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White
Blood. So much blood.
It decorated my hands with its scarlet luster and seemed to have permeated the surrounding air with its metallic aroma. One glance around the room revealed the walls splattered with the liquid life, dripping down the cracked walls. Blood pooled amongst the bullet shells that had rebounded off the solid concrete and on to the floor. Even the minute glass window in the high corner of the ceiling was cracked.
Drenched in absolute panic, I clenched my fingers around the object in my hands. It was warm and partially dry, as if someone had held on to it for a prolonged period of time. A glance down the object in my hand helped me realize it was I who had clutched it so tightly. Slipping out of my grasp, the metal weapon clattered on the floor and fell to join the bodies of once-sentient beings that adorned the room.
There were a total of seven men and women, all young and exceedingly gorgeous. Each one shared similar traits; straight nose, well-groomed dark hair, thin lips, and athletic build. The victims were exceedingly uniform; each dressed in the color of pure snow. It was unnatural. Every person had either a face of permanent shock or terror frozen upon his or her features.
Out of sick curiosity, I managed to steady my legs enough to cross the field of red blooms. Of all the faces in the heap, one stood out for me.
My wife.
"Brandi! Oh my . . . oh my God, Brandi!"
The sound of what was supposed to be my voice passed through my mangled vocal box and was forced in to the air. Shock and sorrow flowed down my cheeks in the form of salt water. My arms were stapled to my sides. To move them would be to further torment my body comparable to the physical pain of ripping the flesh from my bones by the strip.
Where am I? And where was I before I got here? Why can't I remember? When did this happen? What DID happen?
My tears became tears of anger and frustration. I was never the one to be stuck in a situation like this. I had a beautiful wife, a loving home, a stable job, and two happy children.
I scoured my mind for any sort of recollection of memory, only to find what was significant blank. Fragments of unrelated events litter my thoughts. Somehow, I managed to smell cinnamon rolls and coffee. Perhaps it was this morning's breakfast? I couldn't be sure.
Somewhere during the rummage through my faulty memory, I stopped to survey the room once more. On one far wall was a partly shattered mirror, as tall and wide as a classroom whiteboard. Chunks of its midsection were missing. Upon closer inspection, shards of the broken mirror scattered across the floor, obviously from the impact of a bullet. Against my better judgment, I gave in to my curiosity to further examine the estranged pieces of glass.
Bits and pieces of what I assumed was my face stared up at me. I couldn't recognize myself. The same features as I had woken up with this morning were still resent. Nothing had changed, save the pure shock that was so vividly displayed on my face accompanied by the frenzied look in my eyes.
Muffled sound of police sirens were approaching. I couldn't move. I didn't want to. If anything, I would stay so they could tell me what had happened. They would have the answers, wouldn't they? Of course they would; they were the police.
I wanted to rush out to meet them. I wanted to tell them what I knew. I wanted to have them fill in the blanks. However, before I could begin to make my way up the stairs in the back corner, the cops busted through the door. My eyes lit up upon their entry, but I was rooted to the spot. Before I could muster command of my body to progress towards the officers, they were already behind me and surrounded me with their guns.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."
The officer recited the Miranda Warning as if I were the perpetrator, as if I were the one who had killed the seven people in this underground room. My hands were gathered behind my back and clasped together with a set of handcuffs I was unable to feel through my disconnected senses.
Nothing was right. Nothing made sense.
Nothing.
- -
"Mrs. Brandi Aryadi, please follow me. It appears your husband is having a relapse."
It had been nearly a year since it had happened. Her husband had gone insane. Memories of her near-death experience haunted her still. Scott had suffered from bipolar disorder for years. He had seemed to finally have it under control when he was prescribed Chlorpromazine. However, a severe and infrequent side effect of the drug has pushed him to insanity.
No one had informed them of the slight chance of psychosis caused by a lowering of blood pressure. Before anyone could help him, Scott had gone on a mad rampage and nearly killed his wife and other strangers he had kidnapped off the streets. Of the seven victims he had targeted that day, only two lived. The police report stated that he had passed out among the dead and injured bodies and woken up unable to remember anything. The doctors attributed the memory lapse to his brain's patching up of traumatizing events.
"There he is."
Brandi looked through the one-way mirror and in to the small white room. In the corner of the pristine walls, she saw the small shaking bundle. Inaudible sobs racked his body and evidence of his previous crying was visible from the tear-streaked lines in his face. She watched until the bundle became still and dry eyes stared blankly to the floor. He was forever lost in the depths of his mind.
Her fingertips slid along the glass and guided her palm to its cold and flawless expanse. The children missed him at home. It was fortunate that they were still young and unaware of their father's chronic lapse in sanity.
"Doctor Karsen, I would like to speak with him. When can I see him face to face?"
"I'm afraid we can't let you do that yet. His mental condition isn't stable enough."
"Well, please contact me the moment he becomes fit for social interaction."
A solemn tear trickled down her cheek, just as it had every other time she asked him to contact her. This was a script that was perfected beyond human emotions every time they spoke. It was no longer human, as if lost amidst the wide span of solid white walls. Lost, just as Scott was in the complexities of his mind.
"I will."
 minikimii · Sun Sep 21, 2008 @ 01:42am · 0 Comments |
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