Anthology Complex (30 page)

In the bedroom, I go to the drawer near the window, nothing. I go to the
closet near the door, nothing. I look under the bed on the other side of the
room, nothing. Nothing except a penny. I reach for the penny and take it, and
then I look at the year the penny was created. Every time I see a coin I look
at the year and understand that I am holding something that was around before
me. If it's old enough, of course.

This penny was created in 1947, one of the years that I've traveled back
in time to visit. Not literally, it was in a dream. In the dream I knew I was
in a time that I didn't belong, which made it even weirder. Looking around in
1947, I would have to say that the area I was in was one of the most comforting
places I had ever seen or visited. The only way I could explain it is by having
you compare a world that is full of toxins in the air versus a world that has
virtually no toxins at all.

The clearness of the life. We will never be as wise and perceptive as we
were when we were children because we can no longer see things as clearly as we
used to be able to. Decay slowly consumed this life.

One thing that is all too common now is the destruction of perception by
certain medical agents. You take a pill, and it might fix certain things, but
it might also break others. Some of the pills I took destroyed my memory. Not
to say I couldn't have dreams, but I couldn't remember them. A sort of
Dreamer's Block. Before that, there was a time when I actually believed there
were things that no one could ever take from us.

I take a quick glance into the bathroom. Pointless place to look but we
all do it. I don't see any books but I notice there is a fly sitting on the
window. I walk up to the door and close it and continue my search in the living
room.

It's been eight minutes and I have searched the entire apartment and
have not found a single new composition notebook. That's when it hits me.
Thoughts of Julia explaining what an epiphany is in the use of literature, or
writing. The thought of Julia reminds me that she no longer works at the store,
and that I could just purchase some notebooks there now. As I take a smiling
step forward, I have another sudden realization.

After I had found out she was working there, a few days after I went a
few miles further to a different store and bought fifteen composition notebooks
that I later stored down in the basement storage.

I open my front door and make my way down the first flight of stairs,
and then down the second that lead to the basement. As soon as I open the door
I hear a box fall, and when I look inside I see the first-floor man. Tall
skinny fellow who does not talk much. I notice he is putting something into his
storage section and as I pass by I see something that looks like a fragment of
a bone, but I can't be certain.

I open up my storage, the combination number is 31, 17, 16, just in case
you ever needed something, and then I take out one of the composition
notebooks. That fresh smell. By that time the first-floor man is gone and as
much as I want to look inside his storage, I don't. He is strange enough.

As I'm walking back up the first flight of stairs I see the mailman
putting mail in the mailboxes. I nod, he nods, and then I make my way up the
next flight and enter my apartment to finish writing down the dream.

When I'm done, I grab a bottle of bug spray and walk towards the
bathroom and open the door then close it shut behind me. This fly is bigger
than the previous one. I go to the window and open it in an effort to let this
fly fly outside and continue its days, but even after five minutes it decides
that its home is here.

I start attempting to spray the little thing but it's quick. However,
its luck runs out even quicker and I hit it right above the bathroom sink, to
which it falls in. It lands on its back, legs kicking just like the previous
fly that entered my chambers.

I watch it for a few seconds as it kicks, and then I pull up the knob of
that thing that stops water from draining. Then I turn on the hot water. I
watch as the sink fills and the fly begins to rise, but it's still kicking and
won't drown. After a while I start to spray it again, and with each spray, the
kicking becomes weaker and weaker until it's gone. Who made such a creature,
and creatures like it? Was it a mistake?

In a dream I've had, it's been long since God and Satan have died, and
after spending time with both of them I learn that they are both capable of
mistakes. Fallible. It makes me wonder if it's possible for a human being to be
incorrectly judged and sent to the wrong place in their afterlife. Someone who
was suppose to go to Heaven goes to Hell, and someone who was suppose to go to
Hell goes to Heaven.

Is there a way from Heaven to Hell? Hell to Heaven? Are they physical
places in our universe? Such a journey would have much to entail, I'm sure. If
you are in Heaven, or in Hell, and for the sake of the discussion, say someone
wants to kill you, do you defend yourself? If you defend yourself, that means
you either don't like getting hurt or you want to live, but how could one want
to continue living when they are dead? One might then ponder the meaning of
true death. Is true death when you completely cease to exist. Is it the death
that atheists believe in? If I were to try to kill you now, would you fight me?

The tombstones of both God and Satan stand next to each other, each with
a message to the world, or in their perspectives, a message to their seemingly
complex creation. On the bottom of God's tombstone is a list of words. The
seven virtues; chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness,
and humility. And of course, at the bottom of Satan's, the seven vices, the
same list I've seen before in a dream I've had not too long ago.

Suddenly I begin to hear my name. It's coming from across the living
room, and when I get to the living room it's coming from the other side of the
door. I can tell it's Lynne, but she sounds different. Tired. When I open the
door, I see why she sounds the way she sounds.

Bruises on her eye and on her mouth, not to mention the body bruises.
She looks up at me as if she almost wants to laugh, but instead there is a
tear.

Another tear, and then a smile. Is that strength? For the moment I want
to take back what I said about punching her in the face because she smiles too
much. I ask her who did this to her but I already know who. She can't even say
his name.

She leans forward and hugs my body and begins to cry. I maybe should
have told her that this shirt hadn't been washed in a while, but I suppose we
are even considering she makes it worse. That and the fact that she doesn't
seem to notice.

Battered person syndrome. If Lynne were to one day murder Silvio, her
lawyer could use the "battered person syndrome" as a defense. The
defense has been used in cases where physically and psychologically abused
women kill their abusers. One of the symptoms of this condition is the fear of
endangerment to the person's own life or the lives of their children. David and
Sarah can be the only reasons why she would even tolerate him in her life.

Lynne eventually tells me that she was attempting another relationship
with Silvio but soon realized that it could never work. When she finally told
him that herself, and asked him if he could stop trying to see the kids, he
snapped and beat her. Lynne could call the police and have him arrested. Maybe
even make sure that he legally cannot visit the kids now because of what he's
done. The problem is that she won't, and it makes no sense to me. Why do some
people stay in destructive relationships.

Another symptom of the battered person syndrome is the belief that the
abuser is omniscient and omnipresent. I'm guessing this plays a part in her
psychology towards Silvio and also plays a large role in why she doesn't make
sense.

There are a lot of things that make me angry, people who prey on the
weak is one of them. Wine-drinking narcissist. Fancy-suit wearing unbalancers.
Million-dollar ring wearing frauds. Fucking manipulating businessmen. Goddamn
disease invoking masterminds. Little fucking politicians and puppet-masters
running their own fucking little world. If I could get my hands on any of them,
I swear to both God and Satan and all of their angels and demons that their
last breath would slowly speak my name.

"Give me your car keys." She asks me why, and I tell her
because I need to talk to Silvio. "What are you going to do?" She
came here because she wants me to save her, but I can't. All I can do is help.
"If I don't talk to him he's going to keep hurting you." She thinks
for a few seconds and then goes for the front door, then comes back with her
car keys.

I drive her to my parents' home and tell her that she has to stay there.
When she asks me why, I ask her if she planned on asking me if she could stay
in my apartment. She admits she was going to ask if she could stay there for a
few days just in case Silvio decided to show up. No woman takes a beating that
bad and then waits for the abuser to show up again.

She agrees to stay in my parents' home as long as I promise to come
back, which I do. Before she gets out of the car I ask her if Silvio knows
where any of her family lives. She says Claire is out of the state and that
even if Silvio found out where her grandmother lived, he wouldn't dare go there
unless she was there and he found out.

I tell her the door to the house is unlocked and we part. "Wait,
wait," I yell to Lynne. "What's his address?" She writes it down
on a piece of paper, and I begin driving in that direction. The one thing I'm
hoping for is that I don't get stopped by a police officer because I don't have
a valid driver's license.

On the way there, as I get closer and closer, I feel more and more
alive. I can feel my blood boil. I have strong sensations in my dreams, but
they are uncommon in real life. Silvio, Silvio, Silvio, thank you. I haven't
felt like this since 1947.

Chapter 50:

EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY

Derek and Wallace, two young and upcoming co-workers in a newly realized
drug organization, are arguing about the female anatomy. Wallace, who is nearly
two years older, continues to support his claim as he says, "That shit
comes out the pussy, man, I'm telling you."

Derek replies, "I seen my moms use the bathroom and when she pees
she sits down." Wallace replies, "So? You expect her to stand? Do you
know how close they both are to each other?" Derek pauses.

Wallace continues to speak, "Look why would God make the piss and
the shit come out of the same place? We got two different places right? Why
would they be different?" Another pause. "And why the fuck you be
seeing your mom use the bathroom for?" Derek quickly replies, "Chill
man, it's cause she don't be closing the door."

After the two come to the realization of what they are discussing, they
are able to interpret how truly bored they are. "There ain't shit to do
around here," Derek says as he throws an empty can of soda at the wall.
Wallace gives Derek an unidentifiable look, as to which Derek replies,
"What?..."

Moments later the two find themselves huddled over Wallace's backpack as
Wallace pulls out a handgun. It is the first time Derek has ever seen a gun up
close. Derek asks Wallace where and how he got it. Wallace explains to Derek
how Rock told him he might need help protecting the stash from enemies and
thieves.

Derek asks Wallace if he could see it. "You seein' it right now
ain't you?" "Naw man, I mean can I hold it?" After pulling the
trigger back a few times and hearing the sound of the click, Wallace asks him
how it feels. Derek replies, "It doesn't feel right."

"What you mean it doesn't feel right?" Derek replies,
"I'm not staying here forever." There is one last pause between the
two, but the silence is broken as Wallace puts the handgun back in his backpack
and says, "Remember, that's the kind of talk that got your brother
killed."

As I'm driving down to where Silvio resides, the quote "the best
revenge is living well" continues to echo and ring in my thoughts.