Beyond The Realm Of Us
Branson Storm

 

    Even as I sleep the slaughter continues. The thrashing. Bodies slamming about. Blood spilling, pumping from her wounds, pouring death over so much beauty. A demented victor ejaculating his infected genes all over my angel, now the world’s loss. The knife plunges furiously in and out of her and my beautiful, unsuspecting love screams the helpless screams that once only belonged to others. TV people. Lowlifes. Unfortunates. Druggies. Drunken, uneducated fools. People that I’ve never known. Even the innocent colonists of the trailer parks spotted throughout Tornado Alley, as the storm rips their lives apart and, as has this senseless, incomprehensible twisting bloodbath of explosive wind, rain and madness, changed us all forever. A sweaty, enraged stranger from nowhere smothering her, forcing himself inside her bleeding body as she fights back in a nauseous, semi-conscious wave of hysteria, but he’s too much and too determined. Sick. Ugly. Deranged. Hell-bent on fulfilling his own warped tendencies and malicious compulsions. She must die for him. There is no other way.

Maybe somebody mistreated him at some time in his youth and now someone, most likely many others, too, must pay. Well not my someone. Not my one. Not in my house. I don’t buy that horseshit excuse. My youth was no magic carpet ride either, nor has my adulthood been an unobstructed sunset, but I deal with it – no harm done. No excuses. It’s over. I am who I am. I know right from wrong. I believe I would have regardless. I hear the fiendish torture and can well nigh feel the edge of my favorite carving knife scoring between her ribs, but I’m exhausted and can’t fend off the nightmares, or even separate them from the dreams anymore. They rive in my mind like the slamming knife, her bloody pleas for mercy noiseless in the seemingly endless moments of her departing mortality. She’s wasting her precious breath. There’s no mercy here. It means nothing to him. She’s just another misconstrued accolade. Dead is better. His accomplishment, “trophy”, as the officials like to say. She was faultless no doubt. Beauty was never meant to be a plague. Some say that he is also without fault. Actions resulting as consequence from an unfulfilled life, a childhood of abuse and poverty. But have these yellow-bellied rubbernecks from afar smelled the stench of innocent blood spilt in a frenzy of madness? Has the aroma of death risen up inside them and merged with their own reality? Has that timeless odor showed them the forlorn, ominous light hidden in the darkened, distorted side of reality that one never wishes to see? It’s all about him. His wayward childhood. His ill-guided upbringing. His sad state of being misunderstood. His abuse and youthful unpleasantness from problems at home. Fuck you. Please, coward, try again – I beg you! I have many of my own excuses for you, locked and loaded, waiting.

From somewhere she is back with me and the blood and screams are gone. She’s quiet and we sleep peacefully together. The sheets are cool and rest on my warm skin like her lovely long, honey-colored hair. Wet scents of honeysuckle and apples. Lotions emanating sweet fragrances of freshly picked peaches. Oh, I feel so much love for her. Hurry so we can fade away together before it all begins again. It always does. Lets rest so comfortably together while we can!

In a place with no time she’s gone again and I dream of the methodical lunatic who decided to chop his victims into bit-size pieces and gorge himself as though it were Thanksgiving, and, as I sometimes do with pizza, refrigerate the rest for the morning. Cold nutrition in the bluish-orange hue of dawn before the next baneful hunt begins. How is it that I have anything remotely in common with the victims of such a feral human? The TV people again. All the rest of them, and now me. Goddammit! Why was he even put here? Don’t think of him. Think of her. Her hair, her skin, her smile, her hand in mine. Bring her back and quickly run to the darkness together.

“Nine o’clock at the latest.” She told me. “I can’t wait to see you. I love you, baby.”

“Be careful, honey. I’ll be waiting for you.” I replied. “Hurry home and be with me.”

Her voice sounds so real, so sexy, so alive. Her breath in my ear so warm and pure. The excitement pulls me out of this stormy sleep and it’s over. Stealing two seconds of consciousness to check the bedside clock. 1:37 AM. I’m alone in the darkness again. Growing cold quickly, I turn to my side, stingily grasping at the opportunity to fold into her beautiful body. I feel her soft, cool hair again. The pleasing scents honeysuckle and green apples, redolent bath oils on her tan skin and quickly I fall back to sleep without her escaping. Even though she’s gone when I awake, I love her even more for she faithfully appears again when I call. For this I love her more than she will ever know. No excuses needed. It was just there. A real and mighty love with all that two humans could offer. Though sometimes I dread that our happiness might have distracted my awareness of this fact, maybe her too. Either way, there was no denying our true, unwavering love.

Another roaming hour of sleep gives itself to me, but again, not without price. The dreams pour out in loud smears of acid-induced cartoons and I’m the lead. Though desperately not wanting the part, it’s been forced upon me, so I do my best. Stumbling from scene to scene, each one is artificially different and in its own way very real, too. Similar to the dreams of my youth as Mother tried to force me out of bed to prepare for another dreadful day of school. The cold tile floor beneath my bare feet, the hot water steaming up around me, the regretful discomfort of facing another day of boredom and daydreaming, god, I hated it so. Then she’d call again and it was just another dream. Knowing where I wanted to be and where I wanted not to be, my mind working beyond my body. These were the convincing dreams, the controlling dreams, seemingly indistinguishable from reality. Dreams of childhood following me like a faithful, yet ferocious dog. Though none were of the strength to fully awaken me, not until I found myself suddenly alone, standing beneath the archway of two immense wooden doors fronting an old cathedral somewhere I had never before been. Pushing through the heavy doors I rush down the center aisle. Every pew crowded with people dressed for Sunday, gawking with relief that I’ve finally arrived. Together they recite a slow, muffled prayer. Bees buzzing about the hive. It hurts to listen. Too heartless, too repetitious, too meaningless. Racing with all my strength, my legs drain boneless leaving me stranded, half-melted in the aisle, just short of my place. Reaching for the altar, I turn to the crowded pews for help. “My legs won’t work for me. They’re melting and I’m late. Please help me. I can’t be late.”

“I’ve missed you son.” A tall man utters behind a queer smile. “Just look at you. You’ve grown up to be just like me. Just look at yourself. You kindred, wonderful boy.”

“Help me mister. Please pull me up. I’ve taken enough of these people’s time.”

“To hell with you boy.” He says easily. “I’m just here to show my handsome face. I don’t even know the words to this foolish prayer.” He laughs like a little girl, young and carefree. A frighteningly sharp, evil tone that blares of glass splintering in my ears. Growing weak and nauseous, I’m feeling faint. As I’m going out, the tone of his laughter falls sharply, transforming into the elegantly morbid sounds of Mozart’s Requiem. Being my favorite of all composers the music somehow gives me strength and I’m able to make it to the altar on my own. “I’m not like you. Not in the least.” It was all that I could think to say.

Completely exhausted, I finally settle at the altar and face the priest. His old soaring, death-black eyes glare through and beyond me. I feel his lack of affection, but I sense that it must be my fault for I haven’t been to church in years – and never once to confession. I know they hate that, but I’ve always had this innate distrust for men of the cloth and what they might really be doing behind that partition. My reason? They’re humans, too. Turning to the crowd, they look at me as though I am nothing specific, entranced by the same spell, daydreaming of better places to be as I did in school. But one man, the one claiming to be my father, is preoccupied with the time and pettily checks his shiny gold watch. My stomach turns, flooding me with boiling sickness and more confused exhaustion. I climb into the awaiting casket and straighten my tie, folding my hands together at my waist. The scathing burn blisters inside me, stinging with poison as though I’ve swallowed the beehive. How could the bastard check the time? Eyes closed, I release my final breath and wish for a quick ending to it all. He’s finally come to see me now that I’m all grown up. Wait! Give me just one more breath! “I’m no boy. I’m a man. Maybe you should try it.” His smile at these words remarkably mirrored my own when I’m feeling arrogant or cocky. Strangely enough, we did look alike.

This distant man of the cloth closes the lid of the coffin, his expression slightly relieved that he might be on time for his next noble duty. A wedding. A confirmation. A quick stop at the adult bookstore. Who cares? Free steak and scotch are waiting back at the rectory regardless. Darkness consumes me and it’s finally over.

In the utter stillness of my tomb I can feel my father slipping out the side door, stepping away quickly, new leather shoes skirting along the warm blacktop, thirsty for whiskey. Time is everything. He knows it. I never did. Not until now. Time is there for all of us, sadly some get more than others. I wish he’d stuck around long enough to teach me that. Yes, we may have looked alike, but I swear I am nothing like you. Nothing at all! I want you to understand before I go - it was my duty from boy to man to be just that - me and not you. Be gone now, as you have always been. You’re time will come – much too late, but it will come. Time is the one thing from which you cannot run.

From the anger I’m awakened again. The red blur of neon numbers from my bedside clock reveals the passing of a hasty, forgotten hour. My bed is empty, even my goddess and all of her divinity that breathes in me is gone. I’m too tired to try to bring her back. Sleep. Don’t think of where she is or what might have happened. Don’t do it to yourself. But I do, dammit! My skin boils, stinging with fiery anxiety, burning with unfocused hatred. “Why, God? Why, Whoever?” I call out, killing the silence. How could there be anything beyond us? And if there is, and we are to do His or, Its, will, what reason justifies spilling such torture upon the undeserving? What good comes from it? And for the rest of us, the ones left behind to rummage through the wreckage, what are we to do now?

Ripping away the sheets, the slow rotation of the fan blades slice through a patch of moonlight resting on the wall. This old house is wonderful with tall ceilings and all of the original southern style woodwork. The windows are big and heavy. They shift on windy nights and rattle during thunderstorms. The original, dark hardwood floors flow to every sparkling clean, quiet corner. I sweep it daily because of the dust, but it’s worth it for not a soul can get near me without a clear crack warning of footsteps. In an old house like this rugs can be a killer’s finest accessory in crime, so I no longer have any. They’ve all been replaced with extremely lethal firearms, brass bells tied to every doorknob and window. A sawed-off 12 gauge shot gun, modified to house seven shells of heavy number two buckshot. A semi-automatic Colt .45 pistol, loaded clip, one in the chamber – all silver hollow point, certain not to jam, guaranteed to explode and annihilate upon impact. Both within arms length of my bedside. Though one might consider these two weapons to be sufficient for resolving any immediate situation I might encounter in this tiny old house, I’ve chosen to believe otherwise, and keep a loaded .38 Special revolver in the drawer of my night table. Another shotgun in the corner, behind my reading chair – a twenty gauge pump – now retired from a once grand career of south Texas dove hunting. A closet full of rifles and more shotguns and, just in case, several well-hidden, yet easily accessible pistols placed throughout this little place that just bursts with so much history. And now that I tend to be a rather light sleeper it’s far more certain that all who enter this house uninvited will most likely meet their maker, should He or It exist, upon meeting me. It’s too much, really. Too heavy an arsenal. Besides, he’d never have the balls to face a possible failure. A true coward never attempts anything when the slightest risk of failure exists. Though I still beg for it to happen. I would make it dreadfully slow and particularly painful. Watch him beg for his demented, pitiful life that I would ultimately take with a smile.

My darkened, swollen eyelids grow heavy and I doze-off again, faintly taking in the sound of movement just outside my bedroom window. It’s Joey, I’m sure. He gets off to peeking through the blinds and masturbating as I sleep. Sometimes, when I was with her, I’d cover both of us from head to toe beneath the sheets just to anger him. When we finished making love I’d throw my watch at the window and scream, “Goodnight Joey! You were wonderful!” and laugh loudly until I saw his shadow creep away toward his garage apartment in the back yard. At times I have the mind to shoot that fat queer between his rabid little eyes and rid the earth of him. I could’ve killed him the first night, but he cried “Sorry… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” from his bloody mouth as I raged and beat him to near death in the darkness. His perversion was new to me then and at the time I wanted to kill him, but I’d been sorry before too, and was certain that I would be again. That night reminded me of Christmas time at home when I was a child. Things are sometimes difficult to understand and need empathy so I let loose my grip on his long, dirty hair and let his fat, half-naked body drop limp on the wet grass. Crying. Bleeding. Begging. He kept weeping as I walked back inside the house and I told myself, “Merry Christmas.”

The memories of my youth bring me into a solid state of consciousness, angry and alone. Fully awake again in the middle of the night. I need rest. “Please!”

Unable to take anymore torn sleep, I rise and go to the kitchen for water. The kitchen, the fucking kitchen, once my favorite room in the house. It seems so clean and sanitary now, as though it were brand new. Turning to my studio in the basement I descend down the steps into the darkness. A slight sting as my vision adjusts to the lamp on my writing table. There it is, waiting for me.

Checking over the last entry, I vaguely recall any of those thoughts, even though it has only been since this morning. The water from the fridge is clinging cold and pleasantly burns falling down inside me. Nothing particular occupies my weary state of thought. Just put it down. Anything…

It’s nearing 3:00 AM and I’m still waiting for you to come home. Even though it has only been a few months, I’m not certain that I can do this much longer. This waiting has become too common, too thankless. Wondering where you are is trivial really. You’re not the type to venture into the danger of the unknown, so I don’t worry too much. You must still be doing something in an effort to come home to me. I know by now that sometimes your classes run late or that you might be held-up by an overly chatty classmate. Beauty such as yours attracts all kinds and many a man would go to great lengths just to have a slice of your attention – I should know. From the first moment it has possessed me with the energy of an eternal, magical spell. Charming. Irresistible. Completely overwhelming. Hexed with such force that I wanted nothing else in this world but you and your love. It was God whispering in my ear, leaving me without a choice but to live only and absolutely for loving you. Your husband and disciple, this was my purpose and I would fulfill it or die doing so. I will never understand it, this enigma called life. So much beauty. So much opportunity. So much of everything, but there has to be a reason for it and I was lucky enough to find mine, my reason, my purpose - you. I never thought of the tornado. It just never occurred to me and I’m so sorry.

But why am I awake? Why am I waiting for you to come home and fill this house with your lovely smell and beautiful smile when I know, with all certainty, that you are dead? When I found you lifeless on the kitchen floor, your immaculate face pale blue, lying cold in your own blood still draining. I knew he had hurt you in so many horrible ways before you left me. The bruises on your naked body were deep and heavily discolored. The sticky semen on your thighs stunk of such inhumane cruelty that it brought me to my knees, crying for hours and no way to save you.

As I cried over you and kissed your face it seemed as though the blood would never stop spilling. I stared so intensely at it that the red became a rich, beautiful color that was everywhere, as if holding on to royalty. And I thought over and over again of how it might have been different had I stayed just a few minutes longer and waited for you before going out for our dinner. My love, will I ever stop asking? Will God or anyone ever offer me the truth as to why, in just a few moments, our life together of love and laughter and tears and restful slumber had suddenly been vanquished by a river of blood and misery and shame and guilt and angry lunacy? It was all too much, and I was gone. The darkness and sickening, hollow silence swallowed me with the heat of a black cloud from one of Hell’s, deepest, most punishing fires. Like you, just a limp body without feeling or thought – a shell of sorts. I was gone and when they woke me so were you.

What relief I felt for that one fleeting moment of hope when it was just another nightmare and you were still with me. I was so happy to be awake and alive and in control again. And all the people and all of the commotion seemed to be outside of my world and that somehow I was just an observer from a place far beyond, because this kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like us. Was I dreaming it? If so, I wanted out of it now and never to revisit these thoughts again. But there were too many strangers hustling about. Gloves. Badges. Holstered guns. Cameras flashing. The trailer park people again, just after the winds dissolved everything away. What courage they show rummaging through the muddled remains. Stepping over shards of all that their lives had come to be before the twisting winds descended down upon them. This thought injected me with the cruel reality of what I’d hoped was just another senseless nightmare. The memory of you lying there was too much. Again I began to fade. Someone, I don’t know who, caught me as I was going down. In a flare of heat and nausea I was gone again. I wish I could have been stronger for you. I always felt that I could in any situation, but I failed you this time. Just too much. It exceeded me. Other than that I have no real explanation. Please understand. Please forgive. Please know I thought I’d do better for you. Please hear my thoughts and feel me still loving you.

Outside in the early morning darkness, a strange, balding man in a dark suit sat next to me on the porch steps waiting for the warm summer night breeze to bring me back and re-ignite my senses. It was a lovely night, quiet and gentle. As though this deafening city offered a moment of silence in your honor. I could’ve sat there for a very long time just as I’d done so many times before, sipping a cold beer, breathing the thick summer air, almost unable to be without you another moment. He asked me a thousand questions and I don’t remember any of them. I don’t even remember answering. But I do remember something he said just before he left, and though it was not complicated or profound or enlightening, it has stuck with me as if they were the only words I’d heard spoken since birth. “Some things are just out of our control,” he said, his rough hand on my shoulder. “You can try like hell, do all that you can, but it’s a guaranty in life that some things will just slip by and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I’m very tired mister.” I said. “I’d just like to sit here for a bit.”

“Keep your head son.” He said. “You’re going to have to try very hard to get through this and move on. It’s all beyond you. This insanity is beyond all of us. It just slipped by.” He politely apologized to me for what had happened to you, and though I could tell he had done so many times before, I felt a bit of extra effort in his voice. After saying several other things, which I don’t remember, he walked away, got into his car with another officer and drove away. Another car followed behind them. I can still feel their eyes straining to watch me as they all vanished into the early hours of dawn.

I sat there on the steps for a while thinking of nothing. The warm breeze pushed the oaks side to side and the city seemed to remain silent. It was so peaceful and I couldn’t help but feel as if it was just another night and I was still waiting for you to come home. As I’ve always done when I’m tired, hands together at the side, I rubbed my face up and down. The rancid odor of blood blew through me like a gun blast. Pulling my hands away, they were deeply stained with the blood that once made you so alive. The blood that made you mine and me yours. And the beauty and the royalty and even the relief of your still being with me were then gone forever.

The great oaks danced in the breeze, fluttering, singing their pretty songs. The summer air blew cool across my face and I listened and looked out at absolute nothing. No thoughts. No dreams nor nightmares. Nothing. Just the blood on my hands telling me that it was real. I love you so much, honey. I always have – from the very first moment.

Again, I’m so sorry.

Placing the pen into the fold of my journal, I pushed it back to its corner and turned off the lamp. Through the darkness I made my way up to the kitchen and stood in the spot where I had found her. So tidy again and the memory of her soft Sunday morning whisper blowing in my ear swells to screams of torture and panic. It’s automatic. Unimaginable fear. Absolute helplessness. Alone in her fight, wondering where her husband was as she slowly died without reason. Louder and louder and I can only imagine how horrible it must have been for her again, again and again. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to hold her next to me and smell her skin and taste her lips on mine. Just thinking of kissing her and the screams vanish as if doing so behind my back. It’s too quiet in here. The kitchen light fades at the sweep of my hand.

In our bed the space is vast and empty and cold. The red neon numbers reveal the time, but I pay no attention. Pulling the cord, the glowing red dissolves to black, clanking emptily as it falls to the floor.

She just slipped by, I thought, but the struggling, helpless screams that I never heard are not quite so passive. They’ve developed an eternally horrible life of their own and made themselves at home inside me. Their scattered harmony is so tiring, so relentless – just as I suppose he was. Closing my eyes I turn into the warmth of her and hold tightly to the memories of her feel and smell. I’m straining harder now to draw the scent of honeysuckle shampoo from her pillow. I hate wondering if I ever thought of those glorious fragrances as common as we slept tightly together after making love in the shower. I feel her cold, damp hair on my face and can smell the honeysuckle and at times, the green apples, too. It always put me into such a peaceful, pleasant sleep. I hold her in the quiet night. We melt together in peace and love and pure, absolute unconditional happiness.

In a short time she fades from my grasp and I plunge back into a strewn symphony of nightmares and screams and blood on my hands. Strangely enough I’m beginning to find some bizarre comfort living in this cruel continuum of insanity. I dream of his footsteps disappearing from the church, of Joey and his pathetic little life, of the blood and its unique smell of a life that once danced about and changed me forever, and sometimes of our first kiss, and always the honeysuckle and apples. These things keep me alive and it’s so nice to be with her when I can.

      
      

 

 

Copyright © 2001 Branson Storm
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"