Vince continues playing quietly with himself. He is happy and content. And then a forearm snakes around his throat and hoists him off the ground roughly.
He is jarred out of his play as he’s lifted off the ground. He begins screaming and crying, mostly from the shock of being so roughly picked up, but also from the pain and pressure of the arm around his throat. He screams, but he can’t hear himself over the shouts of the others in the room. He feels a mad rush, and then all at once everything is a sense of jarred images: shaken perceptions of the room he is in, as if he’s being jostled about; excited and angry voices; the rush of running people, the crush and mad violence as he is pushed and pulled and shoved; the constriction of his throat, and then the sharp pain as something is held against his temple, the point digging into his flesh, and over it the mad voice of the man who has picked him up. The man is shouting something above the din of the others and he sounds angry and insane. And then there is nothing else but the screaming and the total helplessness of being unable to escape.
The first time he had the dream he came awake gasping for breath, the beginning of a scream lodged in his throat. He’d thrown the covers off his body, his skin tinged with sweat as the nightmare washed over him. Laura had only been gone a month and he hadn’t had what he referred to as his “darkness” dream in months, and then all of a sudden he’s hit with this. That first night he’d climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom where he’d splashed cold water on his face, then leaned over the wash-basin, head bowed, trying to gather his composure. His adrenaline had been pumping and he felt nervous, tingly. He felt like he’d just escaped the clutches of a deranged madman, or the jaws of a slobbering monster. He looked into the mirror at his reflection, ignoring the dark circles under his eyes. “God, that was bad,” he’d said. “That was a bad one.”
He’d tried to get back to sleep that night, but remained awake.
The dream returned a few nights later, more intense and terrifying then the original. The second time he had it he woke up screaming.
The third time the dream came there was an added bonus. As he struggled to free himself from the wild man’s grip, as the madness erupted around him, he felt warm wetness cascading over him, soaking him completely. And then the smell of blood.
He’d screamed himself awake that time.
Vince gazed out the window as the 757 angled into the terminal. Passengers next to him began to rise and gather their baggage. Vince rose to his feet and hung back, waiting until the plane was stopped and people began moving. The elderly woman who’d been seated next to him had already gathered her purse and was standing up, waiting patiently for the aisle to clear. She cast him a warm smile. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Philadelphia,” she said.
“Thank you,” Vince said. He almost said, I hope so too. He didn’t think anything about this trip was going to be enjoyable.
“Are you visiting family?”
“Family.” He confirmed.
“Oh, that’s nice! Cousins? Aunts or uncles?”
“A little of both, actually,” Vince lied. He looked down the aisle to see if it was moving. The plane had finally parked and those that were in first class seemed to be getting up and moving. Vince was halfway back in coach, near the wing. It would be a while before those in the front of the plane cleared the way enough to allow him to leave his aisle.
“Well that’s so nice,” the elderly woman said. She was wearing cranberry colored slacks and a lavender blouse. Her hair was a mix-match of blond and gray, short and curly. She looked to be somewhere between sixty-five and one hundred. “It gives me such joy to see young people like yourself take time out to visit with their families. I think family is a very important thing to have.”
“I agree,” Vince said. The truth was, he didn’t. As far as he was concerned, she could take her concept of the American Family as defined by wherever she’d gotten the myth from—Newt Gingrich, Ralph Reed, whoever—and shove it up her elderly ass. The only thing the concept of the American Family had ever done for him was hurt and scar him.
He turned to glance out the window, making as if to check the weather. What he was really doing was avoiding more conversation. The woman was nice and he was sure she meant well, but if he had to engage in conversation with her for another ten seconds he was going to snap at her and he didn’t want to do that.
She seemed to take his turning away as a hint and settled her sights on the aisle again. Already those that were toward the front of coach were moving into the aisle and down, heading out of the plane. Vince sighed, hoping the crowd would hurry up. He still had to get his baggage, secure a rental car, and drive out to Lititz. And then he wanted to find a hotel and try to catch some winks. He hadn’t slept well at all last night.
The dreams…
Both of them hit him last night, the “darkness dream” followed by the dream in which it felt like he was going to be murdered by the long-haired man. He hadn’t had either dream in months and had come awake with a sudden gasp, the scream on his lips, his body dotted with sweat. The bedroom windows had been open, allowing an offshore breeze to blow through the curtains to help cool down the house. He usually slept better on warm nights with the windows open a crack.
Not so last night. He hadn’t been able to get to sleep at all, and he finally rose around four a.m. and went downstairs to watch TV. When seven-thirty came, he’d called Brian Saunders’ office. Brian had picked up on the second ring. “Brian.”
“Brian, its Vince.”
“Vince! How’re you doin’ this fine morning?” Vince could picture Brian at his desk, immaculately dressed, sport coat hung up on the coat rack in the corner of his office, his chair overlooking the sprawling suburbs of Irvine and north Mission Viejo. Brian Saunders had the best office in the building. “You caught me just in time. I was just about to go down to the cafeteria to indulge.”
“Those breakfast burritos will kill you, bro,” Vince had said, grinning.
“I know, but ya gotta have a vice, right?” Brian chuckled.
“I guess so.” Vince then plunged into the news of his mother’s death with Brian pretty easy. There was no holding back with Brian on anything. Next to Laura, Brian was his best friend. “Listen Brian, I got some bad news last night. My mother passed away and I’ve got a ten-thirty flight to Pennsylvania this morning.”
“My God, that’s horrible!” Brian had exclaimed. He’d become serious almost immediately. “What happened?”
Vince had given him a quick run-down, which really wasn’t much. Brian listened calmly and quietly. When Vince finished, Brian’s voice was low, sincere. “I’m very sorry to hear what happened, Vince. I know… well, I know you two weren’t very close, but still, it’s a horrible thing. It’s a horrible way for her to die.”
“I know,” Vince had said. He’d been sitting on the couch, still dressed in his Bart Simpson boxer shorts. He’d turned down the volume of the TV, which was tuned to VH1. Lenny Kravitz had been singing about an American Woman. “I keep thinking that I should feel differently about all this. I should feel… sad, or… I don’t know…”
“You should be mourning,” Brian had said. “The way you mourned for Laura.”
Vince had nodded to himself. “Exactly. But I don’t. Is that shitty, or what? Here my mother has died—been murdered—and I react as if it was nothing more than a goldfish I had for two weeks that kicked the bucket.”