Memory of a Memory?

     I've been reading the short stories of H.P. Lovecraft on the recommendation of a co-worker. Until now I had no idea my books could be classified as horror stories. I've learned a lot from reading!
     One story in particular 'The Reaminator' brought to mind an episode from my elementary school years long forgotten. I didn't like science class all that much, but our fifth grade teacher, Mr. Cashman, made science more interesting to me. One of our class assignments was to enter the school Science Fair. This was something I always shied away from, but as this assignment made it mandatory there was no escape. Our first step of the assignment was to write a project plan for his review. We were to include a list of the materials we would need. Mine resulted in me having to meet with Mr. Cashman after class.
     My list of required materials included two mice, a pump, plastic tubing with insertion needles, glass beakers, hypodermic needles, copper wires, a dry cell battery and liquid nitrogen. I think of all the items, the liquid nitrogen was the reason for this meeting.
     "Let's discuss your experiment."
     "Okay."
     "Tell me what exactly you plan to do."
     "I'm going to drain the blood from the mice as I pump liquid nitrogen into them to freeze them. Then I'm going to put them in our freezer at home for a week. Then I'm going to pump out the liquid nitrogen and pump the mouse blood back in and then shock them back to life with a charge from the battery."
     "I see. Have you discussed this with your parents?"
     "No. I can't let my Mom know I've put mice in her freezer."
     "How do you plan to buy the the hypodermic needles and the rest of it?"
     "They sell needles at the drug store for diabetics, so I figured they'd be easy to get. The rest I thought you could get."
     "I don't think I can buy liquid nitrogen for you?"
     "Oh. I thought teachers could get stuff normal people can't."
     "Maybe you should come up with a different project."
     "I like this one. I'll just make posters with drawings of how the experiment would go."

     I made three posters which I taped together as a triptych which illustrated the procedures. I didn't win a prize, but I did get an honorable mention. Some people thought I had stolen the idea from some story or comic book I must have read. The truth is, I didn't like to read when I was younger, not even comic books. There was nothing like this on television in the early 1960's. I operated purely from my own imagination.
     Then again, I might have been remembering something I experienced in a future life time.

Lucid Rescue 5

“Mascara?” The unexpected voice startled her causing her to drop the tube into the sink. “No mascara, Daphne. I’ve told you that before. You are a natural beauty. Hold on to your innocent looks for as long as you can, Sweetheart.That’s how Daddy loves you.”

“But I’m not innocent, am I, Sweetheart?” She didn't anticipate the slap that knocked her head into the medicine cabinet mirror. Her face caught the corner of it causing a small bloody gash.

“Great! Now see what you made me do? You can’t come to the party looking like that! You’ll have to stay here and stay in your room. I’ll go alone.” Her father slammed the bathroom door as he left.

Daphne gazed into the mirror fascinated by the power of a little trail of blood. She wondered if perhaps she had just discovered her best weapon of defense. She carefully washed her face with soap and water before applying a cotton ball of alcohol to the cut and applying a bandage. The stinging was mild and didn't last very long. She could live with it.

Daphne turned out the light and walked over to her bed and got under the covers. With visions of cuts and dragons floating around in her head, she certainly had a lot to dream about. She closed her eyes and smiled as she imagined having a scar above her left eyebrow. For starters.

Lucid Rescue 4

Daphne didn’t know what she had hoped the dragon would do for her. Her desire to learn to fly distracted her from asking any other questions. She stopped when she was halfway home. Protection. Protection was the main thing she wanted from the dragon. When she turned to look back, the dragon had left.

Filled with sadness and dread she continued on her way to her tower home. When she reached her street, Daphne caught a glimpse of her reflection a window of a passing car. She was surprised she was still in her nightgown and barefoot.

The next moment she felt a puff of warm air on her neck. The blended odors of cigar and scotch signalled the presence of her father in her room. Any hope of rescue by a dragon was obliterated by a hand searching under her gown. Her father was about to use her again and she was powerless to stop him. Daphne wished she had asked the dragon’s name as though she believed he would hear her cry out.

Her eyes rolled open as she turned away from her father. A red light in the corner of the room  excited her at first with the impression it was the dragon until she recalled his emerald eyes. Her father was running the camera again.

So he’s expecting a performance Daphne thought to herself as tears flowed into her pillow.

“Sleeping Beauty, it’s time you woke up. Wake up, my darling,” her father hissed into her ear. “Maybe this will open your eyes.” A finger penetrated her and yes her eyes sprang open in pain.

“Daddy! Please don’t.”

“I’m not Daddy. I’m Prince Valiant come to wake the sleeping princess.”

“Daddy―”

“No, Prince Valiant. Stick to the story, darling! This will be our best film yet if you’ll play along.”

“I don’t want to! Let me go. I want to get up.”

Her father’s finger stabbed her deeper while his other hand gripped her throat. “You can get up after the princess is awake and Prince Valiant is satisfied! Now get into character like a good girl.”

“I have to go to the bathroom. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Like I said, you don’t leave until the prince has been rewarded for waking Sleeping Beauty.”

The girl throat emitted a sound that said she wasn’t faking. Daphne was about to be sick. He father released his grip. The girl made it to the toilet just in time.

“Be sure to brush your teeth and use some mouthwash before you come back here. I’m resetting the camera. No one’s going to enjoy that little scene. Daphne, are you alright?”

Daphne flushed the toilet and washed her face with cold water. “I’m brushing my teeth.” Actually she was scouring her bathroom for something she could use to end this ordeal, for good.

The make-up tray on top of the flushbox offered a possibility. Mascara.

Lucid Rescue 3

“What do you want to know about flying?”

“Can I fly?”

“Of course you can. Anyone can, although flying is more difficult for humans.”

“Why?”

“Well, have you tried to fly, Daphne?”

“No. I’m too scared of falling.”

“See what I mean? Humans are afraid. They want to get away from something or some one so fear shackles them to the ground.”

“I want to get away.”

“Where do you want to get away to?”

“I don’t care, just away from where I am.”

“In that case, my dear, you’ll have to depend on your feet.”

“Why can’t I fly away?”

“If all you want to do is get away, you have to walk. It’s a rule. You could run, I suppose, but I think you would tire quickly.”

“But why can’t I fly? Wouldn't flying be quicker and easier?”

“Of course if you had somewhere specific to go. Otherwise, it’s the foot trail for you. People do call what you want to do running away. Tell me why you want to run away from home.”

“I can’t.”

“Daphne, I realize asking a woman’s age is considered rude, but I’m curious. How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Fifteen? I thought you’re a young woman of twenty or twenty-one.”

“Mother says I matured early. Otherwise she doesn't speak to me much.”

“Did you argue with your mother?”

“No. No argument. No fight. Nothing. She just stopped having anything to do with me. My mother hates me.” Daphne began to weep. The dragon waited patiently for the tears to stop.

“Is your mother pretty like you?”

“I think she’s prettier. She showed me photographs of herself when she was my age. We’re practically twins. I used to love when we were matching outfits. Mother and I used to spend wonderful Saturdays together going out to lunch and shopping. Sometimes we took in a movie.” Daphne sighed heavily and blotted her eyes with her sleeve. “All that seems so long ago.”

“Why did your outings with your mother stop? Did you want to do those things with girlfriends instead?”

“No, not at all. None of this was my fault. Listen, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You’re supposed to be telling me how wonderful flying is.

“What does your father say about the change in how you get along with your mother?”

“He says all teenage girls experience problems with their mothers. He says a natural rivalry occurs when the little girl starts looking more womanly, if you know what I mean.”

“He thinks your mother is jealous of you? You said the two of you look alike. I assume her figure is as womanly as you say as your own. Why would she be jealous of you?”

“I’m cold and want to go back inside. If you don’t want to tell me about flying,  fine. Don’t tell me, but I want to leave now.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

“How will you get into your room?”

“Like you said, I’ll walk.”

“Goodnight, Daphne.”

“Good-bye, Dragon.”

“Will we see each other tomorrow night?”

“Sorry. I’ll be busy. Tomorrow night is date night.”

“You have a boyfriend, Daphne?”

“No boyfriend, just my dad. He’s taking me out to dinner. He likes to call it our date night.”

“Nice that he takes you and your mother out to a restaurant.”

“Mother doesn’t come with us. Date night is for daddies and daughters only. It’s like a club. Other girls will be there with their dads.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well, good-bye.”

Lucid Rescue 2

The dragon and the young woman sat together at the water’s edge.

“Tell me how life is in the tower and why you never go out with people your own age.”

“I’d rather you tell me, Dragon, how life is when you can fly.”

Dragon turned his head toward the lake and sighed. Water bubbled and a bit of steam rose.

Daphne was enthralled, not afraid as usual when in the presence of someone else.

Lucid Rescue

A young woman sat like Rapunzel at her window watching night devour day. Fog rising from the lake brought her the promise of twilight magic. Fantasy made her a princess held captive by an overprotective father. She believed in her heart he loved her, but his sternness and strict discipline made his affection seem like another of her dreams. Nothing ever happened in her life. Nothing was permitted to happen in her life. She longed to escape into the world below her window. The fog grew denser, erasing the pagoda on the bank of the lake. Something stirred inside her. Anticipation set her senses on alert. Her eyes scanned the hazy but familiar landscape below looking for the source of her excitement. Then it happened.

A pair of brilliant emerald eyes gazed back at her through the window. The reflection of the glass blinded her to the owner of the eyes. Her room towered several stories from the ground. The outside walls were impossible to scale. Who could be looking in at her? She had to find out. She raised the pane.  She felt a puff warm breath on her face. When he said hello in a resonant baritone voice her face warmed from the inside.

“Who are, how did you, what are you standing on?”

She leaned slightly out of the window to look and snapped back as though she were supported by a bungee cord. She had dreamed of a night such as this with a visitor such as she had, but she never really thought―

The face that greeted her was attached to a body that had his feet on the ground. The dragon of her dreams found her. He would rescue her from her tower of isolation and her life would never be the same, or so she hoped.

The dragon understood it wasn't possible for the young woman to invite him inside, so he gallantly invited her out.

“Would you like to walk around the lake with me, Daphne?”

“Would I ever!”

The mist rising from the lake by now was a fog so thick it actually assisted Daphne to climb out the window. She, of course, straddled the dragon and wrapped her arms around his neck as he flew her to water bank. Daphne’s heart practically jumped out of her chest with exhilaration. He had come for her, just as she always wished.

Sons of Abraham

My mission is to expose child sexual abuse by any means possible. I read about it and share that information through Twitter and Facebook. Child sexual abuse permeates nearly everything I write even when I write about synchronicity and the paranormal. Nothing stirs my blood more. Nothing surprises people more whenever they hear about an individual case in the news. Even so there is no activity to which people in general are so blind. I know. I watch. I see how passive people are in textbook situations. Their inattention to the attention strangers give their children makes me want to grab these people’s shoulders and shake them. “Put your phones away and pay attention to your children!” So I write. I write in the hopes that someone will read one of my stories and become more alert. Passivity is a difficult habit to break so I find I need to write and report and repost a lot in order to help people chip away at it.

Pope Francis recently stated that pedophilia is pervasive in families as well as in the Church. This is true. However, Church teachings and religious upbringing often provide the basis for family life, especially in conservative families. Some families still live by the standard that the man is the head of the family. His decisions are absolute and cannot be challenged. His wife and children belong to him, as does the house, the car and even the family pet. Everyone in the household must abide by the beliefs of the ‘man of the family.’

My research into abuse for my novel THE ALTERED BOYS CLUB revealed The Women’s Rights movement of the 1970’s as the catalyst for legislation against domestic violence. Spousal and child assault and battery were criminalized for the first time. So was sex with offspring. Society frowned upon incest, but didn’t deem it criminal until the 1970’s. Astounding.

The reports of child sexual abuse by priests now include abuse by ministers of other denominations as well as rabbis. Recent reports from England include charges against various celebrities and government officials. One element of child sexual abuse that hasn’t changed is the fact the perpetrator is someone the child has met, known, and trusted.

Children will override their own instincts to submit to a parent or to trust someone their parents trust. I write to break blind trust. I write to stir the blood of adults as mine has been stirred. I write with the hope someday I will be free to move on and write about something else.

We cannot continue to act as sons of Abraham blindly sacrificing the lives of children.

Exorcism Of A Story

     Dante laid on his back on his bed in the dark. One tucked hand supported his head. The fingers of the other drummed on his chest. He stared at the ceiling as though anticipating a film to begin.

     A voice said, "Write what you know, about an experience you have had or someone you once met."

     "I don't know anything; can't recall anyone interesting."

     "Then write what I tell you."

     Instantly the room was lit by the light of his computer screen. The cursor pulsed with the rhythm of a tapping foot of a parent or teacher waiting for a directive to be followed.

     "Shall we begin?"

     Dante rose from the bed and placed his hands on the keyboard like a concert pianist. Music began to play and words flowed. The clicking of the keys under his fingers charmed the story out of his being and onto the monitor. When the story was finished he struck the SAVE button. The story had been exorcised to haunt and torture him no more. The man had not realized he had been holding his breath until he sighed with relief.

     Dante returned to his bed in the dark and awaited the arrival of another verbose demon with yet another story to be told. The next one was sure to be stronger; any effort to resist would be met with more torture until the computer screen was filled with words. The writer also realized the cursor would never be sated. Here was his eternity.

Lucid Dreams Of Fire, Smoke And Healing

     I subscribe to Lilou Mace's Juicy Tours on YouTube. Lilou recently interviewed lucid dream instructor Charlie Morley. Afterwards I immediately ordered a copy Charlie's book Dreams of Awakening. This was one of a very few books I finished reading and flipped right back to the beginning to read again. Here was a spiritual practice based on how I have always dreamed! Now I was learning how to use it. I was enthralled to say the very least. I would be reading the book a third time except I gave it away to someone who expressed an interest. 

     Once a person delves into lucid dreaming, the ability to recall dreams grows stronger. Also, the dreamer knows s/he is dreaming while the dream is happening. This was certainly the case with me last night.

     I read a post on Facebook that said in effect we are where we are in life as a result not of circumstances, but rather the choices we made. Given my current circumstances I wanted to discover the instances where other choices might have been which would have lead me on a "happier" path. Other books I've read recently about non-linear time suggest the possibility of revisiting our choices and making alternate selections.

If there was something in my past that I could do over to relieve me my present situation I was all for it. If I could also rid myself of this week old chest cold, so much the better. 

     As I began to drift into sleep, I told myself to pay attention and remember the details of my dream. I stated my intention, "I want to view the particular choices where choosing differently would bring a positive change in my life." My dreams are always like watching a movie, this one featured a voice-over narrator.

     "If you make changes in your life, you will miss meeting some of the people who have mattered to you."

     "No, I don't agree. The people who have played meaningful roles in my life I would have met regardless. I want to see where I might have made better choices. I want to fix this!"

     Suddenly I was in a dark space of indeterminable dimensions. Smoke began to fill the space. I could hear fire crackling all around me as the smoke became denser. I began to cough, both as the person in the dream and the person in bed asleep having the dream. I comforted myself with a reminder that the fire was only a dream. I began coughing a lot and loud. Loud enough I discovered the next morning I woke my roommate whose room is across a hall and we both had our bedroom doors closed.

     I saw various shades of grey in the smoke. I decided to follow the lighter colored bands. I continued to hack and cough as I made my way through the space and eventually outside. In the fresh air and sunshine I turned to look at where I had been. The structure was completely destroyed by the fire. Only smoldering rubble remained.

     "Now what will you do? The records you hoped to see no longer exist," the voice over said.

     "All I can do," I said. "Move on."

     My coughing subsided in the fresh air of the dream. I finished the night sleeping peacefully. I didn't cough at all today.

     My dream freed me of any notion of punishment or bitch-slapped by Karma. I also read recently somewhere that if your path is smooth you're on the wrong path. I am most definitely then on the right path.  

     

    

     

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 8

I watched my visitor as he seemed to walk through some kind of invisible curtain. I called out, “Maybe we’d be more comfortable sitting at the kitchen table.” There was no response and nothing more of my visitor as far as I could see. He seemed to pass into some rent in the air! Does that make any sense? Whatever the Ali Baba passage was neither Open sesame, nor Open simsim were the magic phrases to permit me follow. Buster apparently felt safe enough now to run out from his hiding place behind the sofa to the kitchen door. He still needed to go out. I grabbed a jacket.

As Buster and I strolled, or rather I strolled while Buster sniffed out a suitable spot for his business, I attempted to clear my head. My mind had other ideas. My conversation with Masson Number Two played as an inner audio loop. A couple things he said became magnified with repetition. The main one being that he thought I must have killed the man in the park. Secondly, he had only tracked him on line. On line? What did that mean? I always considered myself to be somewhat a man of the world. After all, didn’t I own a Rambler, Motor Trend’s 1963 Car of the Year instead of a Ford or Chrysler?

I decided I would pay a visit to the local library to do a little research. Somehow the discovery of the meaning of on line was instrumental to understanding Number Two’s message. The library was only a short walk away so Buster and I headed in that direction. I tethered Buster to the empty bicycle rack, gave him a treat and told him, “I’ll be right out, boy.”

All I could find about the secret phrase was that English people don’t stand in line. They queue up or else stand on line. Masson’s statement that he had tracked Number Three on line made no sense. My only option was to give it up, at least for now, and go home.

Buster sprang to his feet when I reached the bike rack. He stood on his hind legs as wolfed softly a couple of times in greeting while pawing the air between us. I untied the lead and squatted to give Buster a hug and to receive his adulations. Buster has a way of kissing my face and sniffing my breath at the same time to see if I ate anything during my absence. Whether I had or not, this was his way of letting me know he expected a treat. I always gave him one.

Buster stopped all of a sudden as we turned the corner onto our street, pulling backward on the lead. Next thing he leapt up and into my arms, which is what he did whenever the boxer was around; the boxer belonging to Masson Number Two. The dog was standing on alert in the middle of the driveway. When he spotted me, he wagged his cropped tail and sat down to await my arrival. My Buster turned to put his arms around my neck and hide his face. Sight of the boxer cheered me as I took it as a sign Number Two and I would be able to finish our earlier conversation. I wanted to understand what he was talking about as well as his reasons for accusing me of murder.

The front door of the house opened. Someone whistled. The boxer stood up and walked toward the door. Just like his master had done, he disappeared into thin air right before me eyes. I closed my eyes and shook my head. The house was exactly as we had left it. The front door was closed. There was so sign of the boxer or his owner. My Buster jumped down and ran to the backyard gate. His fear and affection had managed to allow him to slip out of his gentle lead. I realized then I didn’t have his lead either. Buster was out of sight. I stood alone.

***

The man on the phone instructed me to meet him in the northeast corner of the park near the playground. He said he was bringing someone he was sure I would like to meet. A glance at my watch confirmed he was late. I stood up from where I sat at one of the picnic tables and strolled over to the edge of a grove of trees. I heard a crush of dry leaves behind me, the crack of a baseball meeting a bat, and a flash of white light. Then everything went black. I heard or saw nothing more. A foot to my ribs broke one. I inhaled the pain and released it. More dry leaves blanketed me. My final thoughts struck me as odd since I knew I was dying. I wished I had had a dog. I would have named him Buster.

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 7

I grabbed my jacket, slipped Buster into his gentle lead and opened the kitchen door to go through the backyard. The sight of someone standing on the steps caused me to gasp.

“Detective Sintes! You caught me off guard. Buster and I are just going for a walk. Is there something I can do for you?”

“As a matter of fact, I came to share some information with you regarding the man you found in the park. I think you’ll find this interesting. Might we step inside? I’ll only keep you a couple minutes.”

“Of course, Detective. Just let me free Buster from his lead.” I opened the door and stepped back to allow Sintes to go in. “Stay in the yard, Buster. I’ll be right out.” I watched to make sure Buster wasn’t going to leap over the fence to show off, but he didn’t. I joined Sintes inside.

“So what was so important to bring you all the way over here? You could have phoned, you know.”

“I’m sorry if my visit is inconvenient. Like I said, I think you’ll find what I have to tell you interesting.”

“Well?”

“The man’s name is the same as yours. Masson is spelled with only one s and the last name is spelled m-e-r-s-a-l-t, but to speak it, the names are identical. Quite a coincidence wouldn’t you say, Meursault? You find a man who has died with virtually the same name as you and yet you claim you never met him?”

This news took a while to sink in. I didn’t understand what significance Sintes was attaching to this detail. Obviously, he was making something of it.

“No, I’ve never known anyone who was not family with my name. Certainly, I have never met anyone with a name so close to mine. Why mention this to me?”

“I found it a curiosity. That is all. I wondered if he might be some distant cousin or something like that. There is one other thing you might find interesting.”

“What is that, Detective? Did he also have a dog named Buster?”

Sintes looked at me as though I had presented him with another piece of evidence. “We haven’t determined an address for him yet. When we do and if we find a dog there, you’ll be the first person I tell. The other thing we do know about Mr. Mersalt is that he was due in court to be arraigned for child sexual abuse. It appears our victim had victims of his own.”

My jaw dropped. This was incredulous to me! “Again, Detective, why tell this to me? I’ve told you I didn’t know that man; I had never seen him before.”

“Given how details are emerging, I thought you should know. The public might confuse you with the victim. Some might even try to take justice into their own hands, especially where pedophilia is involved.”

“But the man who did unspeakable things to children is dead. Why should I worry about vigilantes? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You know how people can be sometimes. All it takes is some eager reporter to do an address trace and come up with your address. I’ll do all I can, of course, to keep a lid on that happening. We can’t always control the press. I think you might want to take extra precautions just in case. You have my number. Call me if you notice anyone doing anything out of the ordinary.”

As I opened the door so the detective and I could leave, we heard a blood curdling cry. I pushed past Sintes to see Buster lying in the yard a couple feet from the fence. The dog was obviously in a tremendous amount of pain. Sintes followed me to Buster. Someone had poured acid on him and his fur was melting away.

“How could someone do this to a dog?” I shouted at Sintes.

“I’m calling for an animal control van. We’ll get Buster taken care of. You stay here with him. I’m going to scout your neighborhood. I think our nightmare reporter had just stuck.”

Sintes ran off. I stayed with Buster and talked softly to him. I wanted to pet him, but there wasn’t any place to do that without causing him even more pain. I stretched out next to him on the grass so we could gaze into one another’s eyes. I still clutched his lead in my hand. “Hang in there, buddy. Help is coming. You’re going to be all right. I have your lead. We’ll go for that walk later. Just stay with me.”

Suddenly I heard a strange sound. I thought it must be the rescue team. “Hear that Buster? The medics are here. You’re going to be better in no time.”

The strange noise didn’t seem to get nearer, nor did it stop. I rolled to my other side. I reached out and turned off my alarm clock. Buster was standing on the bed next to me where he had dropped his lead to breathe into my face. In times such as this, dog breath is as sweet as violets.

“Okay. Okay. Buster, give a guy a chance to wake up, will ya?”

I got up, used the toilet and washed my face. Buster was eager to go outside and was being a nuisance. I managed to dress and slipped his gentle lead on him. As I opened the door to leave the house, I heard a huge explosion. An electrical transformer must have blown up. Ozone filled the air. To top it off, there was a man standing on the steps ready to enter. He had keys in one hand and a dog lead in the other. His dog was a boxer whom I felt like I knew. Buster definitely recognized him. He ran to the security of the backside of the sofa. The man seemed vaguely familiar and then he spoke.

“So it’s true!” he exclaimed. “There are two of us!”

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

“Does the name Masson Meursault mean anything to you, sir?”

“Of course it does. That’s my name.”

“Mine, too. This here is my dog Buster. I think your dog’s name is also Buster. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I replied with some hesitancy.

“I don’t know how long we have, but we definitely need to talk. Do you mind if we go to the living room?”

“What would we possibly have to talk about?”

“Survival, Masson, our continued survival. It’s highly unorthodox that we’re meeting like this. I think it must have something to do with the man we discovered in the park.”

“Wait a minute! What do you mean we discovered in the park? I found the body in the park. You weren’t there.”

“Actually I was. You and I are both the same. We’re separated by time. The man we found is also us. He was a pedophile. I think you must have killed him. I only found the man on line.”

“I think you’re right.”

“You mean you did kill him?”

“No, of course not. What I mean is I think you should come in so we can discuss this further in the living room. It’s right this way,” I said trying to be gracious.

“I know. Let’s be quick. Like I said, I don’t know how long we have for this visit.”

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 6

“Masson, I have read through your journal. There are no dates on your entries. Do you write in your journal every day?”

“I record my dreams when I awaken. Sometimes there may be several entries for a single night. In my dreams there is no timeline, so I never thought to structure my journal that way. I sometimes think I am living, or I suppose I should say dreaming, in several dimensions of time. That last entry you read seems to indicate at least two layers are collapsing.”

“How do you feel about this?”

“Concerned. Disturbed I guess you’d say by the possible implications.”

“How so, Masson?”

“Doctor, assuming the theorists are correct. We lead multiple lives in multiple dimensions of time. If, as you say, at least two of mine are converging what are the consequences to me?”

“What makes you think anything unpleasant would result?”

“Isn’t that evident, Doctor? In one instance I hold to two opposing views: I don’t know what a phone number is and I recite one. A phone number, I might add, belongs to me. I know I am not insane, but don’t you think this dichotomy implies I am insane?”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m here for your opinion and advice. How I feel doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as how I seem to you and other people with whom I come into contact.”

“You seem like a rational man, Masson. People we deem to be insane have difficulty distinguishing between what is real and what is fantasy. Can you?”

“Tell reality from fantasy you mean? Of course I can.”

“How?”

“I just know.”

“But how do you know?”

“Well, for one thing in my dreams I have a dog named Buster who is devoted to me and always with me.”

“I assume you don’t have a dog?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about my not having a dog?”

“You say you know you’re dreaming when you have a dog. Obviously you would like to have canine companionship. In your journals you write about Buster as your best friend. Is having a best friend a fantasy of yours rather than a reality, Masson?”

“When I was a kid I had a dog named Buster. He and I went everywhere together. He died. You can’t replace a friend. So when I dream, I have a dog named Buster.”

“What kind of a dog was your friend Buster, Masson?”

“My dad always called him a Heinz 57.”

“I noticed in your journal that Buster is never the same breed. Sometimes he’s a Jack Russell. At other times he’s a Boxer. Two very different dogs with very different temperaments. Neither of them a Heinz 57 as you say. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I honestly don’t know. I like them both. I like all kinds of dogs actually.”

“Yet you don’t want to have one live with you.”

“No.”

“Our time is up for today. Take your journal with you. Let’s see if your dreams change now that we have discussed them. I’ll be interested to read your entries next week.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Just one more thing; I have to ask: do you think I am losing my mind?”

“That is not for me to say. I am simply a tour guide. Let’s meet at this same time one week from today.”

***

As I finished writing about my visit with the doctor, I paused and considered dating it. Before I could even think what the date was Buster jumped up and the bed with his lead dangling from his mouth. He thought it was time the two of us went for a walk!

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 5

I don’t know how I came to be seated in another office, just that I was there for an interview. The line of questions seemed to be designed to trip me up, you know, to confuse me into saying something I didn’t mean to say. Some of the most basic ones left me wanting for a proper answer. Of course, I knew my name. Masson Meursault is difficult to get wrong.

“What is you address?”

“If you mean to ask where I reside, obviously you know that already. You had me brought here, didn’t you?”

“For the record, Mr. Meursault, we have to ask. You do understand.”

“I’m not sure I understand your question. I live at Quarter House about five miles out the south post road.”

“Yes, but what is your street address?”

“Pardon?”

“How do you receive letters and parcels, etcetera?”

“Why, they’re delivered of course to my home.”

“And that is where?”

“I’ve just said. Quarter House. It’s about five miles out the south post road.”

“Fine. Let’s move on then. What is your phone number?”

“Phone number? I don’t know what that is. I’m sure I don’t have one.”

“How do people make contact with you?”

“The same as everyone. A stable boy of someone comes to the door with a note. If a reply is expected he waits while I write one otherwise, he leaves. Either way, I give him a coin for his trouble and he leaves. What an odd question, I must say.”

“So you don’t own a phone?”

“As I said before, I don’t know what one is so my answer must be no.”

Even as I said this, a strange series of numbers sprang into my mind. Sometimes the strangest ideas come to me without the slightest effort on my part. As I’m not a particularly creative person I don’t understand the why or wherefore of them. Under the circumstances I believed it best to keep that to myself. I lowered my hand for my dog Buster. He wasn’t there. His absence greatly distressed me. He is always at my side.

“Where’s my dog? Did you leave him home alone?”

“We didn’t notice a dog. Do you have one?”

“I wouldn’t have inquired about a dog I don’t have now would I? His name’s Buster. You must have seen him when you brought me here.”

A younger man standing silently at the door now spoke, “Sorry, but there was no dog, sir. Perhaps he had gone outdoors.”

“Perhaps. Not likely though.”

My last statement made little sense. I could feel myself slipping into a kind of fog. With Buster I felt lost without a compass. My senses were fading. The strangest thing happened next.

“5-5-2-9-9-9-0-2-4-6,” I recited as though from some memory. I witnessed the interviewer writing it down and then I fainted.

“Masson, do you realize you recited your phone number?”

“I need to find my dog.”

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 4

Buster finally released me, but only so I could take him outside.

I never bother with putting a leash on him. Buster is so closely bonded to me there has never been any chance he would run away from me, even to chase a squirrel. As grey and misty as it the day is he will stay especially near to me.

When we arrive at the park, Buster spots a Jack Russell terrier he has tried to make friends with several times. The terrier wants nothing to do with my dog, so Buster curbs his enthusiasm and acts nonchalant. This morning, the terrier spouted off a series of short little barks as though he wanted Buster’s attention. Maybe there’s a chance for Buster and him to be friends after all. Buster totally ignores him and trots off to explore some underbrush. I wanted to get a look at the dog’s owner. I thought if we acted friendly, our dogs would follow suit. The foggy mist of the morning blocked my view. Man and dog seem to only be around on gloomy days like this. They went off on their own walk while I tried to determine where Buster had gone.

Suddenly there was a cry, no a wail, a howl. “Buster?” I yelled. “Where are you?” I had never heard Buster sound so mournful before. I was afraid he had gotten hurt somehow.

When I found him, he was resting his head on the waist of a man lying on the ground. “Buster! What’s the matter, boy?”

Buster raised his head and ran to me. He flung his paws around my waist to hug me. He was whimpering his relief that I was there. I hugged him back and quietly reassured him everything was all right. After a few minutes, Buster let go of me and walked back over to the body on the ground. He tapped the shoulder trying to wake the man. Nothing happened. Buster looked to me to do something.

“C’mon, Buster. Let’s go home and call the police.”

Buster lay down next to the man. I could go call the police. He would guard the body. I said okay. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere else.”

Buster laid his head on the small of the man’s back. I knew he would still be there when I returned.

When I arrived home, I called the emergency line. I told the dispatcher about the body. He said the police would be there shortly with an ambulance. “An ambulance won’t be necessary,” I replied.

“The medical examiner would need to transport the body for identification and autopsy,sir.”

“Oh, yeah, I didn't think of that. The man is obviously dead. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.”

“Please make sure no one disturbs the area.”

“My dog stayed with the body to guard it. No one will get near there.”

“Is your dog trained for rescue?”

“He might have been. I adopted him from a shelter. I better get back over there or the police won’t be able to do their job.”

I arrived just as the police and the ambulance team parked their vehicles. When Buster saw help had arrived he came to me. Something was off. Boxers always have a sort of melancholy look, but he was visibly disturbed by all this. He apparently didn’t want to let the dead man out of his sight. All in all strange behavior considering we didn’t know the man.

Buster and I were politely thanked and sent on our way. “We’ll take it from here, sir,” said a man who identified himself as Detective Sintes. “If you wouldn’t mind giving this officer your contact information, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. No problem.” I turned to the officer who had pen and pad on the ready. “My name is Masson Meursault.”

“Wait a minute! I thought I recognized you. We’ve met before.”

“I don’t know how that’s possible, Detective. I haven’t had any contact with the police before, not even for a traffic ticket.”

“No, your name is familiar to me. We have met before. Officer, give Mr. Meursault and Buster here a ride home.”

“How do you know my dog’s name?”

“I heard you call him a few minutes ago.”

“I didn’t call him. He came to me on his own.”

“Maybe that’s how I know you. Through your dog, I mean. At any rate, the officer will give you both a ride. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

The detective rejoined the forensics team. Buster and I got into the squad car to be driven home. As I pulled the car door closed lightning struck the very spot were the detective and I had been talking. Buster climbed onto my lap and nuzzled his face under my arm. What a strange series of events! First Buster finds a dead body, then the police detective thinks he knows me, definitely knows the name of my dog and then we are nearly struck by lightning as we leave the park. The Universe was trying to tell me something, but what?

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 3

The drive to Hermitage didn’t take very long, but the distance was much too far to walk. I made a note of this to remind myself of the fact that anything I saw or thought I saw was a dream. Buster and I would not have walked this far at night. The sunny skies of Rialto Township where I live changed to grey by the time I reached Hermitage. There was no rain, but as I passed the welcome to Hermitage sign a nuclear flash of lightning occurred that was followed by blast of thunder that seemed to break the sound barrier. Fortunately, I found an available parking place close to the entrance of the police station and hurried inside.

A man with a solid build and wearing a navy suit greeted me. “May I help you?” he asked.

I smiled. I felt nervous and the smile was forced. I always smile too broadly whenever I feel apprehensive. I grew up being told that strange dogs would bite if you smile and don’t act nervous. I believed my smile had failed its purpose so I prepared to be mauled.

“I’m Masson Meursault here to see Detective Sintes.”

“Sintes would be me,” he said. He offered his hand, so we shook hands. I was surprised and happy mine was not clammy. “Come this way. We can talk in private.”

I followed him down a hallway and into a room I expected to be his office. Instead we were in the interrogation room.

“Have a seat,” he said indicating a chair facing the one-way glass. “May I offer you anything? Coffee, a soda, a bottle of water?”

“No thanks.”

“Just as well. I can’t vouch for the age of the coffee,” Detective Sintes said seating himself in a chair opposite me. “So tell me why you called this morning.”

“Like I said on the phone. I noticed something in the photo that the reporter didn’t mention. I thought perhaps it had been overlooked.”

“What was it you saw?”

“The large branch on the ground a few feet away from the body.”

“Oh, yes. What do you think is significant about some old branch, Mr. Meursault?”

“There was blood on it.”

“Really? How would you know this?”

“I saw it when my dog and I discovered the body.”

“When you ―? When was this?”

“Last night when I took my dog out for his last walk of the night before going to bed.”

“You discovered the body last night? Why did you wait until this morning to call the police? Actually, you didn’t call to report the body. Instead you called because you thought a newspaper account left out some details. Is that right?”

“Well, yes and no. You see. I know this is going to sound crazy. My dog and I weren’t in Hermitage Park. In my dream, I guess, we were in our usual park close to home.”

“Where’s home, Mr. Meursault?”

“Rialto Township.”

“Do you consider yourself to be psychic, sir? Is this visit because of some impressions or a vision you had?”

“No, I’m not a psychic. There seemed to be some sort of synchronicity between the dream I had last night and the article in the morning paper is all. The scenes seemed to be very similar. That’s all.”

“So in your dream, Mr. Meursault, how did the victim die?”

“He had a sizable dent, if you will, in the back of his head which had bled a lot. I noticed blood on the branch. I figured the killer bashed his head in from behind.”

“Interesting. Anyone else in your dream?

“No. Why do you ask?

“Well, if someone was, shall we say, servicing our guy from the front and he was hit with a tree branch from the back, there must have been at least one other person there. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose that sound reasonable. However, in my dream there wasn’t anyone else there.”

Sintes didn’t comment right away. My imagination ran wild. I knew what must have been passing though his mind, but I didn’t need to prove that I was right. I remained silent.

“Mr. Meursault, did you know the victim?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Please don’t be offended by my next question, Mr. Meursault, but I have to ask. Did you have sex with the victim at any time before he was killed?”

“I’m not offended but I am surprised you would ask such a question, Detective. My answer again is no, I did not last night or at any other time have sex with that young man.”

“How can you be so certain? Did you turn him over to take a look at his face?”

“I never touched the corpse. I know because I’m not in the habit of going to city parks or any other public places for blow jobs. Anything else you’re curious about, Detective?” I smirked when I asked him that. I don’t know why. An involuntary response to his accusation of lewd behavior on his part I suppose. A tic. My smirk was the one thing about the initial meeting I wish I could edit out. Write a new direction. Do another take.

“I apologize, Mr. Meursault. I realize my question seems out of line to you. You are offended by it, I can tell. I do sincerely apologize. I have several gay friends who would all give me hell right now if they had been here. I had to ask because there was something I had to find out about you.”

“So, what did you learn?”

“I know that sex in public revolts you. You don’t approve of it. My friends don’t either. I know you are an honorable man. You are here trying to do the honorable thing by offering the details you saw in your dream in an attempt to help me solve this case.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“That is why I must ask you one final question. Did you kill that young man?”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve told you I didn’t know him. I have never seen him before. Why do you know think I killed him?”

“I think you might have come across the victim getting his jollies with whomever while you were out walking your dog. You became incensed at their despicable behavior. You picked up the nearest weapon at hand, that tree branch, and you struck the young man over the head not to kill him, but to stop what he was doing. You hit him harder then you intended and he fell over dead. You felt guilty about it this morning so you call and come in to tell me about some dream you had so you can talk about it without having to confess to manslaughter. Isn’t that really what you’re up to, Mr. Meursault?”

“No, sir!” I tried to sound indignant, but my voice trembled.

Thunder punctuated my last statement. The room started spinning. I fell to the floor. The next thing I knew I was laying on my back with a weight on my chest and dog breath in my face which was chilling the saliva that had been slathered on me. I opened my eyes to Buster’s smiling face. I was on the floor of my kitchen. Shards of mug and splattered coffee surrounded me.

“Let me up, Buster. C’mon, boy. Yes, you’re top dog today. I surrender. Now let me up like a good dog.”

Buster leaped off and sat down a short distance away. He looked amused at my efforts to get up from the floor.

“Don’t just sit there. If you can’t help me up, get a broom and sweep up this mess.”

Buster cocked his head like he thought I was crazy. I’m not you know. My name is Masson Meursault and I am not insane. I am not psychic and I am not insane. I also am not as young as I used to be. I rise from the floor feeling quite stiff and sore. I have no idea how long I was on the floor nor how I happened to be there. Some things simply happen. I can’t begin to explain them all. Two things I do know for sure are my name is Masson Meursault and I am not insane.

Sometimes I Kill Myself Part 2

“This just in. The body of a young man thought to be in his early to mid-twenties was discovered in a park in Hermitage early this morning. The semi nude man, yet to be identified, is thought to have gone there for a sexual encounter. Anyone with any information is encouraged to contact the Hermitage police department or by calling the anonymous tip hotline 5-1-1.

***

I turned off the car radio and drove the rest of the way to Hermitage in silence. I wanted to consider carefully now the implications of what I had started. What were the police up to? What evidence made them think this anything other than a possible robbery? Sure, the man’s pants were down, but he was wearing underwear. His attacker could have made him drop trou to allow more getaway time. What made the police suspect a tryst with a not happy ending?

Suddenly, offering my bits of insight didn’t seem like such a good idea. I never expected to be party to a sex crime. Was I to be considered a possible suspect? After all, is a gay man with no attachments to anyone, sexual or even romantic, who comes forward to say he knows something about the death of a man found seminude in a park to be presumed innocent? I pulled into a gas station. The gas gauge showed the tank was down barely a quarter, but I needed time to think this through and something to do while I did so.

If I were to turn back, the detective only has my last name. Did the police have time to trace my phone? Do police stations have caller I.D.? If the police do know where I live and I don’t show up do I look guilty or just capricious? Oh, what to do? What to do? I had a dream was all. There have been several dreams like this one involving the dead body of a stranger I later read about in the newspaper. Why did I choose this particular dream to share with the authorities? What possessed me? Why am I agonizing over this?

I have done nothing wrong. I saw something in a dream, I think. I noticed something in a newspaper photograph I thought was being overlooked. I wanted to bring attention to a detail in the photo, not to myself in anyway. Certainly I didn’t intend to be attached to a sex crime investigation. I heard about things like this happening before. An innocent bystander steps forward intending to help, but his story gets twisted around and he ends up being arrested for the crime. Poor Buster! If I go to jail, who will take care of him?