Shadows of Reality (The Catharsis Awakening Book 1)

by Christian Martin Jr.

  “Yeah…it was a boring shift. Some of the worst calls though, have come during my boring shifts.” Matt continued to trace the grains of wood. “Sometimes…I still see the faces of those who’ve died in my arms. Traffic accidents…suicides. I dunno…I don’t think I…I just don’t ever want to work another suicide,” he said turning his gaze toward Trish.

  She continued to look at him and slowly nod her head.

  Am I getting through? Is there a connection here?

  “I had a pursuit last month; didn’t feel a thing—it was all business. And…last week…Jake and I took a guy down at gunpoint on the highway: a possible homicide suspect—a lot going on with that call—had info that he was going to shoot at the cops too. Turned out…the guy and his car…not the suspect we were looking for.” Matt returned his gaze to the grains of wood while he continued to trace the contour lines.

  “Jake was hyped afterwards, but outside of the initial adrenalin surge of getting on scene, I didn’t feel a thing. I was just goin’ through the motions.”

  “Well, I’ve heard it said that cops are somewhere on the scale of ‘I love this job’ to ‘I hate this place,’” Trish replied after a few moments of silence. “I suppose it depends on how long someone’s been doing it and what they’ve seen throughout their career.”

  “Yeah,” Matt considered her answer. Too much for too long, he thought. “I feel like a dog that’s run a hundred miles, and there’s no water in the dog bowl.”

  “Maybe it’s PTSD?” Trish offered as she shrugged and looked down at her book.

  “Maybe,” Matt began with another deep breath, “I‘ve read that PTSD has some profound physiological effects on officers over the years…” He looked up at Trish and saw her slightly nod her head while looking down at her book. He tried to gauge how much to share with her. He felt he was at the point of no return in an unseen area where the floodgates of emotion began to release; he continued to ease out that river of emotion that he kept behind carefully erected walls.

  “Ha,” Matt chuckled as he sat back in the chair, “some higher-ups in the department think it’s just a lot of psychobabble: an excuse to get workman’s comp. The old guard still has a macho approach to this. But, maybe…I…” Matt paused and leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked down at his boots that began to blur through the tears that were forming.

  “I just don’t know. I’m sure going on three to four hours of sleep every night for all these years hasn’t helped.” He took another deep breath and cleared his throat as he tried to explain how he felt. “Seems like my body always hurts when I wake up in the morning…there’s such a weariness deep down. I just can’t explain how—” Matt looked up at her again and stopped in mid-sentence.

  A quick yawn, a look down and to the side, and then back toward him. Trish’s arms now folded and her legs crossed. Matt could feel the irritation welling up inside as he read all of the unspoken clues that she had tuned him out and her mind was elsewhere.

  Like a fisherman desperately reeling in his line to keep it from getting tangled up at the bottom of a lake, Matt found himself reeling in his emotions at the hint of Trish being disengaged from his outpouring. Too late. Now, entangled with the frustration of not being able to connect with her and decompress…again. Her aloofness, whether intentional or not, only added to the strain between them, instead of the pressure relief he longed for.

  “How was your day?” he blandly asked, attempting to keep his temper under control.

  “Oh, it was fine,” she replied. “Called the boys, and they’re doing good.”

  Matt listened in dismay at the recap of all the happenings with their two adult sons. He thought it equivalent to a news report.

  Is she doing this on purpose?

  “Well…” Trish began as she yawned and with a quick stretch announced, “long day; think I’ll go to bed now.” She stood up and let out a short sigh and then slowly walked toward the spare bedroom.

  He simply glared at her backside as she walked down the hallway. At the same instant, he felt a sharp pain of loneliness and abandonment. It was long after she had left the room that Matt decided to go to bed himself, but sleep evaded him while thoughts of their conversation replayed in his head like a bad song that couldn’t be dislodged.

  The next morning and into the afternoon, Matt didn’t say much to Trish. Outside of the typical hollow greeting in the morning, he steered clear of her and went about his routine before work—not having any desire to communicate with her at all. Trish, with a day off from work, carried on with her own self-imposed agenda—she made no attempt herself to speak with him.

  As the time for him to go back on duty drew near, he donned his uniform while standing in the walk-in closet. He turned around at the sound of footsteps from behind; it was Trish, she stopped at the closet door.

  “Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I heard what you said last night about feeling burned out,” Trish said leaning against the doorjamb. Her arms folded and head tilted slightly toward the wall.

  “Are you kidding me?” his voice quickly rose. “It’s been like 12 hours! Seriously?! That was last night!”

  At the same instant, he slammed his portable radio down on the shelf next to him that he had just moments before retrieved from its charger. He turned toward it, thinking that he either broke it or split the shelf in half, but neither occurred.

  Gawd, what a hypocrite. And I’ll be the guy tonight, who’s the first one through someone’s door to referee an argument that looks just like this! His mind reeled as he took a deep breath while examining his radio.

  “It would have been nice, Trish,” Matt said flatly, turning toward her, “if you would have said that last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” Trish offered.

  “You ignored me. Again! I opened up to you. I spilled my heart out—only to be met with nothing!” he said with a raised voice. Another surge of frustration and a jolt of anger that caused him to place a death grip on his radio. Again, he turned toward it—making sure he hadn’t fractured the exterior case, or worse: accidentally turned it on and transmitted the argument. Mild relief came over him finding that neither had occurred: the radio was still off.

  “I’m sorry. I blew it again,” Trish apologized.

  “You know, if a person is thinking about something else when someone is talking to them,” Matt attempted to educate her, “then that person isn’t listening.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here to tell you that I heard you. I’m sorry it took so long to say something,” Trish said, now standing squarely in the doorway with arms folded.

  He looked down and took a deep breath. He was on the edge, the frustration was maddening. There seemed to be no answers for this reoccurring argument. After another deep breath, he looked up at her.

  “When people care about someone, they don’t wait 12 hours to say something in reply. Especially if that person is reaching out for help. Now, if you will excuse me,” he said in a measured tone. Then looked toward the bedroom door, “I have to go to work.”

  Trish didn’t offer any further explanation, nor did she try to reason; she simply stepped to the side for Matt to leave. He placed his radio in the metal bracket on his gun belt as he walked past her without saying another word. He slammed the front door as he left the house with such force that the vibration shook the main picture window in the living room.

  He positioned himself in the seat of his patrol truck and slammed the driver’s door as well. “104,” Matt spoke into the microphone while looking down at the steering wheel.

  “104, go ahead,” replied dispatch.

  A long pause before giving his mileage: his mind besieged by despair, anger, and hopelessness.

  Why bother going into work? Why even stay married? How the hell do I change any of this!? And finally he thought, what purpose do I even have living?

  “104?” the voice asked over the radio.

  Matt shifted his gaze to the radio, pressed th
e push-to-talk button on the mic, and said, “Good afternoon.” He released the button to let out a sigh. Regaining his composer, he focused on controlling the tone of his voice. Even keel, professional, and even a hint of happiness projected into his voice now, “I’m in service…beginning miles: forty-two-eight-zero-nine,” his voice trailed off before releasing the mic.

  “Perhaps if I just up and left—a hard reset to life,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe a fresh start: just leave and do something else.” He sat for a few moments, shaking his head at the thought.

  “Copy sir, and good afternoon. At fourteen-forty-nine.”

  5

  THE RUN

  Matt stepped out onto his deck and took in the morning. As he usually did at this time of year, he considered the mid-morning a beautiful but uncertain thing—one minute warm and sunny, 15 minutes later a blinding snowstorm. Matt couldn’t think of another way of being, except for being where he was: the Colorado Rockies. He plodded to the railing, shut his eyes, and lifted his face to the sun. With a slight grin, he took a deep breath before turning to walk to the end of his deck.

  No clouds seen; his south-facing deck readily soaked up the rays of the sun. The radiating warmth soothed his weary mind as he sat down to meditate. Ahh, no wind…sighed Matt—a happy relief from the constant battering of the westerlies that often rush off the Continental Divide at this time of year.

  The night before was another boring and insipid shift, followed on the heels of the argument with Trish. The fuzziness in his head was indescribable. Matt got about three hours of sleep, even though he had lain in bed for five.

  He knew his mind was fatigued and felt the full effects from the lack of a regular sleep pattern in his downtime. Looking across the valley, his mind raced uncontrollably from one thought to the next without rhyme or reason—a face of a child who lay lifeless in his arms; tinted windows from a benign traffic stop; an irate man screaming obscenities at him; hiking in the woods through thick underbrush; fishing with his sons years ago; a blank expression on Trish’s face while speaking to her; and the surreal figures running through the trees during his shifts.

  He gave a quick shake of his head as if flicking away a pesky fly hovering around his face, and then closed his eyes to meditate. A vivid image of a horse galloping emerged behind his eyelids. The image focused down the side of a sleek, black mount until only the hooves were visible—hooves beating the ground in a rhythmic pace, trampling clumps of dirt and mud. Frantically running to or from—what? He didn’t know. Memories of a dream, or dreams? Nothing seemed to make sense.

  In the midst of the beating hooves, he quickly thought of how his dreams lately were chaotic and repetitive. He wondered if they made his sleep even more restless. He breathed deeply and concentrated more on calming his thoughts; the images of horses, dreams, and frantic galloping began to fade…

  Matt’s eyes burst open and he looked down at his watch. “Forty-five minutes?!” he yelled.

  He had dozed off. Frustrated with himself for falling asleep, he rallied everything inside to get up off the deck. Then he forced himself to get moving in order to get a run in before his next shift.

  Matt put on a sweatshirt figuring that would be enough to keep him warm until he got moving; although the UV rays of the sun were intense, at that elevation, there was still a chill in the air.

  “God, I wish there was an easier way,” he told himself—as he often did—while starting out on his runs. “Shhh…feels like I’m trudging through knee-deep mud,” he complained—the cold dry gravel crunched loudly beneath his sneakers as he began his run down the driveway to the road.

  After running a short distance down the county road, he decided to follow his normal route and turn right where it ended in a T-intersection with Gulch Road. A small creek to his left that created the gulch long ago wound its way parallel with the road. Small patches of freshly fallen snow interlaced with the withered grass, and the changing aspens grew thick and tall on both sides of the creek, mingled with willows at the bottom of the gulch. Lodgepole pines, just on the other side of the bank, were interspersed among the aspens that added blotches of green to the yellow; the willow leaves that had not yet fallen were already red.

  Beyond the aspens, the pines took over as the mountain sloped upward. On the right-hand side of the road, a sharp incline rose high above and finally sloped to the east, and out of sight. Rocks, dirt, boulders, and a few willows dotted the incline.

  After the first half-mile of his run, he deemed it a complete drudgery and didn’t pay attention to his surroundings. He concentrated on his breathing. He felt each step as it jarred his body—acutely aware of the mild tremors in his muscles and general weariness deep within.

  He rounded a bend, and just a few paces ahead he heard a swoosh moving across the road from right to left—nothing seen, only the noise: like a short gust of wind, yet different. The leaves and willows didn’t move. The sound reminded him of his dreams.

  Suddenly, a loud crash in the aspen grove to his left followed by complete silence. Matt no longer heard his feet striking the ground, nor the sound of his heavy breathing. He kept running without looking to his left and dismissed the sound as an elk moving near the creek while his rhythmic heartbeat took over his senses.

  The silence broke with trees and willows thrashing, as though some heavy animal was crashing through the forest. Then silence again. Matt’s heartbeat thundered in his chest and the surge of that flow pulsated in his temples.

  It was the clash of steel and a yelp from above the pines that caused Matt to stop running. With hands clasped behind his head to help him catch his breath, he took a few more steps, turned to his left and scrutinized the pine trees from where the sound came from. Nothing. The trees did not rustle, the birds stopped singing—all became eerily quiet. After a few moments, Matt turned and continued on with his run.

  Maybe…just another illusion, like the things I’ve been seeing at night.

  Regaining his pace, his thoughts streamed once more: images at night, his relationship with Trish, office politics, strange noises during his run, and in the midst of all this, he reflected on how crazy it was to have all these thoughts hit at once.

  The crashing in the woods began anew. The sound of large boughs snapping and willows rustling jostled Matt’s attention back to the moment. He didn’t look to where the sound came from; he attempted to concentrate on his run: the dirt road before him, his steps, and his breathing.

  As he ran, a blur of images appeared in his left peripheral—thrashing in the woods turned into a graceful striding motion as the image of large black horses running alongside him formed. Through the aspens, they weaved from side to side with grace and beauty. There were three: one behind another, and one to the left of those.

  Am I loosing my flipping mind? He didn’t look directly at the steeds, but followed them out of the side of his eye as he continued to run.

  The mounts had black coats and long flowing manes; long hair on both their tails and lower legs that revealed a definition in the shoulders and hindquarters. The blur of the animals became clearer. The mounts were all muscle, yet graceful, as though they were bred to run and have the strength for…War? Matt mused.

  He had to look. He was curious. He turned his gaze from the road toward the aspens…nothing. The horses and the sound of their galloping seemed to disappear in an instant. He saw only patches of snow, withering grass, and aspens about to go into hibernation. Matt’s lip curved up at the corner, and then gave his attention back to the roadway before him.

  He made a meandering U-turn in the road at his usual halfway point. Like a spring under tension that pops free and allows all the moving parts of a mechanical device to relax, so Matt felt the internal release of the tension and stress as he started back on the return portion of his route. It usually happened at some point during his runs, but this morning it took a whole mile and a half before the strain gave way.

  He inhaled the aroma of the woods surrounding
him that he hadn’t noticed since stepping outside. With the aspens and the gulch now on his right, he ran the return lap home more relaxed, and his mind sharpened with every step.

  A few more steps and the horses returned and galloped near him, yet curiously, they kept pace with him without moving on ahead. Matt concentrated on the road and didn’t bother looking directly at them this time—viewing them on the edge of his vision. Awed by their presence, he sensed some sort of bond with these animals as they galloped between the chalky trunks of the aspens with such grace; leaping over fallen trees along the gulch.

  Matt felt a rush as the mounts ran next to him. They brought an inexplicable surge of hope and belonging that caused him to smile—belonging: he bathed in the thought for a few more steps as if soaking up rays of sunshine.

  At the same place in the road where he earlier heard the clash of steel, he heard it again. This time the metallic ring hung in the air. The horses sped up and turned toward the hill, rushing to the sound of another stroke of steel. He followed the horses out of the corner of his eye until they were gone from sight, and the sound of their galloping receded.

  Suddenly, a brilliant flash momentarily blinded Matt, causing him to come to a complete stop on the road. He shook his head as he rocked back on a heel in surprise. Bewildered by the flash, Matt gaped at the sight now before him with a cold chill running up the back of his neck.

  Motionless. Unblinking. He felt his right arm become rigid and heavy. Matt, no longer on the Gulch Road, found himself standing on a hillside dotted with tufts of knee-high grass. The grass sparkled as it swayed in the breeze. Fear and adrenalin hit him all at once.

  Before him, and coming up the hill, the beings he had begun to see at night were advancing toward him with swords drawn. Menacing in their approach, Matt stood in disbelief.

  He roused himself to quickly look around, still heavily breathing and sweating profusely; he discovered a handful of grim-faced men standing near him and facing the advancing threat. He briefly considered their appearance: warriors? With little time to spare, he noticed the sleeveless, thick leather vests they wore with swords drawn. Behind them, and near the crest of a hill, a small crowd of people dressed as though they had stepped out of the 15th century: men wearing tunics of different lengths, women wearing smocks and dresses—all huddled together in fear.