth.
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