Infernal's Blog

My body is tired and I try to lull myself to sleep, but another flash of that nightmare hits me and I can’t even close my eyes. I am afraid of my own dream and I don’t understand why it bothers me so much. It was just a dream, a nightmare. Yeah, it was bad… but…

I’ve had the same dream three nights in a row and it scares me that I might have it again. I’ve never had a dream like this before. I have a sinking feeling in my gut – is it a vision of what is to come?

I can only remember pieces right now, though when I wake up from it, the dream plays over and over in my head, rounding like a carousel.

I was shaking, harder and harder as I screamed louder and louder. It felt like I was tied down, but I couldn’t see any restraints. I looked back up and I could see the ceiling passed his head. He was on top of me, holding me down. There was a slight light behind him, but I didn’t know what it was from.

Even in the darkness, I could see his face… His eyes were green, his face pale and shiny. He had dark hair, but it was shaven close to the scalp. He was strong, strong than I was. He was laughing, laughing. Was his teeth messed up? No, I don’t think so.

His laugh was chilling, even now it sends shivers down my spine. He was heavy, too. His body pushing down on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. God, help me, I thought. Please, help me. But I kept screaming… and he kept laughing.

Didn’t anybody hear me? Did anyone give a shit?

He ripped at my clothes with rough, calloused hands.. his nails dug into my skin. His hands hovered over my stomach and moved to my breasts, which he squeezed greedily, making me cringe and scream even louder. I could feel each inch of his hands on me.. “Keep screaming,” he said. “No one will hear you.”

His fingers clamped around my throat, choking me, squeezing me. Was he going to kill me now? I tried to fight harder, but everything fell black. I could feel him drag his nails down my chest again.

When I came to, my body was tingling. I was still screaming, though I didn’t know how. I was naked, and so was he. He was… pounding into me, making my body shake so hard I almost fell to the floor. I begged him to stop. God, please, make him stop. No, please, why? My body shook, making me want to puke… and die.

He wasn’t laughing but I could still hear it, echoing over and over in my head.

I could feel myself bleeding as he forced it deeper and deeper. I wanted to die. I wanted him to die! How could he do this to me?

It flashed to another point again and this time, he was dressed and held a gun to my face. I could see up the barrel… it was a revolver, the one with six bullets in the chamber. He had his finger on the trigger. I could see his eyes, his mouth, his teeth as he laughed again. He was saying something… what? Blood was everywhere..

“You got what you deserved.”

I woke up still shivering, still afraid someone was on top of me. Was it all a dream? Yes, thank God.

My cousin was right in the other room, did he hear it? Was I screaming in my sleep? I had to look at myself in the mirror JUST to make sure. As I realized it was quite early, I wandered back to bed, pulling the covers up over my shoulders like a child hiding from the boogeyman. I tried to get it out of my head, force it out… but it wouldn’t let me.

After about an hour of trying and failing, I quit.

Why am I having dreams like this? It was so graphic, and so real. I could feel him, hear him… and smell his sweat. It lingered in my mind and poked and prodded me all damn day. That same gut feeling would grow in the pit of my stomach, and I would start looking around, playing the ‘what if’ game in my head.

What if it was a vision or premonition?

What if this guy is real?

What if he comes for me?

What if that’s him in that car? Or that one?

What if he walks up behind me and.. like abducts me?

What if it really happens to someone else? To me?

What if I’m just going crazy?

I’d laugh at myself after realizing what I was doing and tell myself… it was only a dream…

…And I would still ask myself – what if?

The only time I could get relief is when I completely obsorbed myself with something else. If not, I’d close my eyes, and he’d be right there… him and that wicked smile of his, his laugh. My heard would pound harder and faster.. God, can’t I just forget about it? This dream is like a disease, a plague eating me from the inside out.

God, save me..

–

This is probably the worst dream I’ve ever had. I know it’s not… too descriptive, but… I don’t want it to be. I don’t think I could handle it.

Exercise: Talk about your beliefs on love. What does true love mean to you?

It’s such a short word, but it has such a lengthy meaning.

Love is many thigns to many people but to me? I am not sure.

Througout my life, I’ve loved and lost many. Whether it’s an unconditional love, with your parents or family, or a friends love, or a true or not-so-true love with your significant other.

Unconditional love – they will love you no matter what you do, no matter what you say… At least that’s how it’s supposed to be. There will always be an exception to that rule.

True love – some people thinks it falls in the same thin lines as unconditional love, but it doesn’t. True love is quite dependant. It’s supposed to be forever… a true, deep feeling of complete and utter happiness, a warm and fuzzy. But in our lives, we love many ‘significant others.’ How do we know this one is ‘the right one?’

We don’t.

But we still have to try and yes, you may fall, but you need to have the strength within yourself to pull yourself back up. That strength is confidence in yourself and the love for yourself; knowing that you don’t need someone for you to be complete. But even if you don’t want it to, later on, love will find you. Sometimes where and when you least expect it.

But what happens when you find your truely, true love?

I believe that when we are born, we have half of a soul. We go through life, like a puzzle piece, trying to find the one that fits; the one that makes us whole. When a half and another half unites, completely in tune, that is when it’s true love. When the first thing you think about when you wake up and the last thing you think about before you go to sleep, is them. They make you laugh and smile harder than you ever have, sometimes so bad your face hurts. Yes, you might have disagreements, but it is not the defining factor of your relationship. When you don’t need to say a single word, and both of you know exactly what the other is thinking, or what they want to say. When you can lay beside them and hear their heart pounding away, wanting yours to flutter to beat.

When you feel whole in every way.. One-hundred percent? That is love.

Exercise: Go into a library or a book store. Go through the store or the library and pick out many random books. Within those books, find one random sentence. After writing ten or so down, write a story with those sentences. Try to make it as long as you can.

-

When my boss told me I was going to some small town in Oklahoma called ‘Pilot County,’ a town I’ve never even heard of, let’s just say I was less than thrilled. He told me about the case and I’ve got to say, there’s nothing special about it. Shit like that happens all the time, what circumstances makes this one so different?

I didn’t have a choice though, I never really do. When he orders people to do things, he expects them to do it. No bitching, no moaning, and no unnecessary questions asked. If not? Well, find yourself another job.

So without hesitation or essence of joy, I packed my things and I got on a plane headed towards bum-fuck Oklahoma.

The plane ride was horrible, the stewardesses were little bitches, and when I walked out of the redneck airport, well… It didn’t look too much better.

Within my line of sight, I could see four bars, just as many farms, and empty, desolate land. The smell of cow manure hit me like a brick. Was that normal? Ngh… Guess it was around here. This stay was going to be short (hopefully,) and interesting.

I dragged my bags into the piece-of-shit rental car and started driving towards the closest bars. I wanted to start working almost immediately and from what I saw, drinking was the most important part of these peoples’ lives.

I walked into the bar and was immediately greeted with silent stares. “Oh, look,” one of them said. “Another city girl coming our way.” A group of them laughed. I smiled, in spite of their hostility, and walked towards the bar, ordering a martini.

“Nope,” the bartender jeered. “We ain’t got any of that shit, city girl. You’re going to drink regular shit when you come in here.”

Though I found them to be utterly repulsive and quite disgusting, I settled for a beer. If I was going to do this, I had to at least take the edge off.

“So what’re you here for, lady?’” One of the guys asked, turning his head towards me. The rest of them had gone back to the game playing on the small television hanging above the bar. “We don’t get many of your kind ‘round here.”

‘”Well,” I sipped at the beer, cringing at the bitter taste. ‘”I’m here to talk about what’s happened here.” Everyone in the bar fell silent, many drunk and sober eyes clinging to me. ‘”I want to know what happened and–”

“No body needs to know what happened,” another man said. “Can’t we just let it drop?”

‘”No,” I said. “I want to know what happened; I want to know the real story. Get it out there. All I need now is for someone,” I took another sip of the Budweiser. “To start talking.”

Everyone looked around at each other. One of them reached his hand out, his eyes staring straight into mine. “I’m Dan.”

-

Hey, Dan, Thanks for talking to me. I just have a couple of questions about what happened.

“Yeah, fine. Go ‘head. Ask your damn questions.“ He looked away, lifting his beer to his lips.

So, this is a pretty small town, right? I mean, I never heard of it ‘til now.

“Yeah, most people won’t and probably never will. Pilot County is pretty small.” He nodded with a smile. “It’s the way we like it. It’s pretty quiet, pretty safe… Which is why we were so surprised about what happened with Tabitha and Mio.”

I’ve heard a lot about Ms. Tabitha Reynolds from the media channels. I’ve heard a lot of people say she deserved what she got. What do you think?

“Tabitha was a special kind of person,” he winked. “You know, special meaning she would open her legs for anyone or anything with a dick, and this included rubber dicks too, and she was damn proud of it. When she walked into a bar, you could see the determination in her eyes to go home with someone. Of course it could have been the fact that she was drunk or stoned all the damn time. Shit, you could slap her, this way and that way, back to Tuesday, but she’d normally laugh. Thank you, Sir, may I have another?” He chuckled lightly, and sipped at his beer. He turned away for a moment, looking off into the distance. “Everyone knew she was a whore,” he spoke softer. “And there have been quite a lot of guys in this town that has taken advantage of that fact, and that included Mio. Doesn’t mean she deserved what she got, though.” He shook his head.

Now, what about Mio? What was he like? Was he a friend of yours?

“Mio? Yeah, well, he was a character of his own. Something about him always creeped me out. At least with Tabitha, you knew what she was and what she wanted; basically what she was about. But with Mio?” He stopped, a faint shudder falling across him. “He was a weird one.” The others behind him nodded, now interested in the interview and what he was saying. “He always went to the same bar and he would sit down, just sipping on whiskey. He would just sit there, without saying a damn word to anyone. A game would be on, people cheering, jumping up and down but he would be… still and silent. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say a thing. When he wasn’t looking off into space, he would just look around at people. I guess he just wanted to watch, seeing what they were doing. Maybe he was crazy? I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Never talked to the guy, obviously. No one did. And I think that’s the way he liked it. No one knew who he was.”

Okay, now tell me what you did when you found what happened? What type of effect did it have on the town? What type of effect did it have on you, personally?

He burped loudly. “The day we found out what happened… Well, we were in shock for the most part. We never expected anything like that to happen in our town. Ever. I mean, I hear about shit like that on the national-fucking-news but never once did I think someone in this town was capable of-of… Uh, well, you know.”

Even Mio?

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking over to me. “Even Mio.”

-

The front page of the local paper, the Pilot County News, said it all. ‘Local Woman Found Raped, Beaten.’ But it wasn’t just on the local paper, it was national now. Not because of the crime itself, but because of the effect it had on Pilot County’s residents.

-

PILOT COUNTY, _ Sherriff Gary Stratton said police found the 31-year-old woman shortly after 6 a.m. yesterday after getting a cell phone call from an anonymous citizen in the area. Stratton told reporters that the woman was dumped at the crossroads of Gilliton and Harvard Road after she was raped and beaten by a local man whose name the Sherriff refuses to publicize.

The victim, Tabitha Reynolds, suffered serious facial injuries after the suspect beat her with his handgun, said Stratton. Her injuries are not considered life-threatening and police were able to interview her at the hospital within hours of the attack.

“This was no random attack,” Stratton continued. “The victim and the suspect know each other. The public doesn‘t need to worry about the violence in this town sky-rocketing. This is going to be taken care.”

-

The article continued, but no one in this town could read more, they told me. How could they? Everyone knew the victim; everyone thought they knew who did it to her. Maybe that’s what worried them the most?

-

So what did you think, when you read the article? Who did you-?

“Oh, I damn-well knew the moment I read that piece of the article… Oh, I knew it was Mio.” Dan continued. “He was the one that left with her that night. It was weird, seeing the both of them together that night, almost surreal,” he added. “He actually said something to her – surprised the SHIT out of me. I mean, I didn’t hear what it was, I doubt anyone but Tabitha did. I had a gut feeling that something was going to happen, and I didn’t stop her from going out there with him. I didn’t stop her–”

“Oh, shut up, Dan.” Another man interrupted. He didn’t introduce himself but the name-tag on his T-mart uniform read ’Alex.’

“You know it was going to happen sooner or later. She got what she deserved!” The smell of alcohol was prominent on his breath. “She wanted it. She needed that hot, Latino dick and you know that bitch got what was coming to her.” Everyone in the bar just stared at him. “She wanted to be a whore. Guess what, being raped? Pfft… Part of the territory.” He shrugged. He looked around to the others, who were giving him a look of pure disgust. “What? You think I’m the only one that thinks this shit is true? Fuck, everyone in town knows it’s true, they just don’t want to say it!” He stood, wearily. The alcohol might have been affecting every other part of him, but it was not affecting the angry passion behind his words. “I’ll say it. You remember where they found her, corner of Gilliton and Harvard?” People nodded. “Yeah, Harvard hotel is right fucking there. God’s sakes, you should have seen them! They were in hysterics the whole time, like it was the funniest thing that ever happened.” He laughed. “I’m not kidding!“ He continued laughing, almost hysteric himself. “Shit, most of them probably watched it and jacked off to it. All of those bastards are perverts up there.” He burped obnoxiously. “You know it, I know it,” he shrugged, going to sip at his sixth beer. “We all know it.”

-

“Yeah, I’m Mio.” He was sitting across the table, in an appealing fluorescent hue of Penitentiary orange. He reached up, petting the small bit of scruff on his chin. “What do you want?”

I want to talk to you about what happened, about why you’re in jail and awaiting trial. Don’t you want to tell your side of the story?

He laughed. “My side of the story?” His smile faded quickly, turning into an angry stare. “Yeah, I’ll tell you my story. But you think you’ll believe me after talking to all those two-faced rednecks? Nah, probably not. You sure you really want to hear what I have to say?” He leaned forward, waiting for an answer. He wanted to tell it, even if his lips read ‘no,’ his eyes screamed ‘YES.’

“Well,” he asked after a long silence. “Speak up!” He shrugged and started without an answer.

“Tabitha, that bitch,” he cursed. “How dare she go to the cops and say I raped her? I would never do that!” Oh yes, because he was such an outstanding citizen.

I don’t know the answer to that, but I do want to know what happened that night. Tell me, at the bar. What did you say to her? When did you leave?

He laughed, shaking his head as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Sure,” he continued. “I always go to the same bar. It’s my favorite place. The whiskey is good, nice… and burns good all the way down. I go in there all the time and not once has anyone said shit to me. I didn’t mind it, I guessed. All of them were racist, two-faced rednecks, bitching about how they’re wives didn’t ‘satisfy’ them anymore. Pfft, I never had that problem. Anyone I was with, I made them…” He licked his lips. “Scream my name.” He leaned back, pulling a beanie over his head. “Tabitha, mmm…” He moaned, the sound rising up from his chest. He closed his eyes. “Tabitha was my special lady. We’d been together before but she was too much of a SLUT to stay with one person.” A flare of rage burned in his eyes. “But she’d come back to me, every once in a while. I knew I was on the rebound, on the slyyyy. But I didn’t care. She was a nice, wet fucking.” He bit his lip. “My dick could fall into that whole and keep going for hours, she was so deep. She was so sensitive, too. You’d think that after a woman had sex with, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “One hundred men, she’d lose feeling, but nope. Not her.” He shook his head. “Not her.” He looked down for a moment, falling silent.

And that night? You know, the night in question?

“Oh, yeah,” he rebounded. “That night,” he laughed. “It was the best she had been in a long time.” He bit his lip, his mind forcing his body to remember the experience. He closed his eyes. “Her pussy was so sweet and it made it better knowing I wouldn’t have to pick the hairs out of my teeth later.” He laughed. He opened his eyes. He didn’t care how obscenely he spoke. It aroused him then, and it aroused him now.

I don’t need to know about your sexual adventures, Mr. Rodriguez. Tell me what happened in the bar, and what happened after you left the bar.

“What?” He asked. “Getting too hot for you?” He laughed, throwing his head back. He shook his head and sat back up. “She had came in, already drunk, already completely fucking wasted. I looked over, surprised she could even walk to me. How and the hell had she driven there? I didn’t know, and I certainly didn’t care. She was wearing this skimpy little outfit… Short denim skirt, pink shirt that was so sexy, sexy, sexy… That outfit was screaming… FUCK ME, FUCK ME NOW.” He laughed. “She was showing half her fucking tits already and I can guarantee if she bent over, everybody could see her fucking crotch.” He pushed himself away from the table in the chair. “She climbed on top of me, wrapping her arms around my waist, like this…” He placed his hands on his hips. “She said… Mio, I want you.” He straightened up. “Take me home. Take me home and shove that pretty little tongue of yours deep… Deep… Oh, god…” He put his hands in his pockets as fast as he could, attempting to hold something that was trying to get away. He closed his eyes, trying to control it.

What happened next?

He opened his eyes slowly, exhaustion slipping over him already. His erect dick was still saluting everyone in the room. “I told her,” his voice was softer. “I told her that I would. We got up, got into the car and drove to the Harvard Hotel.” He slouched over the table, panting slightly.

Why the Harvard Hotel? Why didn’t you take her home?

“Please,” he scoffed. “My old lady would kill me.” He shook his head.

So you have a wife?

He nodded.

And you still decided to have sex with Ms. Reynolds?

“Yeah, baby. And it was the best it ever was.” He clenched his fists. “We got into the hotel room. She was trying to rush me. She said, hurry, Mio. Make me wet.” He quivered. “I tried to hurry, ripping my pants down as she climbed on the bed.” His eyes glazed over. He could see it as he told the story. “She rolled over to her back and propped herself up on her elbows, laying her head lazily over to one side. Come on, Mio. Come on. She spread her legs and that sweet, sweet smell of pussy shot towards me.” He crossed his legs tightly, trying to overcome a physical stiffness. “I ripped off her panties, throwing them to the floor. I nudged at it, probing for an entrance, waiting for the final countdown of blast off. I gripped her shoulders and with one harsh thrust, she hissed. But she liked it. She wrapped her legs around me, around my waist and damn, I rode her like a saddle. Harder and harder… She screamed for more, and baby,” he looked up. “I gave it to her. It was the best night of her life.”

I don’t need to hear anything else. That’s… uh… That’s all I need.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s one more thing,” he laughed. “When you see her, tell her I said… I love you too.” He threw his head back in laughter and continued to laugh as the door closed and locked. He’d be in jail for a long time.

-

Sherriff, thank you for speaking with me. I know you’re very busy.

“Yes, well… right now I am, maybe.” He was sitting at his desk, which was covered with reports and newspapers, and crime scene photos. Some of which was the victim in this case. “But before all this…” He waved his hand sporadically. “..Shit happened,” he sighed. “All I ever had to deal with was a drunk or two. Every once in a while, we had a domestic abuse case, but…” He shrugged. “I guess we’re just joining the long line of cities that have joined the Hall of Shameful Crimes.”

What do you mean?

He looked back up. “I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times by now, but… I’ve never thought we’d have to deal with rape in my town. I thought I knew the people of this city, but…” He leaned back in the stitched, brown office chair and looked out the window beside his desk. The whole city could be seen, the lights flickering in the distance like fire. “Obviously I don’t.” He was silent for a little while, but he sat up. “Okay, so what questions do you have for me?”

Well, Sherriff… I’ve heard a lot of speculation in the town from many different people. I’ve heard many unflattering things about the victim and the perpetrator in this case. I’ve also spoke to Mr. Rodriguez. I want to know everything you know about Ms. Reynolds and Mr. Rodriguez.

He sighed. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Tabitha was our town whore. She would drink and she would get into mindset that… wasn’t healthy. When she drank, she would do anything and everyone. But, what many people don’t know about is the other side of her; the good side, the best side.” He looked up. “It’s a rare occurrence, you know… her being sober, but it happens sometimes. She’s sweet; she’s modest, which is something you wouldn’t see otherwise. She would do anything for you. Anything to make you happy; to make you smile. And it’s just a horrible thing when she wastes such… beauty.”

You seem to know Ms. Reynolds well.

He chuckled. “Yes, I should. Since I’m her ex-husband.” He sighed. “She was such a different person back then.” He turned, looking off into space, lost in his own mind of good and cherished memories. It was silent for a long while.

And what about Mr. Rodriguez?

He snapped out of his thoughts and looked back. “Mio? I never really knew him. I never talked to him, never had to. He never gave the town any trouble. He might have been pulled over for speeding every once in a while, but… who hasn’t? I mean, shit, I have before and I’m the damn Sheriff of this town!” He sighed. “I just never thought that…” His voice trailed off. “I mean, you should have seen her.” He said, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his desk, pain in his eyes. “She was shaking like she was having a seizure,” he said. “She was screaming, babbling to herself. She kept asking ‘why?’ Why did this happen to her? Why did he do that to her? And to tell you the truth, I…” His voice cracked. “I-I don’t know. I don’t know why it happened to her, and you know what… I don’t want to know why! I just want it over with! I want Mio to rot in jail, let him become somebody’s bitch. Let him get butt-fucked! Let him feel that pain that she felt and–” He was letting the anger inside overtake him, but just as quickly as it bubbled over, it vaporized. “I… I’m sorry.” He said, his voice still shaking.

It’s fine. I understand, Sherriff. Is there anything else you want to tell me?

He shook his head. “No, I… I think that’s all you’re going to get from me tonight.” He stood, pulling his jacket up over his shoulders, zipping it up. “I am really sorry for–”

It’s fine, Sherriff. Have a good night.

-

Tabitha was jittery; hair fizzled and knotted all over. Dark circles were around her eyes, as well as the faint shadows of old bruises, though she tried to hide it with liquid and powder foundation. She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t showered either. The way she looked, the way she smelled, told the truth. “You’re the reporter that’s been asking around, aren’t you?”

Yes.

“Why are you here? You want to know what happened?”

Yes. I want to know what really happened; the truth. I’ve gotten many stories about–.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of stories about me.” She reached into her inside pocket of the jacket she was wearing, pulling out a slim bottle of whiskey. She put it to her lips, throwing her head back, gulping it in great amounts. She wiped her mouth and put the bottle down. The alcohol was slowly starting to take effect. Her eyes were slowly glazing over. She laughed. “You know, I never thought something like this… Something like… this…” She repeated. “Could happen, to me…” She put her hand to her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I mean, I may not be the best person in the world, but did I really deserve it?” She shook her head, grabbing the bottle again. “Obviously.”

Tell me what happened.

“WHY?” She screamed. “THAT BASTARD PROBABLY TOLD YOU ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW!” She roared. “How I wanted it! And how I,” she paused. “How I deserved it…” She started to whisper, looking down through the neck of the whiskey bottle. “How I was already drunk and how I said, YES, YES… FUCK ME HARDER!” She cried. She threw the bottle of the whiskey and it shattered against the wall, sending flickering glass across the floor. She dug her face into her palms, sobbing as silently as she could.

I-If it’s a problem, we don’t have to do this. I can–.

“NO!” She screamed, interrupting my sincerity. “I want you to sit there and fucking listen to what I have to say!” Tears rolled down her pale cheeks. “I want you to sit there and write every single fucking thing I have to say down and put it in that damn article you’re writing. I want them to know what he did! WHAT HE REALLY DID TO ME!” She screamed.

Okay. Here’s a tissue.

She reached out for it. “Th-thanks,” she said, wiping the warm tears away and blowing her nose into the tissue. She crumpled it up and threw it to the couch, where mountains of used tissues were consistently growing. She attempted to gather herself.

“That night,” she sniffled. “I had smoked some weed… here.” She motioned to the paraphernalia on the table. “It’s one of my favorite things to do, it calms me.” She said, nodding. “…When I walked into that bar, I saw M-Mio.” She shook. “He had never done anything like that before, so, I thought… You know, he wouldn’t hurt me. Just by the look in his eyes, I knew he was hornier than a fucking male rabbit. He whispered to me, ‘Want to go to Harvard?’” A steady stream of tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I was… so STUPID!” She cursed herself. “So fucking stupid…“ She pulled her arms around herself tightly, starting to rock back and forth.

What happened when you got to the hotel?

“He-uh… He had given me a bottle of… vodka to drink, for the way there, you know. It… It used to be my favorite.” She gave a chuckle. “Not anymore.”

“We got to the room and as soon as the door was locked, he changed into a completely different person. I don’t know what was wrong with him, I… I never saw anything like that. His eyes, God… I can’t get his eyes out of my head.” She hit her knuckles against the side of her head.

“’Clothes off,’ he said. ‘Lie across the bed with your feet on the floor, your arms stretched over your head as far as they can go. If I have to tell you to do it again, I’ll make you do it.’” She was lost in the images of the memory.

“I said, oh, baby and laughed! I didn’t know he was serious! I… I thought it was just some crazy ass foreplay. I said, ‘Give it your best shot, baby.’” She clenched her fists. “He charged at me. In a blink of an eye, he was on top of me, forcing me down on the bed, ripping my clothes off as fast as he could. Still, I thought he was playing. I was laughing at first, until he put his fingers around my neck and…” Her hands went to her neck. Her fingers were shaking. “He squeezed and squeezed. Tighter and tighter! I couldn’t breathe! I… couldn’t move. He was on top of me, holding my hands above me. He was so heavy!” She cried.

“He laughed.” She persisted. “He laughed and said, ‘you like it rough, don’t you?’ I tried to scream, but he just slapped me across the face over and over again until I couldn’t anymore. He shook me like a rag doll.” She shook an imaginative doll in front of her. “He scratched at my breasts, biting them making them bleed. He said, ‘I want to hear you scream, bitch. You wanted this. You wanted it, didn’t you?’ He… He pulled his pants down. I scratched him, tried everything to get him off me. I tried everything I could think of, ANYTHING AT ALL, but he… He overpowered me and before I could try again. He… shot into me like a fucking rocket-dick, growling like a goddamn monster. I screamed, louder and louder, but no one cared! No one FUCKING CARED!” She screamed, continually rocking back and forth. “They heard me. They had to and no one called the cops,” she shook her head. “No one came to the door to ask if everything was okay. Nothing.” She whispered to herself. “No one cared.”

I… I’m sorry, Tab–.

“SHUT UP!” She screamed. “I’m not done yet!” She yelled breathlessly. “By the time he was done, my throat was raw. I couldn’t scream anymore, even if I tried. I was bleeding a lot. Maybe he ripped me, I don’t know but he got tired of me. He pulled out and turned around, pulling his pants up. I could barely move, but I got to my purse and I pulled out a gun… It’s one I’ve had for a long time… since Gary gave it to me after we divorced and…” She held up an imaginary handgun. “I grabbed it out and I pointed it at him. He turned towards me and laughed, laughed, laughed again. He said… ‘Oh, come on. You don’t have the tits to shoot me. Give me the gun.’ He put out his hand like I was just going to hand it to him.

“’Are you insane? I asked. ‘You just FUCKING raped me!’ I screamed. He laughed again and said, ‘Tabitha, you do no want me as your enemy.’ He started coming closer and I put my finger on the trigger. He said, ‘I’ll do it again, and again… and I’ll tie you down and leave you like that for days on end until you realize I break you. I will make you beg. Beg For more. Throughout all that pain, think your God will intervene? Think anyone will come and save you? Shit, baby, they won’t even know you’re gone.’ He rushed at me again before I had the chance to pull the trigger, he started punching me. He got the gun away from me and he would have shot me… but… the gun jammed. So, instead… he beat me with it until I passed out. I… I don’t know what he did after that. He could have raped me again for all I fucking know.” She looked down, shaking her head. “He said that I’d find it thrilling to be raped…” She looked up. “There was no thrill at all.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t even know how I got outside. I don’t remember.” Her words faded into unrecognizable mumblings.

Thank you, Tabitha. That’s all I need.

It was silent for a couple of moments. She was still crying flashes of what happened circling in her head like a carousel.

He… He’s not going to hurt you anymore.

She reached over. “You need to promise me,” her voice was shaking. “Promise me that people will know what he really did to me. Promise me!”

I promise.

-

“So, lady,” Dan asked, sipping on a beer. It was a late night. The wind was howling at the door of the bar. “Did you get what you wanted?” He asked. “Did you get everything you needed for that damn article of yours?” He looked away. “I hope you know we won’t read it. We don’t need to know more than we already do.”

I understand.

“Good,” he snapped back. “Why did you come here anyway?” There was a drunken anger in his voice. “Why couldn’t you just fucking stay away?!”

I had to get the real story. What really happened. Not the bullshit the media fucks are spreading around here.

He looked over. “Oh, so you’re going to tell what really happened, huh? Every single nasty ass detail? You’re going to set the story straight?” He started yelling.

Yeah.

He turned away. “Good. You fucking better.”

-

I sat at my computer, staring at a blank page. The cursor nagging at me. Come on, it said. Come on, write it all down. Tell the story. But every time I tried, I would delete everything. I wasn’t sure if it would do the story, and the people of this story justice. I promised her, Tabitha, that I would let everyone in the world know what happened to her that night, what really happened to her and I intended on keeping that promise.

I’ve written about a lot of crimes, about a lot of people, about a lot of rapes. But I never thought a case like this could strike a cord so deep with me. I never thought the story and the people would effect me or would mean so much to me.

Whose side do you believe? The man who never had a run-in with the law, but is a disgusting piece of trash? Personally, I think he did it to her. I think he enjoyed it and if he was released, I could guarantee he would do it again. If not someone else, he would do it to Tabitha again. And God knows what would happen then. The Sherriff wouldn’t be ‘a Sherriff’ anymore. He would go after him and would probably kill him. I don’t think anyone in Pilot County would stop him, either. I knew I wouldn’t.

But what about Tabitha? Most people would say, yeah, well, she was a whore. She deserved it! But what you don’t realize, is that no matter how loose she was, no matter if she was a whore or not… She still said no and once a woman says no and they keep going… No matter who the victim was, it‘s still rape.

No woman deserves to be raped and beaten. No one does.

I sighed. I still couldn’t figure out what to write, what to say, and quite frankly, how to say it. I looked down to my notes and bit my lip. What if…? I looked back up to the nagging cursor and I smiled. I always keep my promises.

They would know the truth.

(I will be fixing it and adding more to it later.)

One of my hands is on the steering wheel,
Resting lazily against the old & cracked leather.
The other hand in the cool, nightly wind,
dancing out the window.
The moon is high on the horizon,
The velvet gray clouds moving across it,
As if they wanted to suffocate the light.
That is how I feel: suffocated…
I lean my head back,
Breathe,
Trying to release everything inside of me.
The insecurities,
The hate, the fear,
The doubts,
The thoughts,
Just let it flow through me and out the window,
Leaving me relaxed…
Calm.
Free.

Prompt: Collect some motivational statements about writing or creativity and post them where you write.

I will post more later.

I have so many memories, some good and some bad. Memories of people, of places, feelings and thoughts. So many. Sometimes I wonder, how does my brain keep it all? What if, one day, something happens and all the memories I cherish are gone forever? How many people will I forget? How many great experiences or bad experiences won’t I remember? Who would I be? A hollow reflection of my former self? An empty shell? I don’t want to forget my memories. Sometimes they’re all a person has left.

Childhood Memories:

We were still living in Delaware. “Gordia Estates.” I don’t remember if that’s really how you spell it, but that doesn’t matter. Nicki and I were riding our bikes around the house. It had just rained, so the dirt around the hosue was now mud. Nice, deep, and slipper, but we didn’t care. We liked it that way.

I don’t remember what we were playing but I was smiling and laughing with him not too far behind. I passed the famous walls of honeysuckle, which we’d normally stop and lick the honey from the strings of the flower. I kept going, the ground was rough. The roots of the trees pervading through the slippery mud only made it worse. I kept petalling until the wheels hit asphalt and laughed. Ha! I laughed back at him. I got away! He laughed. Yeah.. I won!

I have many memories with Nicki. One of my best memories with him was our ‘wedding.’

At that age, we didn’t understand what marriage really meant. We thought – hey, we’re best friends. Why not?

My other friend, Julia, would be the priest. It would be awesome! He was dressed in a suit. It might have been a tuxedo. He was wearing white sneakers with it; what a nice touch, huh? And in his hand, there was a rose and a ring. I was happy. I knew he didn’t spend more than five-dollars but I didn’t care. I walked up to him, on the aisle, which was our cracked sideway. He gave me the rose, smiled, and handed me the ring. Our parents behind us chirped with a long ‘aw.’ I put the ring on and grabbed his hand, both of us turning towards Julia.

It was a sunny day, the birds were singing, the smell of spring flowers were in the air, the trees swaying from the wind, and I was being married in my front lawn to my best friend.

“I do.” “I do.”

“You may kiss the bride,” Julia said, a wide smile on her face. Was she wondering if we’d really kiss? Maybe.

I looked to Nicki, holding his hands. He looked right into my eyes, and we kissed. It was silent for a long time aftewards. I don’t think my parents believed we were going to kiss, let alone.. if we knew how, but.. we surprised them.

Almost immediately after, Nicki asked if we could play. His mother said not until he changed and before she finished the sentence, he was already gone and on his way back. I changed as well and all three of us met at the end of my street. Julia, Nicki and I. I remembered thinking that he was my husband now and forever. Then we got on our bikes and rode to our favorite park. Yeah, the one with the monkey balls!

Teenage Memories:

One of my best friends, Tisha, and I were walking back from a lunch we didn’t eat and was heading to the library. I had forgotten something. Oh great, I thought. How fucking stupid was I? I laughed, so did Tisha. I told her to head on into the library. I’d be right there. She agreed and went inside as I walked back for what I needed. As I returned and approached the library doors, I knew something was wrong. People were surrounding someone screaming. My thoughts immediately went frantic. What happened? Was Tisha okay? Where was she?

I rushed in, pushing through the crowd. The librarian was just standing there, shocked by what she had seen. I saw Tisha on the ground crying, holding her left cheek. I put my stuff down and kneeled down to her, trying to figure out what had just happened, even though I had an idea already bouncing in my head. I tried talking to Tisha, but she was just too upset to tell me.

I turned to the gril still screaming, now not only at Tisha, but at me. I clenched my fists, the anger building inside of me. Naturally, I am very protective of all of my friends and family. This was an atrocity because I considered Tisha as a sister. I was angry, but I knew that if I got into another fight, the Principal would not be happy with me. I turned to the girl with no intention to fight and I asked a simple question: “did you hit Tisha?”

Now her focus was primarily on me. She started screaming louder and louder, tossing derogatory and sordid words my way. She was screaming them at the top of her lungs, approaching me defensively. I did not move. Eyes on her; straight. She kept screaming, not answering my questions. Then, she pushed me.

It’s like she wanted me to blow up. She urged me, even, to hit her. Believe me, I wanted to. I didn’t flinch, didn’t waiver. “Did you hit Tisha?” I asked again.

More screaming. No answers. I looked around to the crowd around around. They wanted to see an all-rage, balls-out girl fight. But I didn’t want to. She pushed me again and backed away, still screaming.

“Did you hit Tisha?”

This time, she took a swing. I had no choice but to bend to the crowd’s will, to this girls demise. I looked to the girl, and my eyes flashed white. All of a sudden, it was like slow motion. She was screaming as she swung at me, but she missed. I grabbed her arm, twisting it and throwing her into one of the tables. After that, I can only remember bits and pieces. I was so angry, seeing red. How dare she?

I remember grabbing her hair from behind and throwing her to the floor, kicking her over and over again. The Principal and some of the other teachers (finally) got there and I was kicking her. Two or three of them had to pull me back off of her and suddenly, it was like the metal cage locked that animal away and I was somewhat normal again. I pushed the teachers away from me, reached around, grabbed Tisha and both of our bags, and dragged her into the nurses office. I’m sure that’s not where they had told me to go, but at this point, I didn’t care. I was deaf to their words for the most part.

I took Tisha into the nurse, through the main office, and to the back. I set her down on the cot, along with our stuff. I was shaking, so hard I could barely stand it. The nurse tried to ask what was wrong, but Tisha had to answer because I simply couldn’t.

I was shaking hard, harder. I was pacing, talking to myself. I don’t remember what I was saying, but I do remember the feeling. Adrenaline was pumping through me. I looked down to my hands. They were bright red and they burned.. No, stung, was more like it. Had I slapped her? Probably.

I don’t remember much more of that day. It was a bad part of me, something that unfortunately sees the light of day more than I’d like it to.. but it’s something I have to live with.

Places I’ve been.

Throughout my life, I’ve been to many places… but to me, not enough. I want to travel the United States, and eventually, if able, travel the world.

One of the best places, in my mind, that I’ve ever been to is Ocean City, Maryland. It is the best place to be during the spring and summer months. When you get close to the beaches, the air smells… so different. It smells like salt, and sunscreen, and ocean water, and… well, everything Summer means to me. Even the sun feels different down there. It shines down, the light seeping deep down into your skin. Every time, I smile wider and wider and though every time I go down there, I get severe sunburn… It is so worth it.

My family and I used to go every summer, for one straight week. It was probably the best times of my childhood. I have so many memories down there.

The water was always nice and warm, the sun beaming down so bright. Sometimes the clouds would cover the sun, or dance around it like some theater ballet. The waves would come closer and closer and every once in a while, one would come that was just too big.. and I would either dive into it or let it wash over me. Of course I would end up on my ass in the sand, close to the shore, struggling for a breath and choking through the nasty-tasting ocean water. Yes, the water was pretty… but it was nasty. It was even worse when you sucked it into your nose. Owie.

We would walk the boardwalk and though we went there every year, we always went into the same stores, wondering if they had anything that the other stores hadn’t.. if they had anything different. They never did. We always saw the same things; Ocean City keychains and shot glasses, t-shirts and sweat-shirts. There would be beach toys for children, and for adults, beach chairs, towels… bathing suits for people that were size zero. I have so many memories of driving around, probably because it was so frustrating sometimes. Even though there were bad times, the good times would always outweigh them. Being with my family really made me happy, of course, being at my favorite place wasn’t too bad either.

Don’t Judge Me.

Death and I have a very complicated relationship. It’s strange, but there’s no other way I can say it.

My first date with death came somewhat young. I remember my parents and I rushing to the hospital. I didn’t know why at the time but I knew it wasn’t good. We got there and I was told to stay in the waiting room. The only thing that my parents told me was that pop-pop wasn’t doing good. I didn’t know what was going on. At that age, I didn’t think anything would happen. It was pop-pop. He was sick, but the doctors were going to help him, right? He would be okay, right?

I don’t remember exactly when my parents said he passed, but I remember what I felt. A sinking feeling, my heart breaking. It was the first time I ever saw my dad cry and I guess that image stuck with me. I remember thinking, No. You’re wrong. He’s okay! Why can’t I go see him? Please, don’t go, Pop-pop. I love you. I’ll miss you too much.

I didn’t get to say goodbye! Please?

I couldn’t stop crying. How could I? One of the most important people in my life, was gone. He was never coming back. I would never get to hug him again; never get to give him a kiss; never be tickled by him again; never be able to say I love you and hear him say I love you too.

Then someone said, ”At least he’s not suffering anymore.”

He was suffering? Why?

It was a long ride home that night. I was still crying, barely able to breathe. I had my windows down though it was cold outside, mid January. I looked up to the stars, so many thoughts in my head. Was he looking down on me? Was he in heaven? Was he an angel? …Maybe.

Days later, it was his funeral. We were all dressed in black. I hadn’t said much since he died. I didn’t have the strength, and I didn’t know what to say without bursting out into tears again. I remember feeling my mom’s worried eyes on me and my dad as we drove. I remember feeling my brother’s eyes on me, those icy blues full of sorrow and worry. I remember looking over, completely silent, seeing the same thing in his eyes.. that were in mine.

I said nothing. I sat. Hands in lap, eyes out the window. I was still (and years later, too) fighting my mind and emotions with the fact that I hadn’t said goodbye. I didn’t know if I could say it, or if I even wanted to.

The day was a blur. During the funeral, I was given the task of watching over my 4 year old cousin, Courtney. I remember her talking and talking and I just phased her out. I was holding her hand tight, but.. I was lost in my own mind and the faces that surrounded me. I don’t think I was crying, but I was scanning the faces of those at my grandfather’s funeral. Some of them I recognized, some of them I didn’t.

As I took Courtney up to see him, my mind went blank. I picked her up to let her see him. “He’s sleeping?” At that moment, I realized that she didn’t know what was happening. He was gone. Dead. Not asleep. For a moment, I was jealous of her. Why couldn’t I think like that? Why did I have to know the truth? But then, I realized, she probably wouldn’t remember him and that was one of the things I cherished the most: the memories of him, his smile, the way he smelled, his personality. Even though his death was mixed in with those memories, I’d rather remember him. He was too good to be forgotten.

I put Courtney down and reached for Pop-pop’s hand. It surprised me at how cold it was. How stiff. I started crying. I pet his head and though he was balding, there was still a bit of hair. It was soft. I kissed my fingers and pressed it to his forehead.

I said:

I love you, Pop-pop. I love you so much. Watch over us. Please. I love you. Good-bye.

I looked over to my uncle and I could see something in his eyes. It was… a sadness, a regret. He couldn’t even look me in the eyes. Then I didn’t know why, but later I found out, but that is a different story.

I will always remember that day. Always. And I will always remember my grandfather, MY Pop-pop.

-

That was my first encounter with death but it certainly is not the reason why Death and I have a complicated relationship.

Throughout my school years, life was not easy. As I am not the skinniest or prettiest… or sluttiest person in the world, my peers thought it best to TORTURE me. They would do anything and everything they could do to upset me in the worst of ways… and this was an everyday thing.

Their actions had very bad effects on me. I would come home crying everyday because of the horrible things they’d say to me.

Fat ass. Shamu. Bitch. Call Jenny. Die. Eat shit and Die. Fat whore!

I would come home crying because of the things they’d do to me.

Push me, throw things at me, gang up on my in the school bathrooms. One girl even stabbed me in the back with a pencil. Another beat me in the schoolyard, 20 feet away from the group of teachers and what would they do? Nothing. Maybe slap them on the wrists? Maybe.

Most of the time, it seemed like the teachers were on their side. And it wasn’t fair.

Eventually, after years of hearing that you’re a waste of space, after years of being told you were nothing.. I started believing them. I don’t know how many times I wished I could die in those years. Thousands? Millions, probably.

It wasn’t a real physical pain I was experiencing but my mind made it real. I was in so much pain. So much, and I wanted it to stop.

Why couldn’t I be normal? What they were saying is true? All of it? Why bother living?

With time, it only got worse. I had found an outlet, many actually.. though it wasn’t good. I developed an addiction. (My parents don’t even know this.)

My parents took pills for surgeries and I had pain pills for severely spraining BOTH shoulders. (Don’t ask how I managed that? I don’t know.) I would take them. More and more. More and more. I would need them. But I would take 1, 2, 3 pills at a time thinking I’d save some for later, but I never would.

I remember when I was in high school, walking to class.. I would fantasize about what it would be like to overdose? I would wonder about… how it would feel and what I’d be thinking. I’d fantasize about people finding me in the bathroom either passed out or dead on the floor. It would be THEIR fault. They pushed me to it. They did it.

The pills didn’t last too long. There wasn’t enough of them and I was too chickenshit to buy them off the street. Any friends that had them, they’d give some to me… or I’d steal them… but buying them, was different. So instead of pills, I’d go for alcohol. Pills and alcohol were my friends. I remember sitting up in my room, on my computer, drinking almost a whole bottle of absolut vodka by myself. God, it burned so good. All the way down. I wanted more and more. If my parents didn’t have alcohol or wouldn’t buy any, I would go somewhere else and get it. For a while there, every weekend I would drink with my best friend and EVERY weekend, we’d get drunk off our asses. One of those weekends, I even tried weed. Tried it. Didn’t like it. Didn’t do enough for me.

But even with the drinking, every weekend, it wasn’t enough. It never was enough. When I was sober, I was still in pain and I didn’t want to be anymore. How can I make the pain go away without people realizing I was fucked up? I don’t know how I thought of it, but I did.

My solution: cutting.

It’s easy to cover up and it works! I armed myself with razor blades and box cutters. I remember having a bright orange one, and a black one. I would use the orange one a lot. I would go into my rom, lock the door, and sit down with my back to my bed, cutting myself everywhere and anywhere. That steel piercing the skin, that thin line of red before it really started bleeding, that feeling of release and relief and… “Ah.” It’s undescribable, it really is.

All that pent up anger and sadness and regret and whatever would seep right out of my veins and when I would bleed, every trouble, fears, and hate would fall away.. bleed away. A wave of pleasure would crash over me and though it seemed as if the tidal wave was over.. the current would sweet me right back in. The pain kept coming back over and over again… so I did it more. I let myself bleed longer, cut deeper and longer, more cuts. I can remember looking into the mirror and seeing the cut marks on my naked body. Then I would look at myself right into my eyes, and remind myself why they were there. Why those marks deserved to be there and I would grab a single razor, sit in the warm, still bath water and cut myself. Not only to release the pain, but to see the purity of the clear water stained by my blood. I cut crosses into my legs, words like.. ‘dead inside’, and ‘why?’ I would cut things on my chest, deep long marks.. I even carved my initials into my legs. I carved into myself.. everywhere..

When I got wrist warmers, I started cutting my wrists and my arms.

I became obsessed with suicide. Cutting hard, and deep all the way around my left wrist, hoping I had cut deep enough. Obviously, I didn’t. I would cut, everywhere and anywhere, even on my fingers behind my rings. I kept doing it, over and over again.

I don’t know how many suicide letters I had written. I’d promise myself I’d do it, but I would wake up the next day wishing to die even more because I couldn’t do it myself. I started wondering what it would be like to be killed by someone else. Doing all but physically inviting someone to do so. It would put it in their hands. They’d have the power to do it because I didn’t. I never had the strength.

I would ask God if he could kill me. I would beg and plead and because he never answered me, I grew to hate him. He was of no use to me. Couldn’t he do a simple request?

Because he wouldn’t grant me my wish, I continued to try to do it myself. The cutting continued, got worse, grew into bigger, more destructive behavior. I would cut and burn myself with cigarettes or hot metal. I would rip my hair out, slap myself in the face, punch myself in the face or chest, slam my head against the wall, along with other things I am too ashamed to mention. I remember locking myself in my room one day, sitting in my closet, rocking back and forth.. slamming my head into the walls as I cried. I saw a long screw driver and I grabbed it, smacking myself with it before plunging the point of it to my chest. I am lucky it was a flat. I pushed hard, wishing, wishing it would go through. Wishing to die.

As bad as it sounds, it got worse. After the death of my friends… 4.. all in a row. I wanted to be with them. Why couldn’t they take me? I didn’t understand.

Though I eventually stopped cutting, it was very hard for me to do so. It was an addiction. I wanted to die SO MUCH. Sometimes I still do, but more recently, I’ve asked myself a question…

“How many times do you have to wish to die – for it to really happen?”

That scared the living shit out of me. All those years of wishing to die and I finally realized what “to die” actually meant. I didn’t want to die. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to live! I don’t want to die anymore and even though sometimes I think it would be easier, I thank GOD he didn’t listen to me.

So, as I said, my relationship with death is very.. complicated. I learned; be careful what you wish for, one day, it might come true.

A Dream.

I was in what looked to be a foreign country. In my head, I knew it was true. Of course, in my head I knew many things I know NOTHING about in real life, but that did not occur to me. The country ‘IRAQ’ rang a bell. Maybe it was? It didn’t matter. I was here. Where ever ‘here’ was.

I don’t know how many of us there were, but I realized there were more of them then us. Who was ‘them?’ I didn’t know yet. But they were dangerous.

Wind was blowing the harsh, red dirt in our faces. The roughness tearing through our skin. Though were covered in head to toe with gear, it still annoyed it. Every which way we turned our face, it still managed to take a shot at us. Visibility was low and I remember thinking it was a problem, but just another problem we would hopefully overcome.

We were moving fast, gun in hand. The wind tried to foce me over, but I had to be at least 100 pounds heavier with all my equipment. Damn wind, can’t blow me over. Can’t sway me.

We took cover behind a rock, but it looked like the only remains of a gray wall, which used to be a building. Had it been destroyed? Yes. By bombs? Uh, probably.

I look over to my squad… Wait, I think.. My squad?

We look over and see a building. Immediately, I know they’re inside. Those damn terrorists, fuckers.. How many? Fifty or more? Maybe.

Check the ammo, I say. They listen. I check my own as one of them says ‘We’re ready.’

I had a fleeting thought. Were we? Really?

Yes.

Let’s do this.

Like a group of pawns in a game of chess, just as indesposable, we advance; pushing towards the ruins of the building those bastards were holding up in.

They spot us before we see them but we start shooting first. I could feel the hot sun on my back, the sweat pulsating down my back. Why was I focusing on that…? Why wasn’t I focusing on the fight? How many had I killed again?

Lost count.

We’re fighting… shooting them down like the dogs they were, watching them fall from their posts. Watching them as they flop to the ground and twitch in a sea of their own blood. We wished pain on them, we made them pay for what they did.. their beliefs, their crimes, their lives. It was their fault! Theirs.

I watch it all, even as I pull the trigger. With each round it fires, the gun jolts and fires another. Jolt, another, jolt, another. My chest and my shoulder ache but I have no time to bitch and moan.

Gunfire finally ended. My squadron moving in, moving forward deeper into the terrorists hide out. I stay where I’m standing. Why? What’s happening now?

I look down, having put away my gun… and I see a young girl. Is she from Iraq? Why was she here? I don’t remember, but I remember those eyes.. So peircing yet so innocent. She needed my help and I knew that before she even spoke a single word. She was in rags, her face dirty.. tears rolling down her cheeks.

I remember thinking.. why is she out here amist the gunfire?

She looks right into my eyes and with a hand outstretched, she calls out for my help.

I stand there. Should I help her? I should but.. something inside me snaps away and I feel myself pulling away, at least emotionally. I become desensitized.

As she reaches out to me, I reach down to pull out a .9mm handgun, point it to her, smile.. and pull the trigger.

It was like slow motion. I could see myself pulling the trigger, the flash of the spark hitting the gunpowder and make the bullet fly out of the barrell of the gun… through the air..

Right into the girls head. Right between her eyes. Precision.

She dropped immediately and it’s like I didn’t care. I didn’t even look down to see what I had done. I didn’t care. At all. I put away my gun and as I look up, I see one of my squad members just standing there. A guy. Maybe he was my best friend?

He walks towards me. “We’ll just say she was caught in the crossfire.”

He had seen what I had done, but I didn’t care and neither did he. We just marked it off like it was nothing.. like she was nothing as she lay there rotting in the hot sun. We blamed it on the terrorists.. but they didn’t do it. We did. I did. I was a killer.. just like them.

I woke up, trying to figure out what this means.. but I can’t. I’m not sure if I want to know.