Death Reports

*** On A Dancefloor, part 1

I'm Sean. 29. The following is what people call life. My life. A summary of my so called life. So called. Why? You'll see. The following is a mixture of the past and present tenses, the fragments from my diary; my death reports; a mixture of my visions and reality, flipping out and coming back down to Earth. Don't even bother to understand me. You won't. You can't...

A strange noise woke me up. Beautiful dreams of drinking a coconut milk far away from the crowded streets of San Francisco, at a Caribbean beach, were torn apart. Like an old rug. I suddenly became aware of the storm that was going wild, of the present tense, as I had tried to reach for a coconut. It wasn't there. Only a half full glass of water which reminded me that the smooth Caribbean sand and deep blue sea should stop expecting me. At least for now.

The room was dark. And cold. The only rays of light were the blinking digits of a clock. 5:00 AM. Suddenly, the storm has stopped. Big, marble like rain drops have stopped falling. The lightnings have stopped reflecting in my eyes. Silence. Silence of the dead.

And it was. I saw her dead body in my flashbacks, visions, as my shrink likes to point out. No, I don't know who she is, I can’t see her face. People are only faceless, lymphatic figures in my visions. That’s what makes me special. If I can call myself that way – sometimes I’m not sure if I’m only dreaming, if I’m sweating because my mind plays tricks on me in my dreams, if I’m sweating knowing that I’m the witness to another murder. Once again.

She was lying there on a red, shabby carpet. Just like in my visions. Her brown hair mixed with red fibers and glitter partially covered her face. A rope like thing, probably a belt, left vivid, purple – blue marks on her neck. Cause of death: STRANGULATION. Tears of pain made her black mascara bleed, forming the little streams on her cheeks. No visible evidence: no blood drops, no significant elements, no footprints. Just an image of a man with a leather belt in my mind.

Sarah. Sarah was her name. She was still lying there on a floor; in a small discotheque owner’s office. Dozens of people marched in and out. The authority people – detectives, crime scene investigators, paramedics and me. I was standing in a corner, holding my hands in pockets, thinking of a murder that happened 18 months ago. 18 months and 7 days ago. That rainy Saturday morning, I lost a part of me. I lost my wife. I found her strangled on the kitchen floor in the same position as this victim, with the same strangulation marks on her neck. No evidence, no motive, no nothing. Just the end of her. The end of me.

Her name was Sarah.

Her murderer has stayed unknown, her death unsolved to these days. A perfect time for another killer on their lethal mission, a time for the first faceless victim to appear in my flashbacks.

I didn’t leave the police. I’ve become a loner. I hardly talk to anyone. Only to suspects. I don’t smile. I always stay aside, far away from the spotlights. Like now. I was still standing there in a corner. Probably for hours. Not a living soul was around. Nor was her dead body. The white line – the only proof that something ever happened here, a masterpiece of my colleagues drawn with a chalk, left a vivid contour of her body position. Just like in my flashbacks.

Today I shed a tear as I was standing in the discotheque office ponderously. Crumbs of fear took over the remains of my heart. Today, 18 months and 7 days after her death, after the countless sleepless nights, 18 months and 7 days of self decaying, I’m standing in this empty room with the same image in my mind – the death of my Sarah. That day I became aware of the fact that “’Till death do us part” came too fast for the two of us..