Shadows of Reality (The Catharsis Awakening Book 1)

by Christian Martin Jr.

  Matt’s eyes popped opened and he quickly straightened up. He wiped his forehead and rubbed his temples for a moment until his heart rate subsided, and gave a quick shake of his head. With a deep breath, followed by a frustrated quick exhale, he prayed:

  “Father,” Matt sighed, “thank you for this day…”

  He paused, still bothered by yet another lingering memory, another image, another dream…he took a deep breath and continued.

  “…I appreciate Your grace and mercies in my life. Thank You for Your protection, especially over the men You’ve entrusted me with to watch over each shift.”

  His eyes darted back and forth along the wall for no real reason; he took another deep breath—his exhale was slower this time.

  “Please…help me. I feel so…”

  Tears formed.

  “…inadequate. Those men deserve a better leader. Help me…be a better leader…and man. Help them, keep them safe tonight. And please, touch their families and bless them.”

  Matt sat quietly for several more moments attempting to empty his mind of all the thoughts that raced without rhyme or reason. He sighed, frustrated, unable to get his mind to settle; he hoped this new discipline he incorporated into his morning routine would help ease the tension and anxiety brought on by his duties at work, and his current situation at home.

  He hung his head again when he heard her shuffling down the hall from the spare bedroom. A bedroom that she turned into her own over the past few months; a bedroom that should have been used as a guest room for their kids and now grandkids. He slowly shook his head at the thought of her still in the house, and the soul-searching continued. Thinking now of their perfunctory greeting they were about to exchange and the feeling of distress from being able to fix everyone else’s problems except his own.

  “Morning,” Trish said with little emotion. He could almost feel the tension in his gut ratcheting tighter.

  “Morning,” he said and leaned back, his palms flat on the carpet behind him. Matt looked up at the wall and wondered when they would actually get a divorce, and stop pretending to be a married couple while they lived like roommates. “Sleep okay?”

  “Yeah, that bed is killing my back though,” her voice fluctuated as though she was trying to twist her back, but he didn’t look at her.

  “Hmph,” he blew through his lips and nodded his head slightly. All the time thinking, Stuck. Every morning, his thoughts rallied against him at the same time, and the same things floated through his mind: counseling, marriage books; all a waste of time and effort. There was nothing they hadn’t tried, and nothing seemed to cure their inability to communicate and reconnect.

  Always stress and a silent pressure between them as they moved about in the house avoiding tension, confrontation, and the inevitable conflict. Matt sighed once more at the thought of the lack of energy he felt and the frustration he had at the inability to either divorce or reconcile.

  “Stuck,” he finally muttered out loud.

  “What was that?”

  “Um…oh, nothing,” he said slouched with his shoulders up against his neck, palms still flat on the carpet, and peering at the wall for no other reason than he just didn’t feel like moving.

  More shuffling in the kitchen and then the distinct sound of footsteps padding across the carpet. Matt looked over his shoulder at Trish who had stopped at the front door while putting her thin jacket on.

  “Little chilly outside,” Trish stated flatly, “headed off to work now. After work, I’ll go down and visit with Camden and play grandma.”

  “Sounds like fun. Tell our son ‘Hi’ for me—give the little ones a squeeze for me.” Matt grinned at the thought of having two grandchildren already.

  “I will. See ya.” Trish closed the door gently behind her and walked across the deck in front of the large living room picture window.

  Matt sat motionless and followed her with his eyes as she walked by. He looked down and couldn’t help but feel the pain of loneliness. The thought of their grandchildren was a short-lived respite in the face of being married and yet feeling like the loneliest person alive.

  The aroma of coffee wafted through the living room. Ah…he breathed it in and dragged himself up off the floor to get that first cup of the morning. After he finished his mug of java, Matt headed out on his usual three-mile run: he told others that he could think more clearly during and after a run than any other part of the day—a habit established long before he took on the badge of a sheriff’s deputy.

  With his routine complete, which took most of the morning, he readied himself for another shift. Starting work early in the afternoon never guaranteed that he would get off on time. A scheduled ten-hour day could, and usually did, easily exceed that. He accepted the fact that it was just part of the routine no matter how much he questioned himself as to if he was burned out, stuck, or something worse: broken in his mind.

  Standing in front of the mirror he tucked in the slightest wrinkles in his uniform and smoothed out the sides, creating an overlap behind his hips to give a crisp appearance in the front. Neatly pressed, an outward command presence for the public and those he supervised, Matt let another sigh escape while he dug deep for the energy to take that initial step to leaving the house.

  As was his custom, he left the house through the garage, and for some unknown reason his eyes flicked over to the vise fastened to his workbench while he walked to the pedestrian door. Matt hesitated and gazed at the device for a moment as his mind thought of how the thing worked. The mechanical gadget seemed to taunt him. It reminded him of the pressure and the pointless struggle of the items in its steel jaws that closed and held them securely while being worked on.

  Matt puffed through his nose, shook his head, and turned to walk to his marked patrol truck outside. He wondered if he was caught himself: held fast in steel jaws while being beat on. Why? What’s the point of all the struggle and never ending pressure?

  He stood outside his truck and looked down at his name, Sergeant Jameison, printed on a decal fastened to the upper front quarter panel, so that everyone knew who it was driving up their road. Another item to remind him of yet another duty, another responsibility: a take-home vehicle for those late nights of being on call when no one else was working the road.

  Matt looked up at the blue sky before climbing into his truck. He took a deep breath and eased into the driver’s seat.

  “104, in service,” Matt announced over the radio, holding the mic a few inches from his lips as he adjusted himself in the seat.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” dispatch replied.

  “Good afternoon. Beginning mileage, four-two-six-seven-one,” Matt answered as he quietly prayed for a calm shift.

  “At fourteen-fifty-two,” dispatch responded with the time as he adjusted the radio volume to start another day.

  With a heavy exhale, he put the vehicle into drive and started yet another shift.

  2

  S.S.D.D

  “Hey, Charlie!” Jake shouted with a grin as he walked by the investigator’s office.

  The two were such a contrast. Jacobe Phelps, in his mid-thirties, looked like he was still in his teens. When Jake smiled it was infectious: you couldn’t help but smile with him. Still young in his career by peer standards, yet he had been around long enough to have become a department trainer for new road deputies whenever a new position would open—which was hardly ever.

  On the other hand, Charlie had seen it all over the course of 35 years and was currently assigned as the department’s investigator. Some said he was an old salt, but most called him an old curmudgeon behind his back. Rarely in the mood for anyone joking around with him, Jake treated their exchanges as a bit of a sport in an attempt to elicit a grin from Charlie’s sour mug.

  “Hey,” Charlie gruffly replied, while he sat with his nose inches away from a computer screen. “How’s you?” he barked at Jake. Then he rolled backward from his desk, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands behind his head
.

  Jake stopped in the hall and backed up to Charlie’s doorway. “Can’t complain, Charlie,” Jake said, grinning. “You know, SSDD.”

  Charlie’s lip curved up at the remark.

  “Oh, come now! Jeez, Jake!” Matt exclaimed as he rounded the corner at the end of the hallway. “Is it that bad?” he asked.

  Even though Matt was walking toward him, Jake knew the routine all too well. His sergeant was on a mission to the printer in the records room adjacent to Charlie’s office. He even looks like he’s marching to that copier. Even though Matt’s hair was just a little longer now than how he wore it years ago in the Marines, Jake could picture his sergeant in his Marine uniform, marching toward him.

  What a life, Jake thought as he mulled over the duties of his sergeant. Always pushing paper!

  “Ha! It’s all good, brother,” Jake replied in a giddy tone, shaking his head. “You know…Same Shit, Different Day…but it’s all good.”

  Jake especially appreciated Matt’s military precision, his ability to get things done and not allow petty distractions to get in the way—having witnessed it firsthand over the years, not only as his sergeant, but as his partner on the SWAT team.

  “Hey, how much sleep did you get?” Jake quizzed him in a hushed tone. Both had been partners and friends long before Matt took on stripes, and Jake began to notice the crow’s feet forming around his sergeant’s eyes over the past few months.

  “Oh, I dunno, ‘bout four and a half…maybe five?” Matt said with a confident smile. “Why?”

  Matt stopped in front of Jake before turning into the record’s room. He caught a glimpse of Charlie through the small window pane near the doorway to his office and nodded toward the investigator.

  “Hey,” Charlie returned.

  “Just wondering,” Jake replied with a shrug.

  Matt looked back up at Jake and asked, “And you?”

  “Ha! I plugged six last night,” he answered with a grin as he looked back at Charlie.

  Charlie huffed and sat forward in his chair, practically striking his nose on the computer screen. Jake’s grin widened at Charlie’s antics and then turned his attention toward Matt again.

  “Outstanding! Then you’re ready to get some tonight,” Matt implied it more than he asked and gave Jake a slap on the arm.

  “I’m good,” Jake replied. Then he leaned toward Matt and lowered his voice to keep Charlie from overhearing. “You know,” his grin receding, “I’ve dreamt a few times of me and you on a traffic stop. Shoot-out. Bad guy dies, we win.”

  “Yeah? I’ve had a few of those myself over the years.”

  Jake’s grin had all but disappeared. He whispered, “Matt, I’ve had some crazy-ass dreams lately. Not just shoot-outs or cop stuff. Hard to explain, but definitely weird shit.” Jake scanned his sergeant’s eyes as if he were looking for a lost coin in the dark.

  “Like what, brother?”

  “Well, man, I just don’t know.” Jake looked down and shook his head. “I can’t explain it. Feelings of being somewhere with you, some sort of fighting going on with bad…guys? I can’t quite remember. No idea why I even mentioned this, sounds pretty stupid.”

  “No, not at all. Let it out.”

  Jake looked over at Charlie, who was riveted to his computer screen, then back to his sergeant’s eyes, “It’s like I’m at work, but I’m not. Then there are noises that I can still hear when I wake up, but then they just fade away. Horses and yelling, and…shit like that. Crazy, huh?”

  “No, Jake, I’ve had some strange ones myself. Most I can’t remember.” Matt chuckled.

  “Yeah, I can’t remember most either; just have that uncanny feeling that I’ve been involved in some fight or crazy thing like that when I wake up.”

  “Well, if it helps, I’ve attended some trainings and seminars lately where this has been brought up. It’s just part of what we do: seeing all the crap we see and having to deal with the worst of human nature,” Matt explained confidently. “It’s the nature of the beast, big guy.” He slapped Jake on the arm again.

  Matt turned toward the records’ room, and stopped; he turned back to face Jake and said, “They also say that if you dream of a shooting and your gun doesn’t work, or there’s some sort of malfunction with it, it might be your subconscious self telling you to train more with your weapon.”

  “Yeah, but what if it works fine?” Jake countered. “I mean, we usually do win when I dream about cop stuff, but there’s other dreams. Dark…shadows of things. Places that…I don’t know…just crazy.” Jake looked down at his sergeant’s polished boots, as images of things he couldn’t quite explain swirled in his head.

  “Jake, my man, you know your shit,” Matt assured. “Look, we’ve worked some crazy callouts together and had some fun on the SWAT team over the years.” He smiled up at Jake. “You live and breathe this stuff, like all of us warriors do. It’s in your blood, and because of that you’re going to have dreams like these.” Matt paused to gain Jake’s attention, “Hey,” he looked Jake squarely in the eyes. “It’s normal…natural…and there’s nothing wrong with you.”

  Jake inhaled and nodded; Matt’s words brought a relief from the internal fretting over the dreams of late. How does sarge always know what to say at the right time? he thought.

  Jake paused, then laughed out loud. “I’m glad I’m on your side!”

  “Love ya man,” Matt told him as they bumped knuckles.

  As they went about their duties, Matt entered the records’ room as if he was on autopilot. “Idiot! I’ve gone to seminars?” He berated himself quietly. “What a stupid thing to say.”

  He slapped the side of the copier and hissed, “Why don’t I ever say the right thing! What a retard I am! What the hell does his gun malfunctioning in a dream have anything to do with what he told me?! What a freaking hypocrite! I can’t figure out my own damn dreams!”

  Matt’s hand rested on the cool smooth plastic edge of the copier as he looked around to see if anyone had noticed that he slapped it. A shallow exhale of relief that no one was around, he looked down at the copier’s lid. His mind conjured up thoughts of his own dreams—only shadows, smoke, and some sort of noise that seemed to follow him, and fade after waking; then the falling sensation at the end of some of those same dreams.

  He gripped the copier’s edge as he recalled the brief sensation of falling—with a deep breath he brought himself back to the moment. He looked around the records’ room, and saw Charlie sulking by in the hallway, hunched over and not looking more than a few feet ahead of his footsteps. He didn’t glance into the records’ room and Matt went unnoticed.

  His mind drifted again while staring out into the now empty hallway; an image of his staff sergeant from the Marines superimposed on the room’s doorway, telling him, “Never let your men see that you’re tired.”

  Right? But what if I’m losing my mind? My command bearing? he thought.

  He shook his head, looked at the copier and then turned to leave the room. Matt stopped and looked down at his hand holding a clutch of papers—his eyebrows shot up in surprise: he had grabbed the printed reports out of the ejection tray without thinking about it. He shook his head again and looked back at the copier to make sure he removed all the reports.

  The ejection tray was empty. He looked down at the stack in his hand again, took another deep breath, lifted his head and walked out of the room: projecting an air of confidence—as though nothing was troubling him.

  His only desire after reaching his desk was to toss the paperwork into a scattered heap, shed the confines of the sterile government building, and head out into the fresh mountain air to patrol through the county’s subdivisions.

  3

  BLACK VETT

  Autumn emerged in the Colorado Rockies with the aspen trees beginning their transformation from green to a pale yellow; within weeks, the leaves would be a golden mass intermingled with red hues. Soon, the vales and the mountain slopes would be filled with their sp
lendor as they continued their march into winter.

  Although it was in the middle of the night, Matt grinned while taking in what little he could see up the slope before him in his headlights while stopped at a “T” intersection where the main highway in the county continued north and south before him.

  While stopped, he contemplated all the looky-loos who would arrive during this time of year. The entire highway would come to a crawl with a vast number of cars and trucks; crowded with amateur photographers, and those just wanting to escape the rat race for a brief respite.

  With school back in session, the summertime insanity finally began to die down. Matt sat quietly and he felt the smooth rumble of the engine from his truck while it idled at the intersection. His mind drifted back over the past summer: call after call, rescue after rescue. He couldn’t count the number of drunken fights he had to intervene in, nor count the number of times he was called to the backcountry on some lost hiker or injured ATV rider. With elevations ranging from 7000 to 13000 feet, it made for a perfect getaway for the throngs of outdoor enthusiasts taking advantage of all the county’s national forests had to offer.

  He considered the masses that the two gambling towns within Gilpin County, Black Hawk and Central City, attracted: impetuous hordes escaping the nearby metropolis of Denver to visit the plethora of casinos—roaming from casino to casino. It seemed like a never-ending motion during the summer.

  Summers past merged into one another, and Matt attempted to catalog and file them away in his memory. He somehow felt thin on the inside, but couldn’t precisely describe the feeling, even to himself.