Sleepwalker

by Michael Laimo

  Five whole minutes passed before he tried to move. His knees were weak, muscles like wet strings, mind absorbed with shame for what he’d done to her, for what she’d done to him. Soon the shock and fatigue from her attack overcame him. All he could do was drum up the tiniest spark of energy, a spiritless resilience enabling him to stare at the chaos in the kitchen and let the horrible truth of what just transpired set in.

  Once it did, he collapsed to the floor.

  And Richard Sparke’s world went black.

  Confusion

  Murky. Damp. Hot.

  When Richard came to, he thought for a moment that he might be in the midst of another terrible nightmare.

  Pain.

  A gray smokescreen, a warm metallic odor. A tackiness holding him in place.

  He opened his eyes and found himself in an uncomfortable position, tailbone against the refrigerator, face plastered to the floor. The first thing that came into focus was the blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to cause immediate alarm: splashes of red on the floor, on the center island cabinets, slow rivulets running the grooves of the laminate tiles. He peeled his face from the floor, then struggled to his knees and looked at his hands. Blood there too. On his shorts and tee, his bare feet.

  Is this a dream? No! Too real!

  The reality of the situation struck him like a force of energy. He started, yelled out as his chest tightened with feelings of dread, the essence of the scene too tangible, too real to be a circumstance manufactured from a wild dream.

  Dear God, what happened?

  Were you sleepwalking again, Richard?

  A chill ran through him. His hands started shaking, body trembling. Cold sweat trickled down his chest. Frightening images flew in and out of his mind like snippets of edited film. He closed his eyes and took a series of deep calculated breaths, in through the nose, out from the mouth. From the viewpoint of an outsider, he could clearly see himself having committed some heinous act, his eyes glassy as they swam in the waters of unpremeditated actions, his body helplessly mirroring the workings of the wicked deeds encompassing his dreams.

  Did Pamela spend the night?

  Think! Think! What did you dream?

  He ran a hand through his short black hair, visualizing the scene as it may have played out during the night. No, she wasn’t here, he tried to convince himself. Yet he remembered their argument, she leaving him but still promising to come back in the morning to officially end things on a good note. He struggled to recover fragments of his memory.

  Had he been sleepwalking when she returned?

  Think! Think!

  For a moment his mind wandered and he recalled the time when their relationship started souring. Their nights together, innocent, a couple months of dinners, laughs, hand-holding and caressing, evolving to kisses, foreplay, and sex. The intimacy between them had been electrifying, Richard experiencing pleasures never once imagined in the past.

  Now, seeing the chaos in the kitchen reminded Richard of his introspective problems and how they’d reached a profound level that became impossible to explain. On those nights when their energies ran dry and sleep threatened to whisk them away, Richard, without clear justification, begged for her to leave, eventually having to persist against her hesitation until she fled in tears, utterly frustrated. At the breaking point, she fully resisted his demands, and he became arrogant, leading her to break off their relationship without a satisfying explanation for his sleep-alone stipulations: why he wouldn’t let her sleep with him.

  Why? Because he was deathly afraid he might hurt her.

  Just like he did to Samantha.

  Now, it appeared he was too late.

  Using the refrigerator handle, he pulled himself up, careful not to fall. His head swam in nutty circles, wading through clouds of confusion. He took a faltering step forward and leaned with his palms against the center island. His feet skidded slightly, leaving smeared impressions in the gummy blood. Once stable, he did a cursory check on his body. Saw or felt no lacerations, although a burning throb stiffened his jaw, complementing the harsh headache in his frontal lobe.

  Pamela was here, all right, his conscience piped in. You remember? The two of you fought. Do you remember why? Maybe she came back in the middle of the night, crawled into bed with you? Did you do the same terrible things to her as you did to Samantha?

  “No.”

  So then...where is she?

  He looked to the floor, at the knives scattered about like child’s toys. None of the blades had blood on them, leading him to assume that they hadn’t been used to inflict, hadn’t been the cause for all the blood on the floor. The butcher block lay on its side by the windows, next to the silk ficus tree. It too had blood on it.

  “Pam?” His voice was weak and gravely, like pebbles on sandpaper. He trudged to the sink, ran the water and washed his face, drinking from trembling hands. In a few moments he turned and surveyed the chaos again.

  “Pam? You here?” Noresponse. His mind searched the fog for answers. None came. He debated his next move, contemplated calling the police--just as he did after the incident with Samantha.

  How could he possibly explain to the police what took place here when he didn’t even remember?

  Yeah, Richard, what will you tell them? ‘That’s correct officer, I woke up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood. Not my own blood, mind you, but someone else’s. Now my girlfriend who broke up with me last night is missing and I can’t remember what in God’s name happened here. Thanks, and have a nice day! Just call if I can be of any assistance.’ That ain’t gonna fly, my friend.

  He used a dishtowel to wipe the blood from his hands and feet, then looked at the clock. 11:43 AM. The sun filtered in through the kitchen windows, the blood on the floor reflecting its golden beams, an orange-yellow brilliance seemingly formed of melted sunflowers cascading across the kitchen. Tossing the dishtowel in the sink, he sidestepped the blood and went into the living room. He sat on the couch next to the phone.

  I called but your line’s been busy for hours. The phone in the living room was off the hook. You look like shit, Richard.

  The telephone handset sat snug in its cradle. Pam. He remembered her saying something about the phone being off the hook--this morning in fact.

  Damn. She was here. Wasn’t she?

  He picked up the phone, dialed 911 on the keypad. It rang in his ear. He quickly changed his mind and disconnected the line just as someone on the other end picked up. He punched in Pam’s number instead.

  A dozen rings. No answer. He hung up.

  He rubbed his temples, trying to coerce his mind for suggestions to the cause of the blood. Whose blood was it? Damn, he thought, what the hell difference does it make? Blood is blood. Is there any sense in trying to figure it all out?

  Well, yes, Richard, there is. Might be Pam’s blood, his conscience said. You might have hurt her just like you did Samantha.

  One thing was certain: he couldn’t just leave the kitchen like this. There was no crime, nothing he committed anyway.

  Are you sure about that, Richard?

  Ignoring his conscience, he went back into the kitchen, opened the pantry closet and took out the mop. He filled the sink with ammonia and water, soaked the sponge end until it was fully saturated, then slapped the mop to the floor. It sliced though the crimson puddle as he pushed and pulled. Rising ammonia fumes assaulted his nostrils, eating at the coppery odor. His eyes burned, sprouting tears. He brought the mop back up into the sink, dipped it in. The water turned dirty brown. He squeezed the mop dry, soaked it again then slapped it back down on the tiles.

  A knock against the kitchen window startled him. He looked up.

  At once his body stiffened. He dropped the mop.

  The wind chimes tinkled, adding bitter-sweet music to a daunting scene.

  On the other side of the window stood two uniformed policemen, peering in at him.

  Cops

  “Don’t move!”

  The bac
k door flew open, one cop pointing his gun at Richard, the other pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

  Richard came to the immediate assumption that Pam must’ve gone to the police to tell a tale of violence, something he still couldn’t remember, even with his freedom now at stake. Hands high in the air, Richard felt a terrible rush of emotion racing through him: the trepidation of knowing that he might be accused of some hateful act, one he knew he didn’t willfully--or knowingly--commit.

  Trembling, he gazed at the poised cops, then down at the blood and knives littering the floor. And then, at the fallen mop. He was caught red-handed, abetting an apparent cover-up. Just like the plausible circumstances he imagined upon awaking and how they could have appeared from an outsider’s eyes, the aftermath here was equally alarming, and condemning.

  Under the watchful guidance of the cop with the gun, the second officer commanded Richard into one of the three kitchen chairs at the dinette table flanking the far wall. Richard obeyed his demand, and the cop swiftly cuffed Richard’s arms behind his back.

  Richard closed his eyes. “Am I under arrest?” He tried not to show his panic, but failed miserably, his voice choppy and weak.

  The older of the two cops, a thick, ruddy man with a multi-colored moustache answered, “Sure looks like you’re guilty of something.” He replaced his gun, keeping a careful hand nearby.

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  The lead cop, whose badge read ‘Moldofsky’, pinned Richard with an unwavering stare--dark, tired eyes that more than likely had seen their share of crime scenes over the years, ones much bloodier than this little mop-up. He pulled the radio from his belt and put it to his mouth. “We have a possible 316, scene includes an irregular volume of blood. Subject appears uninjured, and at the moment cooperative. Will call for back-up if necessary. Out.”

  Moldofsky replaced his radio, stared at Richard. “Sparke, Richard. That you?”

  Richard nodded.

  “Been doing a little house cleaning?”

  Richard shrugged. How could he possibly explain what he’d been doing when he really didn’t know?

  Moldofsky continued, “We received two calls about thirty minutes ago. Your neighbors reported seeing a girl running from your home. They said she appeared injured, blood on her face. Soon thereafter a white Sentra was seen speeding through the complex. Damn near hit a couple of kids playing nearby. Tore through the security gate. Caused quite a bit of damage.”

  Pam…it’s starting to come back to me…

  “Oh, shit...” Richard bowed his head in shame. He wondered what ‘quite a bit’ of damage really meant. After all, the ‘gate’ was no more than a manually operated security post not unlike the electronic ones used at train crossings.

  Pam…I remember now…she damn near lost her mind this morning...

  You do remember, don’t you, Richard? She came into the bedroom while you were sleeping. She woke you up...or did she really wake you after all? You fought...well, she attacked you, punched you. That explains the pain in your jaw, no? Yes, she damn near lost her mind. She tried to kill you. The knife, Richard! She took the big knife from the butcher block and attacked you with it. You had to defend yourself, so you picked up the butcher block and slammed it into her face. Hell, if you didn’t, then you’d be on the floor right now and there’d be a hell of a lot more blood and four times as many cops here and God knows who or what else...

  Shuddering, he twisted his head sideways and pretended to look about the kitchen in aimless thought but really checked out the big knife on the floor by the refrigerator, its blade partially hidden beneath the radiator grill like the razor-sharp tooth of a shark peeking out from an impressive jaw. He gazed back at the cops. Their hardened, accusatory glares scrutinized him to the bone.

  Although he could now recall bits and pieces of the alarming event, he still had no clue as to why it occurred. And the more he gave thought to it, the harder it became to figure out. The whole incident made little sense, the telling of the situation equally as difficult--and unwise he concluded--to fully relate right now, at least until he understood the entire picture: a reason for Pam’s offense. Regardless of motive, her actions were highly irrational in any book.

  Additional memories of when he first saw her this morning filtered back to him. He remembered how he could tell from the gleam in her eyes that something rotten had found its way into her. That her performance had been an absolutely, positively unnatural act executed through some deviant, outside force.

  Like your dreams, your sleepwalking.

  “She was pissed off at me.” It was all he could come up with.

  Now the hard part, following it up.

  “I’d say so, Mr Sparke. Looks like she popped you one on the lip.” Moldofsky’s eyes scanned the bloody floor, then narrowed with further mental accusations. Richard thought he looked more like a movie detective than some everyday beat cop. “What about your ex-wife Samantha? Was she pissed off too?”

  Oh no.

  Samantha...

  Samantha

  The mention of his ex-wife’s name sent hot flashes through his body.

  Richard and Samantha’s life was more textbook than storybook, their lives right out of a chapter on dysfunctional family contexts. Quite naive when they first met, they took in most of life’s guilty pleasures during the first few weeks they dated. Two months later, after all the sex and fun and games, they discovered she was pregnant.

  They got married, essentially strangers and pretty much staying that way throughout the pregnancy because they hadn’t the time nor the enthusiasm to learn more about one another, not until after Samantha gave birth to Debra; little good it did them. Quickly their ‘love’ gave way to bitterness, their only common bond a devout dedication towards the baby. Unfortunately life had become too much of a chore, both of them working long days in order to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Through it all, they labored endlessly to simply get along with one another, a feat unsuccessfully performed.

  Debra died of SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome, at the age of six months.

  Soon thereafter, Richard’s dreams began. They seized control of his life, consumed him, tormented him, blinded him. Erased all hope of salvaging his crumbling relationship with Samantha.

  With their common bond now extinct, Samantha had the perfect excuse to rid herself of her problem. A week later she told Richard that she was leaving him.

  That night, he attacked her--very nearly killed her--in his sleep.

  Intruder

  Moldofsky remained silent. Waited for Richard to answer.

  Richard wanted to ask him how he knew about Samantha, but presumed the cop had done a quick homework job on him--more than likely on his way over to the condo.

  “One has nothing to do with the other,” was all he could come up with.

  But they do have much to do with one another, don’t they, Richard? In fact, the incidences are very much related. I think you know that.

  He’d hoped the events with Samantha would be long past him by now. He’d been cleared of all wrongdoing, thus enabling him to perpetuate the life he so badly desired: to function in society as a common man with simple aspirations. To succeed and be happy, just like everyone else.

  Still, somewhere deep inside he’d always feared that his actions would come back to haunt him.

  Richard and Samantha had argued for hours, Richard eventually losing his voice, Samantha running out of tears. Why had Samantha, who started the night on the couch, ended up next to him in bed after he’d fallen asleep? He had no answer for this. Perhaps it had been a last minute effort to salvage everything they were about to give up. Maybe it had been her way of saying good-bye for good. Nevertheless, it had been the ruination of them, and a grim supplement to the personal agony persecuting his waking and sleeping world.

  The night he attacked Samantha he dreamed of the blue light. It came into his world unexplainably, hovering at the foot of the bed like a flash
light’s beam. He tried to reach his foot out to touch it but could only partially block its brilliance from blinding him. And then, when the light began to fade, he dreamed of being attacked by a strange dark man who wore a black suit covering his body from head to toe, perfect circles at the eyes and mouth revealing only touches of an identity. The mysterious intruder had loomed over him as though magically floating above the bed, silently choking him. All of a sudden Richard found himself unable to breathe, the attacker’s long bony fingers grasping his neck, strong thumbs pressing violently against his throat. The dream-pain was excruciating. He couldn’t breathe, his fingers and toes tingling with numbness. He could do nothing but submit himself to the offensive approach of the attacker, and allow his windpipe to be crushed.

  Then, for the very first time, he saw her. She, standing in the corner of the room, not the helpless six month-old that died unexpectedly in her crib, but a child of maybe four with blonde shoulder-length curls resembling Samantha’s.

  Debra. He recognized her at once, as though somehow her matured image had been instinctually imprinted into his mind. He’d been able to identify some familiar features on her, her nose and eyes very much resembling his, her lips and cheeks quite convincing of Samantha’s. Here was a young girl, a stranger who should have been an integral part of his life, now a mere ghost-shadow wearing a darling blue dress with white lace around the collar.

  Now upon his world during a moment of severe panic and need.

  She spoke briefly, and in a near-whisper: “Help Daddy...”

  Richard couldn’t be certain as to whether she required help, or had somehow attempted to offer it. Nevertheless, it had been enough to motivate him, to foster the strength he needed to fend off the mysterious attacker. He managed to loosen a hand, swing it up and strike the man in the chest. Once, then repeatedly. In the sternum, shoulders, and face...