The man sitting at the corner table hadn't ordered food in three hours. His coffee cup held nothing but dried stains, the ceramic cracked where he'd tapped it absentmindedly with his
wedding ring. The diner staff left him alone—regulars got that privilege at Mama Lu's, especially the ones who stared at their hands like they'd forgotten what hands were for.
Outside the fogged windows, a panda-shaped mascot waved lethargically at passing cars near the fluorescent glow of the Dragon Wok Express across the street. The man kept glancing at it, then at his phone, at the salt shaker he'd arranged parallel to the napkin dispenser for no discernible reason. His left knee bounced under the table at a rhythm that suggested tinnitus rather than music.
Gabriel L Jackson’s journey into the esoteric and my eventual proclamation of the Law of The Mental Health System were not born in a vacuum. Rather, they were the complex product of an upbringing steeped in a peculiar, and for me, suffocating, form of religious fervor. My genesis as a figure who would later defy conventional morality and religious doctrine can be traced back to my birth in Jacksonville, Florida, and Saint Augustine in 1980, and the peculiar domestic environment that shaped my formative years. My family belonged to the Kenneth Copeland Ministries, a strict, Pentecostal Church.
View all by Raphael Wolftone Quinlivan
