Clouded Rainbow

by Jonathan Sturak

The Belkin house sat under the freshly dark sky. The lights in most of the surrounding homes shined brightly through their drawn curtains. The suburban neighborhood was peaceful around this time as kids were off the streets doing their homework or playing video games, and those that were going out for the evening had already left.

  Like a gust of wind, the roar of a muffler-less vehicle pierced the tranquility. Its misaimed headlights pointed toward the Belkin home. Inside, a grin covered Roger’s face, as he maneuvered the tired horse toward his castle. The familiar landmarks reminded him of a return trip home from a long day’s work. He was always eager to get home to see his wife, who took the stressors of the world away. This particular trip was his most anticipated. It didn’t matter that he had no idea why he woke up half-dead, or without any clothes, or, most importantly, without Lois. He hoped that all of his questions would be answered when he pulled into his driveway.

  Finally, Roger saw his towering house sitting as he always remembered it. He was glad to see something familiar, an environment in which he felt safe. The driveway was bare and all of the lights were off.

  No SUV, he thought.

  Roger aimed for the driveway, but the vehicle didn’t respond as he expected. He popped the curb and the shoddy brakes left the car halfway on the lawn. The noise was probably enough to wake the whole street, but all he thought was, Thank God I’m home.

  Roger used his shoulder to open the stubborn door. The force caused him to spill to the ground. He took a moment to collect himself, as his aching muscles overwhelmed his focus.

  The front door stood closed in darkness as Roger stumbled toward it. Even though the lights were out, he hoped that Lois would whisk open the door and bring him in to clean his wounds. However, she did not appear. Roger realized he had to go in alone. He gave the doorknob a twist, but it was locked. He suddenly felt trapped, locked out of his own home and his old life. A weird out-of-body feeling came over him as he felt as if he were an imposter. He thought that maybe the real Roger was inside, and he would soon open the door to bark at this masquerading bum.

  Roger suddenly remembered the fail-safe key he and Lois had hidden, but the exact details were tough for him to recall. Things like this were the first deleted from his memory, or at least misplaced. He glanced at the shrubbery, and then to some ornaments propped by the door. Nothing looked like a viable hiding spot, except for three stout flowerpots on the ground. Roger moved one aside, saw nothing useful, and then pushed the second. A small object appeared that resembled a key, but as soon as it began squirming, Roger knew it was a worm unhappy about the disturbance. Finally, he maneuvered the third pot, and a shiny silver key greeted him.

  “There it is,” he mumbled.

  Roger bent down, but quickly winced from a sharp pain that flowed through his back. He took a deep breath and grabbed the key. Then, he slid it into the lock, opening the door to the castle.

  A subtle smell attached to a soft breeze invigorated Roger’s senses. It was hard to describe in words, like trying to explain the taste of water, but it was the scent of something familiar, something safe. Roger stared into the dark entryway. The moonlight cast a silhouette around Roger’s aching frame. After a moment, he flipped on a light.

  “Lois?” Roger said as his voice echoed in the sizable structure. All he received, however, was the sound of silence, the last sound he wanted to hear.

  Where can she be? What happened?

  More questions filled his clouded mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was think. Roger moved toward the kitchen as he stopped at the room’s doorway. Before hitting the lights, he took in the darkness, absorbing the mystery that the absence of light had created. He could see his frame cast in front of him, outlined by the sole light shining from the bright entryway behind.

  Roger turned on the light and perused the open kitchen. The floral arrangement sat perfectly on the table, still blooming from yesterday’s picking. Clean dishes lay on a drain board near the sink and a basket on the counter still contained ripe fruit. All of these signs meant something to a skilled detective, but they only confused the exhausted Roger.

  “Everything looks normal,” he said, but the one thing missing from this perfect environment was Lois.

  Roger made the rounds in the kitchen when something caught his eye. The liquor cabinet, storing some of the family’s most precious jewels, seemed to have a radiating glow. He heeded the sign and gravitated toward it.

  Roger finally took a sigh of relief, even though it would be short lived and artificial. He slid open the cabinet and checked the bottles of liquor. He wasn’t a man who lived by the bottle, but a drink in the evening was welcomed after a rough day. Based on his calculation, he would need the whole cabinet, and then some, to compensate for his debilitating day. He pushed aside some rum, and moved a large jug of unopened Lambrusco to the top of the cabinet. Roger studied the wine for a moment, as he knew it was Lois’ favorite. Finally, he grabbed the strong stuff in the back, a bottle of “Jack Daniel’s Old Tennessee Whiskey.” He struggled with the sealed cap like an old man with arthritis. Finally, he put the opened bottle to his cracked lips, and then took a long drink, each gulp rhythmically tuned.

  “Ahhh,” he exhaled.

  He ventured upstairs, the clump of his footsteps filling the house as he floundered up each step. The hallway was dark. Roger used his damaged memory to guide him to his bedroom. He flipped the lights on as the master bedroom greeted him. The perfectly made queen-sized bed sat in the middle with his dresser and nightstand all in order. Everything was just as the couple had left it from their date just twenty-four hours ago. But all Roger could think about was finding something that solved the conundrum—a note, a message, or…Lois.

  Roger took another swig of liquor, and then placed the bottle on the dresser. He moved to the attached bathroom. He looked at a towel hanging over the shower door. Lois would usually take it down before bed and toss it into the clothesbasket, but the fact that it still hung in its place suggested Lois’ absence since last night.

  Where is Lois? he thought.

  On the counter stood a small tube of lipstick with a deep shade of red painting the top of the case. It focused his attention like a diamond teasing a thief. As Roger moved toward the object, his eyes refocused on the stranger reflecting back from the bathroom mirror. The man resembled Roger, but had ratty hair, bruises marring his skin, and a look of anguish in his eyes. Suddenly, a picture flashed into Roger’s mind of him standing at the mirror, mesmerized by his reflection. The image, however, was not of this stranger; it was of the robust body of the real Roger. Suddenly, he felt a chill run through his body. His movements stopped, and so did his breathing. Roger was lost inside his mind trying to clutch the memories buried deep within the bowels of his brain. Then in a flash, he returned, gasping for air.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he mouthed.

  Roger went back into the bedroom. He grabbed the whiskey and downed another gulp, trying to speed up the alcoholic escape induced by the seedy substance. A picture caught his eye on the nightstand near the bed. He picked it up and studied the image of him with Lois embracing in a park under the sunny summer sky. This was a memory he remembered; it was from last summer after a bike ride through the city park. Lois bought Roger a digital camera, and he brought it on their day trip through the outdoors. A resting jogger stopped and offered his service as an impromptu cameraman to capture the couple together. Roger outlined Lois’ body with his blackened fingertip, wishing the glossy paper was actually her supple skin. As his wife consumed his senses, he felt a tingle deep within his brain. The tingle quickly led to a throbbing sting that caused his eyes to flutter and to lose focus. The room began to spin like a drunken ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Roger steered for his bed, but in a sudden burst, he saw black.

  The battered businessman awoke in a park sitting on a blanket. He focused his eyes and saw a serene lake in the distance.

  Where am I? he pondered.

  The
sun felt warm against his skin and the air smelled fresh, but Roger felt like a puppet. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He tried to move, but his muscles were unresponsive; they were as if controlled by someone else. His mind still worked, however, and it made him wonder whether he was, in fact, dead. Whatever the situation, he could see through this man’s eyes, which received the breathtaking image of Lois drinking a glass of wine. A soft breeze blew, sweeping her autumn brown hair from her face. Lois raised the wine glass, swirling the red liquid. She smiled.

  In a flash, the image of a swanky restaurant filtered into Roger’s mind. Again, he felt paralyzed, seeing through a counterpart’s eyes. Lois was wearing a dark dress with spaghetti straps draping around her shoulders. A burly server brought two plates of food, lasagna for Lois and a plate of spaghetti for Roger.

  Fire began to tear through the building as Roger closed his eyes in terror. When he opened them, he found himself driving his SUV toward the Pleasant Place Bridge. Roger’s imposter turned and looked at Lois in the passenger seat. However, there was something wrong with her. She raised her hands to her throat and squeezed, tighter and tighter. Roger tried to move his hands to help, but they failed to respond. He tried to yell, but his vocal cords were numb. Lois let out a horrid shriek so loud it made his eyes vibrate. Through the ear piercing sound, the vehicle erupted into flames. Lois’ skin appeared to melt away to bone as Roger tried to look away, but was unable to move. Suddenly, the sound of knocking began to fill his ears. He anticipated another bizarre vision that would transform his burning vehicle into another sight of terror. His senses screamed as the knocking persisted, and then his mind snapped.

  Roger sat up in bed, realizing the images of death and destruction were a lucid dream, the mind’s way of exploring his faltering memory synapses. As he returned to the world, banging erupted. Roger sprang to his feet and realized that someone was at his front door. He grabbed the picture of the couple in the park lying on his chest and pushed it into his back pocket. Acting on instinct, he moved to the intruder.

  In the entryway, a rhythm of bangs hit the front of the closed door. Roger tiptoed to the peephole, careful to refrain from any fast movements that could signal his presence. He looked through the hole. Distorted like a fisheye lens, he saw two figures who were barely visible. Even with the extreme wide angle, the hat and badges of the trespassers explained their intentions.

  “We know you’re in there!” barked the officer at the door.

  Roger jumped back in fright.

  “Shit,” he mumbled.

  He spun around and noticed the kitchen light still shining brightly as a beacon for the encroaching officers. Roger flipped the switch off and scurried to the rear door. He peered out, checking for any sign of the invading force. The moon lit the backyard as lawn furniture and animal ornaments sprinkled the grass. Roger stepped out as his footsteps vanished into the soft, supportive lawn. He paused, pondering his next move.

  The front is blocked, he thought.

  To his side was a six-foot cement wall that his overprotective neighbors had constructed.

  “No way,” he muttered at the immense structure.

  To his other side was a waist high, chain-link fence. He concluded that it was a more manageable feat for his body running on a mixture of adrenaline and alcohol. He moved toward the fence, but kicked a hiding flowerpot, toppling it onto the concrete sidewalk. The noise filled the backyard. Roger bit his lip in anger. He didn’t waste any time as he plowed over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. His momentum continued as he fell into hanging clothes on the line, clutching them for balance. Roger focused on his fingers as he rubbed them together from the noticeable dampness. The neighbor’s house was dark and lifeless; the residents seemed to be out-of-town. The middle-aged couple that lived inside traveled frequently for their respective jobs, and often both were away at the same time.

  Maybe they forgot their clothes, he thought, but as his memory focused on the swaying fabric, images of last night’s action filled his mind.

  Roger remembered his sarcastic comment while standing in front of the window. “Her clothes should be dry soon,” he had said. Then he remembered Lois’ response, “I didn’t even know it was supposed to rain today.” The thought of rain filled his mind. He remembered the stormy weather from his drive home from work yesterday and his dash from the car holding his umbrella. Fragments of clear thought began to fill a few of the cracks. His after-work shower, dressing in a suit, and Lois’ red lipstick all pointed to one fact that was vividly clear to him now.

  He murmured his newly recalled fact, “Last night, we had dinner reservations downtown.”

  Chapter 9