Through The Soul's Window

by Gary Anderson

  I closed my eyes and leaned back and felt the back of my head touch the cold rough texture of the wall, my hands bound behind my back. With my eyes closed I remembered my parents’ reaction when I told them I had enlisted. They were angry, frustrated, confused. They couldn't figure out why I would do such a thing, when I knew how they felt about this administration's war. Why I would do this to them, when they had done their best to raise me in a loving environment.

  How could I pay them back this way?

  I came up with a lame excuse of serving my country or something, but I don't know if they bought it. As screwed up as my mind state was at the time, I don't know if I would have believed it myself. My father sat down with me later that night and tried to speak to me, man to man.

  He explained that he knew that I had been going through some rough patches in my life lately, and wanted to know if I wanted him to help me get out of it. I wasn’t sure how he would have done that, but I just shook my head.

  The “rough patch” that he referred to had been the death of my girlfriend, and her little brother in a massive car accident that I was involved in. A drunk had run a red light and slammed his Chevy Tahoe into our Honda Accord and totaled it. Miraculously I had not been hurt much more than a few bruises and a shit load of mental anguish. My girlfriend's brother died instantly. She, however, had not been so lucky. I sat there with her as she cried in my lap. I had never felt so powerless in my life. What had I done to deserve this? What had she done? What had her brother done?

  I had no answers. As I tried to move on with my life I realized I could not focus on the real world anymore. What had once been there for me was not there anymore. After the accident, I had somehow lost my ability to socialize. I couldn't talk to people, I couldn't be around people, and to think that I thought I had escaped the accident whole. How arrogant of me. I thought about suicide, but realized I couldn't do that to myself. No matter how depressed I was, I was too afraid of God.

  So one day I came across an ad in a magazine about the Army, and I realized what I had to do. This was what was waiting for me. This was my solution to peace. This could make me better again.

  So here I was, six weeks into my service in Iraq, tied up in some grungy building with a bunch of other people. I seemed to be the only soldier while the rest were made up of a few business types, and a woman in a pair of dirty blue jeans and a green shirt. They all were terrified out of their minds.

  I heard some noise and I opened my eyes and looked around. Some men walked in, but I couldn't see what they looked like, due to their faces being covered.

  One of them looked around and pointed at me. Here we go, I told myself. Another one walked past him and grabbed me by the left arm and dragged me roughly to my feet. He held me as the first man tied something around my eyes, so I could not see. I was pulled outside. I could tell I was outside because I felt a sharp wind against my face and sand blew into my ear.

  Suddenly I was in another room, and there were several voices in a language I did not understand. I was shoved down onto my knees and then there was a bunch of yelling. Surprisingly I did not shake as I was not nervous in the least. This was the culmination of the last year and a half.

  The last thought that went through my mind as I felt a sharp pain in the back of my neck was that there had to be an easier way for me to commit suicide.

  Ghost Story

  As he walked along the balcony that overlooked the street, Grant Joche tested the railing by gripping it and pulling on it. It seemed secure. He leaned against it, as he looked down on the people walking back and forth in front of the various storefronts. To the left there was a big water fountain which had attracted a number of the youth who were all sitting around it and talking and laughing with each other.

  “This is a beautiful place” he commented. The woman walking behind him, stepped to his right, and leaned on the railing, looking down. The real estate agent was professionally dressed with a power suit on. Diamond earrings adorned her ears. “That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Loretta Martin said. “You'd be a fool not to take it.”

  “This is the perfect place for me.” Grant admitted. “I’ve been out of the area for awhile, and I am just getting back, you know? I left in such a hurry, due to a family matter. I just picked up and left, and have just now returned to the area. I love this town.”

  “Well, you should definitely love this place. You’re within walking distance to the University, and you’re right in the middle of the downtown area. The local transit goes right by here on the street behind us twice an hour.

  “Well, this is what I want to know.” Grant said, turning around, and leaning back against the railing, and crossing his arms. “With such a great property, and a killer price, why is this place still on the market? I mean it's been up for what, three months?”

  Loretta sighed. This was always the rough part, where everything fell apart and hopes were dashed.

  “Well, it is a great apartment, and as you said the price is unreal.”

  “But...”

  “Well, a lot of people have been driven away because it is reputed to be haunted.”

  Grant stared at her, his face betraying no emotion. “Haunted.”

  “Yeah...I'm not sure if it's true, and it might be just a bunch of garbage, but it's supposedly been haunted by the ghost of a woman that died on her honeymoon.”

  “Wow...spooky.”

  “Hey, I'm not saying it's true, that's just what I'm told. And when people ask, I have to tell them, otherwise it gets out that I'm not a truthful real estate agent. And my rep is all I got, you know?”

  Grant clicked his tongue and nodded. “In a world like this in which you can't trust anything, your word is all you have. I'd like to hear about this ghost business a bit, if you don't mind.”

  “You're not buying are you?” Loretta asked, her voice already sounding sad.

  “Never fear, I don't make snap judgments. I want to hear all of the case, before laying out my verdict.”

  Loretta walked with Grant back into the loft and shut the balcony doors. “Well, it supposedly happened, like, ten years ago. A couple had just gotten married, and had come back here for their wedding night. The guy had everything planned out, from what I hear. Candles were lit, the oversized mattress on the floor, rose petals, soft music, the works.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Wish I could find a guy like that,” Loretta lamented. “So, they came back here and apparently surprised some burglars. They walked in, him carrying her and there are these guys going through their belongings.”

  “That had to be an uncomfortable meeting.” Grant said.

  “To say the least. From what I was told, the guys attacked the groom, and left him near death in a coma. The woman they had their way with and then killed her.”

  “Why leave the guy alive? I mean, a comatose witness is still a witness.”

  “I don't know, I just know what I'm told. The guy was in a coma for nearly six months. His wife had been buried shortly after the incident. The guy wakes up and freaks out. He starts attacking anyone he can grab. Of course after six months in a coma, the guy wasn't much of a threat. They tie him down, and after a week, ship him to Eastern State Mental Hospital for some thorough studying if you know what I mean.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So he can't accept his wife's death. He doesn't believe it, he thinks she's still out there at home waiting for him, or something. The doctors of course realize this guy is nuttier than a fruitcake and decides he needs to have some vacation time. On them. So he's admitted and from all I know he may still be there. If he hasn't died, I hear weird stories about what goes on in those places.”

  “So this couple gets married, before they can consummate their relationship he's beaten half to death, she's raped and killed and now her ghost haunts this place? What, does his ghost haunt Eastern?”

  “Look, laugh all you want, I hear it's true. I hear she walks around here and scares the
bejeezus out of the last four or five tenants. One guy didn't even mind. I hear they played cards together, or something, if that’s even possible. Supposedly it's always at eight o’clock she shows up.”

  “Eight pm every night? At least she's punctual. So what happened to the guys? The attackers I mean. Did they catch them, or did they skip free?” Grant asked.

  “Well,” Loretta said, “I think two of them had been arrested, and the third guy killed himself before they could get a hold of him. Seems he didn't want to go to prison.”

  “Well, hopefully they don't have bars on his suite in Hell.”

  The two sat there for a few moments not saying anything. Grant looked around and sighed.

  “Look,” Grant said. “I'll take the place. Do I get a ghost rate? I mean you can't sell this place to save your life. How about throwing in a toaster or something?”

  Loretta smiled, “Not a chance Grant. Take it or leave it. I know you want it. I can tell it by looking at you.”

  “Yeah, I want it. It's nice, great location, hell of a good price, and let's face it...ghosts are hard to come by.”

  They chuckled a bit at that, and then Loretta stood up. “I'll draw up the papers and bring them by in the morning.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “Here are the keys, and some information about the area. Little something to help you get around, you know?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. I'll see you in the morning.” Loretta said, walking out the door. Grant heard the door close and sat back on the sofa. He stretched his legs out and exhaled. He looked at his watch. 6:30 p.m. Just beside the watch, he noticed the white plastic band that bore his name and a seven digit number after it.

  He stared at it for a few minutes, before pulling a pocket knife out and slicing it off. He held it up and looked at it before tossing it in a garbage can that sat beside the end table. He then rubbed the red mark around his wrist where the band had been for the past six years. It was good to have it off, he thought.

  Another hour and a half. He exhaled again, as he began to sing. “Reunited, and it feels so good.”

  My Encounter With Morris

  I got a job at a casino as a blackjack dealer, because after years of dealing drugs, dealing cards just seemed to make sense. A few months earlier I had been busted at a friend’s house when the police raided him for growing pot in the basement. I didn’t even know he was growing it. Shows what a great friend he was. The police busted me too because I had a pipe and a couple ounces in my jacket pocket.

  I’d been smoking pot since I was fifteen but I didn’t see that I had a problem with it. I had graduated high school with decent grades. I had worked at a video store for over a year when I got arrested. I had dealt with some of the harder stuff too, but it was only recently that I had stepped up my participation in heroin and cocaine. Using lead to dealing, and eventually things had to fall apart. As with my usage, I had started out dealing pot, but then graduated to coke and heroin, sometimes ecstasy, but not much. You could get that anywhere.

  That combined with my excessive drinking, I figured I was heading to jail for a long time. The lawyer I was saddled with assured me that he could get me a good deal. My record was clean prior to this. Due to my ability to fast talk my way out of a few traffic tickets, and the fact that I had never been caught with drugs before, this was basically my first offense.

  I could plead no contest and get sent to a rehabilitation clinic for a couple months. They’d dry me out, and get me clean from the drugs and I would be just as good as new, the lawyer told me. And that’s what happened. The judge told me that as long as I finished my two months there with no problems, the records would be wiped clean.

  It wasn’t easy, I have to say. There were many times I really wanted a drink or to get high, however I was fortunate enough to have a solid sponsor, Scott, who helped me through those times. I had always laughed at the idea of a sponsor and going through rehab and whatnot, but now that I found myself knee deep in rehab, I had a much different view.

  By the end of my stay I had gotten to a point where, while I still had the urge to drink or get high, I was able to fight that. The question was, though, would I be able to do that when I wasn’t locked in? Would I be able to resist when I was home alone at night and a beer commercial came on? Or a movie was on that had someone smoking up. Would that trigger me? Or would I be strong enough to fight that urge?

  After my court mandated rehab was through, I packed some things in my yellow Datsun and drove to Las Vegas, where an old friend of mine lived, in hopes of finding work. Perhaps if I put enough distance between myself and my past, I reasoned, my past would stay my past.

  Scott was against it from the beginning. He said that rather than running all the way across the country, I should stay put.

  “You have a support group here”, he told me. “You have people who love you, and care whether you live or die. You think going through two months of a rehab clinic and you’re free from the pull of drugs and alcohol? Wake up man, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

  I knew there was some sense in what he was telling me, but I had to get away. I didn't need to be reminded of my failings. I needed a fresh start. Everywhere I went there was a reminder of my failings. That bar is where I got drunk at and got in a fight. That grocery outlet was where I got high behind their dumpsters that time. That school is where I got suspended repeatedly for fighting. Everywhere I looked it was just a damning reminder of my shortcomings and failures.

  As I made my way across the country, I admit I had the urge to looking for something to drink on several occasions, but I was able to keep it just what it was: an urge. How long I could keep it as such, I didn’t know.

  Once in Vegas, things went pretty well. I quickly found work while living with a friend of mine, Bryan, who I’d known in high school. His girlfriend worked at some strip club beside the casino, and one of the pit bosses would come in there all the time and flirt with her. So she put a word in for me and just like that, I was in.

  Things went smoothly for a couple months, nothing out of the ordinary happening. Then that cat came in. I'll admit that it wasn't every day that a cat came into the casino. In fact in my entire working career I had never seen a cat come into the place I worked at.

  The cat came to my table leapt up to sit on the stool, threw down a couple hundred dollars’ worth of chips, and that's how we met. I guess that's how all relationships start if you think about it. You throw your chips on the table, and see what happens. By throwing down that much at the outset, he let me know he was no small time cat.

  He saw me staring at him, not moving. He asked me if I was okay. Did I need a drink or something? I shook my head and blinked a few times. The cat was talking to me. I asked him his name but he seemed reluctant to tell me. He suggested I call him Morris. Cute.

  As the game began, Morris began telling me about his life, as if I was a bartender, and he had a tab. He asked me if I knew that cats had nine lives. I commented that I might have heard that somewhere. Morris added that whenever cats died, they would jump to another time in history to another family.

  Whenever Morris would die he would jump to another cat's body in history. He would bounce from life to life living with Presidents, rock stars, writers, and simple common folk, until he would meet some bizarre death, and jump somewhere else. He compared it to an up and coming comedian bouncing from one crappy TV pilot to another.

  I commented that he had seemingly had a full life. Morris placed his paws on his cards as I was about to flip him another. He stared at me and shook his head slowly. He explained that he had not had a full life, unless you only counted the places he'd gone and people he'd seen. He'd battled a drug addiction that had killed four of his lives. He had been in recovery for three months when he was hit by a car, and landed in a home with Sam Kinison.

  “Needless to say,” Morris said dryly, as he rubbed the shiny studded collar that encircled his neck, “that wasn'
t the most ideal of places for a recovering addict.”

  He went out with Sam every night, drinking and drugging until a cocaine-induced heart attack sent him on his way to another owner. Finally he got with an addicts group, and got clean. Clean from the alcohol and clean from the drugs. But there was still one painful thing in his life, or rather one thing missing. He had never found that one true love that he could bring a dead mouse home to.

  I've met some fine kitty in my day, Morris said, pulling his paws back and allowing me to throw the card down. 23. Morris sighed and leaned back as I reached out to liberate him of some of his chips. He counted out some from his winnings and signaled for more cards. He went on to explain how he'd felt a deep vacancy in his soul for the longest time. As he spoke, I wondered why he was telling me this. Was he just some lonely cat out to tell someone -- anyone -- his hard luck story?