Duncan's Diary

by Christopher C. Payne

  After a day of diving into the depths of his startling conclusion from the night before, he was now actively questioning whether any of this made sense. There were thousands of people in the Bay Area that had second homes up in the mountains.

  People drove Volvos everywhere in the world, and he was still not even 100 percent sure that this was the car he was looking for. Everything he had was flimsily connected in a makeshift way. It just didn’t add up, yet something inside Sudhir told him he was on the right track, though it made him feel consumed with sadness.

  Sudhir’s instinct was to have another drink; and while he initially fought this move, he admitted to himself that having one drink never really hurt anything. He still had the reeling headache from the night before. No chemical substance could completely mask the pain that jolted inside his head like a lead ball in an old-fashioned pinball machine. The pain reminded him of his previous night’s debacle.

  The only possible thing he could think of was to dig a little deeper into his friends’ life, possibly even follow him around for a few days and see if anything opened up a door. He couldn’t tell anyone of his far-fetched story just yet, as he didn’t really believe it himself. He might just be pushed out to the front desk job, monitoring the radio because he drank so much. He had to look deeper, and again he only hoped that he was as far gone as it appeared from his second view.

  He decided to clean up the house and make dinner for the kids and Janine, which would hopefully be a nice surprise. She had again been gone for a few days, and he wanted to do something nice for her. See how she would accept it. He caved in to her strong will on all occasions. She ruled the house he knew, and he really didn’t care.

  Little things in life are so worthless to debate when you take a long step back and evaluate them. Annoying habits make a marriage tick—and keep the spark flowing. If you pass them over and just accept people, life moves in such a smoother flow. Sudhir cared about his wife, and he felt he would have to attempt to be better at supporting her and getting them back to a comfortable state of cohabitation. They had been leading separate lives for too long now, and he knew that at some point the result would be too much for him to handle if she decided to move on.

  As volatile as she could be, he still loved her, and in his mind marriage was a final commitment. As final as death—he would not bend on that. His relationship would not fail.

  No Choice

  I awoke early, and it was a slow, foggy climb piecing the events together of last night. What dim-witted act I had now committed? The only thing even remotely more stupid would have been if I called the police myself and said, “Hey, look at what I have done. Please come and get me.”

  At this point there was no going back. Hannah was tied up in the other room, and I would just have to move forward. I have always operated with the realization that traveling back in time is not possible, so you deal with things as they are the best you can and take what is given. My father operates under the exact opposite set of rules. This creates frustration between us. He laments over every decision ever made, and his favorite mode of conversation is lecturing me and everyone he meets on the pros and cons of their past behavior.

  I would have to stay indoors and avoid Don for the rest of the day and night. Hopefully, I could sneak out of here tomorrow so he would not question his lack of seeing Hannah again before we left. Introducing them was a blunder, for sure, and I did not want to stir that pot any more than it was already swirling.

  I ran downstairs to change the laundry. Since I was going to need my roaring blaze, I started a fire in the square, iron fireplace that was turning into my own little crematorium. I really wish I had thought to put a muzzle or ball and tape over Hannah’s mouth last night. It was going to be very difficult listening to her voice, knowing what I would have to do.

  The act of killing somebody with a knife or rope or anything else that requires direct contact is very personal, but the rancid idea of killing somebody you personally know and have made love to is horrific. I only hoped that it would not consume me and threaten my existence. God, this was such a mistake. Lesson learned. I didn’t think I could bring a woman up to my cabin ever again who was not specifically intended for death row. The temptation is too great. What if you gave a starving man who was a vegetarian a nice juicy steak? Placed it on a beautiful table setting and then cut each piece for him offering the tasty morsel up as resolution to his lack of sustenance? What do you think the odds are that he would not bite it, chew, then, swallow and quickly ask for the next savory piece?

  Temptation is an odd thing, and it can sway men to perform acts that go against their better judgment. The very definition of an affair points that out in obvious clarity. I found myself caught up in the act of doing miscellaneous chores around the house avoiding the primary task of the day, doing dishes, laundry, and making the bed. Higher priorities loomed.

  I, finally, opened the door to the chaotic event that was about to begin. Hannah was crying and appeared to have been doing so for many hours. She looked up at me with a bewildered amazement of emptiness and fear. I wonder at times about the differences between man and beast. Animals really don’t understand what the future holds. You can tell your dog you are taking him to the vet 100 times, but he still will have no clue that is where he is going until you get there.

  Hannah seemed to comprehend fully her situation and held the terrified recognition of what was going to become of her. She frantically started screaming and violently yanked with all her strength on the bindings that held her. I understood her frenzied reaction. I could see that she had full view of the small pile of bones in the corner. The two skulls sitting on top were both signs that Hannah was in a little bit of trouble.

  Why did you die, Hannah? This might be a question posed her on the next journey to the beyond. The answer would be laughable. Because I gently prodded my boyfriend as he began snoring, and he apparently really did not like that. I would be in prison, and she would be dead all because I could not keep my mouth closed at night. It’s too late to think about it now. I patiently waited for her seizure to subside, as her energy level must drain very quickly from her manic episode. Surprisingly, the body does have unique levels of untapped potential. Adrenalin can be a very potent, instigating drug when you find yourself in a position of physical danger.

  My knife lay on the table, so I gently picked it up and forcefully plunged it deep into Hannah’s thigh, twisting it slightly.

  “I would like you to be quiet now,” I said, “and if not, we can ensure that your tongue is the first thing I cut out of your over-used, flapping, verbiage-spewing mouth.” I surprised even myself with this curt statement and how easily I inflicted pain on somebody I had held as a friend and lover a few short hours ago.

  Stunned silence lasted for a few short seconds, and the shrieking shrill from the recently inflicted pain overtook her ability to control her screaming. Once again, she crazily started the seismic seizure that would rate a scale of nine or higher and might topple a city building if she had any power behind her movements. This would be both easier and more difficult, but with all things unknown, you can anticipate potential outcomes—but you never know reality until you, well, face reality.

  I firmly grasped the knife again, and this time plunged it directly into her other leg in approximately the same location as the first. With the constant movement of her gyrating thigh, this was more of a “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” game. I felt blindfolded, looking for that spot I had just seen a few seconds ago. This aggressive approach did nothing to slow down or mitigate her nonstop, hysterical wailing. I decided to sit back and just watch for a while, neither continuing my own agenda nor disrupting her show. I can now understand the need for straitjackets in an asylum. With the potential for this kind of outburst from patients, the need to protect staff and oneself would require an extremely tight hold on any and all appendages. Hannah had lost control of her limbs. They flailed in all directions and were held only by the metal shac
kles that limited her movements.

  The only difference in the last few minutes of our game of cat and mouse was the streaming flow of crimson from her two wounds on the table and a nice steady flow to the floor below. As happened previously, the windmill-like arms were splattering blood in droplets.

  I recognize in myself the weaknesses and flaws that I was given at birth and have accepted my inability to withstand high levels of screaming and fighting for long periods of time. Patience is not a virtue that I was blessed with; and although I can abide my tongue for short periods, I have found this only leads to a voluminous eruption if held too long.

  My two little children bicker back and forth constantly, and it is like fingers scraping across a freshly cleaned chalkboard as the noise penetrates my essence. With the finality of my nerves extinguished like a candle, I grabbed her left arm, held it against the table. I very quickly slashed across her wrist a deep fresh cut. It instantly connected with her vein and opened to her inevitable draining. It would now be a matter of minutes, with the leakage spewing forth at full blast, helped along by her incessant fit that I now understood would never cease.

  Although I had not planned on making love to Hannah I felt the familiar rising as her life squirted away in streaming bursts of red. I decided to enter her and hope that my timing was not too late, as her energy level drained in unison with her blood flowing down the circling hole in the floor below. As before, the excitement from the events had aroused me; and it took me a few shorts strokes to unload my gush of sexual pleasure with her blood squirting in bursts from the slash across her left wrist and legs.

  It felt oddly like I was pushing the blood forward with each thrust. I collapsed in a heap on top of her, trying to balance myself in the slippery red mess. I caught my breath heaving from the unexpected exertion. Making love is a grand form of exercise, and once engaged it is hard to stop.

  It reminded me of when I was a child, and my cousins and I were out in the backyard playing with my dog. He was a speckled beagle mutt of some kind. He ran away with a huge surge of energy. It took us several minutes before we were able to track him down a few houses over on another block. We found him connected to the back end of another dog on his hind legs with his front paws wrapped around the female dog’s torso.

  Try as we might we could not disengage the two, even though we planned on playing with him. He was thwarting our efforts. We ran back inside the house and explained the situation to my grandmother, who frowned at us and told us to leave them alone for 30 minutes. It was several years later that I realized what actually occurred. I still laugh at that story today.

  I must admit my early worry about conversation with Hannah making this more difficult was now lost in my thoughts. If she had taken the approach of talking to me upon my arrival, I might very well have broken down and cried. The road she chose, unconsciously, was appreciated at least by me. I was now taking great pleasure in seeing her simply shut up, as her energy receded as quickly as the tide pulls its water into the depths of the ocean.

  The most interesting part of witnessing death is watching the eyes glass over. The eyes are the true window to what lies inside of each and every person. Like a one-way mirror, we spend most of our lives looking outward, taking in all the daily activities that we are exposed to.

  I loved watching her now quiet, muffled mouth forming the last remnants of speech and was amused that the only word she could muster was “why?” Everyone who is dying always wants to know why. How do you answer that question? Do I simply say, “Because that is what God intended, and He gave us all a certain number of years? You have run the course as you were meant to. Do I explain that God needs helpers now and then to do his work, and I am simply the conduit for his achievement in the circle of life?

  I’ve loved that saying ever since watching the movie The Lion King. “Circle of Life” holds everything in three short simple words. God intended for us to give birth, consume what we need from the lives of others for nourishment, and then at some point have our lives taken. And so on and so on. I am just a simple employee doing the bidding of my God who picked me for my role in that circle.

  God employs all types of individuals from priests to choir singers to wielders of death that take what is most precious. I continued to stare, as I was seeing the last flicker of light behind the two glassy openings enjoying the calmness that now engulfed the room. How quickly chaos leads to serenity. From the wreckage of tornadoes to the unexpected tsunami, once havoc has been heaped in abundance the quietness that follows eerily overcomes the overwhelming event.

  I, now, needed to allow the body to drain as much fluid as possible, making the burning process flow seamlessly. I left the room and took time to shower and clean myself off before I moved on to the next step in this now-scripted event. Not really sure why I chose the shower since I knew I would only need another one after I sawed through flesh and bone, cutting my large morsel into bite-sized chunks.

  Just to clarify, the eating of human flesh is not something on my to-do bucket list. I have no desire to add it to the accomplishments I achieve. I don’t understand the desire to eat humans. A steak is fine for me. I will happily stick to the four-legged animals for sustenance and nourishment and leave the human meat for the movies and or sick individuals who, in my point of view, take things too far.

  Ironically everything is perspective. My guess is the majority of the human race would lump me closer to the flesh-eating group than allowing my entry into the normal circles. Maybe I don’t belong to either. I have never felt the compelling urge to need acceptance. I am fine being on my own, ostracized from society in most aspects.

  Granted, I don’t think I would enjoy zero interaction. I do need the night out for a beer with friends, but it is not a driving factor in who I am. I can take it or leave it, as they might say.

  My cell phone’s familiar jingle startled me back to the present. . The screened told me it was Sudhir calling. I had not spent much time with him lately. I should return his call tomorrow and see if we could meet for beers.

  I liked Sudhir, but he was really a lost soul. If I could do anyone a favor, he might be at the top of the list for somebody who really needed to find out what the next step in a life was. His wife, although an annoying nag, was extraordinary and deserved much better. Sudhir was a good guy to have a beer with; and he was always up for watching a game now and then, but not much more.

  I spent the rest of the day on my list of chores, cleaning up my self-made mess. I think once you cut a person into pieces, you no longer have to address the pile by name. It takes on the definition of a chore as you separate each part and bucket it up for the trip to the disintegration chamber.

  I only ventured outside to let Delilah free for a urination break and to gather additional wood. I was spared any verbal interactions with my neighbor.

  All in all, it was a good day and only the nagging remembrance of my closeness with Hannah and the inevitable questioning that would follow, left me any remorse from what occurred. I thought of my beginning episode and the emotional turmoil that ensued from my regret. I thought how I had grown or become more callous.

  Callous denotes an inability to feel, and I had feelings. I just don’t have the same feelings as, say, the vast majority of humans that inhabit our dying planet. Isn’t the United States built on sheer diversity? That is the core of what we hold valuable. San Francisco is the crown jewel of being who you want, and respecting others, allowing them to do the same. The one glaring difference in my segmented way of thinking was causing harm to my fellow man (or woman). Diversity as itself is okay, but taking your will and imposing it on women moves that into a dictatorial stance instead of true choice.

  Ah well, I spent the rest of the day returning everything to order and cozied up for a night of burning and renting a movie. I had not watched Burn after Reading and thrust the DVD into the player, pausing only to insert another piece of wood or an appendage into the iron opening. I should let Delilah chew on
one of the bones, I thought for a brief second, but that sounded too barbaric to me. I passed on the idea.

  She did curl up at my feet and snuggled up to the heat-induced sauna that always accompanied the cremation. Not quite the weekend I had planned, but it had turned out to be nice one all the same.

  Jason

  Jason was born in the Bay Area, grew up in San Carlos where he still lived, and until recently, actually resided in the same house he had known his entire life. He had one brother and several friends; and although not a perfectly charmed existence, he had to admit his life had been scripted better than most. His upbringing was a decent experience. He played two sports in high school (football and wrestling), and being above average in football afforded him a nice status in school. In wrestling, he had gone to the state tournament every year and even placed third at his senior stint.

  He was smart enough to realize he would never play anything professionally, and he really had no ambition to do anything in the physical area. He was bright and his inner desire was always something in law enforcement. Looking back at the time he had envisioned becoming a police officer in the San Francisco or San Carlos area. After heading off to Arizona State and making above average grades, he had applied and tested well for enrollment in the FBI. Upon acceptance, he felt at home from day one.

  His parents had divorced when he was in high school. Some might have thought this would be traumatic, but he and his brother had not been very scarred by the event. His dad traveled to Washington, D.C. on a weekly basis, contracting for the Navy. Several years ago, he started an affair with a lady there, had a child which nobody had known about, and subsequently divorced his wife. She, oddly enough, during the beginning of Jason’s senior year moved to D.C., as well in the hopes of salvaging the broken marriage. This meant leaving him and his brother, who was two years older, alone in the house at the peak of their exploration age.