Through The Soul's Window

by Gary Anderson

  Through The Soul’s Window

  Gary Anderson [Author] (@QuoVadimus2012)

  Miami Kaos [Illustrator] (@RealMiamiKaos1)

  Published by Gary Anderson at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Gary Anderson

  Table of Contents

  AcknowLEdgements

  01. Playing God

  02. My Biggest Fear

  03. The Flame

  04. Anniversary

  05. Unconventional Plans

  06. Ghost Story

  07. My Encounter With Morris

  08. Circle Of Life

  09. A Hero's Guilt

  10. The Forgotten Letter

  11. Vegas Baby

  12. Time Out

  Acknowledgements

  Over the years there have been many people who have spurred me on to continue writing, when I often would not have the faith in myself or the confidence in my writing. It’s always nice to have someone in your corner that can provide you that extra reinforcement that gives you that kick that you need to keep going, despite any misgivings or setbacks.

  I wanted to take the time to acknowledge some of those in my life that I truly thank for the support and words of encouragement that they have shown me over the years. The following names are in no specific order of importance, as they have all served as vital to my getting to this point that I am confident enough to self-publish some of my short stories, whether it’s encouragement, suggestions, or helping me proof and edit these stories.

  Andy Brown, Carrie Brown, Matt Calvin, Antonia Marrero, Bonnie Murinko, Shirley Murinko, Andra Phelps, Nancy Sykes, Angela Tabor, Derek Trautman, Ira Watson, Nancy Wissink and of course my parents Alice & Gary Anderson.

  Finally I would like to give an especially enthusiastic thank you to the great Miami Kaos, a graphic designer who blessed me with the amazing art that accompanies this collection, and also designed the banner for my website “Searching For Chet Baker”. Not in my wildest dreams would I imagine that I would have a cover by Miami Kaos for my story collection, as this is a man who is in high demand by major musicians and companies alike.

  And yet he believed in my writing and my chasing my dream of putting out my work that he volunteered his assistance and contribution to this project. And for that I say, that while I can never properly come up with the words to express how much I value you as a friend and how much I appreciate what you have done, I hope the few words that I am able to say will illustrate just that.

  Gary W. Anderson

  Playing God

  She said that killing her baby was like playing God, the ultimate rush. She didn't seem the least bit disturbed by what she had done. No pesky morals getting in the way, no bell going off inside her head saying, “Hey! You just killed your baby!” none of that.

  If anything she seemed kind of proud of it, euphoric even. She asked me if I had ever done it, and I said no. When pressed to give an explanation of why, I told her simply, I could never have a child. That seemed to satisfy her. I guess in her mind, you had to create the child in order to develop some satisfaction from un-creating it.

  She had no idea how sickened I was from just listening to her.

  While I had known she was pregnant, I had no idea she was that far along. I’ve always been amazed at how well some women can hide their pregnancies.

  She'd given birth to the child in her apartment, and I had happened to stop by to see if she wanted to go to a movie that night. That's when I found her lying in the middle of the floor, holding her dead child in her arms, cooing to it.

  When the police came to take her away, she insisted that the child had not suffered. She had nurtured it for several days before she had drowned it, and said that the child never wanted for anything. I resisted the urge to suggest possibly childhood. She pointed out that the water was quite warm and very pleasing to the touch.

  The police officers looked at each other in amazement. They say that you hear everything in that job, but I'm pretty sure they had never had someone insist that she'd acted humanely by having warm water in which she submerged her only child.

  The trial didn't take long. It captured surprisingly little attention from the nation. There were terrorists hogging the front page, what did another crazy mother who drowned her kid matter? Sadly, it seemed that every other week another woman drowned her children.

  When her lawyers proposed the idea of an insanity plea, she balked. She told them that she didn't want her daughter to grow up thinking that she was crazy. She couldn't do that to her only child. The lawyers just stared at her in disbelief as she insisted that her daughter not think she was crazy.

  At first, they thought she was just playing the part of the insane mother, but soon it became obvious that she had no idea that her daughter was dead, and even less knowledge of the fact that she had been the cause. After consulting with the judge, the prosecutor agreed to a life sentence in a mental institution.

  That was many years ago. I've grown older and now have a family. I'm a successful comedian, an occupation that everyone told me growing up that I was suited for. Lately though it's become hard. How do I maintain a happy outlook on life, knowing that there are people like her, cursed to go through existence with a screwed up mind set? The fact that they don't know it makes it even harder to grasp.

  I'm not going to take the clichéd way out and blame God. That's too easy. I don't know if God intended for her to be the way she is, or if He intended for her to kill her child, as part of some grand master plan. I am not even going to try to understand her.

  I heard that in her later years, she cried out for mercy. That she could be heard in her room screaming out to God for forgiveness. I wonder also if she was sincere. How can she be remorseful if she doesn't realize what she's done? Is it a plea just because she feels that it's expected? Or is she even able to comprehend the concept? Who knows what is going on in that mind of hers?

  Maybe she realizes she's going to die there, and this is just a result of the looming mentality that grips death row inmates. Seemingly all death row inmates find religion at the end. Facing death what more can you do? You might as well, “find” God, just in case, I suppose.

  All I know is that I cry for her every year. I don't know why, but I do. This is a woman, perhaps I could have made a life with. At least, I had thought so. I wonder if it's wrong for me to thank God that she did this before I got with her.

  I visit her daughter's grave and put flowers on them every year on her birthday. People have asked me why, but I don't have an answer. And before I leave, I lean over and place flowers on her grave as well. My wife doesn't know why I do this every year, and I haven't really been able to explain to her the sad story. For now she assumes that this is an old girlfriend. When the time comes, as well as the words, I'll tell her. But right now I can't explain it.

  I wonder if anyone would understand even if I could.

  My Biggest Fear

  As I stare at the picture in the frame, I exhale a sigh of frustration. It's hard to describe what I'm feeling. Pain, of course, sadness, to be sure, longing, yes, but it's more than that. As clichéd as it sounds, I feel as if something has been ripped away from inside of me. It’s as if she just grabbed the heart out of my chest, and just held it in front of me, forcing me to watch her squeeze every last drop of blood from it.

  The whole time I dated her, I feared this would happen. Call it immature inadequacies, but it was there, lingering in the back of my mind. Somehow I just knew that someday she might leave me for some guy. It wasn't something I was proud of, my fears, but it was something that I had thought of.

  I'd entertained thoughts of catching her and some stud. Walking in on them, perhaps, or maybe finding evidence of him on he
r clothes.

  She drifted away from me after a while. She never said it, but I was sure that it was because of my fears. Of my inability to realize that she wanted me, and not someone else. I wanted to believe her, but I always felt that she was out of my league to start with.

  The occasional joke of her finding someone better and leaving me in the lurch, grew to infest my brain, and turned her away.

  So now she's getting engaged to some real estate asshole and I'm here alone. She's out wondering what kind of ring he's going to surprise her with and here I am drunk and longing for the old days, and wondering what it was she wanted that I couldn't give her.

  Maybe she wanted the typical happy American life. The whole two kids in suburbia thing. Maybe she wanted a solid commitment from someone who couldn't give one, and eventually ran to someone who would.

  But I can't help but wonder if she realizes that out of all the things she could have done to hurt me, out of all the things she could have done to fuck me up, she picked the one thing that I've feared would happen to me since I was a little girl.

  That I would be left for a man.

  The Flame

  As I sit on the floor with my legs crossed I stare intently at the flame burning on the end of the matchstick. I lower it to the candle sitting in front of me, and as soon as the flame touches the wick, a new flame is born. I have created life! Ah, I wonder if this is how God felt while He was creating life. Creating the universe and everything must have been an incredibly intense feeling. One I aspire to achieve.

  I bring the matchstick back up to eye level and watch as it slowly burns out. A feeling of sadness overcomes me. I feel a kinship to the flame. It is all I have known. All I have understood. It has become like a parent to me. It is why I am who I am. All that I am is because of the flame. I look around and see the fire licking at the curtains, slowly making its way up to the ceiling. My head slowly turns the other way to see furniture and paintings on the wall engulfed in flames. It was beautiful.

  I remember the first time that I experienced the flame. My world mother killed my world father when I was very young. She claimed self-defense because he would get liquored up and slap her around. She was acquitted and soon began dating again. She didn't seem to really take to being a mother. She didn't seem to have time for me. She'd leave me with the TV and go out to find someone to take her ex-husband's place. I didn't really mind. I didn't care for her either.

  One night she punished me for something that I don't remember. She tied me to the radiator and then left for her night out on the town. She left a cigarette burning in the bedroom, and the house went up in flames. By the time the fire truck got there and rescued me, I was unconscious from the smoke and burned badly all over my body.

  When I woke up and saw myself in the mirror I didn't cry. I didn't say a word, I just stared. It was like something out of a comic book. Scars spread all over my face. I wasn't sure what to feel about it. I was more intrigued than anything else. I opened my mouth to speak and quickly shut it. My skin stretched when I did so. It hurt, but the doctor said I should slowly try to open my mouth a little at a time so I didn't do any damage.

  My mother was found a couple days later in some low rent motel. She had been beaten and raped by some drifter who she had picked up at a bar. Or rather he had picked her up. Either way, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that my world parents were dead and I had been reborn. Reborn to the flame. So as I stare at the flames all around me I smile. It is all so beautiful. I have created all of this. I turn my head slightly as I hear a fire truck’s alarms in the distance.

  I feel at peace. I am finally ready to return to the flame, from which I was born.

  Anniversary

  As I walk along the beach near my rented bungalow, the moon illuminates my immediate surroundings. In the distance I can see her approaching me. At this point I don't know that it is her, all I see is the exotic red and blue dress. I recognize the dress as one I saw once in an old brochure on Russian culture. She seemingly glides towards me, leaving no prints in the sand. I stop walking and stare at her. The beauty that she possesses is apparent as the moon casts light across her face.

  Soon we are staring into each other’s eyes, and I notice then, that I am trembling. I find myself intimidated by her presence. I look down at the sand, and she then reaches out and takes my chin in her hand, raising my head up. I look into her eyes, and feel a calm come over me. She smiles, and then her hand moves up and wipes a tear from my cheek, that I don't even know is there.

  She leans closer to me, and kisses me softly. I close my eyes as her lips touch my skin. When I open my eyes I am alone again. I turn around and see nothing. My breathing becomes heavy and labored and looking down, I notice that in front of me, leading to my bungalow are a fresh set of footprints, but when I look behind me, there are only my own. I sit down on the sand, as I try to wrap my head around what just happened. It isn't her. It can't be her, but it is. She has returned to me, one year later, just as I always dreamed she would. As I sit on the sand, I stare at the newly created footprints heading to my bungalow. It is impossible, but it is true. She has returned.

  Once I arrive at my doorstep, I stand there, hesitating to go in. Closing my eyes I turn the door knob, swinging the door open, to reveal the silhouette of her naked form, moving across my bedroom, twenty feet away from where I stand. I swallow hard as I shut the door. I remove my sweater, and hang it on the hook beside the door.

  “Come in here, darling.” I hear.

  I enter my room, and see her lying on the bed, the moonlight casting over her body.

  “I've been waiting for you.” She whispers.

  I stand in the doorway, not sure what to do or to say. She sits up, peering at me. As I looked into her eyes, I am suddenly reliving the crash. The car running off the road as we made our way from our wedding, mere hours before, the tears that fell at the wreckage as she died in my arms, as well as the tears that have fallen all year since. The depression, the failed suicide attempt, and the seven months of therapy, I absorbed a year’s worth of pain and anguish in a single blink of an eye.

  “Honey?”

  I walk over and sit down beside her. Her hands find my neck, as she rubs my skin with her gentle touch.

  “I'm here for you, baby, just as we had always wanted. Better late than never, as they always say, right?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head.

  “I can't.” I whisper.

  She stops, and rests her chin on my shoulder.

  “Why not?”

  I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I close my eyes tighter, hoping to stem the flow.

  “Because...because,” I stammer.

  She climbs around my body and sits on my lap, her bare legs wrapped around my waist. She wraps her arms around my neck, and leans in, kissing her way up my neck, to my ear. I feel her nibbling on my earlobe.

  “Why?” she coos. She continues to kiss me.

  “Because, this isn't real.”

  My eyes still closed, and her beautiful delicious scent almost unbearable, I feel her lips softly against my eyelids.

  “Reality is a state of mind, love.”

  I shake my head slowly, pulling away from her.

  “You're not real. No matter much I want you to be, you'll never be real.”

  She climbs off of me, and moves over to the head of the bed, her back against the headboard, and stares at me. I can't look at her.

  “We never got to express our love for each other. We never consummated our marriage. We were cheated.” she said, sadness in her eyes and voice.

  I put my head in my hands. “I'm sorry.”

  I stand up and walk out of the room, away from what I had dreamt of for the past twelve months. Away from the only woman I had ever truly loved.

  I stop at the door and turn back to look at her. She slowly pulls the sheets up to her neck, covering herself. As I shut the door behind me, cool air sweeps over me. I can hear her crying, as the door clicks
shut, a sound I had become accustomed to since the crash. Her cries had become embedded in my brain, and they still haunt me to this day.

  The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, alone. I sit up and look around. The window is open and the air is cool on my sweat covered forehead. I look out the window, almost expecting to see my bride, twirling in her red and blue dress. Although I knew she wouldn't be there, I nevertheless, found myself saddened.

  I lie back down and close my eyes, whispering “Happy Anniversary, Love”, as I await sleep to comfort me.

  Unconventional Plans

  As I sat in the corner of the room, I felt relaxed. I looked around and everyone seemed to be anxious, and nervous. I looked into the eyes of a few and saw unrequited fear, however I was at peace with everything. This was what I was meant for. I couldn't argue with fate, I had put myself in this situation, knowing full well what would happen, and now the expected end was near.