by Tim Kizer
Or dinner?
“Hello,” he whispered. He realized it had been a whisper and wanted to believe he had intended to whisper that word, but in reality he had been going to shout it. The sad fact was his vocal folds were not up to the task at the moment. Right now he sounded like a punctured balloon.
“Hello.”
You might as well just keep silent, buddy, considering that your voice is so faint. It’s as if you are afraid of waking up a little child. Yeah, keep silent, man, don't make people laugh.
After the last thought had fully formed in his mind, there was another fleeting memory flash—the final half of the dream.
He opened the shower cabin door. The woman was applying conditioner to her hair and was completely absorbed in this task when he grabbed her by her left arm. To his surprise, she didn't scream. He attempted to step inside the cabin, but the woman managed to push him out. However, it was too early for the woman to celebrate because he pulled her out of the shower as he stumbled back.
He lost his balance, they fell down on the floor, and he began to strangle her, holding her torso tightly with his left arm and crushing her throat with his right forearm. The woman was kicking, wiggling, and scratching his arms as she tried to writhe out of his grip. They rolled over, and the woman found herself on top of him, but it didn’t help her one bit. His grasp remained firm and his arm kept blocking the air from entering the woman’s windpipe.
He throttled her for a minute or two as she wheezed and squirmed like an epileptic. At last, she fell silent and her body went limp. He breathed in the steam coming out of the shower, shook the woman up, checking if she was actually dead, and finally let her out of his hold.
When he rose, his hands were trembling and his legs were giving way, as if he had just run five miles without a break. Damn, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since he had dragged the woman out of the shower cabin, but it felt as though a whole day had passed. Thankfully, everything was fine. Everything was fine! Now he could relax and maybe go to a bar later tonight; he had done the deed and earned a few hours of leisure time.
He had never thought it would turn out so simple. Not complicated, at any rate. He wiped sweat from his forehead, nearly scratching his nose with the knife, which thankfully hadn’t had a chance to cut human flesh tonight. He didn’t want bloodshed; blood tended to splash every which way, and he would hate to throw away the fairly new shirt he was wearing.
He sat down on the edge of the tub and listened to noises in the room and in the hallway. A chill ran down his spine when he thought that his life would be over if someone caught him here, next to the corpse, with a knife in his hand. But, you see, he had remembered to properly lock the front door, and the privacy of his rendezvous with the dead woman was guaranteed.
He touched the edge of the blade with his left thumb and grinned. Everything was fine, the job had been done; he could get some rest now.
He breathed out sharply as if marking the end of the venture he had just undertaken, poked the woman’s body with the tip of his right foot—she was dead as a rock—and got up. He was happy he hadn’t had to use the knife; this realization came to him as he walked to the shower cabin to turn off the water. We should save water, dear friends; otherwise our planet is doomed.
Then he left the bathroom. And displayed a remarkable psychic ability by lingering by the open door for a few seconds: the woman moved.
Yes, she moved, turned her face to the door. She looked dazed and upset as if she’d been awakened by a street noise at four o'clock in the morning, right before the culmination of a fabulous dream. She didn't see the man lurking at the entrance as she touched her neck and rose slowly.
The sight of the naked woman struggling to her feet, with a sulky expression on her face, fascinated the man. Somehow this picture seemed a bit surrealistic to him: a hundred and thirty pounds of naked flesh (adorned with beautifully shaped breasts shaking in unison and a neat patch of trimmed pubic hair) standing in the middle of a semi-steamy bathroom. Someone with a perverted mind could come up with a really weird caption for this image.
The man braced himself and ran back into the bathroom. ‘I'm like a projectile,’ he thought, ramming into the woman and pushing her towards the tub.
One more thought: he would have to use a weapon. With this idea in his mind, he stretched forward his right hand, which was gripping the knife as firmly as a vice. The blade slowed down for a moment as it pierced the skin and then proceeded deeper into the rib cage of the woman, who was sliding into the tub after hitting the wall, her legs spread widely apart, the back of her head cracked and bleeding. When the man yanked the knife out of her body, the woman squirmed and crashed down to the bottom of the tub, twisted in an awkward manner.
He plunged the knife into the woman’s chest, aiming for the heart, kept the blade inside for a few seconds, afraid that his victim would recover if he withdrew too soon, and then pulled the knife out. He stabbed the woman two more times, each additional cut within inches of the original one. Now the woman was dead, or they would have to rewrite all books on penetrating trauma. A perforated stomach, a gutted (hopefully) heart, and a fractured skull—he had no doubt the woman had kicked the bucket. He had killed her at last.
After examining the face and the hands of the corpse, he pulled a towel from the bar and began wiping the blood off the knife. Of course, he could wash the knife under the faucet, but there was a reason he didn’t want to do it. As he finished cleaning the blade, he noticed that there was blood on his palms. For a second, he was frightened he had inadvertently cut himself. He quickly wiped his hands and was relieved to find that his hands were fine. He dropped the stained towel on the woman’s body and fixed his eyes on a dark brown fleshy stain the size of a quarter on the wall above the tub. A narrow translucent streak of blood was coming down from the stain all the way to the brim of the tub. He had a hunch the stain was a piece of the woman's brain.
Damn, it had to be her brain! It had splashed out of her skull—like a piece of flesh out of a crushed melon—and was the best gift for the man, who was impatiently twirling the knife now. Yes, she was dead, there could be no doubt about it. She was dead at last.
He caught himself thinking that he didn't feel the specialness of the moment at all, that the situation lacked solemnity, which ought to be present in something very few people had done.
No, it didn’t feel special.
He froze and listened to his senses, which, as though by order, started the roll call: he was hot because the air in the room was still far from cooling down; his thigh muscles were aching a little—he had overstrained them when he’d been wrestling this bitch; the smell of the steam, heavy and enveloping, distressed him; his buttocks felt uncomfortable resting upon the edge of the tub; thick beads of sweat were rolling down his forehead, and he probably looked like a marathon runner at the end of the run. He was thirsty. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. A few moments later, he decided he wasn’t thirsty; however, he could use some fresh air. The smell of the steam was irritating him because it was clouding his brain.
The woman didn't move, which gave him reassurance as he was still skeptical about the success of his plan. For the final check-up, he felt the woman's carotid artery and was satisfied to find no pulse (it didn’t take an expert in carotid arteries to determine if an artery was dead). He heaved a sigh of relief, having realized that the hardest part was behind him. If he had managed to pull that off, he would be able to handle the remaining hurdles, of which there would be plenty in the next few hours.
He looked ten minutes back into the past, at the moment when he’d been strangling the woman. One thing worried him: had she pretended to be dead or had she genuinely blacked out? Had she tried to fool him? After pondering for a minute or so, he came to a conclusion that the woman had attempted to trick him and had almost succeeded at that. Yes, she was a cunning bitch. He would do the same thing under similar circumstances. Well, she should have played dead
a bit longer.
His nostrils expanded in indignation, the air blowing out of his nose noisily. He turned to the corpse and knitted his brows. She had almost duped him!
Then the dream ended.
4.
Sh-h-h-h-h-h... He listened to the dead silence that surrounded him and then suddenly realized that he was in somebody else’s house. He was not at home, that was the point. And he couldn't recall who he was visiting. Was it his friend’s place? It was certainly not his house; he had a larger bedroom, which also featured a charming brass chandelier. He didn’t remember what the chandelier looked like but was confident that it was there. How many lamps did his bedroom chandelier have? Six? Five? Seven? Its design was quite elaborate, if memory served him right. It was exquisite. Or was he imagining it? He could be wrong about the nitty-gritty details, but one thing was clear: there was some sort of lighting fixture hanging from the ceiling in his bedroom. The ceiling he was staring at right now sported an austere fluorescent lamp—actually, several of them. It could be a motel room. Do they have fluorescent lamps in motels? Or was it an office building?
That woman had said she was going to get the doctor, right? It would be safe to guess that he was in the hospital. Why was he in the hospital? There must be something wrong with him. He could be dying. Dying? This idea scared him, but he felt too exhausted to dwell on his fears at the moment. He was too tired to think about anything at all.
Was it possible to be too tired to think? Obviously, it was. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.
5.
An hour later—according to his internal clock, it was at least one hour—he heard a man's voice:
“Mister Fowler, can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes to make sure that the man was addressing him. He was right: the man in a white coat—he saw his chest and shoulders and managed to determine that the stranger was wearing a doctor’s coat—was looking at him with obvious curiosity and appeared to be speaking to him.
“Yes,” he muttered. He could keep silent, of course, since the man had asked a certain Mister Fowler and he had no idea who it was. However, out of politeness, he didn’t want to keep this man in limbo with regard to his ability to hear him. “Yes, I can hear you.”
The man exchanged glances with someone, probably with that woman who had been here an hour ago. Or maybe a day ago? Or had he seen her in one of his dreams?
And what day was today? Saturday? Monday?
“Mister Fowler, I'm Doctor Raynolds,” said the man, studying his face. “How are you feeling? Do you have trouble talking?”
Dammit, something was wrong! Something was terribly wrong!
He hurried to send signals from his brain to every limb of his body, checking whether any part of him was paralyzed. He received encouraging results, but he didn’t know if he could trust them. He was able to feel his legs, his feet, his arms, and his hands. Evidently, all of his extremities were in their places. What was going on? What should he do now? Something had happened to him, but what was it?
He had to do something. He had already wasted too much time.
“Who are you?” he asked the man in the white coat. Responses began flowing in from all over his body—his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders, his crotch, his chest—providing him with more information about his condition. It seemed that at least ninety percent of his body was more or less intact, which certainly have him comfort. “What happened to me?”
A horrible, horrible thing happened, pal.
A spark of pain burst in the back of his head and started to stretch out its tentacles to his shoulders, chest, and feet, prickling his flesh along the way. Pain. He wanted to pull his head out of the cloud of pain, but was unable to do it.
“I'm Doctor Raynolds. You're in the hospital,” said the man in the white coat, smiling. His face suddenly went out of focus; an unrestrained anxiety overwhelmed Frank and continued to grow and solidify. “You’ve been in a car crash, Mister Fowler. It happened two days ago.”
Yes, finally some light had been shed! Now it all made sense: he had been in an accident and ended up in the hospital.
Damn, his mind was slipping away through a crack in his head. It was moving fast; he had to catch it. He couldn’t afford to lose it.
He exerted himself to drive away the pain and clutch at his runaway mind. The pain resisted, and all his attempts to get rid of it failed in the end. It stayed inside his head, torso, and arms, but, fortunately, it was less intense than before. But he did succeed in keeping his mind from falling into the abyss, which was a good enough consolation to him.
“How are you feeling, Mister Fowler?” asked Raynolds. “Is anything bothering you right now?”
It was strange—when the doctor had asked if anything was bothering him, the pain vanished like the flame blown off a candle. Smart pain. It was hiding from the doctor.
“No. I’m feeling... okay,” muttered the man named Fowler. “What accident?”
Accident. Accident... Where had it happened? People die in accidents. And lose arms or legs. And die. Yes, they die.
He didn’t want to die. He had realized with an amazing clarity that he desperately wanted to live.
“You were in a car accident on Interstate 90 a few days ago,” said Raynolds. “Thankfully, you've sustained no life-threatening injuries. As for the head trauma, we’ve already taken care of it.” He flashed a radiant smile, and this time the man named Fowler saw his smile, which abated his anxiety a bit. “You're in a good shape, Mister Fowler. You are recovering, trust me.” The doctor’s hand lowered on the right hand of the man in bed.
“What exactly happened to me? Is anything broken? Am I paralyzed?”
“You’ve had a brain concussion and a minor skull fracture. Your body has been bruised, but no bones are broken. And from what I’ve observed so far, there are no signs of paralysis. You are on your way to recovery, Mister Fowler. Everything's going to be fine.”
Wife. His wife.
What about his wife? A wife? And what day was it? Monday?
“Are you feeling any pain, Mister Fowler?”
Head. Head... Hurt. No, it didn’t hurt. And his wife? And daughter? What daughter?
Or son? Did he have a son?
“What happened to me?” he muttered, vaguely realizing that he had already asked this question. He was staring at Raynolds' chin since looking in the doctor’s eyes somehow made him uneasy.
Wife. Daughter. Or son? Car accident? Why now? Why him?
“You lost control of your car and crashed into a highway wall on Interstate 90. You were the only person in the car. No one else was hurt in that crash.” Raynolds smiled again, providing him with one more dose of confidence that everything would be fine. “You're in the Buffalo city hospital, Mister Fowler. Would you like to see your relatives?”
Relatives. Relatives, relatives, relatives—an echo rolled across his mind. Did he want to see his relatives? What relatives?
“Your sister-in-law was here.” Raynolds looked at the woman standing to the left of Fowler.
A nurse. It must be a nurse, the man in bed thought.
“On Monday,” the woman prompted.
“Yes, she was here on Monday.” Raynolds nodded. “And your brother visited you, too.” He glanced at the nurse, perhaps checking if she had anything to add.
Sister-in-law was here. What sister-in-law? How the hell had he gotten in that damn car crash? Was it the universe’s way of saying ‘fuck you’ to him? Why now? Why him?
“You are going to be fine, Frank.”
He was going to be fine. Hopefully, it wasn’t just a stock phrase meant to calm him down. He felt almost no pain now. The pain remained cunning and kept hiding whenever the doctor was present.
People lose arms and legs in car accidents. They become crippled for the rest of their lives. What else could you lose in a car crash? Ears? Teeth?
He closed his eyes and pondered the fact that thinking could be very hard. He felt as if he were r
unning up a down escalator. Now it was time to stop resisting and fall asleep. He should fall asleep. There was no need for him to keep racking his brain.
Wife. Daughter.
Wife. Daughter. Sister-in-law.
What was his name again?
Chapter 2.
JUDY
1.
Nine days before Frank Fowler went into a coma, Judy Timmons took the last morning run of her life. Of course, when she left her apartment, she had no idea that she would never have another chance to go jogging and that she would end her day in a stranger’s basement, tied up and drugged.
Judy was a twenty-five-year old bachelorette with a plan. While all of her female friends were in a rush to get married—and some of them had already managed to do it twice—she had chosen a more judicious approach. Judy was on a mission to find a successful husband with a net worth of at least eight figures, and she had enough fortitude to stick to the plan. You see, she was one of those rare people who were able to learn from others’ mistakes and had no desire to waste her life on some loser with hot physique and forty thousand dollars in credit card debt.
Judy worked for a medium size advertising agency and routinely met men matching her ideal when she participated in campaign pitches for her employer’s clients. She knew that snatching her dream husband was only a matter of time, and meanwhile, she was doing her best to stay in shape. Morning jogging was major part of her fitness regimen. She religiously ran two miles every weekday and five miles on Saturdays and Sundays, deviating from the schedule only when she was sick. Judy considered running in the open air the real deal and rarely used the treadmill at home (it would be too much of a hassle to run in a hard rain or a snowstorm, you know).
On the last Saturday of her life, Judy awoke at half past eight in the morning and left her apartment for her regular five-mile run around a quarter past nine. She was unaware she only had fifty five hours to live.
