(Un) Sound Mind

by Richard Amico

  Movement at the bed caught his attention. Covers flew into the air as the woman clawed and punched at the man leaning over, pressing her to the bed. His hands were wrapped tightly around her neck, his fingers and knuckles white from the pressure of squeezing her throat. Blue veins pulsed at her temples and her eyes bulged as she kicked and pushed against the footboard of the bed. Her fists bounced off his body. The man was oblivious to all but the act he was intent on completing.

  Franklin stood immobilized by the horror all around him. He should be doing something to stop this. He should pull the man off her, or at least hit him with something, but he couldn’t move. He looked at his feet. “Take a step, you coward,” he said, but he didn’t move. He was frozen in time, frozen in space. He couldn’t do anything.

  “Stop,” Franklin shouted, hoping to distract him long enough for the woman to take a breath. To divert the man’s attention even for a second could prolong her life. Her attacker didn’t turn; he didn’t pause. It was as though he hadn’t heard Franklin’s voice. Franklin shouted again, “Leave her alone, you…” He stopped midsentence. Not only had the man not heard his plea, but Franklin hadn’t heard his own words either.

  Suddenly Franklin realized that he didn’t hear anything, nor had he heard anything since he entered the bedroom. Not the man grunting as he strained to hold the woman to the bed while she struggled to breathe. Not the sound of her feet kicking at the footboard. He didn’t hear the thud of the man’s hand as he released her neck and struck her face with his fist or the slash of the scissors, ripping through her flesh again and again.

  It was about this time that Franklin began to realize that the events he was watching unfold could not be real. A half-naked woman running into his bathroom? A murder taking place in his bedroom? These were the things of science fiction novels—or nightmares.

  He slapped his own face as hard as he could. He didn’t feel it. He looked around the room carefully for the first time. There was a fireplace on the far wall that didn’t belong there. The dresser was similar to his, but on the wrong side of the room. Even the bed was wrong; it had posts and a canopy. Nothing in this room was familiar. It wasn’t his room. He was in a strange house, and now he knew. He knew that none of this was real; it was all a dream, a nightmare. He was probably still asleep at home in his bathtub.

  Franklin took a deep breath and slowly exhaled into the silence. He felt relieved knowing that he would awaken from this nightmare, but he still felt uncomfortable—and guilty. He hadn’t done anything to help this woman, even if it was only a dream. He just stood by and watched a horrible beating inflicted on a defenseless woman by a maniac.

  Drip! Drip! He cocked his head to one side and listened to the new sound. Franklin looked down. Water was dripping from his wet bathrobe onto the floor. The dripping sound became louder and louder until the room shook as each exploding drop hit the hardwood floor. Franklin covered his ears with both hands. Suddenly the room erupted into an ear-shattering cacophony of sound, as though a switch had been thrown and the volume turned to its maximum level. The woman was screaming a blood-curdling scream. There was a crash as a lamp shattered on the floor. He heard the loud crack of breaking wood as the footboard of the bed gave way under the frantic kicks of the woman’s feet.

  All the sounds previously absent swelled into a deafening crescendo of ear-splitting noise. Franklin pressed his hands tighter to his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and yelled, “This is my dream—you have to stop!” But the man didn’t stop. He raised the bloody scissors high and thrust them again and again into her twitching body. Seconds later there was silence again. The woman lay still on the bed. She no longer struggled for breath, her arms limp at her sides and her legs now lying still, on top of the broken footboard.

  Now that Franklin knew he was dreaming, and that these people were figments of his imagination, he could move among them without fear.

  He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at the battered body. Her face looked somewhat familiar, but her features were distorted from the punishment of the attack. The remnants of her torn nightgown had been raised almost to her waist by her frantic kicking during her last moments alive. Franklin could see a pattern showing through the sheer fabric covering her right hip. He lifted the swatch of bloodied cloth and exposed a small tattoo: a tattoo in the shape of a yellow rose.

  Franklin jumped back; the man bent over and seemed to pass right through him. He lifted the dead weight of the woman’s body from the bed and carried her out of the room, down the stairs.

  Franklin followed him as if in a trance. He felt detached. He was there, yet he knew this was a dream, and he was really safe at home asleep, and none of this was really happening. He followed the masked man out of the house, through the garage, and watched as he placed the body in the trunk of a car. Franklin touched the silver midsize late-model car, not much different in size and shape than his own car. Since he was sure this was a dream, Franklin tried to pass through the closed door of the car and sit in the backseat. He was astonished to find that he could. It was like being a ghost. Moments later the killer started the car and drove out of the neighborhood. Franklin looked out the window and saw a woman walking a large gray dog. The dog pulled at the leash and barked at the passing car. She was almost jerked off her feet but steadied herself by clinging with one hand to a sign that read Golf Cart Crossing. The old woman stared at them as they sped away.

  Soon the driver came to a stop on a small bridge over a rain-swollen stream. He took the body from the trunk of the car and dropped it over the side of the bridge into the fast-moving water. Franklin watched the body, carried by the swift current, disappear into the darkness. He closed his eyes and wished that this dream was over. He waited for the car to start moving again, but it did not. As he reopened his eyes, he saw that he was no longer in the backseat of the murderer’s car. He was now alone and in the driver’s seat of another car, his car, and it was parked in his driveway just where he always parked. Franklin looked down at the wet bathrobe he was still wearing and began to shake and rock back and forth in his seat. What insanity had entered his dream? What had happened to him, or more importantly, what had he done?

  9

  Franklin pulled into the circular driveway and parked in one of the spaces to the right of the large colonial house. He raised his collar and held it close against his neck as he walked down the flagstone path leading toward the front entryway.

  “Good to see you,” shouted Elaine Green as she walked down the white marble steps from the large mahogany double-front doors. “It’s been quite some time since you’ve paid us a visit.”

  Elaine was bundled against the cold in a leather coat topped with a collar Franklin recognized only as some kind of exotic fur—maybe bobcat. He remembered stories Hyrum had told him about Elaine’s college days. She was a fighter for causes back then. The environment and animal rights were the vanguard of her crusade. Franklin wondered whether age or affluence had had a greater numbing effect on her principles. He decided that it was probably money that had changed her view of the world.

  He remembered the changes that had taken place in Myra as their wealth grew. When they first met, she was a vegetarian and wouldn’t even sit at the same table where animal products were being served. After Franklin earned his first few million, crown roast of beef and lobster became staples on her dining table. She’d never succumbed to a desire for fur, but leather coats and alligator boots were rationalized purchases that found their way into her closet. Franklin really had no right to cast aspersions. He had wholeheartedly embraced Myra’s proenvironment convictions when she professed them, then just as quickly he gobbled the roast beef to the last morsel when her views became, shall we say, less puritanical.

  “Have you been waiting outside in the cold for me?” Franklin asked with a smile.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m on my way out. Hyrum is in his study; go right in.”

  She watched as Franklin negotiated the stairs using his
cane and offered him her arm for support since there was no railing. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek as he reached the top step. Elaine smiled and walked toward her car.

  Franklin stepped through the front door into the spacious foyer and started down the long tile hallway to Hyrum’s study. Along the walls of the hall were photographs of Hyrum and Elaine taken over the years. There were pictures in ski outfits, on horseback, and even a picture of Hyrum in scuba gear. Franklin hadn’t realized that Hyrum was so athletic, or that his own dental work had paid for such lavish vacations.

  “Are you busy?” Franklin asked as he peeked into the study.

  “Franklin, I’m glad you came. Sit and talk for a while.”

  “I was just looking at how much vacation a root canal can buy. Where are you off to this year?”

  “There’ll be no vacation this year, at least not for both Elaine and me. She’ll go on a trip, and I’ll stay here and work. Insurance companies have cut back so far on their payments that I have to see three times the number of patients I treated two years ago just to make enough money to keep my head above water. It’s criminal, but you didn’t come here to hear my tale of woe. How are things with you?”

  Franklin sat in a Chippendale chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head down. “Hyrum, something strange is happening to me. I’m having horrible dreams, and I’m afraid the nightmares are affecting my mind.”

  Hyrum opened his mouth to reply in his normal wisecracking style, but stopped short. He saw the fear in Franklin’s eyes. He looked vulnerable and confused. Hyrum decided to listen instead.

  Franklin began to chronicle each of his dreams in detail. Hyrum listened, totally engrossed in Franklin’s story. He was particularly interested in the murder dream and moved to the edge of his seat as Franklin described his feelings of helplessness when he could not alter the woman’s fate. Hyrum rubbed his chin with his hand and scratched his head, trying to think of something to say that might ease Franklin’s pain.

  “Have you been reading murder mysteries before going to bed, or maybe watching the news on television?” Hyrum asked.

  “Not more than usual, but that’s not the worst part. I think I’ve been walking in my sleep. Two nights ago I woke up in my car, and now I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

  “That’s it?” Hyrum said. “Lots of people walk in their sleep. It doesn’t mean you’re losing your mind. Aside from the sleepwalking, is there anything else unusual that’s happened recently?

  “Well, I’m embarrassed to say this…”

  “Please, we’re friends; you can tell me anything.” Hyrum leaned still closer.

  “I was talking to myself the other day.”

  “Franklin, everybody talks to themselves now and then. It’s normal.”

  “But I was answering myself, Hyrum. I don’t feel normal.”

  “Have you thought about professional help? If this were a gum infection, I could tell you what to do, but this is out of my league.”

  Franklin thought of telling Hyrum about his session with Dr. Klein. There was no shame in receiving professional help, but since Hyrum’s office was in the same building and just down the hall from Dr. Klein’s office, he was afraid his friend and his psychologist might compare notes about him. Intellectually he knew that would never happen, but if he had any trust left for his intellect, he wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.

  “No, I think I just need to get some rest. Everyone has nightmares now and then, right?” Franklin said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Maybe you’re psychic,” Hyrum said. He didn’t know why, but somehow he thought it would be helpful if he could offer a reason for Franklin’s dreams.

  “What?”

  “Maybe you’re psychic. One of your dreams was about a burglary, and there have been many in the area lately. Maybe the burglary you dreamed of really happened,” Hyrum said, hoping this suggestion might quell Franklin’s appetite for a diagnosis of his fears.

  “You know, that could be. Maybe the burglary happened just as I dreamed it did, but it happened to someone else. Or maybe it didn’t happen yet. Maybe it was a premonition.” Now Franklin became excited. “You know, I dreamed of a wolf, and then two days later I read that one had escaped from a preserve in New Jersey. I’ll have to think about that.” Franklin paused and stared at the floor.

  “What’s wrong now?” Hyrum asked. “I thought the possibility that you had a talent, an ability to see the future, would make you feel better.”

  Franklin hadn’t thought about his dreams being premonitions. If it were true, it would explain the detail and intensity of the dreams. It would mean that he was not going insane; on the contrary, he was gifted. But there was a downside to that scenario. If he was psychic and the dreams were harbingers of the future, then a woman was about to be brutally murdered. Franklin didn’t want that to be true. He wanted his dreams to be just dreams with no real meaning. They had to be.

  “It should make me feel better, but if it’s true that my dream was a premonition, then that means that a woman will be murdered in her bedroom,” Franklin said, his voice beginning to crack.

  Hyrum thought for a moment. “It means no such thing,” Hyrum said. “I’m sure I’m wrong. I’m sure they’re not premonitions, only dreams. Tonight you’ll dream that the same woman is alive and well. It’s all fantasy.”

  Franklin decided that this conversation was not helping and decided to end it.

  “Well, thank you for the input,” Franklin said. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m just overtired. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Franklin, Elaine won’t be back until late. Why don’t we grab a couple of beers and go into the living room? You need a distraction. Let’s try to forget about your dreams for a while and watch some television, preferably a comedy.”

  Neither Franklin nor Hyrum heard the soft patter of footsteps as Elaine Green hurried from just outside the study door. She stopped at the small telephone table near the stairway.

  “Elaine, I thought you were gone,” said Hyrum as they emerged from the study. Elaine held up her keychain and rattled the keys.

  “I couldn’t get very far without these,” she said, and she turned to rush out of the house.

  10

  Franklin paced back and forth across his kitchen floor. It was six o’clock, barely half an hour before he had to leave for his therapy appointment with Dr. Klein, and he still hadn’t decided just how much of his dream he was willing to share with her.

  “She’ll probably have me committed before I get half the story out,” he said out loud. “Shit, I’m talking to myself again.” He picked up the cup of tea on the counter and took a long pull.

  “Damn,” he shouted, pressing a dish towel to his scalded lips. “And I’m still talking to myself.” He dumped the tea in the sink and watched it circle down the drain.

  His computer was booted up and waiting in his home office. He walked to the desk and sat at the keyboard. He decided that an entry describing the events of his dream written in the order they happened would make it easier to relate the story—keep him on the right path.

  He typed, “My Murder Dream, by Franklin Jameson.” For some reason typing the title made him chuckle. It reminded him of a grade-school essay, like “My Summer Vacation,” or “My Favorite Things.” Only this essay could have been titled, “How I Watched Someone Die at the Hands of a Maniac.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He knew it was just nervous laughter, but he still felt guilty. Franklin shook his head to clear it and sat staring at the blank page while he formulated his thoughts. As he sat staring at the title, a small snicker again rose up in his throat, then a slight giggle leaked from his lips, and eventually a full-blown belly laugh as he convulsed into hysterics. He lost all control and rocked in his chair. It wasn’t funny, but each time he strained to stifle his laugh and force his face into a scowl, he would think of the title and snort and again break up in a burst of rene
wed laughter. He pounded the desk and held his ribs as his sides began to ache. “This has to stop,” he said through tears. Eventually the laughter subsided, and the mirth decayed into a quiet sob. He pinched his thigh as hard as he could. The pain shocked him back to the horror of the dream. Slightly out of breath but finally in control of his emotions, he dried the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief and focused back on the computer screen, now feeling even more guilty than before. “Let’s do this,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and tried to relive the experience of the dream. He took several deep breaths and began to reconstruct the scene in his memory. Once he had a clear picture of the bedroom, he began to mentally walk through the murder room, trying to remember every detail. He looked in his mind’s eye at the broken footboard and the bloody sheets pulled from the bed and scattered about on the floor. He conjured up the smashed lamp lying near the nightstand, and he tried to examine the contents of the dresser drawers carelessly dumped on the area rug.

  Franklin remembered the dream as being vivid, but now many of the images were distorted. He wasn’t sure if he was reviewing the dream or if his imagination was filling the gaps, amending the areas that were unclear.

  He shuddered when he approached the body lying on the bed. He tried to recognize the victim, but her face was out of focus. He wanted his description of the dream to be accurate in every detail as he remembered it. He drew a diagram of the room layout, the location of the furniture, and all the bloody stains on the sheets and carpet. He described the victim, her wounds, and her struggle. He wrote about the bridge where the body was thrown and the dog walker who witnessed the murderer’s getaway. Franklin read his notes. The account of the events wasn’t complete, but he was satisfied that it would jog his memory adequately to explain the dream to Dr. Klein. He printed the document and folded the paper lengthwise to slip into his back pocket.