Sleepwalker (6 page)

Pam…I remember now…she damn near lost her mind this morning...

You do remember, don’t you, Richard? She came into the bedroom while you were sleeping. She woke you up...or did she really wake you after all? You fought...well, she attacked you, punched you. That explains the pain in your jaw, no? Yes, she damn near lost her mind. She tried to kill you. The knife, Richard! She took the big knife from the butcher block and attacked you with it. You had to defend yourself, so you picked up the butcher block and slammed it into her face. Hell, if you didn’t, then you’d be on the floor right now and there’d be a hell of a lot more blood and four times as many cops here and God knows who or what else...

Shuddering, he twisted his head sideways and pretended to look about the kitchen in aimless thought but really checked out the big knife on the floor by the refrigerator, its blade partially hidden beneath the radiator grill like the razor-sharp tooth of a shark peeking out from an impressive jaw. He gazed back at the cops. Their hardened, accusatory glares scrutinized him to the bone.

Although he could now recall bits and pieces of the alarming event, he still had no clue as to
why
it occurred. And the more he gave thought to it, the harder it became to figure out. The whole incident made little sense, the telling of the situation equally as difficult--and unwise he concluded--to fully relate right now, at least until he understood the entire picture: a reason for Pam’s offense. Regardless of motive, her actions were highly irrational in any book.

Additional memories of when he first saw her this morning filtered back to him. He remembered how he could tell from the gleam in her eyes that something rotten had found its way into her. That her performance had been an absolutely, positively unnatural act executed through some deviant, outside force.

Like your dreams, your sleepwalking.

“She was pissed off at me.” It was all he could come up with.

Now the hard part, following it up.

“I’d say so,
Mr
Sparke
. Looks like she popped you one on the lip.”
Moldofsky’s
eyes scanned the bloody floor, then narrowed with further mental accusations. Richard thought he looked more like a movie detective than some everyday beat cop. “What about your ex-wife Samantha? Was she pissed off too?”

Oh no.

Samantha...

The mention of his ex-wife’s name sent hot flashes through his body.

Richard and Samantha’s life was more textbook than storybook, their lives right out of a chapter on dysfunctional family contexts. Quite naive when they first met, they took in most of life’s guilty pleasures during the first few weeks they dated.
 
Two months later, after all the sex and fun and games, they discovered she was pregnant.

They got married, essentially strangers and pretty much staying that way throughout the pregnancy because they hadn’t the time nor the enthusiasm to learn more about one another, not until after Samantha gave birth to Debra; little good it did them. Quickly their ‘love’ gave way to bitterness, their only common bond a devout dedication towards the baby. Unfortunately life had become too much of a chore, both of them working long days in order to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Through it all, they labored endlessly to simply get along with one another, a feat unsuccessfully performed.

Debra died of SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome, at the age of six months.

Soon thereafter, Richard’s dreams began. They seized control of his life, consumed him, tormented him, blinded him. Erased all hope of salvaging his crumbling relationship with Samantha.

With their common bond now extinct, Samantha had the perfect excuse to rid herself of
her
problem. A week later she told Richard that she was leaving him.

That night, he attacked her--very nearly killed her--in his sleep.

Moldofsky
remained silent. Waited for Richard to answer.

Richard wanted to ask him how he knew about Samantha, but presumed the cop had done a quick homework job on him--more than likely on his way over to the condo.

“One has nothing to do with the other,” was all he could come up with.

But they do have much to do with one another, don’t they, Richard? In fact, the incidences are very much related. I think you know that.

He’d hoped the events with Samantha would be long past him by now. He’d been cleared of all wrongdoing, thus enabling him to perpetuate the life he so badly desired: to function in society as a common man with simple aspirations. To succeed and be happy, just like everyone else.

Still, somewhere deep inside he’d always feared that his actions would come back to haunt him.

Richard and Samantha had argued for hours, Richard eventually losing his voice, Samantha running out of tears. Why had Samantha, who started the night on the couch, ended up next to him in bed after he’d fallen asleep? He had no answer for this. Perhaps it had been a last minute effort to salvage everything they were about to give up. Maybe it had been her way of saying good-bye for good. Nevertheless, it had been the ruination of them, and a grim supplement to the personal agony persecuting his waking and sleeping world.

The night he attacked Samantha he dreamed of the blue light. It came into his world unexplainably, hovering at the foot of the bed like a flashlight’s beam. He tried to reach his foot out to touch it but could only partially block its brilliance from blinding him. And then, when the light began to fade, he dreamed of being attacked by a strange dark man who wore a black suit covering his body from head to toe, perfect circles at the eyes and mouth revealing only touches of an identity. The mysterious intruder had loomed over him as though magically floating above the bed, silently choking him. All of a sudden Richard found himself unable to breathe, the attacker’s long bony fingers grasping his neck, strong thumbs pressing violently against his throat. The dream-pain was excruciating. He couldn’t breathe, his fingers and toes tingling with numbness. He could do nothing but submit himself to the offensive approach of the attacker, and allow his windpipe to be crushed.

Then, for the very first time, he saw
her
. She, standing in the corner of the room, not the helpless six month-old that died unexpectedly in her crib, but a child of maybe four with blonde shoulder-length curls resembling Samantha’s.

Debra. He recognized her at once, as though somehow her matured image had been instinctually imprinted into his mind. He’d been able to identify some familiar features on her, her nose and eyes very much resembling his, her lips and cheeks quite convincing of Samantha’s. Here was a young
girl
, a stranger who should have been an integral part of his life, now a mere ghost-shadow wearing a darling blue dress with white lace around the collar.

Now upon his world during a moment of severe panic and need.

She spoke briefly, and in a near-whisper:
“Help Daddy...”

Richard couldn’t be certain as to whether she required help, or had somehow attempted to offer it. Nevertheless, it had been enough to motivate him, to foster the strength he needed to fend off the mysterious attacker. He managed to loosen a hand, swing it up and strike the man in the chest. Once, then repeatedly. In the sternum, shoulders, and face...

Doctor Delaney says that all dreams are created solely through the workings of the subconscious mind. That all contexts can be altered once the dreamer realizes he or she is actually dreaming. Lucid dreams, Richard. They’re called lucid dreams. Fight back! You’re having one now!

...fending off the tight grasp from his neck until he could breathe once again. He garnered the strength from within, arching his hips repeatedly until the intruder lost balance and needed for the briefest moment to redirect his efforts toward defense.

In the background, Debra’s image began to fade.

Richard fought harder, wanting--desperately needing--to speak with her. To find out where she came from and why she sought him at this moment of duress. The man again forced his grip upon Richard, but Richard continued to strike out at him, hitting him hard on the wrists. Richard brought his fists together then pounded them against the man’s chest. The masked man cried out, and in his pain Richard heard something eerily familiar in the tone of his masculine voice. A slight resonance, deep and stern. Gently grating.

He’d heard that voice before.

The man ceased his attack, suddenly frozen like a mannequin in a department store window. The blue light grew behind him, faint at first, but expanding quickly. Richard peered around the intruder’s motionless body, and for the slightest moment Debra, who had nearly faded away, made a movement with her hand, a sweeping motion that
 
gestured a strategically pervading move at this unreachable distance: her fingers, slightly cupped in her right hand, touching just below the chin then coming up across her face through her hair.

In his mind, he heard her voice.

The mask, Daddy. The mask!

And then he understood, and in as fleeting a moment as it took Debra to insinuate the move, Richard reached up beneath the chin of the immobile attacker, grabbed hold of the black ski-mask and ripped it free of his face, revealing his identity.

They locked eyes.

The blue light returned to full brilliance, originating just above the dresser where Samantha kept her clothes, nearly shrouding the entire wall opposite the bed. It spread out like a burst of fireworks, first blue then white, then blue again. It swallowed up the motionless attacker perched upon Richard, the burdening weight at once lifted from his body, allowing him to breathe again. A cool breeze swept across his face and body as the light zipped away into the wall, taking the dream-intruder with it.

 
Debra had also vanished from his dream, but Richard hadn’t taken notice right away. He’d been too shocked at the identity of the person beneath the mask to think of anything else.

It was
him
. Richard
Sparke
. An incontestable double of himself.

“Hey...
Sparke
. You still with me?”

He was startled from his reverie, the memories of that momentous night still very clear in his mind.

“Yeah...I was just thinking...”

Moldofsky
stepped forward. The young cop, still standing behind his superior, had a pad and paper in his hands and was jotting notes. “About what?”

He drew his thoughts to the fact that
Moldofsky
had mentioned his ex-wife’s name, evidently alluding to the situation occurring two years ago. Clearly the cop meant to correlate those events to what he believed took place here with Pamela. Richard needed to convince him otherwise. It’d be no easy feat.

“Nothing happened,” he started, unsure of where his imagination would take the tale. “Pamela...my girlfriend...and I, we fought. She was terribly upset because I tried to break things off with her. Too possessive, you know? Anyway, she stormed away and...and slipped on the floor. Near the counter.” He motioned with his chin to the refrigerator. “The water dispenser on the fridge, it leaks. Every morning there’s a puddle on the floor. Gets real slippery on the laminate flooring. Anyway, she tried to grab the edge of the counter for support but caught hold of the butcher block instead and took it down with her. One of the knives cut her hand. The blood spurted out. I got panicky, asked her if she was all right. Tried to help. But she got heady with me, you know? Told me to go fuck myself. When she got up, her head butted me in the mouth. I yelled but she just upped and stormed out. Like a madwoman.”

Silence. Then
Moldofsky
asked, “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. I just tried calling her apartment but there was no answer.”

“So she just upped and left,” said
Moldofsky
, raising his voice. “Didn’t try calling you to tell you where she’d be?”

“No...I mean, I yelled after her. Told her to wait. I’d wanted her to go to the emergency room. But she ignored me. She was really out of sorts. Crying hysterically. She really lost her mind. Sped away before I had a second chance.”

“So why didn’t you follow her?”

“I...I don’t drive.”

Moldofsky
took a giant step over the blood and sat in the chair opposite Richard. He leaned forward. Eyes narrowed, he said, “The neighbors said she had blood on her
face
. You just told me she cut her hand.”

Richard felt his heart skip a beat at the slip up. He rolled his eyes and grinned in a quick effort to cover up any guilt. “She was crying, and had her hands over her face. That’s what they saw, no doubt.”

Moldofsky
brought a fist up to his mouth and coughed. The young cop, Hughes--Richard could see his badge now—was scribbling enthusiastically. When
Moldofsky
spoke again at this close proximity, Richard could smell coffee on his breath. “
Mr
Sparke
, it’s no secret that you have a history. Let me refresh your memory. About two years ago your now ex-wife Samantha
Sparke
filed a report stating you assaulted her, for no good reason other than, as stated in the report, that you were unhappy with your marriage. So, as I’m sure you’ll understand, we can’t be blamed us for our hesitancy, and our suspicions, given the overt circumstances.”