The shotgun felt ice cold. It was summer, but he was cold. As was the room. The 22. calibre rifle was remarkably warm from shooting the others. It lay there on the bed next to where he sat. He should have been warm. He had been drinking, not as much as they say - but enough for that warm feeling to be present in his chest - it was not. He lifted the 20 gauge shotgun toward him - he opened his mouth - right thumb on trigger left hand mid-barrel. He opened his mouth wide, wider, placing the barrel in; closing his mouth tightly around the frigid metal. He felt suddenly chilled. A deep shiver ran through him. Goose bumps jumped out from the flesh of both arms. He was not afraid, simply cold. Terribly cold. Music blazed on the stereo inside his head. Vintage Hendrix.

"Purple Haze..., all in my brain lately, I just dont feel the same all mixed up and I dont know why..,,"

He loved Hendrix. he loved music. There was always the music, the music, the music - CRACK- just then it stopped, the music stopped and the memories started. He had done it, he had squeezed the trigger. Abruptness of shell splattering, smashing, slicing through flesh - through bone plate. He was propelled-as if by and uppercut - savagely separated - spirit from flesh, brains from skull. He had done it well.-quickly ; efficiently. Still though..., it was cold. And in that slow-motioned second we are given to review our lives his view culminated with a blood-splattered wall - thick brain and skin tissue clinging to it in a spread out glob that looked like so much vomit. A small curved chunk of skull rocking back and forth on the nightstand. Buckets of blood gushing out of his half-shell of a head like some strange syrup. "Shit, shit fucking shit I fucked up! " It was true. He had.

"Scuse me while I kiss the sky"

On June 22, 1990 my friend Milton blew his brains out after shooting and killing others in his home. After the event I sought to recreate his last moments in my mind through a form of trance meditation. The preceding paragraphs were written in part by what I viewed and by police reports and news accounts.

With violence so prevalent in our society I'm sure this story appeared to most who read of it in the local paper as just another act of random violence perpetuated by a crazy or violent individual. In his case, however, nothing could have been further from the truth. Yet, this is exactly how it was portrayed and presented and an extraordinary life was closed on this horrible chapter. What had propelled him to this end? What really happens when good people suddenly and without explanation do incredibly out of character, evil deeds, I wondered ? The media and all officially concerned always seem to seek the easy, safe answers even if they dont add up. The individual was either a loner or had started to hang out with a bad crowd. The other usual suspects are alcohol, drug abuse or being unduly influenced by movies. But, is there more at work here than these answers or simple insanity that has caused what seems to be a pandemic of good people going bad.

We expect or probably should expect evil people to do evil things but what about the plethora of these cases where we see good kids killing there fellow students, decent loving Mothers murdering there children and a happy straight A student committing suicide by flying a plane into the Bank of America building. Were all aware of the most dramatic cases that receive national attention but there are so many more that happen everyday in cities all across America and to a lesser extent around the world. How do we explain it and how do we protect ourselves from this and what seem to be other modern terrors? My book" Magickal Protection - In the Time of Terror" is an attempt to do just that. But before we close the chapter on my friend Milton lets look at our beginnings. One of my earliest memories is of seeing myself in what might be termed as a past life. I must have been about four years old when I had this vision or " waking dream" of myself as a knight in armor searching for something. In the vision that " I " was feeling or knowing that in order to find " it" I must remain pure or to use modern "Star Wars theolgy" " keep away from the darkside". Whatever the " It" was I seem to still be searching. This feeling and my disregard for peer pressure probably saved my life. But were getting ahead of our story.

During my childhood I was prone to what was termed then by my parents as dizzy spells . I would sometimes and for no apparent reason simply blackout and faint, for example, while standing in line at school. This happened enough to cause concern at my elementary school and this lead to eventual trips to the doctor. The reasons for these dizzy spells was never really fully determined, although an inner ear disorder was speculated but not found. Otherwise I was a healthy, skinny kid with a lot of energy. As I grew older the events seemed to lessen and even diminish completely, for a time. I was later to learn that deep meditation, even to the point of trance states, was extremely easy for me. Looking back on it, what was difficult was remaining grounded in normal reality. My childhood, though normal in most respects, was littered with ghost sightings, astral projection, psychic and deja vu experiences, extraordinary meditative sessions and an unquenchable passion for knowledge in the realms of the unknown.

I spent all my allowance every week on books. All the Edgar Cayce & Brad Steiger books. Books on Yoga, Magick and the Occult. For the most part my study was solitary in fact I knew of no one with similar interests until I met Milton. He was the scientific genius in our school. He would win all the citywide science awards. His father was a university psychology professor.When we found out we shared interest in the paranormal and magick as well as Karate we soon became best friends. We studied and then practiced ritual and ceremonial magick. Soon we had a few other interested students and we created an occult group. As time went on Miltons daring grew and he wanted to call on powers that I felt were best left alone. He also began magickal sparring or battles with other magicians or entities. The problem with magick sparring is unlike Karate its very difficult to have light contact or pull your punches. All this was in a direction I was not interested in going and our occult group split into two with Milton heading one and me the other.

We, of course, remained friends but Miltons luck started to take a turn for the worse when we were in high school. Suffice it to say that I felt he was experiencing some blowback effect. Blowback is what happens when you spit in the wind. The last and most remarkable magical ritual Milton spoke to me of was what I first remembered when I heard of his death. In his basement that day where we had participated in many ceremonies Milton and his cousin who was part of his magickal group told me of there battle with a very powerful entity. He recounted it as if if were his finest hour. He talked about the names of power he used and the beings he called upon to aide him in his battle and then he spoke of the culmination of this magical warfare. His victory resulted in blood covering the walls of the room they were using - every member of his group saw the blood which seemed to them to be a sign of Miltons' victory. Or was it a sign of things to come? - Miltons' last defeat, his demise. Was it the result of a battle ultimately lost, a major blowback or a debt that had to be repaid to a patient, powerful entity whose services had been used and now must be repaid. We will never know or at least be able to prove a magickal connection to Miltons' death but in a world where sometimes what happens just doesn't make sense, can anything be ruled out?

Postscript : The last time I saw Milton alive was about 9 months before his death at his fathers funeral. We talked at some length and he was happy that he had been able to spend time with his father before his death and that they had closure. Milton was at the time working as a researcher for Firestone. He was again the boy genius. Nobody mentioned that at his death. Here we were, both around thirty- four years old having gone through a lot, separately and together, since those days when we were twelve. He and I spoke on the phone a few times after that meeting and I had decided to ask him to work with me on the side, with a computer-related company I wanted to start, if he had time. I never got around to asking him that. The night it happened I got a call from my aunt telling me to turn on the local news. I watched it but afterwards allowed the memories of more hopeful, innocent times to surface.

Copyright -1991 - 2002 Zachary James Miller