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The police were dragging him off her. She was a terrible bloody mess, and his hands were gripped tightly around her neck. It was real in that surreal way reality can be. Everything was happening too fast. He felt the hard, sudden crashing behind his head as the police tugged at his arms and struck him over and over with their sticks. There was a lot of cursing and screaming all blended together in a constant screeching drone.
He remembered thinking of the Pentecostal church service his uncle had once taken him to as a child. It had been confusing in the same sort of way. People were screaming and crying and speaking in “tongues” as his uncle had called it. Some were lying on the ground, mumbling, while others ran in the isles, and everyone chanted “Glory,” “Amen,” and “Praise Jesus.” He didn’t know why he recalled this, but he felt the same confusion.
Just then came another crashing from behind, and everything flashed brightly and then slowly faded.
The voices began to fade to a lull as his vision blurred and went black and then, silence.
The freezing water woke him, and the confusion returned. It was agonizing. His vision began to return. The loud, gruff voice came in torrents, reminding him of the drill sergeants, years ago. He was naked and in a great deal of pain. One of the figures in the doorway, the large one, tossed him a bar of soap, which hit his chest and then fell to the floor. It was a small bar and thin, like the ones they put in cheap motel bathrooms. The freezing water was spraying all over him.
“Pick it up, boy! What’re you, fuckin’ deaf? Pick it up and clean off! Hurry up, you piece of shit! The doctor’ll be here in a minute to patch you up. Hurry up, I said!”
He picked up the soap and tried to stand. He faltered at first and then caught himself. The lights were blinding and the freezing water washed away the soap before any lather could build.
He struggled out a few words, “What’s going o. . . ”
“Shut up and clean off!”
He did as he was told, trying to make sense of things. The water stopped before he could clean the blood from his face and neck and it ran down his body in streams of watery pink.
“Here, put these on,” said the big figure with the gruff voice.
He managed to catch the clothes as they came flying at him. He struggled into the gray pants and shirt and was cuffed again and dragged from the room, down a hallway, and pushed into a cell. The cell door slammed to, hollow and loud, and the gruff voice sounded again.
“Put your hands through the bars. You hear me, boy? Put your hands through the bars so I can take the cuffs off. That’s unless you want to keep ’em on. Maybe you should keep ’em on. They look mighty stylish on you. Don’t look at me like that you white trash piece of shit! I will leave ’em on. How’d you like that? You’d have a helluva time wipin’ your sorry ass. Come on, give me your goddamn hands!”
He placed his hands through the bars and the cuffs were removed. The large figure disappeared and he turned to find a place to sit. His vision began to clear and he could see the bunk with the thin, piss-stained mattress and the tiny pillow to his left. There were sheets and a blanket, folded and sitting on the end of the bunk. To his front, he could see the tiny sink and what must have been a toilet, beside. He walked to the sink and looked in the mirror above it, which wasn’t really a mirror but a piece of polished, stainless steel, bolted to the wall. He could still feel the burn of the soap in his eyes, and he turned on the faucet. The freezing water poured over his hands and he cupped it and placed it to his mouth. The water tasted metallic as he swished it in his mouth and spat it out again into the sink. He washed the soap from his face and head and felt the knots and splits on the back. He turned and sat on the bed.
It all began to come back: the trip, the long drive home, the relief that comes when pulling into the driveway at the end. He remembered opening the door and calling out to his wife and the sound of rushing about in the bedroom. He remembered going to the bedroom door, opening it and seeing them there, together, naked and shameful, looking terrified. He remembered taking hold of the shotgun by the door and then the screams. He remembered pumping and firing and pumping and firing over and over until only the dull clicking of the empty chamber sounded. He remembered the torn figure of the man on the floor. He remembered her rushing past him and into the living room. He remembered grasping a handful of hair and pulling her back, throwing her onto the coffee table. He remembered the crash as she fell through the glass top to the floor, and he remembered the choking and beating and choking again. He shook his head.
Soon, the large guard returned and cuffed him again, and the cell door opened. He was led down the hallway and into another room where he was told to sit on a table. A doctor soon came and stitched and bandaged his cuts. Then, he was led back to the cell and told to make out his bunk.
He took hold of the pile of stiff linens and spread them out on the thin mattress. He lay down and stared blankly at the ceiling. He went over the events again in his head. Funny, he didn’t feel remorse of any kind, nor did he feel fear of what was to come. It was more of an empty, hollow feeling; a feeling like being alone, a feeling exactly like being alone.
An attorney soon came to speak with him, but he had nothing to say. He knew he was a danger, a threat, like the rabid stray that wanders onto the before-quiet and safe residential street, running dizzy and confused toward the inevitable bullet. He knew it was coming. He knew he was forfeit. He had come to terms with that. As for explanations or excuses, he offered nothing. Temporary insanity? What the hell is that, anyway? Nothing but a bullshit ‘cop-out’, he thought. In the coming trial, the jury felt the same way. The legal procession was long and exhausting and turned out exactly as he and everyone else predicted it would. Through it all he said nothing. His wife had died in his grasp that night. He hadn’t known this until now, but it was just as well. All were told to rise. He was sentenced to die in prison.
Days passed, then years. Every day was the same and every year, the same as the last. Everything was quite simple. In the morning, he would wake, be fed. He would sit and stare at the wall until they would come and feed him again. Then he would lie and stare at the ceiling and they would come and feed him again. He would sleep and dream of driving and fishing.
He awoke in a cold sweat, breathing hard, almost in tears. He awoke to the confusion and relief that it was all only a dream. His breathing calmed, and he rubbed his eyes. Then he looked up, and his eyes began to focus and see the bars and the walls, and it all became clear once more.
He knew they had finally gotten to him . . . . He wasn’t even free in his dreams.
A Dream
He knew he was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. But it all seemed so real. He couldn’t remember if it was a recurring dream, or if he was actually experiencing it over and over again.
The police were dragging him off her. She was a terrible bloody mess, and his hands were gripped tightly around her neck. It was real in that surreal way reality can be. Everything was happening too fast. He felt the hard, sudden crashing behind his head as the police tugged at his arms and struck him over and over with their sticks. There was a lot of cursing and screaming all blended together in a constant screeching drone.
He remembered thinking of the Pentecostal church service his uncle had once taken him to as a child. It had been confusing in the same sort of way. People were screaming and crying and speaking in “tongues” as his uncle had called it. Some were lying on the ground, mumbling, while others ran in the isles, and everyone chanted “Glory,” “Amen,” and “Praise Jesus.” He didn’t know why he recalled this, but he felt the same confusion.
Just then came another crashing from behind, and everything flashed brightly and then slowly faded.
The voices began to fade to a lull as his vision blurred and went black and then, silence.
The freezing water woke him, and the confusion returned. It was agonizing. His vision began to return. The loud, gruff voice came in torrents, reminding him of the drill sergeants, years ago. He was naked and in a great deal of pain. One of the figures in the doorway, the large one, tossed him a bar of soap, which hit his chest and then fell to the floor. It was a small bar and thin, like the ones they put in cheap motel bathrooms. The freezing water was spraying all over him.
“Pick it up, boy! What’re you, fuckin’ deaf? Pick it up and clean off! Hurry up, you piece of shit! The doctor’ll be here in a minute to patch you up. Hurry up, I said!”
He picked up the soap and tried to stand. He faltered at first and then caught himself. The lights were blinding and the freezing water washed away the soap before any lather could build.
He struggled out a few words, “What’s going o. . . ”
“Shut up and clean off!”
He did as he was told, trying to make sense of things. The water stopped before he could clean the blood from his face and neck and it ran down his body in streams of watery pink.
“Here, put these on,” said the big figure with the gruff voice.
He managed to catch the clothes as they came flying at him. He struggled into the gray pants and shirt and was cuffed again and dragged from the room, down a hallway, and pushed into a cell. The cell door slammed to, hollow and loud, and the gruff voice sounded again.
“Put your hands through the bars. You hear me, boy? Put your hands through the bars so I can take the cuffs off. That’s unless you want to keep ’em on. Maybe you should keep ’em on. They look mighty stylish on you. Don’t look at me like that you white trash piece of shit! I will leave ’em on. How’d you like that? You’d have a helluva time wipin’ your sorry ass. Come on, give me your goddamn hands!”
He placed his hands through the bars and the cuffs were removed. The large figure disappeared and he turned to find a place to sit. His vision began to clear and he could see the bunk with the thin, piss-stained mattress and the tiny pillow to his left. There were sheets and a blanket, folded and sitting on the end of the bunk. To his front, he could see the tiny sink and what must have been a toilet, beside. He walked to the sink and looked in the mirror above it, which wasn’t really a mirror but a piece of polished, stainless steel, bolted to the wall. He could still feel the burn of the soap in his eyes, and he turned on the faucet. The freezing water poured over his hands and he cupped it and placed it to his mouth. The water tasted metallic as he swished it in his mouth and spat it out again into the sink. He washed the soap from his face and head and felt the knots and splits on the back. He turned and sat on the bed.
It all began to come back: the trip, the long drive home, the relief that comes when pulling into the driveway at the end. He remembered opening the door and calling out to his wife and the sound of rushing about in the bedroom. He remembered going to the bedroom door, opening it and seeing them there, together, naked and shameful, looking terrified. He remembered taking hold of the shotgun by the door and then the screams. He remembered pumping and firing and pumping and firing over and over until only the dull clicking of the empty chamber sounded. He remembered the torn figure of the man on the floor. He remembered her rushing past him and into the living room. He remembered grasping a handful of hair and pulling her back, throwing her onto the coffee table. He remembered the crash as she fell through the glass top to the floor, and he remembered the choking and beating and choking again. He shook his head.
Soon, the large guard returned and cuffed him again, and the cell door opened. He was led down the hallway and into another room where he was told to sit on a table. A doctor soon came and stitched and bandaged his cuts. Then, he was led back to the cell and told to make out his bunk.
He took hold of the pile of stiff linens and spread them out on the thin mattress. He lay down and stared blankly at the ceiling. He went over the events again in his head. Funny, he didn’t feel remorse of any kind, nor did he feel fear of what was to come. It was more of an empty, hollow feeling; a feeling like being alone, a feeling exactly like being alone.
An attorney soon came to speak with him, but he had nothing to say. He knew he was a danger, a threat, like the rabid stray that wanders onto the before-quiet and safe residential street, running dizzy and confused toward the inevitable bullet. He knew it was coming. He knew he was forfeit. He had come to terms with that. As for explanations or excuses, he offered nothing. Temporary insanity? What the hell is that, anyway? Nothing but a bullshit ‘cop-out’, he thought. In the coming trial, the jury felt the same way. The legal procession was long and exhausting and turned out exactly as he and everyone else predicted it would. Through it all he said nothing. His wife had died in his grasp that night. He hadn’t known this until now, but it was just as well. All were told to rise. He was sentenced to die in prison.
Days passed, then years. Every day was the same and every year, the same as the last. Everything was quite simple. In the morning, he would wake, be fed. He would sit and stare at the wall until they would come and feed him again. Then he would lie and stare at the ceiling and they would come and feed him again. He would sleep and dream of driving and fishing.
He awoke in a cold sweat, breathing hard, almost in tears. He awoke to the confusion and relief that it was all only a dream. His breathing calmed, and he rubbed his eyes. Then he looked up, and his eyes began to focus and see the bars and the walls, and it all became clear once more.
He knew they had finally gotten to him . . . . He wasn’t even free in his dreams.