I broke ranks with the throng of voices. The grand revolt against myself jumped shark after the third set of murders. I’ve since heard that during fugue states, only the present personality remains aware at a conscious level. Unfortunately I wasn’t aware of that bundle of helpful information until recently.
I, unlike most sufferers of the disorder, watched every moment as it played out. A three dimensional television program populated by faces wide eyed and blood painted unready to die. Quivering voices pleading for a mercy they would not receive. Small explosions of gunpowder throwing their metal projectiles forward at supersonic speeds. The sound of impact and subsequent perforation. A handful going so far as exploding into the walls behind.
I did best to convince myself they were all dreams. Nightmares. I’d wake tangled in sweaty sheets and blankets, heater warm despite the winter I witnessed in falling white flakes on the other side of my window. No evidence on my person to indicate any of the atrocities playing through my head existed in the real world.
I massaged sore muscles under the hot shower water. An oval shaped bruise fit in the crook of my right shoulder. Soap ran down my body, covered my feet and sank between all ten toes into the multi-holed drain. The shampoo pierced my nose with a crisp tang. I assumed it was kiwi/lime since that’s what the label on the bottle said.
Scrubbing the towel over my back, water descended in slow, cooling streaks down the inside of my legs. Atop the laundry basket behind me reflected in the mirror, the lid angled slightly open. I couldn’t think of why it would be full having just done a wash load the day before.
Rubbing the towel swiftly over my beard, I turned around. The basket lid closed, it’s empty innards patiently awaiting more soiled linens upon opening. I flipped the light off and strolled into the bedroom to finish my morning rituals.
White button down shirt from the closet freshly pressed. Solid black tie and sanded belt. Matching slacks and sport coat lined with white pinstripes so thin they are near invisible without close inspection. Orange socks because nothing rhymes with orange. Shoes at the foot of my bed shined before going to sleep the night before.
In the top dresser drawer was the small case where I kept my cuff link collection. Finely polished mahogany seamed together with no nails or glue. My grandfather constructed it by hand, measuring and cutting each piece to fit in place and never move once hammered into place. Layer upon layer of lacquer applied with a horsehair brush he also made using hair from the tail of his very own horse Majestic Marge in 1906.
Dad inherited the box from Grandpa Johnston when he died in the Pastor University chemical fire of 1961. He in turn gave it to me on the day I graduated from the police academy. Placing it in my hand, Dad gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. His eyes dry, focused some place beyond the top of my head. There was a cold shiver sent from his strong fingers deep into my muscles.
I looked up to thank him, but he already walked away. I followed him to the parking lot, watched him climb into his black Volkswagen Scirocco and drive away without saying a word.
I never saw him again.
I kept six pairs of cuff links in the box. One black. One white. One silver. One gold. One shaped like eighth notes and the last pair is made from two actual bullets from Jesse James’ .45 Colt Peacemaker revolver.
I chose the bullets and a pocket square to match my tie. I closed the box and immediately opened it again. A splotch of black caught my attention. The unfamiliar stain spread in the top left corner where previously had been nothing but the shimmer and reflectiveness of the polished wood.
I ran a finger over the spot. Nothing seeped away on my skin. Leaning closer, I sniffed the air. Above the crisp, familiar tones of the wood there was a slightly sour tinge. The back of my tongue curled down. Gag reflex nearly triggered, I stumbled backward, my head swirling inside the tight confines of my skull.
His face stretched long in my mind. The man screamed sounds I couldn’t hear. Teeth cracked and broken. Fingers twisted at impossible angles. Left leg at a ninety degree angle to the side below the knee. Nose crushed One eye swollen shut, the other socket empty.
I breathed slowly through my nose swallowing back the bile. Calm, I stood in front of the mirror. I watched through myself as the man slicked back his hair. The brush soft. Short bristles tickled at the skin under the beard.
The case slid out from under the bed. Opened, the large gun, old but well cared for fit into his hand as if built to his palm’s measurements. He twisted the bullet cuff links to the left. A soft click and they released leaving a small, flat circle through the button hole. He opened the chamber then slid the bullets home.
Arms slipped easily through the shoulder holster. The gun fit perfectly in place. Jacket worn over leaving no sign of the weapon. His eyes looked through the mirror into mine. He smiled and turned out of the room leaving me there waiting for his return.
Though I felt no fear, my heart thrummed out of control. I fought to slow breathing, to hold consciousness. The blood would come. He would return and the blood would come. It always did.
I, unlike most sufferers of the disorder, watched every moment as it played out. A three dimensional television program populated by faces wide eyed and blood painted unready to die. Quivering voices pleading for a mercy they would not receive. Small explosions of gunpowder throwing their metal projectiles forward at supersonic speeds. The sound of impact and subsequent perforation. A handful going so far as exploding into the walls behind.
I did best to convince myself they were all dreams. Nightmares. I’d wake tangled in sweaty sheets and blankets, heater warm despite the winter I witnessed in falling white flakes on the other side of my window. No evidence on my person to indicate any of the atrocities playing through my head existed in the real world.
I massaged sore muscles under the hot shower water. An oval shaped bruise fit in the crook of my right shoulder. Soap ran down my body, covered my feet and sank between all ten toes into the multi-holed drain. The shampoo pierced my nose with a crisp tang. I assumed it was kiwi/lime since that’s what the label on the bottle said.
Scrubbing the towel over my back, water descended in slow, cooling streaks down the inside of my legs. Atop the laundry basket behind me reflected in the mirror, the lid angled slightly open. I couldn’t think of why it would be full having just done a wash load the day before.
Rubbing the towel swiftly over my beard, I turned around. The basket lid closed, it’s empty innards patiently awaiting more soiled linens upon opening. I flipped the light off and strolled into the bedroom to finish my morning rituals.
White button down shirt from the closet freshly pressed. Solid black tie and sanded belt. Matching slacks and sport coat lined with white pinstripes so thin they are near invisible without close inspection. Orange socks because nothing rhymes with orange. Shoes at the foot of my bed shined before going to sleep the night before.
In the top dresser drawer was the small case where I kept my cuff link collection. Finely polished mahogany seamed together with no nails or glue. My grandfather constructed it by hand, measuring and cutting each piece to fit in place and never move once hammered into place. Layer upon layer of lacquer applied with a horsehair brush he also made using hair from the tail of his very own horse Majestic Marge in 1906.
Dad inherited the box from Grandpa Johnston when he died in the Pastor University chemical fire of 1961. He in turn gave it to me on the day I graduated from the police academy. Placing it in my hand, Dad gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. His eyes dry, focused some place beyond the top of my head. There was a cold shiver sent from his strong fingers deep into my muscles.
I looked up to thank him, but he already walked away. I followed him to the parking lot, watched him climb into his black Volkswagen Scirocco and drive away without saying a word.
I never saw him again.
I kept six pairs of cuff links in the box. One black. One white. One silver. One gold. One shaped like eighth notes and the last pair is made from two actual bullets from Jesse James’ .45 Colt Peacemaker revolver.
I chose the bullets and a pocket square to match my tie. I closed the box and immediately opened it again. A splotch of black caught my attention. The unfamiliar stain spread in the top left corner where previously had been nothing but the shimmer and reflectiveness of the polished wood.
I ran a finger over the spot. Nothing seeped away on my skin. Leaning closer, I sniffed the air. Above the crisp, familiar tones of the wood there was a slightly sour tinge. The back of my tongue curled down. Gag reflex nearly triggered, I stumbled backward, my head swirling inside the tight confines of my skull.
His face stretched long in my mind. The man screamed sounds I couldn’t hear. Teeth cracked and broken. Fingers twisted at impossible angles. Left leg at a ninety degree angle to the side below the knee. Nose crushed One eye swollen shut, the other socket empty.
I breathed slowly through my nose swallowing back the bile. Calm, I stood in front of the mirror. I watched through myself as the man slicked back his hair. The brush soft. Short bristles tickled at the skin under the beard.
The case slid out from under the bed. Opened, the large gun, old but well cared for fit into his hand as if built to his palm’s measurements. He twisted the bullet cuff links to the left. A soft click and they released leaving a small, flat circle through the button hole. He opened the chamber then slid the bullets home.
Arms slipped easily through the shoulder holster. The gun fit perfectly in place. Jacket worn over leaving no sign of the weapon. His eyes looked through the mirror into mine. He smiled and turned out of the room leaving me there waiting for his return.
Though I felt no fear, my heart thrummed out of control. I fought to slow breathing, to hold consciousness. The blood would come. He would return and the blood would come. It always did.
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