At home he sprawled onto the couch, which opened into his bed, and watched television. He pulled an afghan over himself, cursing the landlord for not providing adequate heat. He was awakened by a scream, the dream more vivid than ever. This time the corpse had a face - that of Barbara Cohen. He ground his teeth and clutched at his chest. On the screen before him a man was placing the body of a woman into the trunk of a car. He'd seen the episode before. Was it the story that horrified him - or did it arouse something buried in his subconscious? Or had the murder occurred in another lifetime? He was no longer skeptical of reincarnation. His dreams and the extraordinary instances of deja vu he experienced had him leaning toward belief in successive existences. The thought that he may have been a murderer was profoundly disturbing, however. He was able to imagine himself as a caveman man killing for survival but not simply for the sake of it, as the dream suggested. Were his years of devotion to his mother and his profession merely penance for past crimes?
He realized the murder would have had to have been recent had it occurred in a prior lifetime, as the automobile was only a century old. He was certain the trunk wasn't part of a stagecoach or train. He wondered if he were clairvoyant, envisioning a crime perpetrated by the car's previous owner, whom he did not know. He'd purchased the car from a dealer.
The next day he stopped at a supermarket after school. It was extremely crowded and noisy. He hated such confusion. He lacked items he would not do without, however, coffee and cigarettes chiefly. He could get by on a single meal a day, but coffee was his passion. He had at least two pots a day.
The express line was long and moved slowly. The cashier worked methodically, apparently in fear of error. George steamed as darkness began to fall, prematurely, the sky heavily overcast. He imagined his hands around the dark-haired girl's throat. He shuddered, realizing the extent of his anger. He contemplated returning the items to the shelves, putting the bag of coffee in his pocket and leaving. You're not a thief, he told himself, uncertain, however, if he were a murderer.
Another girl approached with a cash drawer. The first closed the register to ring-out, to the chagrin of the patrons. George, gazing out the window, cursed himself for not having gone to a convenience store, for having chosen to save himself a few dollars. Once an immigrant...he thought.
It was twilight by the time he exited. Headlights were flashing on throughout the huge lot. As he hurried to his car, which was parked a considerable distance away, trunk after trunk was opened by a woman. His head pounded as he broke into a sprint. He was nearly run down at an intersection, tires screeching menacingly. A woman honked and cursed him. His lungs were burning, aching for breath as he reached the shelter of his sedan. "That's it," he said, resolving to seek professional help, the expense no longer a deterrent.
Visit Vic's sites:
Vic's Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
No comments:
Post a Comment