Death Reports

*** On A Dancefloor, part 4

Sometimes, most of the time, all of these scratches I write seem like the expressions of my madness. Like I contradict myself. Like you see two sides of me. No, no. Like I’m holding back my emotions, my true self, like you only see the evil side of me. No, that evil side is the only side. Of me.

I actually can’t call it that way. I’m just not interested; I’m not keen on living. Once I find my wife’s murderer, my life, or whatever you call it, will be over. Literally. Physically. Spiritually, I’m already gone.

I think of her murderer a lot. I’m trying to picture them. Him. I’m sure it’s him. I’m trying to find a motive. It doesn’t exist. I’m trying to get inside his mind, to think like a murderer. I can’t. I want it that much, too much that I fail. Each time. All the time.

“Like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams,” that’s how I feel. I can’t sleep. And this bulb is killing me. Blinking and hurting my eyes. I can hardly keep them open. When I close them, the images appear again. Haunt me again. I can’t fight them. Escape them. Ignore them. The images are all that I’ve got. And my visions.

Pills don’t help. Not to me. Like I’m jinxed.

When my wife died, I didn’t leave the house for 20 days. A police photographer took photos of the crime scene. Cleaned it up. Then I locked the door. And myself. I shut myself down. I shut myself off. I’ve never accepted her death. I never will. Maybe it stops me from acting like myself. Like I used to. Maybe.

Thousands of “no’s” came out of my mouth that day. Thousands of them I kept inside. I snapped. Literally.

The forensics were compelled to drag me from her dead body. To calm me down. They were half successful. Partially successful. I didn’t have enough strength to resist them. I wasn’t that hale and hearty.

I remember them staring at me. Every single one of them. I was kneeling over Sarah’s body, trying to bring her back to life. That wish never came true. They dragged me to our bedroom. Sat me on the bed.

I wasn’t aware of anything anymore. I remember a glass of water in my hand. And colorful pills. I passed out. I fainted. When I regained consciousness, everything was peaceful. Almost scary. She wasn’t there anymore. She was gone. Once again, I wasn’t there for her. With her.

I spent 2 days in the room, losing and regaining consciousness. 48 hours of struggle. Or the beginning of it. The beginning.

I heard the knocks on my front door. I heard the doorbells. I don’t know who it was. I didn’t care. I was out of life. Out of everything. A few days later, I found a pile of newspapers in front of the door. I started to collect them. Like kids collect the baseball cards.

That’s all I recall. That much. Not much.

My visions appeared around that time. All of a sudden. I ignored them. Blame me. Go on, blame me. I visited a shrink twice. Mr. Dreyfuss. Two sessions. I never came back. He told me that I always had these visions stashed in my mind. I just needed some “special circumstances” to let them burst. To let them out. To let them haunt me.

I wish I hadn’t. I wish that those special circumstances had never happened. I wish she hadn’t died. Wishes. Empty wishes.

I rarely go home. I walk, holding my head down, fighting my demons. My visions. Even now, at 4:00 AM, I’m losing my mind at the precinct. Writing. Filling up the dead reports. Marking them red. Marking them unsolved.

And that lamp on my desk that had made me crazy, finally died. Finally. Now I’ll sit back and decay some more. And more…