Sleepwalker

by Michael Laimo

  “Is everything all right, Pam?” On the mornings following those nights when the blue light materialized in Richard’s dreams, an intuitive awareness flourished in him, one that lingered for an hour or sometimes longer until it eventually tapered off into the familiar lethargy that dulled his senses and mired his speech for the remainder of the day. Here in this immediate waking hour, he could see—perceive--the fear she felt. Could virtually smell it. And he could tell that the anxiety she suffered hadn’t been triggered by a night of lost sleep--which she might have endured regardless of their rift--or the discomfort of having to keep her promise and officially end their relationship, once and for all. No, her anxiety was caused by something altogether different. Something induced through circumstances he had no awareness of. Yet.

  “Pamela,” he said, standing on weak, shaky legs. His heart pumped with nervous energy, more forcefully than it had last night when the two of them traded boisterous shouts and hot-tempered gestures.

  “Tell me, is something wrong?” Probably the correct thing would have been to ask if she were all right, as opposed to what’s wrong? Inadvertently he’d gone ahead and done exactly what Dr Delaney told him time and time again not to do when trying to bring some cheer into his life, his relationship. He dwelled on the negative--asked her if her glass were half empty as opposed to half full. So as expected, her response was indifferent, and she went into a silently defensive posture, cowering away from him with her pretty face pressed against the doorjamb.

  “Pam?” He took a step closer, then another, his bare feet creaking against the hardwood floors. “What’s the matter?” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  And that’s when she hit him. With all her strength and some additional combative expertise that Richard had never known about in their four-month relationship, Pamela Bergin spun her body away from the wall, exposed a demoniac face, and swung a swift right hand around, clocking him squarely in the jaw.

  Crunch was the sound inside his skull. White hot pain. He staggered back, groaning from the sting inside his mouth, tasting blood. A piercing flash of light blinded him for a few alarming seconds, just long enough for Pam to capitalize and take a second jab at him. Her fist made contact on his forehead just above the right eyebrow. Speechless, he put his arms up over his face, just in time to deflect another full blow, taking a glancing strike on the wrists instead. He shook his arms, fought with her, trying to get his hands on her without actually fighting back--he didn’t want to hurt her, as crazy as that fleeting thought seemed at the moment, given her clear desire to injure him. His instincts told him that something unexplainable had taken hold of her. He’d seen it in her eyes. It was controlling her, creating a vehemence within her and forcing her to act it out on the man she presumably loved.

  Richard was a man made of gentle parts. He could never find it within himself to strike another person, cause them harm, even in justifiable self defense. Especially a woman. Especially Pam. But wasn’t this an unusual circumstance? He knew there was nowhere to run. This was his home. Pam was, for all intents and purposes, an intruder. Attacking him. So didn’t he have the right to hit her?

  She swung at him again, her eyes wild, rolling. Saliva sprayed from her mouth.

  Richard reached up and grabbed hold of her forearm before the punch landed. She kicked at him, screaming. Her boot connected squarely with his shin. Pain lanced through his leg. “Pam! Damn you! What the hell are you doing?” He swung her thin body down, to the left. Her torso twisted in an awkward way, arms flailing like an ice-skater taking an ungraceful spill. She thudded to the floor, shaking the pictures on the wall. When her lightning-fast gaze caught his, he saw a new sharpness in her features, in her brow, cheekbones, and jaw. An instinctive determination evident in her squint, a flaring of the nostrils, lips pulled back in a humorless grin. She let out a pained wail then sprung over on her hands and knees with the hair-trigger reflexes of a cat righting itself and scampered out of the room, looking like a terrified lizard escaping the jaws of a hungry predator.

  Breathing heavily, Richard stood his ground, arms wide in question and at a severe loss for words. He sucked at his bottom lip, which had already begun to swell inside his mouth, thick and bitter with blood.

  “Pam!” he yelled.

  No response.

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the unwelcome and unbearable images of what just happened, but his mind remained clouded. In a few moments he realized that rejecting the truth would be impossible, that Pam was not going to waltz back in with a big smile and open arms filled with apologies.

  So he took a step forward, a terribly weak and wary attempt to chase after her. His head spun, nearly taking him to the ground. He stopped until he regained his balance. Blood trickled from his lips onto his tee-shirt. He raised his brow and could feel a lump beginning to rise at the spot where she slugged him. Finally, one hand on the wall, he stepped into the hall, again calling her name. He leaned for a moment, gathering strength, trying to clear his head.

  “Pam?”

  Into the living room he went, legs trembling. Sweating.

  Why in God’s name did she attack you, Richard?, his conscience asked. What the hell did you do?

  In the living room he noticed that the small reading table and lamp next to the recliner had been knocked over, the cloth lampshade shredded at the edges. He couldn’t be certain--and had no time to investigate, really--as to whether he’d bumped into the objects himself in his sleep last night (under normal circumstances he would have been alone in the condo and would have instantly written off the disarray as an exploit from a sleepwalking episode. But he couldn’t do that now; circumstances were far from normal this morning), or if the lamp and table had been knocked down by the frenzied Pam.

  There were three things he did know at the moment: he hadn’t heard the lamp crash, Pam wasn’t in the living room…and he, for damn sure, was in danger.

  Search

  He spun around, checking all four walls, thoughts muddied and swirling like mad. The woman that had been gentle and kind and caring to him for four months was now a madwoman out to physically harm him. She also seemed to have vanished. Adrenaline swelled in his blood in the form of anger, replacing some of his apprehension.

  “Pam! Where are you? Why the hell did you hit me?”

  Richard stood his ground, seething, a breakneck rage developing as the moments escalated--an unexpected emotion fueled by confusion and disappointment. Even last night when they argued, not once had the potential for violence between them existed. Voices had been raised, accusatory pointing resulted, but no tendency towards destructiveness had stemmed. She’d left cool-headed, on peaceful terms. He’d expected nothing different from her today .

  Now this? What had gotten into her? He’d seen the uncommon glare in her eyes, a forewarning that told she wasn’t entirely herself when she arrived this morning, that something had coerced her to take such extreme action. He had to find out what had gotten into her.

  He studied every angle of the living room, every corner, every pocket where furniture met wall. His eyes darted furtively about, fighting feelings of being stalked. He took a quick glance behind the levolor blinds. Nothing, the tiny snapping noise they made causing him to freeze. Through the front windows he saw a mother and child strolling by, sharing a big cookie. He glanced at the front door. Shut and locked. Didn’t Pam mention that she let herself in with a key? That she locked it behind her when she came in? No sign of her making her escape here.

  But she doesn’t have a key, Richard. You never gave her one. You and I both know that.

  He shook away the thought, concentrating only on the search. Not in the bedroom. Not in the bathroom. Not in the living room.

  Richard’s modernesque condo was charming but nominal, and although the thought had never crossed his mind before, it didn’t have too many places to hide. He never really took the time to study his own home in such a distinct light, and it made the whole scenario seem to
o surreal--like a scene from one of his dreams. The thought and confusion of standing in his living room on a rather defensive hunt for his nemesis girlfriend seemed way too weird to be real, and Richard had to convince himself that once again the ongoing events of this morning were actually happening.

  So if this is real and not some nutty messed-up dream, then where is she, Richard? Where is Pam?

  She could have sneaked down into the basement, but the immediate assumption of that happening seemed unlikely. While standing in the bedroom just moments earlier, after she’d fled on all fours, he would have heard the door opening, then closing behind her, right? Nervous, and unassuming of any unexceptional circumstance, he stepped over to investigate the basement door anyway, just in case his immediate premise was incorrect. Locked. From the outside. Meaning that even if she did decide to quietly hide down there, she would now be trapped in the unfinished, windowless cellar. With no means for escape.

  One last place to look.

  The condo boasted quite a kitchen, a full eat-in with a center island housing a gas stove, oven, and sink. Five floor-to-ceiling windows lined the back wall, looking out over a hundred yards of rolling hills edging the complex’s golf course. No enthusiast of the sport, Richard had never stepped foot on the nine-hole green.

  The wooden chimes hanging alongside the open center window vibrated gently, sending soft musical notes in the air. Holding his breath, Richard eyed the delicate fixture as he quietly approached the center island. He could hear the gusty breeze humming through the mesh screen, sighing across the tiny oak birds and hollowed-out cylinders, jostling them into song.

  Something moved, he thought, although he could not tell if he sensed it through hearing, or sight. He braced himself against the counter, again feeling as if he were being stalked like prey.

  He pulled his sights away from the chimes, glanced nervously through the windows at the sidewalk, and then further beyond across the finely manicured grounds.

  He saw something. Something definitely moving.

  Then, there was a not-quite-identifiable scraping noise. Close by.

  He peered not through the glass, but into it, catching the slightest reflection of the source of the movement: a ghostly figure, very much like a superimposed double-exposure in a photograph. There in a crouch-like position against the opposing face of the island. He could see her reflection in the window alongside the silk ficus tree.

  Pam. Hiding. Just inches away. Waiting. Stalking.

  Quietly, Richard inched along the edge of the island, his left hand outstretched in front of him, poised for defense, the other gently embracing the Formica countertop to help maintain balance. Sweat washed over his face. He tasted his own blood still seeping from the wound on his lip. The laminate flooring in the kitchen was cool beneath his bare feet, and much quieter than the wood floors throughout the rest of the condo. The wind calmed, freezing the chimes and deepening the silence. The sudden stillness was like a huge weight on Richard’s nervous system, a crescendo in a symphony, growing bigger and tenser and hurtling towards an explosive climax.

  C’mon, Pam... Richard’s conscience started, but he managed to block out any further internal discussion. She was the enemy now, as odd as that felt. A threat more intimidating than a growling dog or a mugger in an alley, because her motivation was unknown.

  With his adversary now in view, Richard’s defenses were suddenly heightened. He felt sharpened.

  He reached the corner of the island, was about to make a slinking turn when his hand knocked into the pine butcher block on the counter. It made a gentle scraping noise that seemed to echo throughout the kitchen. His mother had given him that butcher block long ago, during his early days of marriage to Samantha. It housed a chef’s collection of steak knives, and every now and then he’d use one for a meal, then wash it and place it back into its appropriate slot, where it would sit and look decorously attractive until he needed another.

  Now he gazed at the counterpiece, battling confusion and fear and having trouble trying to remember when he last used the big steak knife that usually occupied the upper left-hand position.

  Blood

  Shit!

  He heard her shriek a split second before she came charging around the center island, the steak knife raised high in her right hand and starting to come down. A wicked scowl contorted her face, mouth twisted into a half-laugh, half-scream, voice high-pitched and crazy like a ravenous hyena hazarding a pounce on a lion’s fresh meal.

  Richard reacted with quick instinct. He grabbed the wood block from the countertop, knives and all, and hurled it at Pam with all the strength he could muster.

  He connected with perfect accuracy. The counterpiece slammed directly into her face. She let out a horrible howl of pain--the ‘hyena’ having ventured a bit too close, finding its limb locked in the lion’s jaws. Richard staggered backwards, nauseous at the startling shock of blood bursting from her face. In the shock of the moment, time stood still and the butcher block appeared to cling to her face for an indefinite stretch of time. When it fell away it divulged a terrible mass of damage, a messy, gummy pulp where her nose used to be, a rich flow of crimson and bone-bits coating her mouth and neck--a sight only previously glimpsed in some of his worst nightmares. She attempted to scream--this time in agony--but emitted only a guttural, throaty gurgle. The steak knife fell from her grasp, skidded across the floor. With a soft clunk it came to rest next to the refrigerator.

  Richard stood trembling at the horror he had instantly created of her, staring with loathe and awe as Pamela’s body--the once beautiful and majestic Pamela--stiffened up, hands waving like two flags in the air, eyes fluttering as if struggling to keep free of the blood and mucous gushing from her nose. Again, she tried to scream, again a thick gurgling sound expelled from the blockage in her throat. She doubled over, gagging in violent fits. Stringy fluid spewed from her mouth, dousing the floor, spotting Richard’s bare feet.

  “Pam...I...” he tried to apologize, but the words recoiled in his mouth, like tiny fish too afraid to venture forth from the safety of their lair. The scene was damn hideous, and grew crazier, Pam gripping the counter (but remarkably not falling to her knees), coughing and spitting out thick strands of blood and snot that produced a small puddle on the floor in front of her. Jesus Christ, his conscience said, if you try to apologize, or simply open that damn mouth of yours, you’re going to start gagging yourself, maybe even vomit. Really, Richard, would she hear your forced regrets anyway? What to do, Richard, what to do? He took a step forward, gently approaching her, not really remembering that it was she who had initiated the attack, only feeling terrible for what he’d suddenly done to her.

  And what you did to Samantha.

  “Pam, are you o--”

  She screamed again, eyes rolling wildly. Richard put his hands up in defense, struggled to spit out a few words of reason, but found no chance against the primordial urges besting Pam. She lunged at him like some pugnacious vampire-beast in a late-night grade-B horror flick: teeth bared, face awash with blood.

  Her hands groped his neck. He shoved her away. “Pam! What the fuck! Pam!” Her feet went out from under her, slipping in her own blood. Her eyes widened in a quick shot of surprise as she reeled backwards. Her head collided with the wind chimes, sending them into tumultuous song. She landed flat on her ass in a solid thud that rattled the dishes in the cabinets. Richard stood stiff and intense, nearly hyperventilating, fists clenched as he watched her moan and writhe on the floor, fingers groping her tortured face as if digging for answers to this unbelievably erratic dilemma.

  That’s when Richard noticed the knives. Scattered on the floor all around her. Dear God, at any moment she could grab one, come at me again...

  She rocked back and forth in a sitting position, now crying, injured face buried in her hands.

  Richard could feel the air racing in and out of his lungs. His legs trembled, violently primed to pounce or run--he wasn’t sure what he’d do if she ca
me at him again. She pulled her hands away from her face. With tear-filled eyes she looked at him, then struggled to her knees, spreading the bloody puddle across the laminate flooring in wayward streaks.

  Richard leaned back against the refrigerator, one eye on the steak knife at his feet, the other pinning Pam’s every gesture, every move. His heart slammed against his ribcage. A wave of dizziness beset him as the throb in his jaw intensified. Struggling for balance--and trying hard not to let her notice his lightheadedness--he gripped the handle of the refrigerator to keep from falling down. He closed his eyes, and in that moment a bright blue-tinted flash of light lit up the darkness beneath his lids.

  When he opened his eyes, Pam was looking up at him, head cocked, brow arched: an inquisitive, mixed-up look. The spark of insanity in her eyes that had commanded her bizarre actions since arriving this morning had cleared. Now, in its place, something else dominated. Something entirely different. Fear, perhaps, now devoid of violence, fusing uncertainty with utter confusion. She gazed at the mess surrounding her, at the spilled knives, at the blood. Head shaking, eyes doused with tears, she uttered, “Richard, I didn’t mean it. I am so sorry.”

  In embarrassment or fear or something else that Richard could never understand or explain in a million years, Pam remained in a kneeling position for another few seconds, then quickly clambered to her feet. She spun around and staggered to the back door, slid it open, and quickly fled the spectacle that had become of Richard Sparke’s home.

  Stunned, unmoving, Richard watched her from the windows as she careened across the grass and road, around the corner of the building. He remained silent and still with his back glued to the refrigerator, waiting, catching his breath and looking out the window until absolutely certain Pam wouldn’t be back to resume her attack.