DEDICATION

This is dedicated to my friends and family. To my son and daughter, I love you. To my friends that believed in my creativity and urged me to pursue my goals and dream, thank you. To every person that has ever questioned purpose, you are not alone.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my Son, Daughter, loved ones, family, and friends. Thank you, Devre Bain, for the art work used for the cover. Thanks to everyone who showed support and love.

To Whom It May Concern:
By: Merlin Garrett

Preface

Life is a chaotic mess. Pushed around by circumstance and fear, I find solace in the comfort of routine. The guessing and adapting takes years away from you, much like what the surgeon general says about cigarettes or Dr. Phil says about stress. Wrinkles around the eyes start to define your face with age. The smell of menthol and the cracking of tobacco and rice paper become your familiar surroundings. Change, the one thing the world has to offer that is constant.

I stand here wearing my black suit. Adorned with a white button up shirt and a black necktie, I find myself standing in the same spot as I did when I was a kid. Looking up to the apartment window of the place I used to call home, I smile. The silver rimmed pilot shades hide my weary wrinkled eyes from the sun that sets, leaving just a sliver of light shining between the naked dead trees that line the apartments behind me. With just a hint of the evening shining through the window of my child home, I take a deep breath to gain my composure.

How does one get to this point? I take the shades off to reveal my tired watered eyes accented by the crow’s feet and intense hatred. This place was once my prison. This place was once my home.

Change, as inevitable as it may be, has created a sort of rebellion in me. It has created a thirst for things hoped for and a thirst for a quietness that the world has seemed to forgotten. Change has become the one thing that has taken my desire to live. Change has taken my peace, my comfort, and my love. Change has become my enemy, while routines have become my sanity.

Slowly, I walk toward the door of this wretched place. The smoke from my cigarette wraps around my face as I put the shades back over my eyes. Each step, accented by the sound of the wind softly whipping my suit coat behind me and wrapping my necktie around my chest, was a step closer to closure; a finale. The soft quiet sound of the city began to fade to silence as my tattooed hand reaches to the back of my pants. The cold metal of my pistol’s rough grip feels at home as my fingers slowly begin to wrap around the handle. With my left hand, I take the cigarette from my mouth and carelessly fling it to a resting spot in the middle of the parking lot. Slowly, pull the cool menthol into my lungs.

The sound of kids playing on the playground grow quiet and begin to play in slow motion as all the sounds of the earth begin to fade. The sound of my breathing becomes louder in my head as the corners of my mouth begin to form a revengeful grin. Each kid stops to watch me walk through the parking lot towards the only window where the sun still touches through the trees. Each kid, seemingly unfazed by the idea that something bad was about to happen, watched as they begin to disappear like ghosts from the past. Their playground chants and laughter drift through the parking lot as if they were floating in pause as each face faded away, holding the same grin on their face that I had on mine. Closure; the entire world waiting for closure.

Pulling the two toned pistol from behind my back, my tattooed hand snugged around the rough grip. Today is either the first day of the rest of my life or last day of a life not worth living. Today is my future. Today, I become the man I never wanted to be. Today, I am the executioner, his future, and his god.

My flapping garments come to a steady halt and fall into place as I enter the stairwell that shields me from the wind. As I cautiously climb the steps, the smell of menthol fills my nose. The sound of a creaking door slowly opening urges me to bring my pistol up to meet my left hand.

As I quickly follow the pistol around the corner of the stairwell, I am confused by the sight of the front door slowly swinging open. I quickly rush through the door as the sound of me breathing gets louder by the moment. The smell of a burning cigarette filled the room, letting me know that I was not alone in this rundown shitty old apartment. The muscles in my arms begin to tense up as I glide through the living room.

As I pass through the living room, I can hear the yelling from the ghosts of my past. The familiar voice of my step dad and crying children bring flashes of memories like a projector on the wall; memories of my mother laying on the floor smiling as she melts into the high that she injects into her arm. My hands become tense, as my finger slowly slides onto the trigger. I follow the pistol into the kitchen and down the hallway. The projector flashes memories of each room as I check for life in this desolate apartment. No one…it’s empty.

One cigarette, filling the room with the stench of tobacco and menthol, sat on the counter top placed neatly in an ashtray. With an inch of ash still clinging to the red glow of burning tobacco, I notice the lipstick on the filter of the abandoned cigarette. A thin small string of smoke slowly lifted toward the ceiling and disappeared into nothing. The ashtray was sitting on the corner of a neatly written letter that was placed there for me to find.

“To Whom It May Concern:”


CHAPTER 1

I wish I had an amazing story of how great growing up was for me. Stories about how my dad and I would go to the carnivals and public pools. Maybe stories about how fishing trips turned into adventures. I wish I could say that every year at Christmas, me and my family would gather around the piano in our holiday knit sweaters and sang Christmas carols about how our Lord Jesus Christ was brought to this earth. Songs about how he was born in a manger because there was no room for him in the inn. Maybe even hot chocolate and marsh mellows could have warmed our stomachs as mother, aunts, and grandmother baked turkey and stuffing, leaving the smell of amazing in our nose for days to come.

I wish I had stories about how my father and mother were following me down the third baseline, running faster than I could while in their excitement, yelling for me to slide home to complete the infield homerun and winning the big game in the bottom of the ninth inning. Maybe they would buy the cheap worthless baseball cards made by our team sponsors. I could be standing in the batter’s box smiling and they could send them to family and friends; bragging of my heroics with pride.

I wish I had stories of waking up in the middle of the night, scared from the loud thunder. Stories of how I would run down the hallway and jump in my parent’s bed and they would kiss my forehead and promise that everything was going to be okay. Maybe even mother could pull my face into her chest and gently stroke my head as she squeezed me tightly, protecting me from my own fear. For some, normalcy is just a story that very few tell, but for most of us, it’s the very thing that everyone else has…just not you.

*
I wasn’t born anywhere exotic. I was born in Austin. I didn’t spend much time there, so there really is nothing to tell...nor could I even be able to. The only real childhood home that I can remember was a small apartment complex in the heart of the small run down factory town in Arkansas. In this town, your name means everything. Who your parents were or the name you claimed made the difference of varsity sports and detention hall; cheerleader girlfriends or homely ordinary girls that helped you with your homework; party invitations where kissing and fondling were involved or study group invites that you knew kissing wouldn't be on the agenda.

New businesses would come into town hoping to open up a new product, but most would leave town as fast as they came in. Everyone in town smiled, but no one really meant it. The town had its own secrets; secrets that weren’t meant to be shared with anyone who didn’t grow up there.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson lived in the nicest house in the nicest part of town with manicured yards and nicely paved streets and driveways. Everyone knew that the smile they carried into Sunday morning church services was just as fake as the lesson given by the alcoholic preacher man with his sadistic addiction to young children getting beat while being strapped to a makeshift cross. Rubber balls locked in their mouths by leather straps wrapped around their little head. He taught that hell was just a blink away but lived like he had plenty of time.

The Johnsons owned 3 banks…the only 3 banks in the small town. They also owned 2 car dealerships…which were exactly half of the amount of dealerships in our small town. Mr. Johnson had a long-lasting affair with Mrs. Johnson’s Sister. Mrs. Johnson had a long-lasting affair with her stepson, who was 2 years older than her and was the youth pastor at the church. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

Mrs. Galloway was a junior high science teacher. Her husband was the swim coach for the junior high swim team. Mr. Galloway and a 14 year old student were spending their extra practice time fucking in his office. The 14 year old was Mrs. Galloway’s number one student and won every science fair that they entered. Mrs. Galloway wondered how it was that the 14 year old was able to please a man in his late 30’s, especially when he would go limp every single time she would wrap her thin lips around him. She always turned a blind eye to the fact that her son was 12 and had friends that would be spending their weekends at the coach’s house playing video games and basketball while Mr. Galloway would watch with a sort of sick curiosity.

Mrs. Galloway would still cheer the 14 year old swimmer on at every swim meet and treated him as if she was proud of him…even though she despised him for being everything she couldn’t be. She thought about telling his parents, but how would that make her look? Could she ruin the image she tried so hard to protect? Besides, the police chief had his own agenda. He had to protect himself from the humiliation of having the only openly gay son on the swim team.

Mrs. Galloway sat next to Mrs. Johnson at every Sunday morning church service. Both of them would smile as if they were so happy. Their eyes painted so perfectly and their thin lips glossed over. Mrs. Galloway and Mrs. Johnson were sisters after all….and nothing was worth losing family over, right? Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

*

Our mom’s new husband would constantly drink and take his anger out on me and my brother. My mother would wrap her arm with a belt and inject herself with her own coping mechanism. Her dirty calloused toes would curl for a second until she smiled and relaxed. Her eyes would become slow as she would giggle at the visions of her new reality. Her hands would reach out for things that aren't even there.

My mother, my protector, and my secret.

When I was 5 years old; of course during one of my mother’s reality altering state of coping, my step dad came into our bedroom and found that my younger brother had kicked his precious blanket off in the middle of the night. My step dad, my hero, my savior woke me up by slapping me in the face, accompanied by the feel of his leather belt slowly being tightened around my neck. I could feel the cold of the buckle and the way my skin grips to the rough leather as the buckle pinched pieces of skin and pulled the hair from neck. My eyes would start to roll into my head as I struggled for breath. According to him, I had allowed his newborn son, his only begotten son, to kick off his stupid precious blanket…that was unacceptable. I wasn’t even allowed to use a blanket.

For the next week, me and my older brother traded shifts like presidential guards. We made sure his holy son didn’t kick that blanket off. I told my brother that I had to use the bathroom and asked him to cover my shift…just for a minute. I went into the bathroom, sat down on the cold toilet, and drifted asleep. My brother stayed there, leaning up against the wall with his head bobbing up and down; fighting to stay awake while I sat there slumped over on the toilet.

With feet dangling, holding my pajamas up, I sat there dreaming. Visions of a car driving through the dessert, throwing dirt into the air as sand and wind filled the car. I enjoyed the freedom of the wind. Sitting there dreaming, losing touch with reality, this was always the moment when my step father would wake me up. Great timing on his part.

A belt across my shoulder blades shook my senses. The sting and heat of the leather lingered as my skin began to swell and formed an outline of the belt across my back. “What are you doing!? Your brother could be freezing to death while your stupid ass is in here sleeping. Get up, you piece of shit!”

Delirious, confused...asleep. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!” Tears filled my sleepy eyes as I tried to figure out where I was. No excuses. Dragged back to the room, I found my older brother’s glazed red eyes full of tears. My protector, my hero, this was my brother. I looked around to try to figure out what was going on. As I tried to gather the moment, the air from my body left as room began to spin. My step dad, my Savior repeatedly punched me in the stomach as I fell like a weary boxer to the bedroom floor.

With the air knocked out of me, I stopped crying. I wanted to cry, but there was no air to breathe. The room became slow and turned to black, white, and gray images. No sound…just silence. I struggled to catch my breath, while our step father stood over me and laughed.
The Almighty Savior, the love of my mother’s life, my punishment.

I thought I was going to die. Grabbing me by my hair, he looked into my eyes and licked his chapped cracked lips as he drooled. He shoved a soiled cloth diaper, filled with my baby brother’s shit and piss, so far in my mouth that the gag reflex seemed to be pushing my eyes out of their socket. He pushed my face into the dirty mattress. Laughing at us, he positioned himself behind me. Wiping the drool from his face, he reached down and rubbed the spit on his erection and opened my legs up as he pushed himself inside of me. The pressure was so furious that I thought, I hoped, I was going to pass out and die.

My brother, lying beside me face down in the bed with a t-shirt wrapped around his entire face and head with a belt around his quivering neck, looked at me through the tear soaked t-shirt. His hands were behind him wrapped in duct tape as his eyes were glazed and numb. Face to face, he looked at me through the shirt as if all life and fight had escaped him.

My mistake, my fault, my secret.

Our step dad was just laughing….as he started to push himself inside me at a faster and more aggressive pace. The ripping skin and pressure inside made my insides hurt. The taste and smell of shit from the diaper shoved in my mouth, overcome my senses as his sweat and spit began to fall on my neck and back. He grabbed my hair and turned my face so that I could see him. So, I could see his almighty power. So I could worship him.

My Savior, my protector, my Almighty Father.

His eyes and jaw were tense. Spit, with every aggressive breath he took, would fly out of his mouth and on my face and run down his chin until it dripped onto his chest or my lower back. My body tenses up from the pain as he keeps laughing. “I like it tight!” he whispered in my ear leaving drops of spit and drool soaking into my eardrum.

We all need to be revered and feared…maybe worshiped by those we conquer. It is at this moment that he hits me in the face so hard that a flash of lightning puts me to sleep.

Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

To whom it may concern:
If there is a god, hear my prayer and grant me peace. Grant me life...or death. Just get me the fuck out of here!


CHAPTER 2

On my way into work, I stop at the same traffic lights. The same cars are at the same corners. It appears that I’m not the only one with routine. In front of me there is a small pickup truck. It’s black with a tan midsection and a red beat up door. The back window is covered with a poor do-it-yourself tint job, stickers of band names, and popular car accessory companies. Although the truck looked crappy, the roaring sound of the engine tells me otherwise.
The driver of the vehicle, maybe 20 years old, has pale skin and jet black hair. It’s a little longer than an inch and it looks as if he climbed out of bed and then sprayed it with some sort of lacquer. Seeing how he doesn’t look too particular, the hair spray is probably a cheap knock off brand that carries the smell of aerosol throughout the entire day and by lunch, has made its way to rest on his shoulders and back like a bad case of dandruff.
He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel to the same beat every morning. He probably listens to the same CD. He probably pushes play at the same time, right after he fastens the safety belt and lights the first cigarette of the morning. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a white logo on the back. It’s the same T-shirt he wears every morning. It’s hard to make the logo out because today my car is a little farther back in line than normal…change creates havoc.

This morning’s towel incident was the cause of today’s delay. It fell off the hook on the back of the bathroom door and landed on the floor after last night’s shower, causing the towel to remain damp. I went to get another towel from the hall closet, and this set me back about 12 seconds. If I had made it out to my car 12 seconds earlier, I would’ve been directly behind the small pickup truck just like every other day.

*

When I have time for distractions, I often look back and reflect on moments in my forgettable childhood. Moments that have shaped me into the person that I am today. Thank you to Mother. Thank you, Father. Thank you, God. Thank you to whomever. One constant thing comes to mind…my brother. I always looked at him as my guardian angel, my protector…my only parent. That’s the only good part of these memories. He was the only one who knew what it meant to be family. We have grown closer the past couple of months, but the silence between us has lasted ten years. Ten years that I could’ve helped him. Ten years of me not being there to take care of him like he took care of me when we were kids.


To Whom It May Concern:
Grant me sleep. Grant me peace. Grant me deliverance.
P.S. Sorry about the time I fell asleep on the toilet.


We spent our entire childhood together. Every foster home and every trip back to our abusive parents; our monsters; our Saviors, have been spent with him looking out for me. We would only spend a few months at a time away from our abusive monsters. I always thought that no matter how far we went, we could never escape the grasp of fear placed over us by our beloved amazing parents. Every time we went back to our parents, as soon as the social worker would leave, we would once again be subject to punishment.

My mother would cry and say that she would never again let anything happen to us. She would hug us and bring us into her bosom. She would cry salty tears of regret that would wet our faces and shoulders as she buried her face in us. This would always be the case…until she got home. She would then fade off into her own world as her eyes would roll into her skull with the familiar sound of her soft giggle. Then punishment ensued. As if the distraction from our monster’s freedom was our fault…my fault for being abused. To some degree, I guess I believed it was.

To Whom It May Concern:
Thank you mother for sharing in our adventures…I’m sure he appreciates it more than you.

*

After I finally arrive at my job, I would login to the computer and check emails and maybe run through some local sports articles. I would read about the athlete that got arrested at some strip club or arrested for drinking and driving. I would read about their substance abuse and sexual addictions. I would read about their small town upbringing. I often wonder if every small town was like the one I grew up in.

After a couple of hours went by with me sitting in that old office chair at that worthless job, the phone would ring and the voice on the other end would tell me, “Hey, we are done for now. Go and get some food if you want.” The same voice, the same words, the same time, the same routine. My dinner is already cooked and the clear plastic top to the Tupperware is covered with condensation from the microwave.


CHAPTER 3

Carla covered her head with the blanket and then laid there until the last possible moment. The alarm clock had already been turned off and she knew that if she’s late one more day she could be fired. She slept nude all the time and on a cool morning like this, she had to pee like crazy. She quickly throws the blankets back and scurries into the bathroom.
Knowing the toilet seat would be cold, she looks at herself in the mirror and counts out loud, “Okay, girl. Here we go….one….two….three.” She takes a deep breath and sits down fast. The chill of the toilet seat gives her goose bumps. She closes her eyes and as the seat slowly warms up, she slumps down with her eyes still closed, and eases out a long deep sigh. With her knees touching and her feet spread apart, she opens her eyes and blows the tangled morning hair out of her face.

After she finishes her morning ritual, she looks down into the pile of clothes lying on the bathroom floor. She quickly throws on the bra and her uniform shirt that she’s worn for the past 3 days. She slips on the same pair of ripped jeans with no panties, and grabs her ragged toothbrush from the sea shell decorated toothbrush holder on the left side of the sink. Her toothbrush is covered with the white stain of toothpaste that she neglects to clean off completely after every brush and the bristles are so worn that they tend to curl backwards. She neglects perfume, knowing that her beautiful 23 year old, 5’ 3” perfect body will over power any stink that comes from her clothes. Besides, she can always blame Tom while at work; bathing to him is a weekly thing and he couldn’t smell anything anyways…his curse, his blessing.

She walks into the kitchen and grabs a granola bar off the top of the fridge and takes a couple big swigs out of the orange juice carton then darts out the door to her car.

Her car is a grim reflection of her house. There are clothes piled in the seats and empty water bottles piled onto the front passenger floorboard. She has purple and gold beaded necklaces hanging from the rearview mirror and rubber bands and hair clips around the gearshift. She grabs one of the bands and pulls her dark brown hair with lightened streaks back into a pony tail. She pulls a red cloth makeup bag out of her black leather Coach knock-off purse. With her thumb and index finger, pulls out a red shade of lipstick. She reaches down to pick up a dirty lipstick stained napkin from of the floorboard and presses her thin defined lips onto the napkin. She again looks at herself in the mirror and says, “Dear something or someone. There has to be something better. There has to be some purpose.”

She’s worked at Eddie’s Movie Store for 2 years now. It seems that every morning, Monday through Friday, there is just not a lot business. Carla, not motivated by the chance of job advancement, often goes outside to smoke to pass her time. During these smoke breaks she leans against the wall and wonders how things would be if she’d only stayed at home until she graduated high school. She’d left home when she was 16 and moved in with her grandmother.

Her grandmother Amy was completely different than the son she had raised. She was a remnant of the hippie culture. She still wore bellbottom pants and ruffled sleeved flower tops. She still wore platform hemp sandals and she had 3 tattoos. Two of the three tattoos Carla had never seen. The one she did know about was a tear drop with a halo around it. It was on her lower back above her right butt cheek. It has blurred with age, but it is still her most prized possession.

The son Amy raised, Carla’s father, He was a marine. He spent years deployed in places that Carla could never know about. Years spent sucking sand through gas mask and heat that they call the “dog days of winter”. He was strict, but he was absent. He was always absent.

To whom it may concern:
Grant peace to the country that my father fights protect. Just don’t grant it right now, I’m happy.

When he was home, he ran his house like a marine would be expected to. Everyone up at 5am with breakfast served at 5:15. No matter how early she went to bed, getting up was so hard to do. She was always tired.

Carla’s dad, the devout soldier, her devout father, her disciplinarian, always found the time to spread his love of Christ with his daughter. Sometimes, around 2 or 3 in the morning, he would go into her bedroom and bow his head. He would pray and lay hands on her.

To Whom It May Concern:
Please don’t let her scream. Please don’t let her remember.

For as long as she could remember, he would pray for her. Lay his hands on her and slide his hands under her blanket. He would kiss her cheek and then lick her ear. She would squeeze her eyes shut and cry.

After breakfast the house chores were split up between the 3 children. Carla’s chore list consisted of cleaning her room, the hallway bathroom, the wash room. She was also responsible for sweeping and dusting the hallway, the front porch, and making sure the dogs were fed and watered. Usually done by 6:00, she would then go out to her car and light up a cigarette that she stole from her parent’s.

Carla was a good student with excellent potential. She could’ve made the honor roll if she wanted, but she only did enough to get by. She was by no means an over achiever, but she was smart enough to know when she needed to buckle down. She wasn’t one of the most popular kids in school, but she was one of the prettiest if she’d only stop cursing so much.

Once she moved out of her parent’s house and into Amy’s, she started to relax a little. She stopped cursing and she started to blossom into the beautiful young lady that now works at the movie store. She’s grown up now, but every once in a while, she shows the kid inside…and it’s adorable. She has tried to forget her childhood, but it serves as her reminder that she has the freedom to be whom and what she wants.

Carla smiles as she thinks about her child hood and grandmother, but vaguely remembers her grandfather. With smoke coming out of both nostrils, she rolls the finished cigarette butt between her fingers; pushing the tobacco to the ground. She steps on the burning ash and throws the lipstick stained filter into the fire proof can beside the entry door. Then she returns to her lifeless post behind the register.


CHAPTER 4

Every night at 9:00 p.m., I would go on break and sit in my car. I would turn the radio on and quietly listen to the same channel. I could barely hear the songs being played, but it provided enough distraction to not feel alone. I would take two cigarettes out of the newly bought pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights and place them behind my ears. I would then take one and put it into my lips and enjoy the burning sensation and the cool menthol taste in my mouth. As I light the cigarette, the flame from the lighter would light up my face and the inside of my hand, blinding me for a moment until the tip of the cigarette turned bright orange. The sound of the tobacco and rice paper burning on each pull was part of my routine…a part of my life.

Sitting in the car, I listen to commercials about how to get free credit scores, how to score with ladies that are older and single, and drink specials at the local topless bars. I listen to commercials from lawyers and ambulance chasers, restaurants, or pill ads that are supposed to make your fat ass shrink into pants that you wore 10 years ago…in just 3 months!! I flick the filter of a finished cigarette out of the window and take one of the smokes from my ear and light it.

I would periodically glance at the phone sitting in the passenger seat. Nothing. No voice messages, no text, and no email. I would embrace the fact that maybe I am alone. Am I the only one on this planet…maybe the only one in my world? Maybe the songs on the radio are on some sort of repeat, some sort of electronic loop that plays shitty commercials that try to diagnose our problems of social awkwardness and need of normalcy. I hear ads that talk about ways to get newly invented products radio time or cyber ad space so that they can sale and reach out to a wider audience. Ads about new phones that are just minutes away from technology that will allow them to hover and read our minds as they cook breakfast and project the morning newspapers on the wall of our kitchen. I hear even more commercials that try to touch base with our desire to be sexual heroes. The commercials tell me that I can get bigger, last longer, shoot farther, and be the stud that society says I’m supposed to be.

*

Coming home from work was a delight. Every night, I would drive home and see no one. Maybe the occasional bum walking around the carwash dumpsters looking for pieces of food or anything that could be used as a form of currency among their society. I would see the pack of dogs that seemed as misfit as the people that lived in the neighborhood. I pull into an empty carwash and turn the lights off. Sitting there for a moment to see if anyone was around, I get out of the car and dig for change in my pocket. The silence of the night is eerie…but peaceful. I drop one quarter in the machine as the water softly begins to spray from the holder connected to the wall when I hear a low, fragile, familiar, Irish voice coming from behind me.

“It’s going to rain tomorrow, don’t you know?”
“Really? What makes you say that?” I asked cautiously without turning around.
“It always rains after you wash your car.” He said curiously. “I would figure that a lad your age would know that by now.”

Slowly reaching under my suit jacket the voice says something that stops me. “Let’s not get too hasty…I’m just an old man looking for some things to recycle.” I slowly glance over my shoulder to see a quiet little man with a week’s worth of dirty chin stubble and rotting teeth. His clothes are old and dirty. His shirt is covered in dust and has holes where his elbows have rested on his knees for what seemed to be years. His pants were oversized, as if they used to fit, but have not got quite used to his loss of weight. His eyebrows were long and red, speckled with blonde and gray. They were un-kept and hid under a dirty red hat that matched his suspenders.

“Cans you say? Are you having any luck tonight, old man?” I ask him with skepticism.

“Not yet…but I’m more interested in the lovely piece of metal you keep on your back.” He said with a sinister grin as his eyelids softly squint. His focused eyes weren’t as weary as his face and clothes. Closing my eyes, I grin and shake my head at the thought of this old man, the old familiar voice from the past. I quickly turn and simultaneously grab the pistol from behind my back when the world slows down to a complete stop. My suit coat floating in the air and my tie gracefully wrapped around my chest, I quickly glance and see a fading shadow make its way around the carwash wall behind a trash filled dumpster. Rain drops start to fall at a rate so slow that I seem to avoid them. The silence is so loud that my breath and heartbeat are the only noise I can hear. The burst of two shots send flashes of fire and light from the end of my pistol. As I pull my pistol down to my side, the world speeds up. Rain begins to fall and there is no one for what seems to be empty blocks of deserted roads and buildings. Not even the dogs have come out of pure curiosity. I slide the pistol back into its resting spot in the back of my pants and walk over to assess the damage of the two shots fired. Digging both bullets from the brick wall behind the dumpster, a small maroon lampshade rolls from side to side with a single small hole from the bullet that was meant for the shadowed figure that disappeared into the darkness.

“Damn…I’m out a quarter, old man.” I say beneath my breath.


To whom it may concern:
I don’t know what I’m called to do…but I do it anyway.
Give me strength and wisdom…I’m your angel.


CHAPTER 5

My eyes open, as I lay there silent. I look over at the clock…2:08 am. I pull my pajama pants up to cover my nakedness and I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is still the same shape as it was when I laid down and my arms and back are covered in tattoos. Today’s dream has given me a new tattoo. They are symbols of my accomplishments and my failures, symbols of my calling completed for now…new ink; placed there by hands that I don’t know in the midst of my dreams. I wake up and they are there. Fresh and sore, skin raised and burning, they are my secret.

Thinking about my recent encounter with the old man, I wonder the significance of it. Who he was or who he once was. Where he came from or where he went. Was this a dream? His eerie presence made my stomach turn. Anxiety and nervousness filled my body. The sound of his voice was deep and dark, and his familiarity with me was uncanny. He knew when, where, and how I was going to react. I wasn’t comfortable with his curiosity and precision. The way his eyes revealed his zeal and willingness to confront me, made me very uncomfortable. My lack of awareness gave me pause as I ran the dream through my head over and over again. He was the first to get away.

*

My first tattoo came to me as I awoke from a dream where I watched the brutal attack of myself, as if I was there as a silent observer, watching from the sideline of some sort of reality that I didn’t know or didn’t want to remember. I watched in silence as my body was tied to a bed in a ritualistic form of sadism. At the age of seven, the skin of my ankles and wrist cut by the wire that wrapped around them, holding me to captive in a familiar room and to a familiar bed. The wire, slicing through the skin, began to cover in the blood of my innocent skin, creating fresh blood stains over the already stained mattress. My chest and stomach flex as I struggle to breathe through the towel that was wrapped around my face. Tears flowed down the side of my head and soaked into the urine and blood stained mattress. Screaming, hoping to wake up from the nightmare, my toes began to curl as my legs and arms twist to break free from my captivity.

Hopeless and pointless, my body relaxes as my breath became heavy and slow. My eyes close for what seemed to be forever. When they open, I lay there motionless. Useless thoughts of escape and revenge churn in my head. My eyes and mind become numb as the tears stop flowing. Emotion and feelings leave my body and mind as I settle into reality. This is my life. There is no future. There is no hope.

I stood there watching, frozen in my black suit. Sunglasses cover my eyes and the wind starts to softly lift the tail of my jacket. My fists clinch in anger, but my body doesn’t move. I’m stuck. Watching as the tears of my former self start to flow backwards from the mattress, up the side of my face, back into the stone eyes of my younger self, I see the blood slowly seep back into the cuts from the wire around my wrist and ankles. The wire unwraps itself and everything is moving in reverse, as if I’m watching a movie backwards. The naked father figure unwrapped my face as his body goes from dark red to his pale shade of normalcy. He walks backwards toward the door as the smile leaves his face and he closes the door. Silence…the world pauses.

To Whom It May Concern:
I am going to kill you.

My younger version walks toward the door, naked and exposed, as a smile appears on his face. Standing there in nothing but anger, he stretches his arms out to the side and tilts his head up toward the ceiling. Soaking up power from some supernatural force, he flexes his body. Bones crack and his jaw tenses up. Standing there possessed, he laughs and turns to look at me. Smiling, his eyes are forged with power. He puts one finger over his lips, as if he knows I’m watching, telling me to stay still and quiet, telling me to stand there in silence. He slowly opens the door and then quietly closes the door behind him.

Seconds later, I see myself enter the room. Wearing the sunglasses and suit, I see myself walk over and stand in front of me, face to face. I remove my glasses, as does this other version of myself, mirroring every movement. I glance down and see the smoke from the barrel of my pistol slowly disappear as it exits the tip of the gun.

Flashing back to reality, I feel the burning of sore skin on my wrist. Filled with fresh black ink, my skin burns; remnants of my new tattoo.


*

I opened the front door and walked out. Without looking, I reached into the mailbox on the porch and pulled out a box of cigarettes. I pull two out and place one behind each ear. I pull out another one and place it in my lips. The smoke off the first pull slowly rolls up my face and waters my eyes. The cool sensation of menthol fills my mouth as I inhale the smoke slowly.

“I guess I will see you again old man. I know what you look like…and you smell of menthol cigarettes. Next time, I won’t be so generous.” I said to myself. The last one sent to meet me ended up on the news. I didn’t know that a pedophile had such a strong fan base and adoring fans. I do have to say that his funeral was quite an uncomfortable place, filled with faces that I have seen in my dreams and on TV. I just wish that I could remember what he sounded like as I brought him the justicethat every victim wished they could witness.

To Whom It May Concern:
I think I am either the hand of God or the hand of Satan. I’m not for sure…so if you could, enlighten me please.

Amused by that thought, I smile and shake my head. I pull a cigarette out from behind my ear and light it with the tip of the old one.


CHAPTER 6

She propped her head up with her left hand and doodled pictures on the back of old receipt paper. Over her shoulder, her manager Tom said, “That’s pretty cool. What is that? It looks a lot like a vagina.” Carla, not surprised by his nosey interjection, looked down at the paper and was surprised. She wondered why, of all things, she would draw such a thing. Was there some sort of meaning to her picture, or was it just a coincidence? Was it just his interpretation of the ink on paper? She didn’t know…but it was odd and a little troubling. Without much thought to the doodle, she went to grab the keys from the office so she could close up the store.

“No…it’s not a vagina, stupid. I don’t know what it is.” She said with a combative tone.
“What does it say? Is that even English? It doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure…it looked like a vagina.”
“What vagina do you know that has this type of writing, Stupid?”
“Look it up online. By the way, have you seen my ex-girlfriend’s vagina? You’d be surprised by the type of writing…well, never mind.” He quickly turns and walks off.

Carla turned off the lights and passed by her art work on the counter. She picked it up and made her way out the door. After locking the door to the video store, she sat in her car with this wrinkled receipt paper in her hand. She took a half smoked menthol cigarette from the ash tray and lit it up. Putting her head back against the head rest of the driver’s seat and cracking the window, she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, perfectly aiming the smoke out the window. She quickly glanced at the paper one last time, then crumbles it into a little ball and drops it into the cup holder between the seats of her car.

On her drive home, she passes by store after store. Old run down stores make the history of the small town. The old drug store on the corner of Main Street and East Paige has been a staple of the town since it began in the early 1900’s. The old theater and several mom and pop stores, that sell items that no one wants or uses, line the streets. Large mailboxes, rusted from the lack of use and care, are on each corner. Jewelry stores that hold years of memories in each glass cabinet, from those who have sold their past for little or no gain, serve as reminders that even this small town, the town with no secrets, is not immune to the crush of heartbreak and financial crisis.

Passing car after car and light after light, she pays no attention to the mundane rhythms of road noise and car horns. She sits up close to the steering wheel. With her head always on a swivel, she’s constantly looking for the opportunity to pass the slower traffic. She weaves herself in and out of traffic, making no friends along the way. She doesn’t mind pissing people off, in fact, she actually enjoys it to some degree.

She pulls into her driveway and quickly exits the vehicle. She darts inside to relieve herself of bladder pains. While she sits on the toilet, she takes off her bra from underneath her shirt and pulls her pants off from around her ankles. Leaning over to the pile of clothes on the floor she pulls out a pair of blue and white flowered pajama pants. After she finished relieving herself, she stands up and flushes the toilet. Turning around and looking in the mirror, she says…

“To Whom It May Concern:
I need purpose. I need something. I need escape.”

After a long hot bath, she dresses herself in boxers and a bath robe. Out of habit, she counts the amount of steps it takes to get to the kitchen from the bathroom…six. Six steps from the bathroom to the kitchen and six steps from the kitchen to the couch. She sits down; crossing her legs like a kid in kindergarten and without looking, reaches up behind her and pulls the remote off the top of the couch. Carla then does her ritual browsing through every channel until she finds herself interested in a meaningless Lifetime movie.

“Guys, do you want to be bigger, longer lasting, and full of energy?” The low and soft female voice comes through the television speakers. “Ladies, do you want your man to last longer? Want your man to be larger to reach those deep unexplored parts of your body? 1-800-555-9969…” This is clearly the number is a euphemism.
So many commercials; commercials about upcoming movies that share their desire to hire the worst possible actors to fill the 3 minute cyberspace hole left for enticing each lonely woman or man to keep their television ratings up long enough to pay the next bill.

Carla watches and laughs at the thought of these 60 year old men bragging about their new found libido. Fake actor wives sit and smile in agreement, giving the illusion that these pills work and make their sexual lives a dream come true.

She reaches for her cell phone, which she always takes from her pant pockets when she kicks them off in the bathroom, and on her way to the kitchen. She usually tosses her phone onto the couch, but it’s not there. She searches through the couch cushions; pulling out loose change, old potato chips, and candy wrappers. No phone. She walks back to the bathroom to see if maybe she left it on the counter top by the toothpaste covered toothbrushes that are stowed in the sea shell decorated toothbrush holder. She counts 12 steps.

She locates the cell phone on the counter top, but something else catches her attention. “That’s weird.” she says to herself. “The toilet seat is up?” She cautiously looks around the bathroom. She opens up the shower curtain but everything looks normal. Just the way she left it. She bends down to pick the towel up off the floor and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door. “Still a couple of days of usage from this thing.” she says, again talking to herself.

As she returns to the kitchen, she recounts her steps. She rinses out a glass from inside the sink and turns to the refrigerator. She opens the freezer and pulls out a container of Chocolate Dibs ice cream balls. She stands there for a second and then smiles. Talking to the container of Dibs, “I’ve been waiting for you all day! Now it’s just me, you, and 3 hours of a horrible Lifetime movie. Do you have it in you?

To Whom It May Concern:
Give me purpose. Make me special.


CHAPTER 7

The morning sun slipped through the curtain and gently touched her face. Carla closed her eyes tightly and then let out a little sigh as she performed her morning stretched. As she lay naked under the covers, she smiled at the thought of the quick run to the bathroom. Hoping that the morning ritual would be different, she knew that this morning would hold no surprises.

After she dressed, she poured herself a bowl of cereal and walked to the kitchen window to see what the world had in store for the day. She smiled as she saw the neighborhood stray cats walking on her neighbor’s freshly washed car. He seemed to hate anything touching his car. Actually, the thought that she had was that he hated everything. He never smiled, never waved, and never said hello. All he ever did was smoke on his porch and go to work. His punctuality was eerie. The same time every day, he would make the march from his porch to his car. It was like watching a movie over and over again. Nothing out of place! “I don’t think I could do that if I tried!” she said to herself as she picked the strawberries out of the bowl with her fingers. With a giddy and childlike anticipation she watched his door slowly open.

With nothing out of place, he quietly slipped out of his house and silently closed the door behind him. He lived alone so there was no one to wake, but he practiced the courtesy none the less. He meticulously walked from his door to the car, counting every step. Twelve to be exact! That is including the 3 steps from his porch down to the driveway. Why was it that he played out his day to the same beat every day? She sweetly grinned at what his life must be like or what the inside of his house looked like. She giggled at the thought. She found herself with a mild crush on the guy next door. He looked distinguished and proper. Dressed in a black suit and tie with black dress shoes, he was very well groomed. With not a hair was out of place and his eyes covered by dark black sunglasses, he seemed as if he was oblivious to her spying on him.

She was so intrigued by this man. What did he do? What did he think? What movies did he like? All these questions ran through her head as she found herself pushing her head up against her kitchen window, flattening her forehead and nose, trying to keep him in view as he drove down the street.

Carla gathered the trash from the kitchen and bathroom then walked down to the end of the driveway to put it in the garbage can. Her garbage can was filled with boxes from one of the neighbors recent birthday parties, so she opened up the neighbors to see if there was room in his. His garbage can contained nothing. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets.

As she walked back up the driveway, she detoured over to his porch. Without looking, she lifted the lid to his mailbox and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Menthol lights! It’s been quite some time since she indulged in a good cigarette…especially one that was stolen from the neighbor.

Pressing her face against the outside of his window on his porch, she could barely see through her own reflection. Everything was so particular. His living room decorated in black leather sofa and love seat, black leather ottoman, and a flat screen TV that had to bigger than her 32” that was in her living room. Framed scrolls were placed on his wall to decorate the empty spaces. He had a glass kitchen table that was supported by iron legs, black modern chairs surrounded the table, and black placemats with white dishes placed perfectly on top of each one. A small Japanese flower rested in a small black clay pot in the center of the table.

“It’s so beautiful.” She said to herself. Every single thing is beautiful and so coordinated; not like her apartment. Her apartment was filled with furniture that was pieced together by unwanted furniture from moving neighbors. Her maroon plaid couch was supposed to tie the room together. Her light colored oak particle board entertainment center bowed from the weight of her old television. She had two cherry colored wooden end tables that held up two different colored lamps. Each lamp represented a different generation of décor. One of the lamps was from an old couple that just moved out of the house across the street and the other lamp from a group of college kids that attended school in a neighboring town.
She replaced the blue lampshade that had the local college mascot printed on it with a maroon lamp shade that she found beside a dumpster at the carwash just down the street. She placed duct tape on the inside of a hole and colored the exposed white sticky circle of tape with red magic marker. When the light was on, you could see the small square piece of duct tape cast its shadow on the wall.

*

Walking back over to her house, the wind begins to pick up and clouds begin to hide the sun from the streets. Her apartment becomes dark and her head begins to ache. She sits on her couch and squeezes her forehead with both hands. “What’s going on?” she asked herself. She tilts her head back to rest on the couch and the room begins to spin. Closing her eyes, her head gets heavy as if she had way too much wine. Her ears begin to ring as a flash of bright light awakens her.

As she stands up from the couch, the black leather sticks to her hot skin. She looks around the room trying to come to grips with the new environment. The room is slow and blurry as she squeezes her eyes shut, only to be somehow transported back to her plaid couch. The skin on the back of her shoulder begins to burn as the ink of a tattoo begins to come to light.

She quickly stumbles her way to the bathroom mirror and examines the tattoo. Rubbing the ink and sore skin, she looks at herself in the mirror. She stares at herself in confusion and turns the water on and splashes her face, trying to wake up from this odd dream.

*

This is how it starts. Is it the calling of God or the call of the Devil? Who knows? A calling none the less…definitely a purpose. This urge to fix the problems of the world stirs in your stomach and power begins to fill your veins like a shot of heroin. Time stands still. The power to enter someone’s life and change it, the power to grant life or death, the power to be the judge and jury.

The first time is always the worst. You lose your senses and you lose reality. It’s a door to the unknown that can’t be closed. Once chosen, you are alone. Yyou are the angel of life…the angel of death. For whose side? That’s the unknown.

Your little secret. Your capability to see the world through a different lens. You’re capable of seeing the past, present, and future through the eyes of the innocent and guilty alike. A curse? Maybe.

I wish I could say that there is a rule book, maybe some sort of guidance, but not in my case. Time slows down and the wind blows. There you are; watching the most horrible of things happen to the most innocent of victims. When it’s all said and done, you are looking at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection reveals the good and the bad alike. Your better or worst half? Who knows; but you are alone, left to deal with your dreams. Left to deal with your reality.

Your body gets marked with ink; the unreadable marks that are not for you to understand. Everything goes quiet and then you wake up. Back to reality. Back to routines. It’s how I keep my sanity.


CHAPTER 8

It has been years since I’ve talked to my brother. I guess it has been too long. His presence wasn’t always welcome at our house while growing up. He moved out when he was 17 and he’s been into nothing but trouble ever since. He’s been in and out of jail for robbery, public intoxication, disturbing the peace, and laundry list other charges. My adopted parents had a reputation in our town for being great parents. And they were! I guess when you take in troubled kids off the streets, it’s only a matter of time before the one bad apple reveals itself. My brother, by all accounts, was the bad apple. I think our childhood being robbed from us had a lot to do with it. I guess when you don’t have a childhood growing up…when you grow up, you find one. At least that was the case with him. But he is family, at times, he was my only family.

I can’t help but remember one of the last moments we shared before he left. There was this incredibly beautiful girl that I was dating when I was 15. We had been dating for several months and our relationship looked like it was turning toward a sexual crossroads. At the time, I was still a virgin and I wasn’t for sure about her. She was younger than me and I didn’t want to be compared to her other boyfriends if she had slept with them.

While alone in my room we began to kiss. Her tongue felt amazing in my mouth as her hands softly touched my neck and slowly moved to my chest. My heart was racing as she began to un-tuck my shirt. My breathing became heavier as I wrapped my arms around her and began to pull her shirt up; touching her bare back. My hands slowly made their way up until I found her bra strap. I unfastened her silk bra as she grabbed my belt, unlatched it, and then dropped it on the floor. I could feel her breath on my face as it became deeper and more intense. She began to unbutton my pants and slid her cold hand into my underwear. Standing there, hard as rock, I moved my hands from around her back and slid them under her unfastened bra. Her nipples and small breast felt soft and amazing. I could feel her breath leave her body as she gripped me harder and began to slowly stroke me.

“Is this what you like?”
Out of breath, I shyly squeaked out, “Yeah.”
“I want you inside of me.” She whispered in my ear.
“Yeah” I said again in a high pitched voice of uncertainty.

At this point my inexperience had to be showing. Thoughts were running through my head at a mile a minute. Does she have a condom…how do you use a condom…what the hell is a condom? Has she been with someone else…are they bigger and better than me…how does this work…when are my parents coming home? Every thought you can think of…I thought. I started to lower my hands from her breast to her stomach and I began to unfasten her pants as she softly bit my bottom lip. Then she whispered something that I’ll never forget.

“I don’t want you inside there…not yet.” She then pulled away from me, looked me in the eye as she bit her bottom lip, and then pulled my inexperienced package out of my wet spotted underwear. She gracefully dropped to her knees and began to softly stroke me again. As I felt the warmth of her mouth, this tingling sensation began to overtake my senses. My mouth opens as my eyes intensely shut and I could feel the 15 years of sexual oppression begin to fill her mouth.

To Whom It May Concern:
I have no clue what to do. If you could just give me a little advice on what to do, that would be really nice.

P.S. This is definitely not her first time.


As soon as I begin to explode in her mouth, my brother opens the door and yells, “Holy Shit!!” Startled by the abrupt interruption, I pull out of her mouth, covering her face and chest with my salty man juice. I sat down on my bed convulsing from my first orgasm, as she stood up and calmly wiped her face. As gross as it sounds…that was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen! My brother, to this day, has never let me forget that he was there for my manhood ceremony. She, on the other hand, wiped her face with her hands and licked her fingers clean.

Laughing to myself, I pull into my driveway and notice that my garbage can was filled with someone else’s trash. Not paying any real mind to it, I walked from the car to the porch and count every step. Twelve. Twelve steps from the car to the door, including the 3 steps up to the porch. As I pushed the key into the lock, I notice that my mailbox was open and there was no mail…but my cigarettes have been opened. I calmly look around to see if there was anything different when I noticed the young lady next door closing her curtain. “I see she smokes menthol.”

I make my way inside when I notice the print of someone’s forehead against the window. Worried, I quickly enter the house to check for any noticeable changes. Nothing.


CHAPTER 9

I stood at the smoking area in front of the movie store, enjoying my first cigarette of the day. I don’t get out much, but I try to afford myself some time. I noticed that I had parked next to my neighbor’s car. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she waited in her car. I have never really had a chance to talk to her. She was a very attractive young lady. I wanted to see her get out of the car. I wanted to see what she looked like outside of her kitchen window. I wanted to see her body, her smile, the color of her eyes…everything. I was somewhat mesmerized by the sight of her. I looked at her for a second, but it felt like 10 minutes. I hoped she didn’t think of me as staring at her and I certainly hoped she would get out of that car sooner than later. I’m already halfway done with this cigarette.

She pushed the car door open with her foot until the un-greased door creaked and bounced back at her. She stopped the door with her flawless manicured bare foot. She then tucked her foot back into the car and revealed it again with a pink thong sandal. She stepped out of the vehicle and softly closed the door. She then turned her back to the car, and with her butt, aggressively pushed the car door shut. As she walked towards me and the entrance door, the morning sun formed a perfect silhouette of her body and her shadow stretched all the way to my feet. As she stepped onto the side walk, her car door popped and slowly opened about 3 inches. She stopped, looked at me for a second, and turned to verify that her car did what she thought it did.

After a couple of slams and a strong kick, the door finally closed and stayed closed. She walked towards me, tilted her head slightly to the left, and with the cutest voice asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have another cigarette would you?”
I let out a bashful chuckle, “Yeah…What happened to your back; why the bandage?” I handed her the box of Marlboro Menthol Lights, and then reached into my pocket for the lighter.

“It’s nothing.” She said, as she reflected back to the dizzying episode or bad dream. “This is your last cigarette, are you sure?” She said.

“It’s okay. Take it. I can do without.” I looked at her and wondered what it was that she was hiding. Everyone had secrets. I have seen that look on her face before, every time I looked in the mirror. Confusion, denial, with a tad pinch of untrusting glances...that’s how I looked at everyone since my dreams and visions started.

She smiled and quickly brought the conversation back to the cigarette. “Nonsense.” She says “How about you light it. Seeing how it’s your lucky smoke, I’ll share with you.”
“Sure.” I said and smiled.

I lit the cigarette and took a nice slow pull off of it. Holding the smoke in my lungs, I handed the cigarette to her. “I’m Nathan…but you can call me Nate. What’s your name?” I asked, as I let the smoke slowly escape with each word.

“Carla.” She said. She put the cigarette between her freshly painted lips and pulled the smoke into her lungs. She handed me the cigarette with a red lipstick covering the tip. It didn’t matter though. Not today. I place the cigarette on my lips and lean against the wall. As I pull the cigarette away from my lips, the sticky lipstick hangs on to my lip and released it with a small tug.

Handing her the cigarette, I asked her, “So what movies do you recommend?”

She started talking, but I couldn’t focus on what she was saying. I could only focus on the articulation of every word. How she talked with her hands. How she supported her weight with her left leg and then shifted herself to the right. How her beautiful neck defined itself with every turn of her head. When she moved her arms, her shirt would raise slightly above the top of her pajama pants revealing the smooth skin of her stomach.

“I’ll check it out.” I said. Of course, I didn’t hear a word she said.
“Good. It’s a really good movie.”

I opened the door for her and watched her sexy body glide in front of me. I tried not to make it obvious that I was checking her out, but any man in this situation could not be that discreet. As she walked through the door, she looked over at the counter where a man stood wearing a white polo shirt with a blue collar. The front of his shirt had the video store’s logo with his name tag just above it. TOM.

I turned to the left and headed for the new releases section of the store. All of the movies on this particular shelf started with A. I tried to pretend like I was searching for a movie, but my eyes kept wondering to Carla. With her back facing me, I imagined what her body looked like under those baggy pajama pants. I would then look at Tom and he’d look at me, like a protective older brother or jealous boyfriend. I stare into Tom’s eyes for a second and then turn to check out the B section.


To Whom It May Concern:
Give me strength. Give me resolve. Give me Carla.

Standing there for a moment, trying to not look obvious, I glanced through every movie in that section. I wondered if she and Tom were together, or maybe that was his sister. I just needed to look busy. I wandered through the C’s and then the D’s, all the way until I found myself looking at the doorway of the porno section.

“Are you old enough to go in there?” I turned to look at the person talking to me and it was Carla.

“Uh…No, I’m good. I was just…wondering…” I was flattered that she would consider me underage, although I knew she was kidding, but I was mostly embarrassed and speechless. Here I was, standing in front of this doorway to lust and sex, and this beautiful woman was probably thinking I was some pervert.

“I can recommend a couple of good ones…what are you into?” She looked at me smiling.
“No…I’m not looking for porn.” I told her.
“We got cheerleaders, school girls, back door entries, 3 dick minimums, inter-racial, girl on girl, gay porn…just not kiddy porn or animals.” She said with a curious grin. “I know a guy, if that’s what you are into.”

“I think we have a misunderstanding. I wasn’t paying attention and you caught me in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am quite embarrassed.” I lowered my head in shame and embarrassment.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” She said. “The local preacher comes in here all the time. If he can look at it, why can’t you? Besides, I’m sure his lovely mistress doesn’t mind the entertainment.” I laughed at her view of things.

“What was the name of that movie you were talking about earlier?” I tried to change the subject, but at the same time, I didn’t hear a word she said to me while we were standing outside.

“‘Thr3e’. It’s good, but you might like the book better. They have it over in the book section on the other side of the store. You should check it out sometime.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks.” I told her. I watched her walk away from me and enjoyed every second of it. Her lackadaisical stroll made me smile. As she walked by the shelves of movies, she’d pull a movie cover off the shelf and replace it a couple of shelves down where it didn’t belong. This was her way of messing with Tom. She did this throughout each section starting with Z all the way to A. This had to piss Tom off; after all, it was one of his jobs to make sure that the movies were in the right place.


CHAPTER 10

The following day at work, Tom decided to intervene. “So! Who is the guy that was in here yesterday?” Tom asked her, as he leaned back against the counter. His arms crossed over his chest, covering the store logo on his shirt. His left hand held a sauce dripping, oversized, breakfast burrito and his right leg supported most of his weight with his left leg crossed over top of it; catching every drip of sauce leaking from his breakfast burrito. “So, you guys hang out; talking? What’s the deal, Carla?” He then forces half of the oversized burrito into his mouth and then strains his jaw closed. He looks at her, with little pieces of egg and bacon stuck around his mouth and in his scraggly goatee, and says with a mouth full of burrito, “Well?” The water from the imitation egg started to drip from his hairy chin onto his shirt, “I thought we had something special, Carla. I see it wasn’t as special as I thought.”

She stops drawing on the receipt paper and throws the pen back into the cup with the rest of them. She quickly turns and lays eyes on Tom. With a look of disgust, she quickly glances at his egg and bacon covered face. She notices Bar-B-Q stains on his collar from last week’s lunch at Porky’s. She then spots the trail of egg juice and sauce down the front of his shirt, knee, and shoe. Tom, not the greatest at keeping up with the times, still sports the thin braided leather belt. He keeps the tip of his belt tied around a belt loop and tucked into his front pocket and only the front part of his dirty work shirt is tucked in. This was a great example of professional dress and appearance…at its worst.

“Tom?” She said. “You do know that we are cousins, right? There are rules against that type of stuff. Besides, I don’t think my dad would approve of your healthy life style….and wipe your face for Christ’s sake! Where were you raised? In a barn?”
“I’m just saying. You don’t talk to anyone, you barely smile, and you’re a drag to be around…”
Carla quickly interrupted, “He’s my neighbor, Tom. What do you mean ‘a drag’?”
“I’m just asking, why this guy?”

She ignores the conversation and walks from behind the counter. She walks through the new releases and notices that every movie cover has been placed back in its proper place. Laughing under her breath, she asked without looking, “Tom? How long did it take you to fix the movies I messed up for you?” She couldn’t wait to hear his answer. She just smiled in anticipation.

“I didn’t do it.” He muffled out with his mouth full of burrito.
“Really?” she asked sarcastically.

“Nope. Your new boyfriend did.” He said, as he licked and sucked his fingers clean. She slowly walks back toward the counter as he spoke to her. “Carla, I’m telling you…” He paused, looked around the store, leaned toward her, and lowered his voice. “After you left, he walked through each section and straitened every movie. The dude is fucking weird. I just let him do it. What else was I supposed to do? Tell him to stop? He was making my job a lot easier, not to mention, he was standing at the porn isle for a while. I thought he was waiting for you to leave and then go back to the porn, but he didn’t. He walked through every section and straitened the movies you messed up, and, if you didn’t noticed, they are all evenly spaced. A nice touch if I do say so myself.”

She looked at him with a blank stare on her face. “I’m not kidding.” He added. “He literally straitened every movie from A to Z. The guy’s a fucking freak!” Tom pushes himself off the counter and puts his fat finger in his nose. Examining his freshly plucked finger, his eyes cross as he pulls his finger close to his face and he rubs his discovery between his thumb and index finger. Lowering his hand down to his side, he wipes his fingers clean where the stains of a weeks’ worth of chips and burritos have made their home.

Still standing there with the blank stare on her face, she listens to every word that Tom is saying. She wonders why he would do that. Why would he go behind her and fix all of those movies? She thinks about him while Tom continues on, she isn’t really listening to him at this point. She thinks about how they shared that cigarette, and how handsome he looked in those sunglasses. She thinks about the look of embarrassment on his face when she found him in front of the porn section. She thinks about the way he looked at her when he stood beside his car. She thinks about how he opened the door for her and the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her while she talked with Tom. She remembered how Tom jealously stared at him while she was at the counter. The way he smelled so clean, and every hair was perfectly placed on his head. She thought about all of it.

She thought about the experience she had when she woke up on his leather couch and how the room spun as she laid there. She thought about the tattoo on her back. Where it came from or how she got it. What was so important about him?

Tom continued. “….and you know what else? I think he’s gay. Who else would rent the movie Thr3e? Only a pole-smoking, peter-puffing homosexual would waste his time on a movie like that.”

“You’re an asshole, Tom. I’m sorry; who did you say straightened them?” She asked him, again; acting angry because Tom didn’t fall into her little trap of fixing the movies himself. She pushes her hip out to the side and places her hands on her hips, like a spoiled little girl.

“Oh! That was sexy!” He mumbles with egg running down his chin. As he licks the last bit of sauce from the back of his, she turns and walks away with her middle finger sticking in the air. She was only his cousin by marriage, he thought to himself. What’s so wrong about that?

“Clean your face, you idiot!” She turns the corner, still giving him the bird. He chuckles at the exchange of words and gestures, then turns toward the register. He sees an old lady, probably in her 60’s using a metal walker for assistance, politely staring back at him.

Pointing to her chin, reminding him of the mess on his chin, she says, “Do you want me to get that for you?” She then licks her lips, as to insinuate a sexual favor.

Tom, trying to be nice, says, “Thanks, but you know what…I’m gay!” He smacks his lips and sucks the taste off of his teeth.

The old lady responded with a deeper than usual voice, “Good…because I used to be a man.”

Tom paused for a moment. He blinked a couple of times and just stared at the lady across the counter. Held up by her walker, she bashfully lowered her head and smiled. Tom swallows the left over egg that lingers in his mouth and yells, “Security!”

*

She laid there in her bed and stared at the clock. The red digital clock reads 2:08 a.m. She closed her eyes for a moment and then she heard the soft voice coming from the corner of her dark room. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, do you dear?” She lay frozen on the bed in fear. Scared to move, she squeezed her eyes shut to where she could only hear the sound of her breathing and felt the pounding in her chest start to slowly gain speed. The voice began to move closer to her bed as she slowly slid her hand out of the cover looking for something to use to protect herself. Her hand touches a book, then moves around and touches an old plastic cup that had fallen on the floor probably months ago; still feeling around, she finds a small metal ink pen and wraps her fingers around it. “Let’s not get too hasty…I’m just an old man looking for some things to recycle.” His voice was filled with an Irish accent. He quietly and softly spoke again, “Have you ever heard ‘be careful who your friends are?’ Maybe ‘curiosity killed the cat’ would be a bit better for you to understand, Carla?”

Carla quickly raised her naked torso from the bed and gripped the pen over her head, only to find that the man with the voice wasn’t there. Silence filled the room. Like a thief in the night.


CHAPTER 11

I was 7 and my brother was 9, every day after school, we would walk to the field across the street and wait for Carl and Charlie to meet us. Charlie was the same age of my brother and Carl was my age. We met in that field every day for as long as I could remember. Once we all were together, my brother and Charlie would hand me and Carl their book bags. They would proceed in the everyday ritual of beating each other into bloody pulps. Carl and I couldn’t stand the sight of this, so we would try to intervene and by doing so, we always ended up fighting each other.

Every day at the same time, same place, the same boys would do the same thing. This was our ritual. After the ritual was over, we would lay there in the grass. With bloody noses, cut lips, and black eyes, we all looked up at the sky. Charlie would always ask, “How much longer do we have to do this? My mom’s starting to ask questions.”

“Charlie…” my brother would say, as he tried to catch his breath, “did you see the red Jeep parked in the woods over there? Well, that’s my step dad’s Jeep. He says that if I don’t fight someone every day, he’s going to hurt me and my brother when we come home. I love you, Charlie, and that’s why I pick you to fight. My brother comes first and we’ll always be friends…no matter how many times I kick your ass! Now are you going to invite us over for dinner tonight, or are we going to fight again?” We all laughed as we got off the ground and walked toward the woods to go home.

As the years went by, Charlie and Carl would get placed in foster homes and then finally, an orphanage. I’ve seen the two on occasion, while growing up, mostly at church camps or summer events that the orphanage would put on. We still share the memories of us fighting every day.

They both became preachers. My brother and I? We fought our way through life. Every day, for years, we fought. We fought each other, older kids, younger kids, girls….it didn’t matter. We were trained by our father to fight anyone we could. A child version of fighting dogs. It seems as of lately…I’ve been fighting no one but myself…my past…and my future.

To Whom It May Concern:
Please allow me to be the first to say….I’m lost but don’t need direction. Not yet.

I walk onto my porch and look at the sky. Reaching into the mailbox I pull out a pack of cigarettes. Without looking I grab one and put it in my lips. I quickly light it and notice the clouds are starting to form into quite a potential storm. I turn to look at Carla’s window and notice that she’s sitting on her couch alone…again. I watched her as she sat there glued to the television show. The way she paused the channel when the phone rang, when she got up to get something, or go to another room. Her house looked warm. Her living room looked comfortable, but pieced together with what looked like bargain deal furniture. There was no matching décor or sense of any style…it was just…her.

As the wind began to pick up, I leaned over on the rail of the porch. One by one, large drops of rain begin to splash onto the car and driveway. I could hear the drops hitting the windows of the house as the thunder rumbled violently overhead. It began to seem that nothing was safe from getting wet…except me. Not one drop touched me.

I glanced over at Carla’s house and saw that she was standing at her kitchen window admiring the power of the weather. Her window was blanketed by the rain, making her figure blurry. I wondered about her. I wondered what it was that made her so special. I believe that everyone has something that makes them special. A talent, a way of thinking, different views of the world, save a tree, smoke a tree…there are so many things that people have to offer others. What is it that Carla has to offer?

After the cigarette I close the mailbox and go back into my house. I opened up the fridge and grab the Tupperware container marked Tuesday. Every Sunday I would cook for the week and placing that food in marked containers so that everything remains organized. Tonight’s meal, along with every night’s meal, included one grilled chicken breast, half a cup of corn, and half a cup of green beans, and a light salad. As I sat there with this food in front of me, I began to bow my head. Before I could say anything, I thought about everything. Childhood memories, my brother, step father, Carla, and family…I then thought to myself, “I guess I don’t have to eat alone.” I quietly walked over to look out the window to see if Carla was still standing at hers. She had moved back to the couch and unpaused her TV show. I guess we all have our ideas of a quiet night. As I watched her, the sky lit up with a flash of lightening and the sound of thunder shook the house. She didn’t move or jump…she just sat there watching TV.


CHAPTER 12

Explosions and shockwaves rip through the dusty tent city built in the middle of the Iraqi dessert. Dust and papers fill the air as time begins to slow down to a dramatic pause. Slowly my sense of hearing overcomes the sound of the intense ringing that fills my ears. The sound of flying debris, wavering sirens, and the boots of soldiers running while yelling commands fill my ears as I lay on the floor covered by a cot and small items from my storage closet. The walls of the tents were flapping in the wind as they came loose from the spikes that we used to secure ourselves from the harsh desert heat and wind, as well as unwanted varmints that plague the desert floor. I move my body to see if there is any unusual pain or parts that aren’t working correctly. Knowing that I’m ok, I quickly jump up and grab my flak vest and helmet.

“Dave! Brian!” I yelled.
“We are here! We are ok!” I hear from under the pile of tent debris.
“Grab your shit! Dave, look around and find the other 2 guys. They were sleeping in the back of the tent! Brian, come with me!”

There are moments when you see humanity at its worst and then there are moments when you see a total lack of humanity and you see people for the machines we were trained to be. There are times when your training takes over and your senses are no longer at play. There is no sound. There is no emotion. There’s only you. “Brian, take Dave and go next door to see if we have any guys in the tent next to us. Meet me at the dumpster in 2 minutes. Have your gear and the others ready for action. Go!” I cautiously step through the debris and out of the tent where the door used to be when the world became so slow. The sky is dark from the cloud of dust and debris. Soldiers standing with lit cigarettes, sharing the same look of awe as they stare up to see the pending destruction. No one is moving. Stuck like statues…like black and white charcoal pictures seen in artist’s renditions of what they think war would be like. They were right. It’s exactly what they thought. The smoke from their cigarettes slowly floats toward the dark sky as each soldier slam their eyes shut and turn their heads. Suddenly…there is silence.

“Sarge! Sarge!” a voice quietly enters my ears like a whisper. “Sarge! Sarge!” the voice becomes louder until the sound of Dave yelling grabs my attention. “Sarge, are you okay?!” Still yelling in hopes that my delirium subsides and I come to my full senses. As quick as I come to, fear grips my heart and throat as I just grab Dave’s arm and look him in the face with nothing to say. “You are good, Sarge….you are all there! Nothing but a small scratch under your eye.”

“Dave…where are they guys?”
“By the dumpster…just like you said.”
“Help me out of this shit!” I said as I began to kick more of the remains of our tent off my legs. Dave grabbed boards from homemade shelves and wall dividers and began to remove them from on top of me. “Dave! Where’s my rifle?! Where the fuck is my rifle?!”
“In your hand, Sarge, it’s in your fucking hand, man! Come on! Let’s get the fuck out of here!!”

As quickly as we could, we scurried to the dumpster as both of us simultaneously through our backs up against the dumpster. With our weapons in the ready position and our hearing impaired by the sound of our breathing, I feel a hand grab my on my shoulder and pulls me around to face him. “Sarge, I got one question! By any chance, do you think Dave’s collection of sadistic porn and nudie mags made it? I don’t know if I can go on without it!”

Dave, without turning around, quickly responded, “Brian, did you fart? I smell ass with a hint of semen.”

All of us quietly laughed and hugged the corner of the dumpster as we made the turn toward the pillar of billowing smoke.

My head quickly comes back to reality as I put the memory of my past to rest. I smile with the smell of the desert air in my nostrils. I put a menthol cigarette behind my ear and one in my mouth and let the sound of the burning rice paper bring me back to normal. I stood on the porch and dropped the box of cigarettes in the mailbox. I quickly glanced over to the neighbor’s house and see her sitting on the porch eating a bowl of cereal. With her lips squeezed tight around her spoon, a drop of milk runs from the corner of her lips and drips off her chin as she sat there in silence. She looked at me with curiosity but her eyes filled with a bit of fear. I smiled and then turned back toward the traffic as if she wasn’t there.

“I’ve seen that look before.” I thought to myself. “…in my own reflection.” I quickly put the cigarette out and turned and walked in the house.


CHAPTER 13

Carla nervously lay in her bed. Clothed with her pajamas and a small kitchen knife under her mattress, she laid there thinking about everything. Her life was once so normal. A tough childhood? Maybe…but last night’s experience takes the cake. Who was this man…this intruder? Maybe just a dream, she thought, but what if there was another answer? Was the man real? He seemed real. She thought it could be her mind playing tricks on her, but it was so detailed. His Irish voice was soft and low…but she knew that she would never make up such a thing.

Lying there…silent. She pictured the moments she and Nate had shared. Although the moments were small and maybe not worth remembering to some, she thought of him. He was quiet, reserved, and attractive. He was particular about so many things…maybe everything…but he was very nice.

A quiet shadow moves the curtain as if a small fan was blowing in the room. She quietly reaches for the kitchen knife out of fear. Her hand and fingers twitch around the handle as her hand start to sweat.

“Shhh.” She hears from what seemed to be surround sound in her room. She firmly grasp the knife until her knuckles become white and her eyes open so wide that the whites are visible around her green eyes. Biting her bottom lip, her heartbeat becomes louder and faster.

Carla fearfully and courageously threw her blanket off and began to jump into action. As the blanket pauses in the air, it’s as if time stood still. Suspended in the air, the wind begins to blow and the shadowed figure is met with the lightning fast offense of the man in a black suit. From one corner of the room to the other, the two figures attacked and defended with the grace of dancers. Each attack was defended and countered, and each counter was defended. The blanket, still paused in the air while the figures danced…choreographed and violently precise.

Flashes of silent light flashed from the muzzles of pistols that were being slung around like samurai swords in ancient battles. Just as Carla reached her feet and the blanket fell to the floor, it was over. Silence. Breathing heavy with adrenaline, she frantically searched the wall for the light switch. Flipping the switch, she quickly glances around the room and sees no evidence of any gun slinging battle. The room was quiet and perfect. No holes in the wall from stray bullets and not a hint or smell of gunpowder. She sees the man in the suit quietly sitting in a chair placed in the corner by the curtained window. With his legs crossed, he sat there…quiet. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets.

“You can put the knife down, Carla. It’s been over for some time now.”

To Whom It May Concern:
What the fuck just happened?!

She screamed as she pointed the knife at him from across the room. With her other hand, she pulled her hair away from her face as she tried to calm her nerves and catch her breath. Her body covered by her pajama pants and a small white spaghetti strap shirt that accented her curves and her not so hidden sexuality.

“You did well.” Nate said, “You realized after the first meeting you had with the shadow that it would happen again…and you were prepared. It took me years to figure things out. I still don’t know what the hell is going on. I thought I was alone on this planet.”

“Who is he?! Who the hell are you?!” she said, still pointing the knife at him and panting from the adrenaline.

“Do you believe in God?” he said as his face lights up from the flame lighting his cigarette.

“What?” she asked, with the look of complete confusion, almost questioning his audacity to ask such a question.

“God…do you believe in God?” he asked again; accenting each word slowly and methodically so she didn’t misinterpret him.

“Ummm…God? Yeah…I guess? Well, I believe we make our own gods. Why? What the fuck are you getting at?”

Keeping her eyes and knife pointed at the man in the suit, her neighbor, her acquaintance, she felt around the nightstand for the phone.

To Whom It May Concern:
Please let me explain this the best way I know how. I don’t understand it, but maybe I can shed some light on the situation.

Smiling, Nate looks at her with the smoke billowing out of his nostrils. “Good. If you believe we make our own gods then you must believe that we make our own demons.” Nate slowly pulls more smoke in and then offers the cigarette to Carla. Carla looks at him and slowly makes her way across the room toward him, still holding the knife in his direction…she stares at him. Clean, quiet, reserved. He stretches his hand out to her holding the butt of the cigarette in her direction. She slowly reaches for the cigarette. He calmly says to her, “There are some things we need to talk about.”

She sits on the edge of the bed. With her hair still gracefully falling in her face, she blows the smoke out of her mouth and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Looking at him; questioning him.


CHAPTER 14

“Let me look at it, Carla. Stop moving!” He pulled the tape and bandage off of her shoulder blade. Her tender skin filled with black ink was still swollen.

“What is it? What does it mean?” she asked as his soft hands touched the edges of the tattoo. His hands were warm and she found herself getting chills and becoming ticklish to his gentle touch. He peeked closer to the ink and slid his hands to her shoulder, firmly holding her in place.

“I’m not sure.” He said.
“So this is all a dream?” she said as his fingers softly run over her tattoo.

“The world as you know it runs on the idea that there is good and evil.” He slowly walks around her and stands to face her. “Almost everyone in the world relies on this to be true. From the smartest to the dumbest from the richest to the poorest…life as we know it is run on the idea that if you are a good person and do the right thing, god will protect them and keep them safe from evil. It’s what keeps them sane. The idea that there is no god is too much for most to comprehend. If there is no god, than all choices, good and bad choices, are solely the responsibility of the person.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she asked while his hands caressed her shoulders. “I don’t understand.”

“I wish there was a rule book for this. I don’t understand it either, but I think I’m doing the right thing.” He said as he took a deep breath and pondered on the best way to deliver his message. “If every bad thing that happened was solely the responsibility of the person; who is to blame? People need there to be a god to thank and a devil to blame.”

Sitting there with him looking at her, her eyes look toward the ground as they begin to dart back and forth trying to grasp the depths of this knowledge. She thought to herself that this was all a dream and that she would wake up…but when? Was he saying that there is no god…no devil? Maybe he was in her dream? Maybe this was a part of her subconscious? Maybe this was her inner battle to believe in something other than the tangible? Maybe this was all some sort of deep revelation being presented from god…or the devil? After all, the devil was sent here to confuse…right?

“I know what you’re thinking, Carla, and you’re wrong.” Nate said. “You are missing the point. Why do you think I was here waiting in your room? Why do you think that he came to you? You have something he wants. You have some power that he can use and he needs you.”

“Who is ‘he’?” she asked.
Confused himself, he says, “I don’t know, God maybe…the devil?”

“How did you know that he would be here? You came to save me? How did you get in here anyway?” All these questions rolled off her tongue as she sat on the bed, staring at the floor.

Pondering the meaning of life, the meaning of these dreams, the meaning of the tattoo, the meaning of everything…she sat there confused. “What is your purpose? What is your role in all of this?” she asked him as she picked her knee up close to her chest and turned toward him. Still sitting on the bed, she watched as he slowly walked around the room. He looked reluctant to give her any answers, especially if he didn’t have any. He knew that he had to say something. He had to tell her. If this was his dream or hers, his reality or hers, his life or hers, he had to tell her. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets.

“Carla, the world as you know it will change. The more you know the less you know.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and peered deep into her confused darting eyes. “The things you have seen will all hold new meaning. The power you actually possess, that you don’t know about, is far greater than you can imagine. You have been chosen for some purpose.”

Smiling at her with his hands on her shoulders, he asked her to close her eyes. She reluctantly complied in fear that she would wake up alone. She wanted him there and she wanted to be amazing. She wanted purpose. She didn’t want to wake up and everything to be over. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his waist. She pushed the side of her face close to his chest as his arms wrapped around her petite body. The smell of her shampoo filled his nose as they embraced each other.

As they stood there, their heart beat the same, he closed his eyes and the room began to shake as the world came to a pause. She peeked through her squinted eyes and the room was blurred and silent. The wind picked up as they stood there…alone, but together. And just like that, like the snap of a finger, they were gone.

The man of the shadow stood watching as they vanished. Smiling, he pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. His face lights up from the flame and he pulls the smoke in slowly. The smile on his face wasn’t of fear or happiness, but of understanding. Maybe the world will be okay he thought to himself. Maybe adding one more to this world would be a good thing? At least it would make the meetings more interesting. Every angel needs a demon.


CHAPTER 15

Carla stood there in the corner of a room. The room was familiar, but uncomfortable. Standing there alone, she couldn’t move. Bound by reality or fear, or just a part of the unseen, she was like a statue. Her eyes looked around the room and watched as the little girl, wearing a small pink nightgown, decorated with a small unicorn on the front, sat in the corner and played with her doll. The girl’s hair was brown and hung in her face as she poured an imaginary cup of tea and put it up to her doll’s mouth.

“Miss Margaret?” Carla whispered to herself. “That’s me. I remember my night gown…Miss Margaret.” The room fell silent as the door gently opened. A man that Carla couldn’t remember walked into the room and sat on the floor next to the small girl. Taking his finger, he softly put her hair behind her ear.

“How is Miss Margaret?” He asked the girl. “Is she feeling better?”
“Yes.” The girl shyly replied.
“Is she drinking her tea today?” He asked as he sat on the floor staring at the little girl.
“She is.” She said as she nodded with an uncomfortable grin.

“Good. Why don’t you come and sit on Grandpa’s lap, dear?” He reached out for her hand as she slowly put her small hand inside of his. She stood up, walked toward him, turned around, and sat in his lap as she put her head on his chest.

“Will dad ever come back?” she asked him.
“Of course, Honey…as soon as his war is over.” He softly promised to her.

He smelled her hair and closed his eyes. Resting his cheek on the top of her head, he said, “He always comes back.” He picked her up, laid her on the bed, and then fluffed the pillow under her little head. He pulled the blanket out from underneath her and folded it up at the foot of her bed. Leaning in to kiss her cheek, he slides his tongue out from behind his lips and teeth, gently touching her ear.

“Grandpa, that tickles.” She said as she tucked her chin into her chest and turned her head.

“I know…but it’s how I show you that I love you. You do love me, right?”
“Yes.” She replies with hesitation, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Then let me show you how much I love you.” He softly runs his tongue around the rim of her ear as she turns her head. He placed his hand on her small legs and softly pushes them open. His hand slowly makes its way up between her legs as she tightens her grip on Miss Margaret with her small fingers.

His tongue traces her jaw bone to her chin. His warm hand slides inside the leg opening of her small pink panties. Her legs grip tightly and his hand becomes firm as he whispers to her. “I would never hurt you. Don’t you trust me?”

Her small childish eyes start to water as his fingers begin to separate her innocence. His finger searches for her wetness and then slowly slides inside of her. Her toes tighten up and curl, she squeezes her eyes shut, gripping Miss Margaret tighter and tighter until her knuckles become white.

“Shhh.” He whispers, as his hot breath blows the hair away from her face, sending eerie goose bumps down her neck and arms. “Doesn’t that feel good? See how much I love you? I just want to make you feel good.” Her tightly shut eyes begin to push out salty tears when the sound of the front door opening disturbs their encounter. He kisses her on the forehead and pulls the blanket over her body, tucking it under her chin.

“I love you. Grandpa loves you.” He says as he places his finger in his mouth and smiles as he turns around to turn off the light. Closing the door behind him, you can hear him ask Carla’s mom if the movie was as good as advertised.

Carla stood there silent with her eyes filled with hate and tears. Looking at her younger self and her younger self looking at her, the door opens up and her man in the black suit walks in. Lying there, the little girl turns and smiles at him. The young child smiles with tears in her eyes and points to the corner of the room where Carla stood quietly. She stood frozen. Nate walks over to the bed and puts his hand on the young child’s head and kisses her on the forehead.

“In time,” he whispers to the young child, “In time.” The child turns over on her side and takes her tongue across Miss Margaret’s ear.

“I love you, Miss Margaret. I love you.” The small child smiles and cuddles up with Miss Margaret pulled close to the stomach and chest. “Soon, the pretty lady will help us and everything will be okay. You’ll see.” She pulls the doll into her arms and squeezes tightly as a look of peace covers her face and she fades to sleep.

*

“You’ll want this.” Nate whispered to her as he pulled his pistol out from behind his back. She looked at him and then the gun and then back to him. She reached out and took the heavy pistol from his hand.
“I don’t even…how do you….?”
“Point and shoot, Carla. Just point and shoot.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll see.”

To Whom It May Concern:
This is bullshit!! I’m not going to let this happen to anyone EVER AGAIN!!


CHAPTER 16

The little girl opened her eyes. She quietly pushes the cover off of her and places her small feet on the cold wooden floor. Her little nightgown drops from being bunched up around her waist and reveals the picture of unicorns on the full length gown. She gently lays Miss Margaret on the pillow and covers her with the blanket. The little innocent child places her hand on the dolls head and kisses her forehead.

The little girl in her pink unicorn nightgown, stands in the middle of the room and stretches her arms out, looking toward the ceiling. Her little muscles tighten up as she smiles at this supernatural power seemed to fill her little body. She stretches her arms out as wide as she could and then pulls her arms back until her back pops. She lets out a breath of relief. Tilting her head from one side to the other, the sound of the popping and cracking bones and joints fill the room.

The small, little, innocent child looks at the two shadowed figures in the corner of the room and smiles. With her index finger extended, she softly places it over her lips and quietly demands silence. The child’s eyes are numb, calm, and possessed by power. She walks over to the door and into the hallway; closing the door behind her.

Carla stands there silent as Nate leans up against the wall and lights a cigarette. He’s comfortable here. His nonchalant reaction screams, “I’ve been here before.” Carla’s face begins to sweat and her eyes rapidly move back and forth from confusion and exhaustion. Standing there, still, quiet, and frozen; the door creeks open and Carla, dressed in her pajama pants and white shirt, walks through the door. She walks up and stands face to face with this mirror image. Her hand lifts up to reveal the heavy smoking pistol. She looks at her face and each version moves hair from her eyes and places it behind her ear. Both Carla and her reflection look at each other. Dropping the pistol to the floor with a silent thud that sent chills and vibrations from her feet and up her legs, they quickly buries their face in their hands, sobbing from the unwanted emotional overload.

Flashing back to reality, her skin burns. The black of the new ink fills her sore right rib cage. Standing there, in front of her mirror and sink, she glances at her toothpaste stained toothbrush and seashell décor. She looks at herself and examines the tattoo. Unreadable, she walks out into the hallway and makes her way into the living room, and sitting on the couch, the man in the suit. Nate, with his legs crossed knee over knee, looks at her. Smiling, he says, “I forgot how funny television was” and takes a bite of a granola bar that he pulled from a box on top of the fridge.

“What time is it?” she asked.
Lifting the cuff of his suit coat, he glances back to Carla, “It is 7:50 a.m. Why? Are you okay?”
“I’m late for work.”
“Work?” he questioned.

Carla quickly walks to the bathroom and dresses herself in the work clothes sitting on top of dirty laundry. She glances at herself in the mirror and whispers, “What the fuck just happened?” She takes a deep breath and walks toward the door. Glancing at the living room, she sees that Nate is no longer there.

To Whom It May Concern:
I think I just killed someone…and I liked it.

She opens the door and sees her neighbor, her new mentor, her new crush, her new Savior walking to his car. Everything about him is perfect. His suit is pressed and pristine, his eyes covered by sunglasses, his car clean and sleek. Nothing is out of place. He gets inside and backs out of his driveway and makes his way down the street; just as he has done every day that she has noticed.

Her new secret, her new look on things, her new vision and attention to the smallest details, her new secret life. Is it real, she wondered? Is it possible? She started her car and headed to work.


CHAPTER 17

Tom, leaning against the counter with his mouth full of chili covered fries, looks up at the TV mounted above the checkout counter. Walking in, Carla sees her fat, disgusting, slob of a worthless friend engaged in a blink-less trance of stuffing his mouth and watching the TV.

Without looking at her, he waves his hand at her, beckoning her to join him. Gluttony is a sin, right? She tries to justify this feeling of disgust that begins to warm her stomach. “Carla, check this crazy shit out!” Carla joins him by the television. The field reporter, holding a finger to his ear and walking backwards toward police cars and ambulances, screamed into the microphone. He’s saying something about a missing little girl, a dead grandfather, and a hysterical mother.
Gluttony is a deadly sin; she remembered it from church camp.
Flashing back to the studio news, a pretty lady wearing a suit coat and low cut silk blouse squints her eyes and shuffles papers as she listens and watches the reporter with his finger against his ear.

The man sitting beside her, shakes his head in disgust and quickly dismisses the over dramatic reporter and promises to have “more to come.” The man, the anchor, black and dressed in a blue pinstriped suit with a bright blue tie, shuffles his papers and smile into the camera. “In other news….”

Look at them, she thought to herself, “Look at his smug unconcerned and disconnected smile. Being an asshole is a sin right?” She thought about the way, this news anchor on TV sat there in front of the camera hiding his secrets behind his stupid smile. Child porn, unfaithful, secret prescription drug abuser. He sits in church every Sunday, four pews in front of Mrs. Galloway and Mrs. Johnson. He smiles the same way when he shakes hands with the preacher. Fake and disconnected.

His wife smiles while sitting beside him and their 3 children. She smiles to hide her secrets, her hatred, her nonexistence, her secret crush on the man who sits 2 rows over. Her crush is holding a black bible filled with notes from sermons and yellow sticky pad notes of personal thoughts and well thought out personal interpretations. The man has no wife or kids. He’s a man who she sees every Sunday morning, clapping and singing to the gospel hymns, soaking up every word from the charismatic preacher.

Mr. Franklin is our anchor, our giver of news, our information provider, and our sharp dressed facade of a godly man. He puts his hand on the knee of his lovely wife, smiling ever so big, just like he was on camera sitting beside the pretty woman squinting and shuffling papers. Smiling like he does when he reminds the pretty woman that her job could be in jeopardy if she didn’t perform certain tasks for him.

He’s smiling like he owns the camera; like he owns the news; like he owns her. Smiling like he has for the past 20 years sitting behind that desk. I know adultery is a sin…what about arrogance? Smiling like he did for the 10 or 11 other girls that didn’t make it through the rigors of news casting, forecasting weather, or retrieving coffee. Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets.

Joseph Banks, the reporter with his finger against his ear, he sits in front pew. He sits there with his leg bouncing up and down. Shouting various versions of “Amen” and “Hallelujah”, he sits there engaged, interacting with the preacher and his secret porn problem. Following the preacher with his head and eyes; catching spit from the mouth of this crowned sinless messiah and wiping it off with his monogrammed handkerchief. False prophet? Now that has to be a sin, right?

Carla wonders if the world knows that Joseph Banks secretly drops quarters into a machine that lifts a private window so that he can view men engaged in sexual fantasies that he can never have. Joseph Banks sits there with his small manhood wrapped with one hand and feeds quarters into the machine. The window opens about as wide as the young man’s asshole while another man slides himself in and out him. Gritting his teeth, sweat and spit sprays the bent over slave, who keeps begging him for more; begging for harder. The boy is begging for faster.
Sodemy; definitely a sin, right?

Just as the bent over young man quickly turns around, leaking spermicidal fluids and sweat from his stretched and swollen asshole, the young man’s eyes glow with ecstasy. He drops to his knees with his mouth wide open, just inches away from the stiff purple tipped erection of his master. The window slides shut as Joseph Banks wraps himself in a towel and tilts his head backwards to view the ceiling as his body tenses up. His mouth wide open and his eyes squeezed shut; he shoots his salty load into the towel. Joseph Banks slides another quarter in the machine as the window raises for 20 more seconds.
Masturbation; maybe not a sin, but he makes it disgusting.
Watching the young slave swallow and wiping his mouth, Mr. Banks smiles and waves as the young man blows a feminine kiss towards him. Mr. Banks has seen this young man before. Maybe his daughter has pointed this boy out at some of the swim meets that she covers for the school paper. The boy, whose father wore a badge and patrolled their streets, smiled. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

To Whom It May Concern:
Let me do it! I can do it! Let me finish this man with an undersized dick and love for young boys!

P.S. I’ve seen the same set of towels at my friend’s house. Gross!

*

Tom looks at Carla and quickly double takes. “Where have you been?”
“What are you talking about?” she quickly replies.

“Well, it’s been two days and you didn’t even call in. I told the manager that you were sick and couldn’t call in. I told the manager that I spoke with you and I would cover your shift.”

“Tom, you do know that you are the manager, right?”

“Yeah; that makes it even weirder that you didn’t call me. What the hell was going on?” He asked as he smacked on a mouthful of chili covered fries.

“I wish you could understand, but I don’t think you want to.” She said as she started to doodle on receipt paper. She looked out of the window in hopes to see Nate; hoping for a little more explanation. She wanted to embrace this new perception, but wasn’t for sure if she could. She dreamed big, but could she take this new life and really understand it?

“Twenty bucks.” he said.
“Twenty bucks?” she asked with her eyes squinting. She glared at him as if she knew the very next thing he was going to say.

“Yes. Twenty bucks this has something to do with freaky friend in the suit. I know he has something to do with this.”

Her crush, her mentor, her Savior.
Anger began to rise as she listened to this fat fuck questioning the very thing he knows nothing about. He stands there with his mouth full of shit. He questioned her man; her neighbor? “I fucking quit!” she yelled at Tom. “I can’t do this anymore.” She angrily pushed the door open and stomped to her car and drove home.

To Whom It May Concern:
Gluttony is a definite sin! Chili Fries…at eight in the morning?


CHAPTER 18

Worried, I rushed home. Passing the carwash and lifeless streets, seeing the pack of stray dogs and blinking street lights; I pull into my driveway. Getting out of the car, I quickly run to Carla’s house.

“Carla! Open the door! I have to speak to you!” I kept banging on the door and looking through her cracked window curtains. I could see her mismatched furniture and lamps sitting quietly in the living room. “Carla!” I yelled.

The door of her house opened up and she stood there. She’s dressed in black leather pants and black leather stilettos with a black leather sleeveless shirt that hugged her body like a dream. Her hair was pulled tight on her head and formed braided pigtails on both sides of her head.

“Check this out!!” she said with a smile on her face. Her eyes turning from happiness to concern in a second, “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Catching my breath from exhaustion and excitement, I asked her what she did when she closed the door behind the girl in the pink nightgown.

“What do you mean? I don’t know!! I didn’t do anything. I just stood there frozen! You were there, you know!” she said with the look of confusion covering her pale face.

“Where is the tattoo?” I asked her as I pushed her inside and quickly peeked outside before I closed the door.

“We may be in some serious shit! Did you see the news?”

Thinking about the news, she remembered all the thoughts going on inside of her head. Her anger, her rage, her disgust. “I didn’t really pay attention. Why?” she asked with confusion.

“The little girl, the girl from the room, it wasn’t the past…it was the present! She’s missing!!” I said as I sat Carla down on the couch.

Carla’s new outfit squeaked as her legs bent and crossed while she sat there looking confused. “What are you trying to say, Nate? Are you saying…”

To Whom It May Concern:
This may be entirely inappropriate, but she looks fucking hot!!

Trying to figure out the best way to explain, I looked around the room as if searching for lifeline. I looked at the dark square shadow from the tape on the lamp shade and then at her big TV bowing her entertainment center; I’m still searching for the right words.

“Carla, I’m worried that we have ventured into something that we shouldn’t have.” He softly whispered, as if we were in a room full of strangers.
“What do you mean…you’ve never seen this before?” she asked.

“It’s always been the past for me…never the present.” Looking around the room for some other possible answers, I asked her if she recognized the man on the TV.

“Which man? The black guy or the white guy?” she asked with her eyebrows scrunched together in certain confusion.

“The fucking dead guy, Carla! You know the guy with the frantic mom and missing girl?” Looking in her eyes and still catching my breath, I see her eyes start to dart back and forth and her head lowers in concentration. Reality setting in, she slowly starts to figure things out.
“Shit! The little girl from the room, the younger version of me, in the pink.” she quietly mumbles to herself. She quickly pulls her head up and looks me in the eye. “The girl from the room is the girl missing! How can that be, Nate? I’m right here!! That was the past! That was my childhood secret. That was my pink nightgown with a unicorn on it. That was Miss Margaret! Look, Miss Margaret is right there, sitting on the shelf. That couldn’t be the same girl missing!”

Looking over at the shelf…there was no doll. There was no Miss Margaret. The room begins to shake and time slows down as we sat there on the couch. I grab Carla and pull her close to me as I reach for the pistol on my back. The wind, starting to blow, begins to lift the curtains from the windows. The shadows in the room begin to move as the voice in its surround sound starts to laugh. Soft and low, the voice begins to laugh. The smell of menthol fills the room as the shadow man comes to fruition. He stood there in front of me. This old man, dirty, ragged clothes, calming eyes and confident smile. With his Irish accent, he says, “Well, me young children are so confused. Please, don’t stand. Sit and stay comfortable.” Plastered to the couch, we are frozen; unable to move.

The old man steps from the shadows as his appearance transforms. A black suit; a double-breasted black suit with white pinstripes covered his body. A shiny black shoes and pants helmed perfectly for his height. His blue shirt has a white collar and his neck is supporting a black tie. In his jacket pocket sits a black silk handkerchief and his hair is very short. His face is scarred but clean. There is no shaving shadow. His eyes were no particular color…just calm.

The old man calmly places his hands behind his back and looks at us both. Both of us confused. Both of us scared. Both of us questioning our purpose and now questioning reality.

“Do you believe in God?” the old man asked. “Assuming that you don’t, I am here to assure you that your purpose has yet to be fulfilled. You have lived your life with misguided purpose for so long that it is now time for you to understand the true power that you have both been given.”

“You both have lived a life less than perfect. Actually, I guess you could say, filled with pain and sorrow. Life has passed you by and all you can do is reminisce. All you can do is remember the good and hope that the bad has given you purpose. I assure you…you have purpose.”

To Whom It May Concern:
God? Is that you?

The man walked around the room shifting his appearance from the studded man in a suit to an old woman being held up by a metal walker. His voice changed from Irish to English; Jamaican to Scottish; African to Australian. As he changes his voice, so does his appearance.

“Would it be safe to assume that you see yourself as normal…you know, given your unique ability to see people for who they really are? Shifting through time? Slowing time to a pause and fighting for hours…only to see that it’s been in seconds?” He said these things as the clock on the wall stopped. The curtains on the wall suspended in the air as if the pause button of life has been pushed waiting for the right time restart.

“Carla,” he calmly looked at he with a sincere smile, “you have entered this world by surprise. Your sense of purpose is questioned by your intension to free yourself from normalcy. Your secrets are secrets no more. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.”
“Nate, my son, your vision is skewed. You never really questioned purpose before, you just did your job and you did it well. You are my angel of life; my angel of death. Your purpose has become distorted.” Walking around the room shape shifting, he continued, “You seek answers from your past, but you are fueled by your anger. You haven’t listened to me in a long time. Why do you fight me? You hide from me. You seek refuge in the care of not-so-innocent Carla. Carla, in turn, has found refuge in you. You are one in the same. You’re no different from each other.”

To Whom It May Concern:
“…not-so-innocent Carla?” What the fuck does that mean?

Sitting there silent, frozen, I shift my eyes to Carla, my kindred spirit, my secret crush. She is my new purpose. She is my neighbor. She sits there motionless. Her eyes are filled with confusion and her face pale and perfect. Her hair shiny and pulled up in two braided pigtails. Her body covered in tight leather. Her perfection, innocence, vision, and purpose; all tied to me. I’m her teacher, her protector, her mentor, her conscience and yet, I have no fucking clue what’s going on. The blind leading the blind…how cliché.

The man keeps talking, explaining, walking, shape shifting. “Is this God?” I wondered to myself. Is this the one true God? Could it be that God himself or herself or itself has given me something to do? Have I missed the point? Have I squandered my existence? Could it really be that I am here to serve someone other than me or Carla?

Could it really be possible that Carla hurt this man on television and could she have really been the girl with the pink nightgown? Did I miss it?

The old man looked at me, now in the shape of a young black boy. He looks at me with compassion and concern. “No, I am not God. I am just a servant…just like you.”

Shifting into a 60 year old lady with pale blue hair and wrinkles that cover her face and hands, he begins to explain. “The world needs both violence and peace. Today’s war is tomorrow’s peace. Every once in a while, there is an injustice and someone is stripped of their chance to choose. Every once in a while, an innocent child is made to believe that they have no options. They believe that they are slaves to circumstance and slaves to those that choose for them. Your job, your calling, your salvation lies in the fact that you seek out these people. You are their Savior, their god, their future. You stop time and you eliminate those that take away the innocent’s chance to choose their own path…those that take away the future. Everyone has the right to choose their fate. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs are the kingdom of heaven.”
Note to self: He would use such a generic scripture.

Looking at Carla then back to the old man, who is now walking away with the appearance of a young girl wearing a pink nightgown, I close my eyes and pray to myself.

God, give me the courage.
God, give me the strength.
God, give me wisdom.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me purpose.
God, give me hope.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me time.
God, give me peace.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.

Opening my eyes, the man is gone. Carla looks at me with her eyes watered down, tears dripping off her chin and onto her sleeveless leather shirt. The room has returned to normal and the clock on the wall is ticking with every second. Sitting there beside me with her eyes filled with tears, she reaches up with both of her hands clutching my face, and kisses my lips. I can feel the wet tears touching my face and her dry lips sticking to mine. She sits back and says to me, with her voice cracking from emotion, “Do you mean it?”

“Mean what?” I asked in confusion.

“Do you really want me to be yours, Silly?” she giggled, as she wiped her tears off of her pretty porcelain skin and then dried them on my sleeves Sniffing the drainage back into her nasal cavity, she smiled with a hint of embarrassment.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Carla.” I said, trying to dismiss her rush of emotion and trying to regain my composure.

“You just prayed, asking God to give me to you. Just now; three times!”
“You heard that? Just now? Am I God? Are you God?” I questioned everything in that split second.

“No…you prayed out loud. I heard you. You asked that God will give me to you.” She softly smiled and rubbed the drainage from her nose with the back of her hand and again rubbed her hands clean on my sleeve.

“Why do you keep wiping your snot and tears on me?” I asked her, trying to change the subject.

“Well, I can’t wipe it on leather…besides, do you know how much this outfit cost?!”

To Whom It May Concern:
Carry a handkerchief…you never know when you will need it.

*

Carla walking around the house wearing her black leather outfit, turning me on just by the sound of her leather thighs rubbing against each other, continues pacing the floor. Eating chunks of chocolate covered ice cream like popcorn, her squeaking outfit comes to a halt. Seconds go by when she yells, “I’m so fucking confused!!!”


CHAPTER 19

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Sucking in the air slowly and concentrating on the one thing that makes her feel special. She pictured is eyes and smile. She imagined his voice. She could see his composure and mystery. All of these things she loved about him. She squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breathing. She opens up her eyes and the clock on the wall still ticks. One second at a time, it ticks. She’s still in her house, in her living room.

To Whom It May Concern:
This whole good thoughts in and bad thoughts out…it’s not working!!

Her frustration begins to mount after trying so hard to be special; trying to be this hero, this angel. She walks over to the window and peeks through the curtain. His car, just sitting there cold, hasn’t moved. She walks over to her couch and flops down and throws her head back on the fluffy cushion in complete surrender. She closes her eyes and pictures the little girl. The girl just laid there in her bed and did what she thought she was supposed to. She wasn’t wrong. This man, her grandfather, this monster, her family took something away from her. Carla’s eyes tear up from the memory of her standing there frozen; stuck in time.

She visualized everything that happened to that little girl. How her knuckles turned white holding and squeezing her doll. This girl, this younger version of her, smiled and trusted the dark figure in the corner of her room…Carla. This couldn’t be the present. This was the past. This was her past. This was her secret and no one was going to take that from her. Not God. Not the Devil. No one!
The more Carla thought about it, the angrier she became. Her breath started to become more intense and her eyes began to water. She squeezed her teeth tight and leaned forward. Putting her elbows on her knees, she dropped her head in shame. Her eyes became black as coffee as her breath became heavy. Carla raised her head to see her leather covered silhouette reflecting off the blank TV screen. Her eyes hollowed by shadows and her petite figure breathing in and out. The reflection looked back at her, staring at her with her hollow eyes; judging her. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

The room begins to shake and the wind begins to blow. Her chest pulsating in and out with each tense breath that goes in and out her lungs. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth. As she opens her eyes, the room is silent and still. There is no ticking of the clock. There is no movement.

There she is. The girl in her pink unicorn covered nightgown with her hair behind her ears, standing there holding Miss Margaret by one hand as the doll just dangled limp beside her. The girl standing there in the dark, with her hollow eyes staring back at Carla, she smiles and whispered, “Save me.”

Carla, looking at the girl, smiles and vanishes.

*

“Repent!” the man behind the pulpit yelled, “Repent of your sins! Your iniquities will find you out!” Walking back and forth across the stage, he screams into the microphone. Joseph Banks clapping. Mrs. Galloway clapping. Mrs. Johnson shaking her head in joyous approval. Mr. Franklin rubs the knee of his lovely wife, who stares at the man 2 rows over. The Franklin children, shuffling through the song books and hymnals, try hard to stay as quiet as possible.

“You cry ‘God, save me’ but in your heart you don’t want to be saved!” the preacher yells. Spit flying out of his mouth and sweat dripping off the ends of hair. He takes his monogrammed handkerchief and wipes his mouth and forehead dry. “You cry ‘God, bless my home’ and you fill your mind with demons of the flesh! You are white washed tombs of iniquity. Drop to your knees! Cry to your God! Lift your hands and rejoice, for tonight sinners, you are going home. You shall be saved!”

To Whom It May Concern:
Blah, Blah, Blah…..

It’s funny, in a way; this man is anointed by God? A preacher’s addictions and sins are a mere testimony of God’s forgiveness and lack of regard for his lost sheep. It’s as if God, our almighty Savior, is standing in the back watching as this preacher, his chosen disciple, excites these sinners and fornicators, knowing that his prize fighter is taking a dive in the fifth round. All of God’s money placed on a fifth round decision. Either way, win or lose, as long as the fight is over in the fifth round, God wins.

What’s to gain? In the big scheme of things, God will always come out the victor. If his prize fighter loses, his lost sheep will pray harder. If his prize fighter wins, his lost sheep will pray harder. The game is rigged. Sitting here listening to this preacher, this false prophet, this pornographer with no secrets, I realize…someone has to pay.

All the fights with Charlie and Carl, all the times being molested and raped, all the times we dug through the trash for food to eat, all the times I woke up in the hospital, all the pain…someone has to pay.


Carla, give me the courage.
Carla, give me the strength.
Carla, give me wisdom.
Carla, save me.
Carla, give me purpose.
Carla, give me hope.
Carla, give me power.
Carla, save me.
Carla, give me time.
Carla, give me peace.
Carla, give me power.
Carla, save me.

You, the old man, the shadow, the 60 year old lady using a metal walker, the child wearing the pink unicorn covered nightgown; while you marched around the room with Carla and I stuck to the couch, you said, “Nate, my son, your vision is skewed. Your purpose has become distorted. You seek answers from your past, but you are fueled by your anger. You haven’t listened to me in a long time. Why do you fight me? You hide from me.”

I’m done. No more hiding. I have figured out my purpose. I will fight you. I will not listen. You will hide from me. I will seek those out that hurt me and stole from me. My wrath will be known. My enemies will fall. My sword shall deliver me from the hands of my oppressors. I will deliver myself. You are not God. You are not his messenger. You are my new enemy.

So, keep smiling Mrs. Johnson. Keep smiling Mrs. Galloway. Keep yelling preacher. Keep lying preacher. Keep shaking your head Mr. Franklin. Keep shouting amen, Joseph Banks. In time, I will deliver them from you. I will save them. I will help them. I am the Savior now, the Almighty, the Alpha and Omega, The Beginning, and The End. It is you who should fear me old man. Carla shall give me strength.


CHAPTER 20

The world in pause. The dark dirty world stopped in formation. The gray smog and cloud covered skies bring the night sooner than forecasted. Cars paused in the street. People paused talking on cell phones. People exchanging money for hotdogs are paused in mid-exchange….everything paused. Dogs on leashes, prancing and floating in mid-air…paused. Coins, being tossed to homeless men, are suspended in the air…paused. She walked by each of them.
Weaving in and out of the traffic, walking with confidence and her eyes blackened with purpose, she walked through the city. Her leather legs and stilettos, her hair pulled tight into braided pigtails, her sleeveless leather shirt, walking through pause as if she was god. Her beautiful pale shoulders, scarred by ink, were held back with confidence. She looked at the faces of these lifelike mannequins, these unsuspecting victims, these poor lost sheep. Her thighs rubbing together as her heels touched the ground in front of the other clicking as her hips gracefully shift side to side.

The neon sign above the small shop flickered on and off. Carla pushes the door open and sees the mannequins paused in mid step. The old man sat behind the counter with his red hat and dirty plaid shirt, reading a newspaper. He sat there in pause.
Feeling purpose, she knew she was in the right place. The old man’s eyes followed her around the small shop as the wind of her presence began to blow the edges of his paper. She stopped, turned to look at the old man. Walking to the counter with confidence, she pulls the paper out of his hands and demands a conversation.

“What do you say we make a deal?” the Irish voice says to her. His eyes squinted as he smiled.

“You have something I need. What kind of deal are you talking about?” she asked him sternly.

“You must want your sword, I assume, but that will cost you.” Pulling the newspaper back up to read, he asked her, “I take it you saw the news? Where is the little girl?”

“There was no little girl. You know it and I know it.” she fires back with confidence.

“Oh, I beg to differ.” A little girl’s voice echoes from behind the newspaper. The girl reaches under the glass cabinet and pulls out a large pistol. “You’ve earned this.” she says, “Just don’t make me regret giving it to you.” The little girl giggles as she slides the pistol across the glass counter top and she squeezes the hand of the doll hanging by her side.

“I’m sure regret is the one thing I have to give.” Carla said to the child. The clock begins to tick with every second as the world comes to life. The cars honk their horns and the vendor gets his money. The people talking on their cell phones keep pace with the busy street. The coins hit the ground beside the homeless people. The neon sign…gone.

*

Tom stood there watching the news. Leaning against the counter, he shoves chips into his fat, ugly, bloated face forgetting to blink. Crumbs fall on his disgusting dirty shirt, he reaches down and wipes his crumb plastered fingers on the side of his pants. The man on TV is holding a finger to his ear. People are running in hysteria with no idea or direction. The man on TV, yelling in the microphone running backwards, is trying to stay in the view of the camera. The camera is bouncing and shaking on the shoulder of the camera man, who is trying to keep up with the man yelling in the microphone. “Seven people just randomly dropped dead today. As the police and rescue workers are trying to figure out what’s going on, four more people just fell to the ground without reason! People are running! This is pure chaos…pandemonium!! People are trying to get as far away as possible in fear that this may be the work of Terrorists! No one knows anything! Possibly some infectious disease may be plaguing the city streets!”

Joseph Banks and all his secrets, running and looking back at the camera with his finger covering his ear, he’s trying to get closer. His big break. His moment. His salvation.

“What is the police saying to you? Is there any word on what could be the cause?” Mr. Franklin asked the TV monitor.

“The police aren’t saying anything! All they know is that the people that died are being quarantined. The streets are being blocked as the rescue workers are trying to come to grips with the impending disaster. Oh my God! Five more people just dropped dead!! No one knows what’s going one!! Not since 9/11 have we seen this type of fear!! People are fighting each other and throwing each other to the ground trying to not be the next victim!!”

As he’s running the camera falls to the ground. The monitor shows the feet of people running in every direction. The camera, lying there on the ground, just flickers. The camera again moving as the voice puts his face close to the camera. Joseph Banks, the Savior, is now running with the camera. His hand, no longer touching his ear, is holding the camera in front of him. His face bouncing on the monitor and he’s yelling, “Eight people just fell dead! Mark, my camera man, is one of those that just fell! I’m working my way to center of this mess now!” Joseph Banks, the man of the hour. His moment. His salvation. His lack of regard for anyone or anything…just his big moment.

*

Tom, standing there with his mouth full of chips, is paused. Motionless, fat, and paused. Tom looks at the monitor above the checkout desk. One by one, people dropping by the second. Starting from the book store three blocks away, to the coffee shop two blocks away, and then to the outdoor Italian bistro on the other side of the block…every one dead. Tom turns to look at the door, as a flash of light blinds him for a moment. Tom…dead.

His fat motionless body laid there on top of his bag of chips. His shirt tucked in the front but never tucked in the back. His chest covered in crumbs and his fingers painted orange from the nacho flavored chips. His eyes, still wide open, recording memories of black stiletto boots and leather covered legs that no one will ever see or remember. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

One quick flash later, Carla sits on her couch with the smell gunpowder and smoke streaming out of the tip of her new sword, her new black and chrome pistol. Just like Nate. Her mentor, her friend, her neighbor, her secret crush.

Laying down on her couch, she reaches up to the top of the couch and grabs the remote.

To Whom It May Concern:
Gluttony has to be a sin, right?


CHAPTER 21

Pulling the box of cigarettes out of the mailbox, I pull one out and put it between my lips. Shaking the box, another cigarette pops out revealing just the white filter.

“Your girlfriend is breaking the rules, Nate.” The old man said in his rugged Irish accent. He reached for the cigarette I offered him. My face lighting up behind the flame, I guard the flame with my hand and light his as well.

“Rules?” I asked him as the smoke slowly exits my mouth and nose. “I didn’t know there were rules.”

“Of course. There has to be rules or its just chaos. You know that.” The old man grinned and blew the smoke out of his mouth. Setting there for a couple of silent seconds, he leans over and softly asked to me, “Did you catch the news, today?” He smirks and lets out a small chuckle. “I have to hand it to her; she has taken this bull by the horns.”

My Carla, my Savior, my new obsession is growing into her new role faster than I ever did. I have misunderstood for so long. “No one ever explains the rules, you know? Could it be that she is making her own?” I asked him as I tapped the ash of my cigarette over the rail of my porch.

“I understand that you have been praying a lot more. Anything I need to be worried about?” He asked me with his eyes catching mine in his display of cynicism.

“When I pray to you, you will know.” I told him softly.
“That’s the problem. You haven’t been praying to me.”

“Trust me, old man, you’re just the messenger, remember? The day I pray to you will be the day I beg for mercy. That will be the day that it will all be too late.” I looked at him and smiled. Our eyes making contact in a nonverbal agreement and understanding, we looked at each other and paused. Both of us take a final drag off our cigarettes and flick them into my yard.

I watched him walk away with the full intention of begging for his mercy. Call it pride or stupidity, but for once I felt purpose. All of the past tattoos represented something that I didn’t understand. For good, for bad…I guess it didn’t matter. Compelled by the need to finish something combined with the lack of understanding, I earned my tattoos. Unreadable reminders that maybe this gift, this curse, this life was just too much to comprehend in my simplistic head. Saviors, Demons, gods, or angels of death…my curse is now my purpose. I’m cursed to finish the unthinkable. I have to make sure that his prize fighter at least makes it past the fifth round or goes down before the fifth round even starts.

Carla, my savior, my new obsession may be making it easier for God. She seems to be working wonders on the betting odds. God, sitting there laughing as she rages through the scared city. Flashing and vanishing through time, leaving her wake of rage and anger. People pray; scared of the plague, terrorist attack, or apocalypse. They just pray. She flashes and vanishes as people start to pray harder and louder. God’s still laughing. God’s still winning.


To Whom It May Concern:
Hey, didn’t Jesus get full of rage and anger when he went on his temple fit?

His prize fighter is making sure that everyone knows that only God can save them. Only God can bring an end to the fear. Only God can answer their prayers. Only God can make her stop.

God, sitting behind the felt covered table with his green visor and cigar, pushing his gambling chips to the center of the table. “All in.” While his prize fighter, his angel of death, races through the city gripping each and every heart with conviction and fear. Prayers from every person, young and old, fat and skinny, tall and short, prayers from different countries start to fill the air as they witness this new plague. Unexplained deaths. Perfectly healthy people, dropping like flies for no reason.

Her rage, her anger, her obsession, her new purpose.

No apparent rhyme or reason. No patterns to follow. No clues on where she will go next. Her sexy leather suit and stilettos, her raging black eyes and pigtails, her sword; she’s converting the unconvertible. The world watches and prays as satellite links and pictures display her rage on televisions around the world. Children in Africa gather around the only TV for miles and watch as this man, Joseph Banks, runs with this camera in his hand, yelling into the microphone. His voice dubbed over by translators. It’s going worldwide now.

To Whom It May Concern:
Propaganda video once again being used as a tool to promote terror? Have we no shame?

His voice and new talent is being watched in airport terminals, restaurants, CNN, FOX News, and of course TBN. Big Haired ministers with all of their secrets, standing up behind their pulpits, yelling “Today is the day of salvation!”

People watching Benny Hinn, are wondering if he’s the author of the plague. Maybe he is passing the plague to each person he touches as they fall on the floor still…silent…dead? Either way, people pray,

God asks the cashier for more chips.

It seems that the only one with any secrets is God. God’s the house and the house always wins. If only we could see that God’s big secret is that the game is rigged. Win or lose….he wins.

*

Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona...one by one, reaping the havoc of the sins they committed. New York, Canada, Russia, China, Europe, Brazil….in Carla we trust. Prayers are coming in from all languages.

People sliding their bets across the felt:

“Oh Lord, our savior, please keep my family safe. Please forgive me of my sins and give me strength to walk away from my evil ways.”

“Dear God, Please forgive me of the sins I have committed. I know that I shouldn’t have touched that little girl, but it was the evil inside of me. Please forgive me and give me strength to walk away.”

“Dear God, our Lord Jesus Christ, my Savior…” This prayer from the suck-up who prays out loud before the opening kickoff of the new high school football season. “…you are the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end, the first and the last. Dear Jehovah, Lord God almighty…” Still praying without actually praying, but the crowd shakes their head in agreement.

Holding hands with strangers that stand beside them, these pedophiles, pornographers, sadists, masochists, homosexuals, and homophobes…they all hold hands and listen as the man on the microphone, who coaches the junior high swim team, prays and ask the Lord of Lords to forgive him of his sins. He prays for mercy and grace, as well as a safe trip home for the visiting team. Each person in the audience of sinners prays in their own head that God will forgive them of their sins. No one really knowing what is right or wrong, just knowing that the opinion of one has become the opinion of all. It’s sad really.

Save them from the plague…from Carla? How about “Save them from themselves.”?

God slides his stack of chips to the center of the table. Each prayer bringing another lost soul to God’s glorious side.

To Whom It May Concern:
Is it true that Heaven is only so big? How will you ever fit them all?

Mexico, Yugoslavia, Maine, Arkansas, Texas, Guam, Japan…all watching from coffee shops or the couch in the living room; all of them watching on their cell phones.

Hands link up at school, praying that God saves them from this unknown plague…the unknown Carla. Oh, so now it’s okay to pray in school?

God, sliding his chips across the table, looks at the dealer and says, “Kinda funny how S.I.D.S. is no longer the big mystery.” Laughing, he cashes in for more chips.


CHAPTER 22

He stood there beside her on top of the world. Carla, in her leather, covered in tattoo script, sitting while he stood facing away from her. Her leg swinging from the knee as it crossed the top of her other knee. The sound of the leather was like the sound of the clock he watched as a child waiting for his loving monsters, his beloved mother and step father, to meet him and his brother at the Child Protective Service Office for another trip back to home. She leaned back against the chair and lit her cigarette and smiled as she dipped her chin into her chest.

He stood there with his arms crossed. His coat and tie slowly waving in the wind, as he thought about how to discuss the new found religion; their new purpose.

“Do you know what it’s like to pass by each person with their secret lives being revealed? Each horrible secret is being revealed like pictures in a fucking photo album.” She spoke softly and tapped the ash from her cigarette. “These people have no soul, no compassion, and no hope. It’s sad really. Believe it or not, Nate, I’m saving them.”

Still standing there, he takes a deep breath and asked her, “Who are you saving, Carla? Are you saving them, their victims, or just you?”

“I’m saving them all. I’m saving us. You sift through your life and play god all the time. You don’t even understand the power you have.” Bouncing her foot up and down, she blew the smoke out of her mouth. Getting up from the chair, she walks over and stands beside him. Her Savior, his Savior…his secrets, her secrets.

“You said that you didn’t understand any of this. You said that you didn’t know if this was even reality. Well, I’m tired of living in my reality.” She stood there and pointed into the infinite nothing that was the world, trying to convince him like a game show host boasting about the possible once in a life time prize he could win.

To Whom It May Concern:
I’ll take door #2. Just don’t try to talk me out of it.

Standing there, in all her leather, looking as beautiful and strong, looking like the girl he never knew, with her hand stretched out trying to sell this to him, she said, “You hide in your life and chose which life to change. You think you have the world figured out and your dreams are just the beginning. You think that your purpose is to fix your past, but you have no clue how to do it.”

He turned to look at her. Her hair pulled tightly into the braided pigtails. Small strands of hair blew across her face as her newly found confidence radiated from her tattooed skin. Her shoulders, arms, chest, and neck…covered with black ink.

“I think you need to embrace the gift given to you. You saved me, Nate. You gave me something to live for…to die for.”

“What did I give you?” He quickly snapped at her as he looked out over the world.

“You gave me purpose. You made me remember. You made me understand.” Standing there, she smiled with her hands on her hips. “We have the power to change the world! We have to power to save our children…to save the world. We have the power to take life from those that waste it. It’s our calling, Nate. No one else has this power! We need to embrace it.”
“What do you mean?” He asked. “Embrace what? Embrace the power to flash through time, the power to take the lives at our own will, the power to play god? I just want a normal life and I wanted it with you. Everything has a price. We will have to pay for our sins. Maybe we are judged for the things we don’t do.”

“There is no normal!” She arrogantly laughed, “What is so good about normal? Is it normal to go to work and come home? No goals, no ideas, no love, no life…just normal? We have the power to take back all of the things that we deserved that someone else stole from us, we can take it back.”

“What about those people all over the world?” I asked her “This plague, this curse of Carla. People dropping all over the world…dead! What about them? I’m trying to save them and you are trying to kill them!?”

“Save them? From what?! Don’t be a fool, Nate.” She shakes her head in disgust and then vanishes.
Carla, the angel of death. Carla, my Savior, my love, my god…my enemy.

To Whom It May Concern:
I’m wondering if chasing Carla is the best thing…too bad there is no rule book, although that asshole shape shifting man said there was.

*

Nate, standing there frozen, watching his younger version sneak through the dark kitchen. It’s 2:08 in the morning. He watches as the young boy tip toes his way across the linoleum, stopping to peek over his shoulder for danger. Little Nate, this stupid little boy who can’t seem to figure things out, opens the trash can and fishes out the empty can of strawberry icing that his beloved mother used for her little messiah’s birthday cake. He opens up the lid and the smell of strawberry fills his nose.

Peeking over his shoulder again, he sees nothing. He hears nothing. Nate’s little index finger rubs the inside of the can of icing and he puts his little dirty finger, covered with pink deliciousness, into his mouth and closes his eyes; savoring the moment not meant for him to have. Nate begins to smile. This is the first meal he has had in four days.

Thank you, Master, for helping me keep my boyish figure.

The familiar voice echoes down the hallway from the darkness. “You little sneaky shit! Didn’t I tell you that you weren’t going to eat until you admit what you did?” He slowly walked down the hallway towards the boy, the younger version of me, “You’re hungry? Do you want to eat something…to taste something? You want something in your mouth? Get your ass in the bathroom…and bring the icing!!”

Standing there in the bathroom, the light flickers on and off until the 40 watt bulb finally stays on with the buzz of electricity filling the room. Fearless roaches crawl on the walls and sink as if they don’t care that we are here. My almighty Savior, my hero, my hatred puts his stiffness in the can of icing and wipes the sides clean. Standing there holding himself, he grabs the boy by the hair and starts rubbing his stiffness all over his face. His eye lashes pasted together by the icing, his hair being pulled tight with by step dad’s fingers, his nose wet from pink strawberry goodness, and his jaw clinched so tight that his mouth won’t open.
That was me. I am the little stupid boy.

Standing there frozen in my black suit, I hear the door of the bathroom slowly creak open. My brother walks in rubbing his eyes from the sleep and dreams that make life a little easier. Standing there, paused, he looks at me and then looks at my master.

Enraged, he screams and lunges toward us. He’s yelling and swinging fists, clawing at my master. My almighty Savior grabs me and pulls me away. My loving, adoring, father figure grabs my brother by the neck and begins to squeeze. Step dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pocket knife, the same knife we wrapped for father’s day, and shoves the blade into my brother’s foot and attaching him to the floor. Slapping my brother, he yells “Stay awake, you ignorant piece of shit! You worthless little bastard! You don’t want to miss this!!” My brother crying, clutching his foot, unable to move…frozen. My master comes over to me and promises that if I don’t open my mouth, his foot won’t be the only thing stapled to the floor.

Looking at my brother through the blurry tears and pink icing, with my hair being clutched in the hand of my master, I open my mouth and close my eyes.

To Whom It May Concern:
I think we all know what happens here, can we just skip this part?


CHAPTER 23

“You may be down…ah! You may be out…ah! You may feel like you are at the end…ah! You may find yourself tired…ah! You might find yourself weak…ah!” The charismatic guest speaker, sweating and yelling, walked from one end of the stage to the next; putting the “ah” at the end of each phrase. I don’t know why, but that was always the case with these guys. A little touch of flare to grab our attention? A lot like the usual preacher, this is preaching without really preaching. Mrs. Galloway, with all of her secrets, is waving her handkerchief in the air with her face pointing toward heaven, a sign of surrender.

“Jesus…ah, walking on the raging sea…ah, yelling for Peter to get out of the boat…ah!” I’m almost sure there is a punch line, but all I can do is count the number of “ahs” that come over the loud speaker.

“Peter…ah, the man who denied me three times…ah! Not once…ah. Not twice…ah. Three times…ah! Peter…ah, the man who cut the ear off the soldier in anger…ah, the man who doubts me…ah, get out of the boat…ah!!” The crowd, all standing and clapping, start jumping and yelling out praises. I think I’ve counted 650 “ahs”.

“You may have sins that you hide…ah! You may have secrets…ah! You may be afraid…ah!” Still yelling, but now I think he’s actually preaching. “Just be strong…ah! Have faith…ah! Get out of the boat…ah!” Stomping across the stage yelling and panting; sweating and flailing his arms about. “Peter wasn’t great…ah! Peter was like you…ah! Like me…ah! Peter began to push his friends aside…ah! Peter walked to the edge of the boat…ah! His eyes focused on Jesus….ah!”

To Whom It May Concern:
He has to be pushing 750 by now.

Stepping over the wooden alter with one foot, using the alter as his visual, he keeps yelling and sweating. “Peter puts his foot in the treacherous water…ah! Peter, with his eyes on Jesus…ah, pulls his other foot over the edge of the boat…ah!” The preacher pulls his other foot over the alter, standing there covered in sweat, he begins to pull his suit jacket off. “Take off the opinion of others…ah, take off that heavy load…ah, take your past…ah, take your plans…ah, leave your worries…ah, and focus on Jesus…ah! Get out of the boat…ah!! You have to gather your fear…ah. Gather your courage…ah. Keep your eyes on Jesus…ah. Get out of the BOAT…AH!!”

With the crowd in frenzy, the piano starts to play along with the pipe organ. The base drum slowly pounding with the sound of the cymbals getting louder. The Joseph Banks, in his euphoric excitement, is now running up and down the aisles. Joseph Banks, our little closet pedophile and his little boy loving self, is running around the church while people yell, waving their hands to heaven, and jumping for joy.

“Saints…ah! Come marching in…ah! Saints…ah! Come marching in…ah!” Clearly this is the cue for the band and choir to start up their favorite emotional anthem. How the preacher never cursed in his excitement is beyond me. I thought that there should have been at least one good “God damn it” in his sermon, to make it hit home.

*

Sitting there watching this younger version of me, covered in pink icing, covered in sweat and spit, chunks of hair falling to the ground; my eyes grow black. My brother crying and yelling in pain with his foot stuck to the ground by a pocket knife. This little stupid boy gagging, using his dirty little icing covered hands to push off the thighs of his master. My eyes start to fill with angry tears. In that moment of hate and anger, my mind filled with revenge and malice, the world comes to a pause.

Vengeance is mine, says the Lord:
I am God. I am my own Savior. Vengeance is mine says me.

The world suspended in pause. A flash of black leather and pigtails explodes into the small bathroom. Don’t rob me of my anger, Carla! Don’t rob me of my vengeance! Don’t take this away from me!


CHAPTER 24

Sitting in the make-up trailer with a towel wrapped around his neck, Joseph Banks sits there while the young make-up artist pats his nose with powder. Looking at himself in the mirror, his confident smile and square chin feed his self-indulgent gaze. I’m the one, he thinks to himself. The front line reporter with the magic touch; racing through danger and getting the exclusive.

Turning his head to make sure that every angle can be shot with no glare, he points to his forehead and tells the girl that she missed a spot.

Just a few months ago, Joseph Banks was working out of a small news van. He had a small camera crew that was more interested in getting high after the insignificant shoot. Even Mr. Franklin looked at Joseph with disgust. Mr. Franklin, boiling in his disgust, peered at Joseph through the monitor, knowing that the only purpose for Joseph was to give him a break from the fake smiling and provide cheap advertising for local businesses. The more that people watched, the better the ratings right. What better way to get people to watch than to have one of their redneck, toothless aunt or uncle on the news with their stupid ridiculous idea of what news really is?

Sure, everyone watched the news to get the news, and the only reason Joseph was there was to get the names of the local businesses in the shot. Mom and pop stores would call in the most outrageous news, hoping that Joseph and his pot smoking crew would come and give these stores some publicity. And it worked. Free advertising.

Everyone watching and pointing at the TV as Joseph Banks would talk about how this three legged dog would sit on the back steps of their store. Every morning for the last 7 years, they would show up to unlock the store and get ready for business and there this dog would be. Sitting and waiting. Of course, no one knew why, but that was the story. Mom and Pop, along with their family, sitting on the couch laughing and pointing as they make their television debut. Shameless advertising.

“Let’s just talk to the owner and operator of this fine establishment and see what they think about their most loyal customer.” Joseph would then pause as he raised an eyebrow and gave his cheesiest smile for the camera and everyone sitting at home watching from their couch.

No finger on his ear. This was before his big break. No make-up, no real story. Just free advertising and a small paycheck.

“So, what is the story about our little three legged friend?” he asked as he turned to give his smile to the camera.

“Well…” the owner would say as he looked into the big glaring lens, “For the past 7 years our friend, **enter in some generic name…seeing how these news stories were all the same**, would greet me when I came in to work. Every day at 8 a.m. through 9 p.m., but not on Sunday, we open at 11 a.m. on Sunday…” he emphasized to the camera while not blinking. Free advertising, right? “…we would open the doors of Minelli’s Diner, located at 9969 (clearly NOT a euphemism) East Paige St.”

“Wow!” Joseph said without looking at his guest, just staring at the camera with his eye brow still raised and his cheesy grin. “That’s a long time. What do you contribute his faithful service to? Good service or good cooking?” he asked with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his microphone, Joseph turns toward his new star still looking at the camera and smiling. Statuesque.

“Oh, I don’t know. I would have to say that it would have to be both. We’re located right next to Eddie’s Movie Store!” Joseph walks away from the owner and starts talking about the history of the Minelli’s or something…I lost interest. Still addressing his audience while the man’s voice fading into nothing but background noise, “8 a.m. to 9 p.m. We’re open at 11am on Sunday. Tell your friends!”

This is where the camera would put the Dog on TV. Sitting on his raw ass and being held up by one front leg, the dog would be teased by someone off camera hoping to get a bark. Two barks would be even better, that way all the people watching at home could actually materialize the words “Good bye” out of “bark-bark”. Of course, this would only happen after about the 100th take and tons of wasted film.

To Whom It May Concern:
Editing this must take a long time. What a pain in the ass!

The whole Minelli family, sitting on their couch and crammed into the living room, watched their Dad smile so big on TV. Surely this would boost customers, they were famous now. And to think, all of this free advertisement is because of this 3 legged dog…their Savior.

No, the camera doesn’t add 10 lbs.

*

“Fuck! How many times do we have to shoot this stupid dog? I thought we would be out here all fucking day!” Joseph bitched to his camera crew as they sat in the van passing around a joint. “You know, one day, I’m going to punch Franklin in the fucking face! He’s sitting there in his nice air conditioned studio, like he’s so much better than everyone!” Joseph hated the way Mr. Franklin’s prima donna arrogance overshadowed his own.

*

“So, Mr. Franklin…”
“Please, call me Calvin.”

“Oh, okay…Calvin.” She shyly grinned and cleared her throat. “So, Calvin, can I get you some more coffee?” Don’t tell Joseph, but this is why he is always on the street shooting some ridiculous shoot that always seems to take forever. Especially now, seeing that his wife is six months pregnant, she only has a little while before she takes her maternity leave.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Mr. Franklin aka Calvin asked the woman.

“My name is Lisa.” She said as she began to pour coffee into his cup.

“Lisa, you say? That’s a pretty name. Let me show you how we make the coffee around here.” Mr. Franklin led Lisa down the hallway and then opened up the break room door.

“After you.” He said with a smile on his face as he let her walk through the door. He is such a gentleman. Closing the door behind him, he pushes the lock on the door without her noticing. “Here, let me show you how to make a proper cup of black coffee.”

Grabbing her by her small frail throat, he pushes her against the wall. Her hands grasp his wrist as he starts pushing her up the wall until she is on her tip toes. Putting his other hand on her thigh, he starts lifting her skirt.

“I can’t breathe!” she said as her eyes started to water, pushing tears down her red suffocating face.

“Bitch, shut your mouth!” His hand slides between her legs and he pulls her cotton panties to one side. He began to spread her innocence with his strong fingers as he searched for her wet opening. Finding it, he uses his knee to pry her legs open until one leg is resting on his hip as her shoe falls to the floor.

“Don’t do this! Please, please…don’t do this!!” she cried as her face started to become a darker shade of red. Her blue eyes watered as she held on to his wrist trying to hold herself up.

“Don’t do what?” he asked as he forced two fingers inside of her. Pushing and pulling his fingers in and out of her, she cried. She started to cough as she began to lose strength and air. Pulling his fingers out of her not-so-innocence, he rubbed her dry tight backdoor. He then bit his bottom lip as he shoved one finger in her tight backside and the other in her wet not-so-innocent innocence.

In and out, in and out. One finger in each, then two in each…I could go on, but that just seems inappropriate.

Lisa, crying, choking, gasping, legs flailing and slipping with her head pinned to the cork board filled with different colored thumb tacks. Spit starting to coagulate in the corners of her mouth as the whites of her eyes start to turn red. Pinned, Frozen, gasping, smiling. Smiling as she began to orgasm. She covered his hand with her wet juices and he lowered her to the ground. “Not yet! Don’t stop….not yet!” She said, as she pulsed juice down her thigh and calf. Squeezing his waist with her other leg, she could feel the juice filling her black plastic one inch heel as she started to finally cum to an end.

Yes, pun intended.

Panting, leaning up against the wall, her toes were slippery from her big finish. “Not bad, Calvin.” she said as her face started to turn back to its normal shade of pale off-white. “Next time, don’t be so easy on the choking.”

“Cathy, you are one sick bitch. You know that?” he said as he laughed and washed his hands.

“Easy…My name is Lisa today. Cathy is what my husband calls me.” She smiled as she straightened her skirt and dried off her thighs. Taking her shoe off and stuffing a napkin inside the toe of it to dry up the mess, she looks at him and says, “Besides, Tomorrow I’m Hillary. You know what that means.”

Everyone had secrets.

Smiling back at her, he unlocked the door. He was excited about tomorrow. Hillary loved getting her butt plugged by his rock hard tool until he was about to finish, then she would turn around as quickly as possible, drop to her knees, and suck him off. She could take every ounce of his salty load and keep sucking until he went limp in her mouth.

As he opened the door and walked out, one of the producers walked in. “Hey, Lisa!” he heard the producer say, “Let me show you how we make coffee around here.”

“Not right now, Adam. Give me a couple of minutes and come back. Okay?” Adam then exits the door and stands guard keeping a close eye on his watch.

It’s kind of funny how this made Mr. Franklin jealous. I guess not everyone is as special as they think.

To Whom It May Concern:
Is there not one person in this town that can shoot straight? Yes, pun intended.

*
Still sitting in his trailer, looking in the mirror at this perfect picture of a perfect man, he smiles when he thinks of how far he had come. From the cheesy smile interviewing small time shop owners with three legged dogs to covering the apocalypse, he made it big. No more pot smoking van jobs. No more begging for raises so he could put food in Cathy’s and their newborn’s mouth. He hit the big time, the Jackpot. No more begging for anything.

“Please leave and send in that boy with his school paper interview.” He told his make-up artist.

“Hey, you.” He smiled at the boy. You know why I brought you here.

“Money first.” He said with his squeaky feminine voice.

No one had secrets.


CHAPTER 25

Louisiana. Michigan. Ontario. Denver. Mexico City. Pandemonium is ripping through the news like an out of control twister through a trailer park. Austin. New Guinea. Bismarck. India. South Africa. Just think hurricane Katrina, but on a much grander scale.

Fear gripping the hearts and minds of the citizens. Prayers are being lifted from the mouths of Godly and ungodly alike. Cheaters. Liars. Thieves. Murderers. False Prophets.

To Whom It May Concern:
Prophets…false prophets…profits none the less?


I feel her here. I feel her there. Carla, this angel of death; full of rage and anger, flashing from one place to another, dealing her punishment as people are dying with no disease.

I close my eyes and flick the cigarette butt into the quiet street. Feeling her heart beat, feeling her twisted innocent soul, I walk down the middle of the street while the world is at pause. Not from me and not from her, but from fear. People huddled in their houses, their domains, their refuge praying for salvation and protection.

God and his gambling addictions, laughing and sliding his chips across the felt, he sits back and engulfs the prayers like a porn addict watching young women getting banged rotisserie style at a college frat house.

Even the dogs have found a way to stay off the street. They are probably curled up under some cocaine infested vacant with their tail curled up under their testicles praying for salvation.

Here I am, walking down the middle of this abandoned street with only the flashing yellow and red street lights to keep me company. Stores are closed; their lights are off and the homeless bums gone from the street corners and bridges. Its 3 p.m. on a Tuesday, doesn’t anyone work anymore? People cuddled up with their fat ignorant faces glued to the TV watching Mr. Franklin’s smug smile staring back at them while he shuffles papers around at his desk.

Joseph Banks, running backwards with his face bouncing on the TV monitors, yelling into his microphone with his finger stuck to his ear. National Guard tanks are posted around the outer parts of the cities, trying to contain whatever illness is pillaging its way through this vulnerable world. They are trying to stifle Carla and her rage, her calling, her purpose.

God, give me the courage.
God, give me the strength.
God, give me wisdom.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me purpose.
God, give me hope.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me time.
God, give me peace.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.

Funny thing about prayer, it only seems to work when you least need it. I guess that’s how it’s supposed to work? I need money and I get nothing. I don’t need money and then a refund check is sent to my house. I need comfort I get nothing. I don’t need anyone and the house is full of friends and guest with the police asking me to turn the music down.

Maybe saving the world isn’t my calling. Maybe saving me from all of my horrible dreams isn’t for me. Maybe I’m not supposed to save anyone from Carla. Suppose all the flashing around and frozen experiences are just ways for me to see the world for what it really is. It’s a world full of pathetic sadistic masochists with nothing better to do than bleed from self-mutilation and self-indulgence. Maybe the world isn’t worth saving. Maybe I’m wasting my time and energy trying to change the unchangeable, save the unsaveable, salvage the unsalvageable. Maybe I’m supposed to save Carla from the world. Maybe I’m supposed to save Carla from Carla. Her Savior, her mentor, her friend.

I’m gone; flashing through time at the speed of nothing. The world paused. Flashing from here to there, watching people fall to the ground as limp as Miss Margaret. Flashing from now to yesterday; yesterday to tomorrow; tomorrow to today; in and out of time like a ghost searching for the one who needs me most. Searching for Carla.

Just as my searching becomes so monotonous and tedious, there she is. The muzzle flashing as the world is standing still. Carla, in all her rage, in all her anger, in all her beauty, she’s reaping the souls of her new purpose.

Dancing in our graceful and timeless pause, we meet each other filled with power and aggression. There we are, falling to the ground in our struggle to save something. Carla, mounted on top of me with her shiny leather pants and stilettos, reaches back and thrust her smoking sword towards my face. Turning my face toward the pavement, her muzzle hits the ground as the heat from the metal warms my face.

Her eyes black and glazed, her hair pulled back tight in braided pigtails, with her knees on each side of my neck. She sits back on my chest and pulls her hand up from the ground, grazing my cheek with the hot pistol. Grabbing her wrist with one hand and pushing the back of her hand, garnished with her pistol, I thrust her hand and arm towards her chest as she flips onto her back. Rolling on top of her, I pull the pistol from her hand as she gracefully sneaks my pistol from my back.

Flashing through time, we dance. Fighting for purpose. Fighting for salvation. Fighting without really fighting. Her skin covered with black ink. Fighting for nothing or something, it’s all the same. Her neck freshly painted with her new ink. She smells amazing!

Flipping, punching, kicking…pause. Gazing, smiling, grabbing…pause. Muzzles flashing, yelling, cursing…pause. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, next year, last month…pause. Time standing still and we are still dancing.

*

God in all his infinite wisdom, in all his glory and power, sitting there watching this old Irish man pulling his chips across the felt. God’s stunned.

The shape shifting shadow flips a lone chip to the sexy blond haired waitress with the short plaid skirt and high heels. He smiles with his eyes glowing in jubilation. “Keep’em coming will you. I’m going to be here a while.” Looking across the table at this god with all his chips stacked as if he isn’t planning on losing too many of them, the old Irish gentleman sits and smiles. Shape shifting by the second, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and asked this all mighty powerful, “Smoke?” God, just looks at him, without words and despises the arrogance that radiates from the shape shifting Irishman. “No?” The shape shifter closes his box of cigarettes and slides them back into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair the shape shifter crosses his legs at the knees and smiles.

*

Joseph Banks, running backwards with his finger glued to his ear and yelling into the microphone as his face is bouncing around the TV monitor, stops in his tracks. The camera is still and calm. He looks around the city and finds nothing to report. The calm city streets, empty and quiet, abandoned by the world as they hide in their closets. “What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? I thought…”

The camera man coughs, interrupting this live broadcast, peeks from behind the camera with his red cap turned backwards. “Joe…what are you doing? We’re still rolling, man.” Pressing his eye back into the rubber peep screen of the camera, the man behind the camera takes his index finger and hand, holding it out to his side away from the view of the camera and begins to move them in a circle, giving the universal symbol of “keep talking” to Joseph.

“Now back to you, Calvin.” He then looks at the camera with his eye brow raised, smiling with a cheesy grin on his face, and gives the hand across the neck sign; the universal sign of “cut”.


CHAPTER 26

Dancing, flashing, vanishing, disappearing, and then reappearing; the two kept fighting. Time is no longer a concern. Purpose is no longer at play; the both of them, exchanging advantage while the world is paused.

*

Mrs. Galloway, sitting with her teary face buried in her hands, paused in the middle of a prayer. Paused while asking god to give her the strength to do what she felt was the best thing to do. Sitting there with her face in her hands and a small black revolver sitting in her lap, she cried. Photos, receipts, small notes, and love letters were spread on the bed and floor as she sat there paused.

Vicodin and Percodan pills were spread across her night stand next to empty pill bottles that laid there with open tops. Her lips painted glossy pink and her eyes lined with black, her face buried in her hands, she prays. Her hair was sprayed stiff and shaped just the way he likes it, she was just as beautiful today as she was the day they met.

Still. Paused. Crying. She sat there in the midst of 11 years of memories. Family vacations, fishing and hunting trips, swimming championship trophies, swim team photos, and pictures of nature with captions of great bible verses to remind us that we are not alone, are sitting there on the dresser and hanging on the walls. All of them were lying. Smiles that once were meant to portray happiness were now smiles that represent years of deceit.

All of the times that they made love in this bed, their sacred place; she was never on his mind. All the times that he held her ankles in the air and pushed himself inside of her, she was never on his mind. All the times that he turned her over onto her stomach and spread her wide with his tongue, she was never on his mind. All the times he stayed late to help the young boy practice is stroke like the great teacher and coach, she was never, never, never, never, never…not once on his mind.

Still. Paused. Crying. The corners of her pretty pink covered lips made less than a smile. Her eyebrows pulled close together and her eyes squeezed so tight that the back of her eyelids turned red, are wet with years of sorrow and embarrassment. Face buried, wedding band still on, hair just perfect, she sat there paused and poised.

Her bare feet, with freshly painted nails, were pulled under her chair and surrounded by ripped pictures of her beloved husband and this young boy. Notes with little hearts are laying around in no particular order. Polaroid’s and 35 mm pictures of this naked young boy in different poses are wadded up and ripped; thrown to the ground in disgust. This boy, this little stupid boy, clothed in collars and handcuffs, bent over spreading his ass, while a man’s hand is pulling his two fingers out of his swollen red exit hole. This is the same hand that wears her husband’s wedding band. All of this is now recorded on shiny rectangle photos for the world to find.

Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

*

Carla, standing there looking at her hero. His chest is pounding to accommodate his panting. Pistol smoking and hot, sweat dripping from the tips of his hair, he reaches up and with his index finger and pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. Her red lips smile as she walks toward him. He takes a step forward and meets her chest to chest. His smile is vague, but a smile none the less. She tilts her chin down and looks up toward his face. Her eyes are glowing blue as she puts her hand on his stomach. Both of her pretty blue eyes are darting back and forth as she looks at her distorted reflection in his sunglasses. Her hands slowly moves from is stomach to his chest and slides around the back of his neck.

Their eyes stuck in gaze, he slides his hands around her waist and rests them on the small of her back. He pulls her body close to him as both of them breathe in unison. Her face goes from stone to soft. Her smile no longer calculated, but sincere. She reaches up with both hands and pulls is glasses off of his eyes. Lost in time, they both stare into each other’s eyes and she whispers, “I’ve missed you. Where were you?”

Taking a deep breath, he pauses for a moment and says, “I’ve been right here. I’ve been searching for you. I need you. I love you.”

*

Time, no longer paused, Mrs. Galloway takes a deep breath and pulls her wet hands from her face. Her hands stained with black eyeliner and salty tears, she breathes. Closing her eyes and gathering her emotions, she clears her heavily medicated mind. Sliding her hand down her chest and stomach, she then places her calm mascara stained hand on the cold black revolver in her lap. Breathing in and out, closing her eyes, she wraps her fingers around handle and pulls the gun up to the bottom of her chin.

Smiling at the surprise she left for the world to find, she again starts to tear up when her world turned black. Her head jerks back as blood, hair, and brain matter sprayed across the room painting the wall and ceiling red. Her limp body slumped forward. As her limp arm slowly swings by her side, the black revolver slips from her grip and falls to the floor. Slowly, she leans to the side until gravity takes control, pulling her lifeless body to the ground with a thud. The thick red puddle of blood slowly grows as it begins to gather around the pictures of her beloved husband and this little stupid boy.

Handwritten love notes, intended for her beloved husband, turned from white and yellow notebook paper to blood soaked evidence. Naked pictures stuck to her face and neck as the red sticky blood glued her face to her shame. Her wide blue eyes staring into nothing, recording memories that no one will ever see.

Laying there. Still. Paused. Not crying.

To Whom It May Concern:
A safe is never a safe, when you leave the key at home.

*

Carla and her hero, standing there frozen. Not in a timeless moment where the world stands still, but in the timeless moment where the world passes you by and you don’t even notice. The world moves in its normal rhythm; honking horns, talking on cell phones, aimless conversations all going on with Carla and her hero standing there frozen.

Both of them, looking into each other’s eyes, engulfed in this silent conversation. His hands on her lower back with his strong arms slowly pulling her hips into his. Her hands are on the back of his head with his wet sweaty hair peeking through her fingers. They stared into the depths of each other’s soul, seeing the beauty in which they display.

With their faces inches apart, they concentrate on each other’s eyes. Seeing the very good that each other possess and seeing the very purpose of their existence, they move their faces closer until their foreheads meet. Breathing heavier, they both hold back from the very thing they want the most.

Her breath warms his lips, as she slightly opens her mouth, and her breath gets heavier. Her fingers clinch his hair as she pulls his face to hers. Their lips touching softly without kissing…just breathing. His hands move lower down her back, holding her perfect leather covered ass.

She tilts her head up and she softly places her lips over his and kisses him while her heart begins to beat out of her chest. Her chest inflates and deflates in her heavy breathing as tears begin to push their way out of her closed eyes. He pulls his lips away from hers and looks at her tear covered face as her heavy breathing and pounding heart can’t contain her restraint anymore.

Carla, covered in black leather and stilettos, bites her bottom lip and jumps to wrap her perfect legs around his waist and crosses her feet behind his back. She pulls her hips back and then squeezes her legs, bringing his body close to her. Carla’s slow gyration, with his hands on her ass, begins to move a little faster and harder while her breathing is so intense that she feels the effects of hyperventilation.

Nate and Carla, our heroes…our demons, caught up in the heat and passion of this long awaiting moment. Vanish.


CHAPTER 27

Carla pushes Nate down onto the bed. Nate leaning back with his elbows on the mattress, looks at her as she stands there breathing heavily. She begins to unbutton her leather sleeveless shirt, revealing her perfect small breast. Her body inked with unreadable script and dark black vines from her shoulders, down her back, and thighs. Her hands cover her nipples as she begins to rub and pull on them in her moment of passion. She slides her hands down her stomach and unbuttons her pants as she looks at him through the strands of hair that have come loose from her braided pigtails.

Her black painted finger nails pop the button of her pants as she shimmies her hips back and forth. Pushes her pants off her hips, she slides them down her thighs, leaving only her black silk and lace panties covering her nakedness. Nate, still leaning back on his elbows, is frozen from the sight of this angel…this god staring back at him. She bends over to push her pants over her boots. With her heart and chest pounding from the ecstasy of the heated engagement, her skin starts to glaze over with sweat from her body heat. Still looking into his eyes, she lifts her stiletto to pull her pants over them. Stuck in this moment for what seems to be forever, she still looks at him.

Nate was amazed and stunned…frozen. His mouth slightly open and his eyes wide, watches as her beautiful soft breast hang off her chest pointed to the floor as she bends over. While she slowly begins to pull her pants over her stiletto, her eyes are still glued to his.

Still pulling her pants over her boots, her eyes open wide as they begin to dart back and forth from him to the floor, she then slowly starts to lean. Nate knows that this moment…this one moment…frozen in time…is the moment to suddenly lift off his elbows and he reaches out to her as she snags her pants on her heel and falls clumsily to the floor. Stunned and speechless, he looks at her with his hand still extended…frozen.

*

“In other news…” Mr. Franklin looks into the camera with the imaginary information box over his shoulder “…a woman, who has yet to be identified, was found dead late last night with a single gunshot wound to her head. The police chief has asked that the identity of the woman not be disclosed until the facts of the case are carefully and fully investigated. The police chief did say that the wound appeared to be self-inflicted and, as of now, there are no suspects.”

*

Mrs. Galloway, laying there on the floor, pale white with her eyes wide open, recording mental video that no one will ever see. Her thick red blood has dried into the carpet, pasting photos and scented love letters to the floor for the world to see. Boots covered with white cotton sleeves, step over her lifeless body as flashes of camera bulbs light up the room. Blue latex gloves lift the pistol from the floor as Q-tip swabs rub over her thumbs and forefingers.

Flashes from cameras start lighting up the wall where blood and brain matter outlined family photos and inspirational bible quotes. An officer bends down with tweezers, picking up small chunks of hair covered skull that bounced off the wall, and drops them into a red bio hazard labeled plastic bags. Other officers pick up the scented love letters and photos off the floor and begin to wipe the blood from the shiny secrets.

The police chief walks into the room and glances around the brutal mess. The officers, huddled in a semi-circle holding photos and love letters, glance up to look at the chief in his grand entrance. Chief just looks at them and frowns. This was his son’s favorite teacher and a pillar of the community. What a shame to see such a beautiful woman, who had everything, end up as a small blotter on the evening news.

Looking over at the officers huddled around this photo, the chief asked, “Did you guys find anything? Well…what is it?!” The officers quickly glance at each other and then start to try to find somewhere else to be. “Well…spill it! Anything?” he said with his authoritative voice.

To Whom It May Concern:
If ever a moment that you would rather be picking hair covered skull up off the floor than to be looking at this one shiny photo…

Chief walks over and grabs the photo from the officer. Looking at this shiny blood stained memory, his eyes grow red in anger and disgust. His holy son…his only begotten son…bent over with a man’s fingers being pulled out of his son’s swollen asshole. As his son glances over his shoulder smiling in the camera, his white non-tanned ass is being used as a pedophile’s finger, dick, and tongue warmer.

Chief, humiliated and angered, yells “Enough pictures for now! Everyone get the fuck out of here!” then slides the glossy blood stained picture into his pocket.

Mrs. Galloway, laying there frozen, maybe even smiling, recording video that no one will ever see. Her eyes have never smiled so much.

*

“Carla, it isn’t that bad…I swear!” Nate said as he lay beside her on the bed. “It happens to everyone, I promise. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.” He tried to reassure her, but the more he tried the more embarrassed she became.

Laying there with a pack of frozen peas on her eye, she quickly pops up and fires at him. “Not that bad? I have a pack of frozen food trying to keep the knot to a dull roar!” She quickly throws her head back into the pillow and covers her eye with the peas. Embarrassed, she lays there looking at the ceiling. Lying beside her, looking at the same ceiling, he reaches his hand over and touches hers.

“You know…” he said as a smile began to form from his lips, “…I still think you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Carla takes the frozen food from her forehead, turns her head toward him, closes her eyes, and shakes her head. “Shut up.”


CHAPTER 28

Sitting in his car, the police chief revisits the moment over and over again. The look on their faces, smiles, smirks, stunned, paused. The gruesome scene of embarrassment plastered to the floor with dried blood and brain matter. His secret pasted to her face with crimson goo and saliva; her tears and mascara cementing his secret to her face. His son’s naked ass and smiling face, captured on shiny photo paper, stuck to her face as these police officers gaze in an amazement that overshadowed the very reason they were there.

Mrs. Galloway, already a distant memory to everyone, laying there like discarded trash. Her beautiful hair and painted nails, overlooked as she smiles there with her blue eyes wide open. Stepped over, poked, prodded, and swabbed…forgotten. The looks plastered on the faces of the officers as they gather around staring at the shiny blood stained memories of the police chief’s biggest secrets. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

The time he spent gathering up every piece of tainted evidence that could tie his embarrassment to this scene…wasted. No matter how much he hid, the faces and glances he would share at the office or local diner, would be faces that knew the truth.

Sitting there, parked under the bridge by the train station where he had spent many hours of his career, thinking about how short the drive home could be. His wife and son sitting at the dining room table with cold food on their plates, waiting for him.

His wife, probably wearing her old ratty sweatshirt from college and flowered blue pajama pants, was probably sitting across the table from her son. Her hair pulled back into a lazy pony tail with no makeup to hide her aging eyes, she jealously looks across the table at her son who has figured out exactly how to use mascara to make his eyes pop with luster.

Sitting there, parked in his car, listening to the radio commercials talk about the most insignificant things. Commercials about free prostate exams, unwanted hair removal, cell phones without two year commitments, and drink specials at the local topless bars. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it with the sound of tobacco and rice paper popping as it burns. He takes a deep breath and slowly lets the smoke escape his lungs and fill the car with the smell of menthol.

Looking out of his window, looking in every dark shadow of the bridge pillars and abandoned cars, he smiles. No more secrets. No more places to hide. A city once protected by the vow of silent embarrassment has now become the city that hides its secrets about as well as a halter top hides silicone Barbie dolls.

*
The son looks at his mother across the table with his eyes filled with disgust and distain. How she was there, but never really there. She once was beautiful. She once commanded the respect of everyone in the room. Now, she is a shadowed scared version of her secrets that even her son has trouble remembering.

For years, she would lay there in her bed as she felt her husband remove himself, walk through the dark, and out of the room. She could hear the creaking of the hallway floor as he slowly and gingerly tip toed to the son’s room. She counted every step. Six steps to the bedroom door and six steps to her son’s. She closed her eyes tightly as she knew the secret that everyone had. Her courage and command would leave her body as her soul slowly lifting out of her shameful chest.

Tears would form in her pouty aging eyes, as her husband would return 20 or 30 minutes later with a dying erection that was supposed to be meant for her. She lay there, not with anger or disgust, but with jealousy. Her very husband, hiding his secret in the ass and mouth of their troubled adopted son, as he wiped the semen from his only begotten son’s eyes and rubbed in across his sinless beautiful smiling lips.

*

Laying there alone in her bed, a wife and a mother rolled over looking at the doll she once held while in fear, propped on top of their newly purchased dark oak dresser. The doll she has had since she was a child stared back at her with her chipped marble eyes, ratty blonde hair, and hand stitched smile.

Mother glances at the clock on the nightstand, 2:08 a.m. She lifts herself from the bed and slides her vein covered boney feet into her house shoes. As she stands up, her pink night gown falls from the gathering spot around her waist and thighs to full length around her calves. She zombies her way into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of boxed wine she kept chilled in her refrigerator. Circling her glass in the air next to her lips, she presses her paintless lips against the cup and downs the wine like a cheap shot of whisky.

Standing there in the dark, she ponders her feelings of disgust. Her husband, always there but not really there; wasn’t there tonight. Working late…again. She’s so tired of everything. She’s tired of her secrets. She’s tired of his secrets. She’s tired of secrets in general. Mother, with her hair a mess and eyes filled with tears, reaches for the large stainless steel knife that rested in the wooden block of the knife collection. She wraps her hesitant fingers around the handle and stands there in the dark.
*

Chief, sitting in the car, pulls out the shiny blood stained photos and spreads them on the seat beside him. He places some on the dash and even smiles when he figures out that they could stick to the window using Mrs. Galloway's blood as the adhesive. Smoke billowing out of his nose and mouth, his smile becomes more of a chuckle as he flips through the scented blood stained notes from his son.

Almost laughing, he rests his head back against the headrest. Jealousy, anger, embarrassment; there are so many feelings and none of them worth the hassle.

Pulling his black city issued pistol from his jacket pocket, he glances at the photos. Pressing his lips together, he shakes his head with acceptance. The dark shadows from the pillars and bridge hide his car from the world. They hide his secrets and they bury his shame.

With the sound of the city racing overhead and the silent shadows creeping around by the light of the moon, a quick flash from his muzzle lights the inside of the car with a bang that no one hears.

*

Standing there in the dark with a small glass half full of wine. Maybe half empty, let’s not be pessimistic. She grips the stainless steel knife with her white knuckles and trembling hand. Her eyes, starting to dry from her resolve, close as she is prepared to do what she has to do to end this nightmare. Setting the glass down on the marble cabinet, she turns and walks toward the dinner table. The food still placed on dinner plates, cold and stale, she sits at the place she has for years waiting for his arrival.

Sitting there, knowing tonight he’s not coming home until his adventure under the bridge with some cheap whore, who probably has a cock sucker's neck brace, is complete and paid for; she takes the knife and presses the sharp cold tip against the side of her frail neck. The tip of the knife trying hard not to break the skin, she can’t fight the tremble of her unsteady hand. Her eyes closed and filled with resolve, she squeezes her jaw shut and shoves the knife into the side of her neck.

Gurgling noises begin to fill the dark kitchen as she tries so hard to bring air into her lungs through her severed wind pipe. Her hand falls from the handle of the knife and lands on a plate filled with cold mashed potatoes and Stouffers Salisbury steak and gravy. With what life she has left in her body, she grabs the table and fights to stand up. With no feeling in her legs and no strength to stand, her gurgling body falls to the floor, shaking and twitching as her eyes widen.

To Whom It May Concern:
Give me liberty or give me death.


CHAPTER 29

Carla and Nate, sitting across the table from each other, are eating cereal and smiling. A relationship consummated. Breakfast at a table has never seemed so comfortable. Both of them, lost in the ecstasy of a night that reached a level of emotion that neither of them have ever enjoyed before, sit there looking into each other’s eyes without saying a word. They just gaze at each other, smiling uncontrollably, like two kids who shared each other’s deepest and darkest secrets without fear of letting them fly.

“How is your eye?” Nate asked, as he poked around the bowl of cereal with his spoon.

“It's doing better. Do we have to talk about it?” She looked at him with her head sarcastically cocked to one side with her lips pulled tight in a smile. She found herself wanting to smile in amusement of the night’s event, but couldn't let him see her laughing at herself. “So...where do we go from here? You know, with our...I don't know...how do you say...super powers?” she asked as she leaned on her elbows and shoveled a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

“I don't know. I don't even know what it is.” Nate said with a hint of displeasure and confusion.

Carla, speaking with polite authority, says, “Look, I didn't want to bring this up, but we have the opportunity to right a lot of wrong. We need to work together! We can take this 'gift' and crush them!” Carla's eyes starting to turn black as she sternly pounds her fist on the table. With the milk in the bowls rippling from the jolt of Carla's forceful plea and the cereal box rocking back and forth, trying to avoid the fall, Nate looks at her as her eyes begin to gloss over with a numbing gaze. Nate ponders her plea, as his fist begin to tighten up, knowing that the only wrong he wanted to right was putting an end to the one person that deserved his wrath.

“You're right!” he said as he stood up from his chair. “You are right!” Both of them, breathing heavy and chest pounding in anxious excitement, look at each other with their eyes as black as the darkest night. “I just need to make one quick stop.” he said as he darted from the table and headed for the door.

“Nate, wait a minute!”

“What is it?” he turned around and looked at her with his chest pounding in anticipation.

“Your clothes!” she said. He looked at her in a moment of confusion. “Your clothes! Go put on some clothes!”

Standing there naked with his downstairs mix-up dangling and waiting for the world to see, he quickly glanced up at Carla in slight embarrassment. “You know, it's unusually cold in here.”

“Sure keep telling yourself that!” she said as her naked tattooed body gracefully left the kitchen toward the bedroom.

“It's shrinkage!!” He pleaded to her as the door shut behind her.

*

Facing each other across the felt covered table, the two of them glared at each other with respect and resentment. One leaned onto his forearms with a stoned face and squinty eyes and the other leaned back into his chair peering out of the corners of his eyes, smiling as if he had a card up his sleeve. God and the shape-shifter. Most would consider them as a sort of mismatched union, a complex marriage of distrust and respect, but today....maybe just a cautious foe or business partner.

“You know that you can't stop them, right?” the shape-shifter said as he lit his cigarette. “The one thing that you didn't think would happen...actually happened.”

“Your arrogance will get you nowhere. Besides, they will be so distracted with each other that they won't have time to follow your ridiculous plan.” God points at the dealer and taps the table. The dealer quickly tosses two cards to each player and tosses one card to the side. Placing three cards in the center of the table, the dealer looks at the players and waits for their bet.

“See, that's what I love about you!” the shape-shifter pointed and nonchalantly shook his finger towards God as he smiled. “You, my friend, don't see the big picture. Remember, you said that everyone will eventually pay the house. If these two love birds figure out what they are capable of, things will get a little more difficult for you. Just imagine, moment by moment, these two start executing the world at an alarming rate. You won't be able to keep up! Sinner after sinner, falling by the wayside....I'm getting aroused just thinking about it!”

Looking at his watch, the shape-shifter, dressed in his Sunday's best, cuts off his conversation and holds is watch to his ear. “I'm sure this conversation won't be so one sided the next time we hang out. I have somewhere to be...so if you don't mind...” The shape-shifter looks in the eyes of the Almighty and flips his cards over as to fold his hand. Dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and a very abrasive pink tie; he shapes into the form of a young teenage boy and exits the room.

God smirks as his eyes follow the boy out of the room. Looking down at the felt table with 3 cards showing from the dealer, he looks at the 2 cards left by his nemesis. “Two Aces of Spades?” He chuckles for a second and looks at his own cards to see what he thought he was hiding from his nemesis...Two Aces of Spades.

To whom it may concern:
I guess I'm not the only one cheating at the table.

Sitting there with his arrogant smile, God looks at the dealer. The dealer standing there face to face begins to shift into several different people and smiles back. “Are you not satisfied with your cards?” He said.

Looking around the room, he realizes that everyone is shape-shifting. Confused for a second, he now understands that he is no longer in control of how the game is being played. He stands up and glances at the door to see his nemesis walking out. God, in his fury and outrage, flips the table. Standing there with his fists squeezed tight and shoulders moving up and down, his chest starts bringing in more air to calm his anger. Looking around the room, it suddenly burst into flames. The fire, burning everything and everyone in the room, makes a path for our Savior as he furiously walks toward the door. As he reaches the door, he slowly turns around to view the room and soak up the fury, standing there across the room, he sees the little girl dressed in a pink unicorn nightgown. She looks at him and smiles.

*

The church gathered in the huge sanctuary. Everyone from the community is there, either out of shock or just to save some sort of face among their friends...or lack thereof. The two shiny black oak caskets sitting side by side, closed to avoid the horrific site of such self-mutilation. The young son of the two faceless parents is nowhere to be seen. How could he face the humiliation? How could he show his pretty little face in the same room where his naked finger-filled ass has become such a topic for everyone to talk about? One young boy has now become the face of the most horrific stories better left untold. He has become the main character in the secrets that no one will ever tell. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

Looking at himself in the mirror, the young boy straightened his pink tie and brushed the lint off of his black suit. Smiling and tilting his head to the side, he turns around and heads toward the massive sanctuary where his parents lay side by side. The porn addicted preacher stood up front, holding his bible against his chest with both hands, speaking of the great life that the two faceless patrons shared; he glances up and sees the boy in the black suit making his way to the front. After all, not only did his parents die because of him, but so did Mrs. Galloway...and he was almost certain there would be more. It's not like anyone could stop him.


CHAPTER 30

“It wasn't the typical funeral,” Joseph Banks thought to himself as he packed his belongings from his work desk into a box. If it was any less awkward to be in this town, he probably would have actually packed a little slower and a bit more meticulously. I guess the scene created by the little boy wearing his stupid pink tie made it an easier decision for the company to fire him. Three short weeks ago, he was running up and down the streets feeding ground breaking news to the public. Now, he's packing up everything that he considered his into a little black cardboard box, hoping to outrun the police that he was sure on the way to find him.

He figured that at 2 a.m. In the morning would be a perfect time to get in and out of the office without creating any scene and avoiding any further embarrassment. He walked around the office with his hands on his hips and his tie pulled away from his unbuttoned collar. Looking at all the empty desks shoved into the tight cubicles, he looked at the framed photos that portrayed these happy lives that no one ever seemed to really remember. He walked over to the stereo that sat next to the fax machine and blew the dust off the 4 year old jukebox that has never once filled the air of the news office.

Joseph pushed the power button and to his dismay...nothing. He turned the stereo around and looked for the plug. Joseph bent down to plug the stereo into the wall socket when he noticed a little note that looked like it was folded by a 5th grader ready to pass to his girlfriend. He pushed the plug into the wall and then slid the note into his pocket as he pushed the power button. Hearing nothing but static, he turned the dial until it cleared up the air waves with some heavy guitar riffs and drum lines. Bobbing his head to the music, he stepped away from the radio and fax machine, and then ripped into an air guitar solo that Jimmy Hendrix would be proud of. Rocking and rolling his way around the office, he jumped on top of a desk and belted out the lyrics to the song blaring it's death metal sounds throughout the office.

He jumps off the table and lands on his knees as he dug into his air guitar that he swore was making his fingers bleed. Yelling into his air microphone, he belts out the lyrics as he pulled his tie off and throws it to the imaginary chic that graced his feet with her bra and room number. Settling into his freedom, he skips around the office and makes his way into Calvin's office. Jumping into the big leather chair and spinning around in circles, still yelling the words to the familiar song, his foot kicks over the trash can as the contents pour out onto the floor.

What is this? It looks like a little note. He bends over and picks the note up. Unfolding the little note that was also looked like it was folded by a 5th grader; he leans back in the chair and puts his feet up on the desk.

To whom it may concern:
If ever a time to not read a note...this would be it.

Calvin,
I want to thank you for playing with me. It has been a lot of fun and I hope that we can continue our relationship. I know that it has been very difficult for you to share me with someone else, but for now, that's all I can do. I know that in 3 months, Joseph will know that the baby isn't his and I don't know how he will respond.

Joseph's blood began to boil as he placed his feet back on the ground and slumped over in the big leather chair, resting his trembling arms on his knees as his head dipped toward the floor. His heart pounding out of his chest, he begins to tear up in anger and disgust. He continues to read....

It has been very difficult with his new found fame and I still haven't told him that I'm leaving him after the baby is born. In 6 months, we will be together and life will be blissful. I promise!

Love you,
Cathy

Furious and betrayed, he pops to his feet and reaches into his pocket to retrieve the note found by the fax machine. Scrambling to open it up, he quickly presses the note on the table to smooth it out with his hand.

Cathy,
I saw that little piece of shit camera crew guy waiting for you outside the break room! You devious little bitch!! If you think that I'm going to claim that spawn inside your fucking gut, you're sadly mistaken. Do me a favor and go fuck yourself!!

Fuck off,
Calvin

Devastated and confused, Joseph's teary eyes begin to swell with anger as he wadded the notes up and marched out of the office. He pictured his wife's lips wrapped around Calvin's small dick and he pictured Calvin smearing his seed into her face like an exfoliation treatment. Grabbing his black cardboard box of belongings, he marched out to his car and drove off leaving the sound of the radio blaring pointless commercials in the office.

With the notes still in his hand, he screeches to a halt in his driveway. Slamming the door shut and jogging his way to the front door, he frantically shuffles and searches for the house key. As he pushes the door open, there they stood, waiting for him. Two dark figures dressed in all black, stood silently in the living room shadows.

Dressed in her leather and stilettos, leaning against the wall and filling the room with the smell of menthol, she crosses her arms and looks at him as he pauses in shock and fear. Nate, as fast as a blink, places the barrel of a small 9mm pistol under the chin of Joseph and pulls the trigger, spraying the contents of Joseph's head against the wall and out of the front door, catching parts of the screen door and porch light. Startled by the noise, Joseph's faithless wife comes running around the corner of the room. Nate, without thinking puts a small bullet hole in her forehead as she falls to the floor with a trickle of blood slowly running from the newly placed hole and puddles up into her open eye.

Joseph, laying there with 2 little notes crumpled in his lifeless hand and the top of his head graffiti'd on the wall and ceiling, slowly closes his eyes. Nate walks up to his lifeless body and stares into the blank face of this prophet. With the back of Nate's hand burning from the strategic ink, he takes the pistol that he found in Joseph's nightstand and places it into Joseph's hand. Murder suicide; with little notes giving him the courage and motivation to do the unthinkable.

Carla's heels slowly clicking on the marble tile, walks over to Nate and places her hand on his shoulder as he pauses for a moment while squatted over this prophet's body. “Now...is it my turn?” she asked him as he turns to look at her with his eyes as black as the shadows they stood in.


CHAPTER 31

In retrospect, I guess it could have been worse. I guess that kid dressed in all black and a pink tie could have not said anything. Standing in front of his parent's caskets, he cried into the microphone. He stood there in front of everyone, admitting all the bad things that he did to push his parents to suicide. He fell to his knees, snotted, and wept. The community in frenzy! Men who have used this boy to fulfill curiosity and deviant sexual fantasies stood up and stormed out of the funeral.

Joseph Banks had spent a great deal of money and trust fulfilling his fantasies. There this boy stood, this skinny 14 year old orphaned sadistic child, with his eyes pouring out tears, pointing at Joseph. Joseph, running out of the back doors like more than his career was on the line, left his pregnant wife sitting there with her mouth wide open from the shocking accusations. Who would've thought that dropping so many quarters in the window machine and secret moments in the makeup room would cause such a knee jerk reaction?

The preacher and his secrets being revealed as the boy turned and pointed at him. The boy told of the times that he was choked by rubber balls and rubber covered penis while being strapped to a makeshift cross in the preacher's basement.

Pointing at the coach, whose dead wife was buried just yesterday, the boy told of how he was bent over his desk as the coach shoved his fingers and rod in the boy’s ass...and had pictures to prove it. The whole town and all their secrets being poured out of this kid's mouth like projectile vomit.

There the kid stood. The stories and finger pointing emptying the funeral home like a smoke grenade. I'm sure there was a point to all this. I'm sure there was some sort of motivation. Maybe a mission needing to be completed, but whose point was being proved? Whose agenda was being accomplished? I'm almost sure that our heroes, Nate and Carla, would have loved to see the chaotic mayhem.

While Nate and Carla zapped around the world, preaching their own message and converting their own followers, this boy singlehandedly brought this town and all its secrets to its knees. Pistols being fired through the mouths of the citizens, cars being halted as bodies fell from bridges and high-rise apartments, bathtubs being filled with blood and electrical appliances. All while Nate and Carla unmercifully filled their bodies with gibberish tattoos and unquenchable power.

Who is the real God? Who is the real Devil? Maybe the shape-shifting stranger with a million identities was right the whole time. Maybe this God who sat across the felt table filled with arrogance and poise, wasn't even God at all. Maybe we had it wrong. Maybe the purpose of Nate and Carla was being fulfilled, as these angels of death did the very job they were meant to do. Maybe we aren't judged by the things we do, but the things we don't do?


*

“Nate?” Carla spoke softly, “Why can't I come with you? I thought we were a team?” She asked, as she stood there on top of the world holding his tattooed hand. Her head leaning against his shoulder, they stared out into the vast nothing as he looked down at their joined hands. Confused, he looked at his hand and the writings; when connected to hers, it was completely legible.

“Look!” he said to her with the light in his head finally clicking on, “I can read it.”

Carla, looking down at their hands, sees that while their hands were joined, they created purpose. The tattoos weren't meant to be read alone, but meant to create something more powerful and understood when the two of them were together. Looking at the tattoos and then looking at each other, they smiled from the revelation.

“I'll tell you what...” he said with his eyes hidden behind his glasses, “...I have one thing that I need to do before we really get started.”

Looking at him, she knew what he was thinking. As one, their minds transferred thoughts without speaking a word. She quickly smiled and stood on her tip toes as she leaned in to kiss him. “I'll race you!” she said as she quickly vanished.


*

There he stood, pulling in the smoke from his cigarette, standing outside his childhood home as the sun was setting on the dawn of their future. There was no way that she could beat him here. She didn't even know where he grew up! There was absolutely, no way in the world, she could have showed up before him. Who knows, he thought to himself, maybe the fact that she could read his mind and thoughts have given her the advantage?

Squinting, he pulled the sunglasses off for a second, and flicked his cigarette carelessly across the parking lot. He slowly made his way toward the apartment.

One cigarette, filling the room with the stench of tobacco and menthol, sat on the counter top placed neatly in an ashtray. With an inch of ash still clinging to the red glow of burning tobacco, I notice the lipstick on the filter of the wasted cigarette. A thin small string of smoke slowly lifted toward the ceiling and disappeared into nothing. The ashtray was sitting on the corner of a neatly written letter that was placed there for me to find.

To Whom It May Concern:
He wasn't here.


To Whom It May Concern:
The end...possibly the beginning?

Impressum

Texte: Copyright © 2010 M.J. Garrett All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-1468037562 ISBN-10: 1468037560
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.08.2011

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