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| Photo by Jeff Kingma on Unsplash |
People
wandered through the smoke and haze in disbelief. Some cried in
silence while others wailed about the horror of it. Sirens wailed.
Police shouted. Children screamed.
Two
paramedics rushed to a man prone on the sidewalk and hooked
electrodes to his skull.
“Hurry
up,” the woman said.
“I
am hurrying,” the man said. “Will this work?”
“How
do I know?“ She taped something to the bullet wounds on the man’s
chest and the bleeding stopped. “The technicians said it would. But
we only have ten minutes.”
“Let’s
get him in the ambulance,” the man said.
The
two of them placed the body of the man on the gurney and shoved it
into the back of the ambulance.
The
man pointed.
“What
about them?”
People
laid on the sidewalk or wandered aimlessly, blood on their clothes
and blood streaming down their faces. He was horrified by the insane
violence and its aftermath.
“No
time,” the woman said. “Other ambulances are on their way.”
“We
should help them.”
“It
isn’t our job.” She pushed her hair off her face. “This is our
job.”
“We
have to do something.”
“This
is our job. Get your head out of your ass and start the process.”
“I
know my job,” the man said.
“Then
do it.” She hooked an IV drip to the arm of the man on the gurney
while the other paramedic inserted a plug into a computer and tracked
the numbers scrolling across the screen.
“It’s
working,” the man said.
“How
long?” the woman asked.
“Ten
minutes.”
“Are
you sure?”
“The
numbers are in the right sequence, so it should work.”
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Somewhere, a radio
announced the latest news. Omar shook his head and sat on the edge of
the bed. Except for a sink and a bed, the room was bare and
windowless. He splashed water on his face at a sink and stared at
himself in the mirror above the sink.
His
eyes were sunk deep in his skull and his cheeks were pockmarked. He
noticed gray strands in his beard. He shrugged. He was forty. His
mind was blank. He couldn’t remember anything.
“Where
am I? What is this place?”
Omar
opened the bedroom door and walked into an empty kitchen. The door to
the cottage flung open. Beyond was a cliff and an ocean. He walked
outside. The wind blew cold and he shivered. It began to rain and the
rain was cold and miserable.
“Where
in God’s name am I?”
Shivering,
he went inside the cottage and noticed a woman at the table. She was
thin and pale and palmed a photograph in a wooden frame.
“Who
are you?”
“Sit
down Omar,” she said.
“You’re
not my wife.”
“Sit
down.”
“Women
don’t tell me what to do.”
“Do
you see this, Omar?”
“What
is it?”
“It’s
a photograph of my daughter,” the woman said. “She’s smiling.
She always smiled Omar, even when she was sad.”
“I
don’t care.” Omar sat down at the table and looked at the woman.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because
you need to know.”
“Get
out of here,” Omar grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter. “Get
out or I will hurt you.”
“Put
the knife down Omar,” the woman said. “Do you always react to
everything with violence?”
“I
don’t know you. I do not want to talk to you.”
“I
want to talk to you,” the woman said. “I want to show you some
things.”
“Get
out,” Omar raised the knife. “I do not want you here.”
“Do
you know where you are Omar?”
Omar
lowered the knife.
“Where
am I?”
“You
know where,” the woman said. She fondled the framed photograph of
her daughter who smiled at the camera. Red, yellow and blue balloons
hung in the air. Her hair hung on her cheeks. She wore a dress of
yellow butterflies exploding on a blue background.
“You
are trying to confuse me,” Omar said.
“You
are confused, Omar, like your father.”
“How
do you know my father?”
“He
was a sympathizer,” the woman said and stared at the photograph.
“He was responsible for many deaths.”
“My
father is a man of faith. I am a man of faith.”
“He
emigrated to America.” She paused. She added. “You were born in
Brooklyn.”
“How
do you know this?”
“I
am angry Omar.”
“You
mean nothing to me,” Omar said. He began to pace. The ocean roared
in his ears. He halted. The woman was gone. He looked for her in the
cottage, but couldn’t find her. She stood outside facing the ocean
and she hugged the photograph to her chest.
Omar
went outside, the knife in his hand.
“I
am angry with you Omar.”
“I
don’t know you.”
“No,
you don’t,” the woman said. “I am a stranger.” She turned and
stared at the ocean. “But I am still angry with you.”
“I
don’t know you so how can you be angry with me?”
“I
want to rip out your guts,” the woman said. She clutched the
photograph closer to her.
“I
have done nothing to you. You’re crazy. Go away.”
“I
should just push off this cliff,” the woman said. “I should watch
your body crack open like an egg when it lands on the rocks.”
“Your
talk is strange. You are a strange woman.”
“I
am an angry woman. I am an angry mother.”
“Where
are we?”
“Somewhere.
Look at her. That’s my daughter.”
“I
have a daughter,” Omar said. He remembered she was six, with black
hair. She rarely smiled. Omar wanted a son, but instead his wife bore
him a girl. He was furious with her and beat her.
“You
took her life, Omar. You shot her 15 times with your rifle. The
bullets tore her smile apart and ripped my soul from my body.”
“You
speak nonsense,” Omar said. He raised his knife and slashed the
woman. But he sliced air instead; the woman had disappeared.
Was
she a dream?
“I
am not a dream, Omar. Turn around. I am real.”
Omar
turned, surprised.
The
woman was hard and cold.
“What?”
She
pushed Omar backward and he stumbled.
“Hey,
what are you doing?”
She
pushed him again and he nearly lost his balance.
“What
the fuck are you doing?”
Omar
reached for her with both arms, terror in his eyes, for he knew he
would die.
“I’m
not dying bitch,” Omar said.
She
smiled and pushed him again, he lost his balance, he fell, screaming,
and his body burst open on the rocks.
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Somewhere, a radio
announced the latest news, a massacre of children in Africa.
Omar
rolled over on his side and stared at the bare wall for a long time.
Then he rose and washed his face in the sink. Then he went into the
kitchen, halted, then he searched the kitchen, then, satisfied, he
went outside.
The
wind was cold and the ocean roared in his ears.
An
old man leaned against his cane. His white hair rose and fell in the
wind. The ocean was like a plastic sheet. The old man heard Omar and
turned.
“I
see you finally got up,” the old man said. He hobbled to Omar who
said nothing. He poked Omar in the ribs with his cane. “Did you
hear me son?”
Omar
didn’t move.
“Are
you deaf son?”
Omar
didn’t reply.
“Come
inside. It’s cold out here.”
Omar
didn’t move.
“Come
inside young man.”
Omar
watched the sea split and the sky crack.
“Come
inside. Let’s have a drink.”
The
old man went inside the cottage and Omar followed him. Just before he
entered, he looked at the ocean, placid as a sedated patient. “No,”
he said. “No, no, no...”
“It
won’t change,” the old man said. “I poured you a drink.”
Omar
sat at the table and stared at the glass of whiskey in front of him.
“Drink
up.”
“I
don’t drink,” Omar said. He paused. “I don’t think I drink.”
He added. What is it?”
“Whiskey,
rye whiskey.” The old man showed Omar the label. “Have some.”
“Where
am I?”
“In
a cottage by the sea.” The old man grinned.
“Why
are you grinning like that?”
“I
grin when I drink whiskey.” the old man paused., added. “So...did
you get a good rest?”
“How
long was I asleep?”
“Years,”the
old man said. “Years and years and years.”
“That’s
not possible.”
“Anything
is possible.”
“Who
are you?”
“Since
you mention it...” The old man paused, poured another glass of
whiskey and drummed his fingers on the table. “Since you mention
it...” The old man then slugged back his glass of whiskey, said
ahhh and leaned forward, nearly touching Omar’s arm.
Omar
recoiled.
“What
are you doing?”
The
old man sat up straight.
“I
am a grandfather.”
“I’m
not interested.”
Omar
slid his chair backwards.
“I
have two grandchildren, a boy and a girl,” the old man said. “They
irritate me sometimes but I love them for who they are.”
“Nice
story. Is this your cottage? How did I get here? Where is this
place?”
“They
were beautiful children.” The old man reached inside his coat. “One
was married and the other one was pregnant.”
Omar
stood up suddenly.
“I’m
not listening to you anymore,” he said. He headed for the bedroom.
“They
always remembered my birthday.” The old man sat on the edge of the
bed.
“What
is this?”
Omar
fled the bedroom, the kitchen and the cottage. The ocean roared in
his brain. He couldn’t think or speak or move a muscle. He was
frozen to the earth. The sea split and the sky cracked. “No,no,no...”
He clasped his head.
“It
isn’t easy,” the old man said. “I can’t believe it happened.
It’s like a dream or a film and the images rotate in a circle and
roil across my vision in an endless parade of pathetic moments.”
“What
are you doing to me?”
“I
can’t imagine what it’s like,” the old man said, leaning on his
cane. “You can’t imagine what it’s like.”
Omar
felt nothing.
“I’m
amazed by it all.“ He paused. Then he said: “I just can’t
accept it.” He paused again. Then added. Again. “But I should
accept it. But I have a hard time believing. I always believed there
was good in all of us. But I was wrong, so wrong. Don’t you think
so Omar?”
“How
do you know my name?”
“Let’s
go see the ocean,” the old man said.
“I
can see it from here.”
“No,
Omar.”
“Who
are you?”
“Do
you want to go inside?”
Omar
shook his head.
“The
cold air will clear your head.”
Omar
returned to the cottage.
“Don’t
go far, Omar,” the old man said. “There are things to be said.”
Omar
took down the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink. He wasn’t
confused; he was blank, raw, quiet.
The
old man hobbled to the cottage.
“Drinking,
I see.”
Omar
stared at the ocean. The door was open and the cold air whipped
through the kitchen.
“There
is something...” Omar began, then stopped.
The
old man pushed his cane under the table.
“What
is it, Omar?”
“There
is something I should say.” Omar said.
“Say
it.”
“I’m
not sure....I should kill you.”
“Do
it then. You’re good at murder.”
Omar
hesitated.
“Do
it.”
Omar
grabbed the knife.
“Do
it,” the old man said. “Are you afraid?”
“I
am not a coward. Don’t say that to me.”
Omar
put down the knife.
“You
murdered my grandchildren,” the old man said. He rose from the
table. “Both of them.” He picked up the knife. “Dead. Gone.
Because of you.”
The
old man lurched toward Omar.
“Get
away from me,” Omar said.
The
old man slashed Omar just below the right ear. Blood burst from
Omar’s hand as he tried to staunch the bleeding. He face mirrored
horror and fear.
“I’ve
been waiting to do that for a long time,” the old man said.
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time. In another room, a
radio announced the latest news, a terrorist bombing in New York
City.
Omar
rolled over on his side and stared at the bare wall for a long time.
Then he rose and washed his face in the sink. Then he went outside.
An
old lady, her white hair knotted in a bun, crouched among the
flowers. She smiled at Omar and said “I wondered when you would
wake up.”
“Did
you know these flowers only grow in this spot?”
“I
didn’t know,” Omar said, confused.
“I’m
depressed Omar. Maybe you can help me.”
“No,
I don’t want to help you.”
“Sure,
you can Omar.” The old lady added. “Or do you want to beat me
with your fists?”
“I-I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Walk
with me.”
“Not
by the cliff.” he said.
“Oh,
no, not by the cliff,” she said. “There’s a path down the cliff
to the ocean. Walk with me.”
The
old lady led. Omar followed, wary. The old lady talked to herself.
Omar wished would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up...
“Pull
her out now. He’s becoming aware.”
“What’s
wrong?”
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Somewhere, a radio
announced the latest news, a massacre in Orlando.
Omar
rolled over on his side and stared at the bare wall for a long time.
Somewhere a radio announced...
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Somewhere...
Omar
woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Omar
woke up and stared.
Omar
woke up and realized his memory had been uploaded to a chip.
Omar
realized they would return again and again and again and kill him
over and over again.
Then
he began screaming.
©Philip
Newswanger, 2016