Night Tremor

I should wake up. I don’t want to. The only reason to wake up is because my temples pulsate in such pain—creating a headache that makes my brows and eyelids crease as my eyes roll from the back of my head in search of the right holes. I groan as my rib cage creaks from sustaining my body weight—each breath heaves a dust cloud into my face—spit collects in clumps of grain on the hard ground. I press with my weakened arms to roll onto my back—it stiffens. It takes several minutes to see beyond the fluttering of my eye-lids and realize the sun is just now rising over the mountain ridge beyond the amber-colored valley. My hand pulls at the skin of my face to clear it of dirt, each finger rises and falls over a series of wet fissures—my extended finger tips reach into the sky in hope of something to grasp to help me rise—I see my hands are covered in fresh blood overlapping more flakey blackened blood. The back of my skull feels like it’ll fall through the earth, as if connected, I cannot pull it off.
         I eventually rise and sit in order to determine my whereabouts. My palms sensitive on the loose rocks—I balance to see the Bronco with the headlights on. The fading, flickering beams spotlight a dark outline just twenty feet from the front of the truck. I collect myself on my hands and knees, pausing in order to build enough energy to mount steady on my feet. Successful, I shuffle in exaggerated anxiety, my back slouching the more I approach what I find to be a large hole.
         The hole is as deep as I stand, and my toes send several pebbles over the edge into an irreversible downfall—tumbling against the deposit walls until landing at the bare feet of two naked bodies—a man and a woman with their backs facing the sky. Each have an indented skull—robbed eggs of potential lives. Mud wads collect the female’s matted brown hair in sets of dreads and the man is bald, the side of his face some what visible. I peer over the edge of the plane to study his features, wondering if I know this poor fellow, he certainly looks recognizable, but his face is too disfigured to be given a name. I locate a shovel aside the pile of worms, roots and dirt—spitting the excess fluids from my mouth into their sunken bed.
Two crows, each half my size, begin to caw as they make their descent to the barren badland.
         These two must have been a nice couple. Their hands look natural being so close together, maybe in fact they were lovers. Certainly I feel I have seen them around town, maybe even a few times over. Each body part holds a familiarity as I cover it. I sniffle as I cover the stubby toes of the woman, her red toenails chipped away from struggle. The woman has been stripped of all jewelry; there being no ring on her right hand. The man still wore a gold watch. I covered that area last—lowering myself onto the freshly implanted loam to retrieve the treasure. The watch looks good on me. I hoist myself out of the hole to continue my work. 
              I use my arm hairs to clear my forehead of sweat and tears; the crows insist on giving away my location with their disturbed shrill. My arms are sore from relocating dirt, but I know the longer it takes me to fill the hole, the faster I make on the task. Who knows where a set of eyes may lay their sight? The crows fidget in hunger, they stare through my back and into my soul. I am responsible for the deaths of these poor beings. I know this, but am unaware of such circumstances. I hope—maybe too much—that I’m dreaming. I will wake up. How could I let myself go over the edge like this? I wouldn’t. But I did—I just—can’t remember. Why do I continue to cover them? I should run away—but no, I can’t. I have to cover my actions, clean my slate—much like my memory. My regular routine life-style is over, how could it resume on course? Unfortunately for the three of us, our fate has been determined by my hands. I don’t remember anything that can explain my actions, or my situation—but I obviously was there. Aside from the collective whole—my fate is up for interpretation, and lies before me in a bloodied, battered bed. The crows dance in circles around the grave, each staggering because of a broken wing.

My eyes blink rampantly as I try and focus my vision, the popcorn ceiling becomes clear beyond the temporary backward spin of the rotating fan blades. To be in my own bed feels strikingly nice as my head sinks into the billowed soft pillow as I enjoy a welcomed break from the suffering occurred during my dreams. I close my eyes again to smile, thinking that such evil can be contained within nightmares. My hand searches for the side of my wife, but the mold in the mattress is vacant of any body. She must have woken already to go in early to school. She often leaves the coffee pot hot knowing I will be in the kitchen soon after she leaves. I sit up and extend my hands between my spread legs along the mattress, stretching my aching back—
                My hands—dirt—blood—sediment—my finger nails black—gold watch tarnished. My arms are covered in long carvings, as if scratched at by a rabid animal. The tone of my skin a few shades darker from layers of sticky morsels. The white sheets are stiff from dried blood. The dirt collected in the soles of my boots leaves streaks of brown across the once pristine blankets from the kicking of my legs as I struggle to get out from underneath. I stumble from the edge of the bed and scrape my knee on the rug before regaining my feet—able to turn and observe a Pollock inspired mural splatter of crimson streaks amid the vein-like cracks running through the shattered wall-sized mirror at the head of the bed. Each time I blink I witness a pair in lustful sex—the woman on top, pulling her hair back with both hands, her hips thrusting forward—etched onto the inside of my eye-lids. I back into the wall and a picture becomes unhinged—shattering against the ground as I stagger forward. My eyes appear a bright scarlet against the mirror even from a ten foot distance—I feel possessed by a devilish spirit.
                As I turn to leave the room, leave the house, leave this life, I stop and kneel next to the picture frame. My wife Allie smiles with her hands on the back of both my brother Shaun and I at our wedding. The corners of her mouth reach to exceed the edge of her eyes. She was so lively that night, and in this picture, she seemed very happy and content with her new life with me as her husband. My brother and I both resist a smile, but fake one just the same. We never see eye to eye, never agree on anything, I don’t call on his birthday, he doesn’t visit on Christmas or Thanksgiving. Years of unquestioned hatred lie behind our relationship. Maybe it is a sense of competition—he is my older brother, and I have always trailed in his successful shadow. I turn again and get closer to the mirror. Despite our differences, we look the same. We both are experiencing different phases of balding; we each fight the ever developing bulge of our bellies. We both hold my wife, our hands low on her back. We both sport conflicted smirks. We each have our secrets—which happen to be our mistakes. I let the frame slip from my grip as I walk to the closet. I need to change clothes, I need to hide my lacerations, and I need to leave the town of Cortez as soon as I can.

The shower is quick—faster than it takes for the water to warm; my shoulders tremble as the chilled water trickles down my body. After, I dress in a hooded sweatshirt with blue jeans. Looking into the mirror, my pupils are dilated to such an unusual size, the sclera an awkward yellow. Each cheek displays several rows of cuts. Presumably by fingernails, my left cheek has three deep scratches horizontally; my right cheek had two vertically across the eye. The doorbell rings. I quickly slip on socks and a new pair of shoes, leaving behind my mudded boots. I grab all the cash that I have, maybe forty dollars. Needn’t bring the credit card, identification or cell phone—knowing all can potentially cause trouble for me.
         The doorbell rings a third, fourth time. I go to the hallway bathroom and slightly open the textured glass window above the toilet. A cop car. I close the window—then lock it. Shit. This is real. How the fuck? What the—fucking shit?! I leave the bathroom and cross into the hallway. The chime is interrupted by another chime. I settle into an open closet outside the hallway, in the line of vision to see the living room and entrance. The shadow of the cop passes the narrow beveled window pane by the front door before disappearing behind the wall and reappearing shortly in the dining room windows, making his way around the garage.
                The cop walks by the guest room window and his flashlight focuses its spectrum on the tiny cracks between the curtains. Not finding anything suspicious within, he moves on. I wait until I hear his car door close and the engine start before I walk to the front entrance, moving the edge of the curtain with my hand to watch him leave. My brother’s pickup sits motionless in my driveway. I look around frantically for his keys while juggling the reasons why my brother’s truck is outside my house, and he is not here. My room is a bloody—my room. I go back—the keys are on the nightstand, beside a picture of Allie and me on our fifth anniversary, her smile smug, pained and unsatisfied.
                A qualm falls over me and I lose my footing. As I lie on my back with my eyes shut I visualize Allie on top of me, screaming, crying, and laughing in euphoric eroticism. My eyes shudder in horror as she begins to bleed, portions of her head being punched in like a thin bendable plastic. I look over to see myself, standing at the doorway—watching in pity, in anger, my hands clenched, my teeth gritting. I question who my wife is on top of, I walk closer, Allie continues, her fuck buddy tries to stop her—yet despite his pleas she is unaware of my presence—tugging evermore on my rage. I reach back to swing and hear her say my brother’s name. I begin to flail my fists without mercy.

I made sure to bring the gun and box of bullets. It’s not much of a gun, I figured when I bought it that the smaller the better. I don’t trust myself with one—they hold too much power. In retrospect I wish I had bought one the size of my torso. I’ve never used a gun before, but figured I might need it at one point in my life—maybe to protect my wife, property—and in the future, offspring. This kind of thinking—about what was, what should have been—is all for the naught. My end is near, figures, I thought my life was just now truly getting a kick start.
                  It’s hard to imagine death, and it’s hard to examine what many people believe to be the after-life—or some being beyond being alive—especially as I anticipate my life to come to a daily, maybe hourly expiration. I have very limited time to admire the beauty I find in everyday living, the swirling clouds of dust ripping across the desert valley, the vultures’ endless scavenge. The cops are after me, I can practically feel their hot heaving breaths on my neck if I stay in one place too long. To run, well, it drains my emotions. I can’t live with the guilt, yet—I also can’t just lead myself to driving off the highway. Pulling the trigger is a hard thing to do when knowing my brain; my knowledge of everything I’ve ever known, will be the only thing to catch the bullet.
            My hair waves atop my head as the windows after merging onto the highway—I’m heading to the coast; my plan is to make it as far as I can. From what I know, the cops are pretty good at catching people. It’s only a matter of time. How could I do such a thing in the first place? I don’t deserve to get far—or a fair trial. The forty dollars won’t get me anywhere, the gun can assure justice. How could they betray me? I trusted both of them. I loved each—even through the misunderstandings...at least, now I saw that they didn’t. Even after I’d unleashed my fury, I realize that the ultimate judgment has not yet been summoned. This is awful—as am I. I shutter when I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror, hiding under the brim of a black hood. 
         I shouldn’t be driving. I’m not watching the road, my mind reasoning with my burdens and conscience. I’m only risking innocent lives with my reckless swerving. My brother and wife were wrong; I was wrong—nothing is right. Why must I of done something so horrific? I should have turned my cheek. I should have walked away. I over reacted. I thought I was dreaming—I certainly wasn’t awake. Those were not my hands. I would never do such a thing—but I did.
         A semi passes the driver-side window at an incredible speed—after it’s passed a surge of wind rocks the pickup, leading me to swerve onto the rough rutted shoulder and across over into the left lane. My situation was peculiar—none of this was supposed to happen. How could it? Who’s to expect something like this—or know how to react? There is no turning back. Everything that made my life comfortable, everything I cherished, has been torn from me, and here I stand—against the world. No one knows how much I loved her and oh—how badly blinded was I in thinking the feelings were mutual. I would have done anything for her; I tried in every endeavor to better our lives. I would give my leg, a major organ, a sense—even my life to ensure she sees another day, and would take back my actions in a heartbeat. Everyday I tried to improve, just for her; I sought jobs and found jobs constantly but could not stick with one for longer than two weeks. She hated me for this.
         I look out the window—the foreground is spotted with shrubs and small spires of rock, the horizon outlined with large jagged mountains. In the lightly clouded sky I witness a massive migration of black birds. Many fall back and set pace to conserve energy, but others join in a spirited game of pursuing the leader. The birds in the front roll to a point and the others quickly follow suit. The shifting, whirling mass of birds look like twists of smoke extending to the currents of wind—quickly shifting direction and ready for any change.
         
I remember it was our wedding day; in retrospect it all makes sense. My wife was getting the jitters—everyone was freaking out around me. They were telling me to talk to her, but I wouldn’t, not on my wedding day—that is bad luck.
          “I’ll go talk to her, don’t worry ‘bout a thing.” Shaun said.
          “You? What the fuck do you have to say?”
          “Kane, trust me.”
          “I’m getting married today, please, don’t fuck it up.”
          “I’m your brother.”
          “Since when?”
            Shaun was one of my best men; only he was not standing with me on the altar as the ceremonies began. He was only the best man because my mom was still alive—and he was late by five minutes. His hair disheveled, he came with a smile, his eyes gleaming along with his diamond earrings.
          “Where’ve you been?”
          “Talking to Allie,” he said as he adjusted his designer studded cufflinks.
          “All this time, you’ve been with my wife to be? You’re fucking late—what were you so intrigued to talk about?”
          “We had a lot to talk about. She really knows how to soothe one’s problems—she certainly helped straighten things out for me. You got a keeper.” He shot me a wink.
          My eyes narrowed as the organs began to hum, the keys being pressed, pricking at my back. I turned—my wife—her face dazed and expressionless—tired from their talk—but no, I told myself, this is my day.

It doesn’t take long to locate a bar in Monticello, Utah. I had a few dollars left after checking into a hotel along Highway 666. The sun a few hours set, a drink or two will handle my head nicely. The man behind the desk, the one who checked me in, told me of two within a few blocks. I cower away from the bar and grill bustling with soliciting youngsters and find the darker retreat, St. George’s Tavern. A pink fluorescent sign lets me know it’s open; otherwise, I would have walked right by. A paper is taped to the inside of the window. I squint to read the sloppy hand writing behind the pull-down gate, “Entrance on side.”
         No occupants sat on the stools surrounding the red-lit half circle bar. No bartender awaited my business. No music played from the juke box. I pull the chair back, the rustic red wood scrapes against the wooden floor planks—I recline in the high seat—cracking my back in several spots. I lean forward and my elbows press into the gloss finished counter, the enamel covering the signatures of several past attendants. Lovers once sat at this bar. John and Tiffany were here five years ago, January. Laura loved Matt. Stephen married Jill. I wonder if their lives are in shambles now, if one left home while another died in a car accident. Maybe one was unfaithful and the next lived daily without passion.
         A live version of “Hotel California” sputters from the speakers of the jukebox—the harp-like picking of a guitar sails into my ears. I rotate a beer coaster, browsing over the selection of dark liquors just beyond the bartender’s space. My eyes find themselves. A sole tear falls from my tainted bloodshot sight.
         “Hello there, fair fellow—can’t say I’ve ever seen your face before. Where you comin’ from?”
         “Salt Lake City."
         “What you prefer for your drink?”
         “The best cheap whiskey you have.”
         “First round’s on me, considerin’ your arrival.”
         “Were you expecting me?”
         “Someone might lighten the mood in this joint.”
         “Liveliness seems to be what it lacks.”
         A sign is tacked onto the wall above the mirror behind my friend here, “Everyone who comes here brings happiness. Some by coming in. Some by going out.”
         “Don’ let the crowd fool you.”
         I chuckle as I look up and down the disused bar. The shot sizzles along the walls of my throat. 
         “So, wher’ you headed? Surely this won’t be your last stop.”
         “Where ever the wind carries me.”
         “A drifter—I see—let me guess. You done just graduated graduate school an’ now you searchin’ for your divine purpose, the reason behind your empty soul—you see, you always wanted more for yourself—yet feel like now is your chance to escape routine, escape your fears and guilt. So you come here to Indio, low on gas, stumblin’ into an empty bar, God at your feet.”
         “Some thing has control of my feet. My actions lately are not parallel to my thought process.”
         “Some things occur beyond our will. It is how you react, how you perceive the situation, and how you apply your perception to your actions.”
         “And if my actions are flawed?”
         “Justice will become of you.”
         I finish my drink. Then leave. As I walk from the rusted entrance gates, I look into the sky. A ring of light encloses the moon. 

The soaring red and blue lights against the hotel walls will be the last I can knowingly differentiate. Justice has traced my steps. My tears combine with the sweat pouring from my pores—making the pillow severely damp from my soaked hair. I sit up as the vibration of boots is heard and felt from the stairwell outside of my double-locked door. I hang onto life, yet know there is no reason. All is lost. I won’t remember anything. I won’t be here. How will that feel? I won’t feel. How can I not feel? I need to touch, hear, and smell. No more. One can run from death, but regardless of the chase, unlike man, death doesn’t tire. My legs dangle over the edge of the stiff bed—making footing on the balls of my feet. I take the six bullets out of the revolver, and then flick my wrist, sending the cylinder back into the chamber. No person shall die by me—other than I. Let the world know my pain, my sorrow, oh how I am sorry for my actions. I plead for mercy in the memory of all man, woman and child—but am worthy of none.
         I light a cigarette and inhale as hard and long as I can. They are yelling outside. They want me. I’m coming—let me enjoy my last moments of tranquility—fuck. I bow my head and walk to the door, sulking with a lament step—my hood drawn, tears dripping to the ground like a leaf’s release during a storm. I’m ready. I deserve this. I tap my forehead against the peep-hole, close my eyes, and take a breath as I unhook the chain lock. Then I twist the door lock. They must be anxious, anticipating compensation. I press my ear against the wood—I hear clicks—guns drawn. I open the door, spotlights blinding. I pull the gun in their direction. An array of mist. Empty shells suspend in the air. My hands fling wildly. My teeth clench, and then my mouth gapes open wide. Everything flashes repeatedly, my fingers tingle, my hairs raise, and my left foot loses restraint. I smile, the cops smile. Their guns’ acidic saliva rests in my chest, burning as if caught on fire. I groan in attempt to scream. The small table supplied by the hotel-chain is shattered by my crumbling body. I gasp. My eyes become heavy as I fight off heavy sleep. A cop stands over me. His laugh is as deep as the dawdling bass of my draining heart. A breeze hits my glistening forehead. There is a very distasteful Thomas Kinkade painting mounted on the wall.

--kpn--

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