Duncan's Diary (32 page)

I received the frantic phone call from Janine, and she was insistent that I come over and see her tonight. I had feigned sickness the night before, but she was relentlessly badgering me. Having known her now for several years, I realized that she was not going to give in, so I agreed. I had decided that this had to be the last time we would ever see each other. I wasn’t going to give her a choice. It was finally time to start cleaning up loose ends, and she was at the top of that list.

I had filled a few glass bottles with gasoline, placing them carefully in a duffle bag, and had several lighters with me, as well. I figured once I shot her in the head in her room I would then simply burn the hotel down and hope for the best. Sudhir would be devastated, but the poor bastard would be better off, even if he didn’t know it. She was a leech on him and was now trying to drive her fangs into me, as well. What she didn’t realize is that I was not anywhere close to the same man Sudhir was.

Our affair had started a few years back accidentally. We had all been drinking one evening, and as usual Sudhir had passed out in his chair in the living room. We had continued drinking and for some reason had decided to watch a movie, but the only unoccupied room with a TV had been her bedroom. We both went in, turned on the TV, and shortly thereafter, I found myself making love to my good friend’s wife. This episode had been followed up by the appropriate levels of guilt from both parties, but in the end it had happened again and again. Before we knew it a pattern developed.

It provided for some awkward times; but if you detached yourself from the sexual events and looked upon them as a couple during the barbecues and restaurant outings, it proved doable. Several weeks ago when Sudhir had asked me to talk to him about Janine, it was a little odd; but I felt I had successfully avoided that issue as he hadn’t brought it up again recently. Come to think of it, I had not seen Sudhir in a while now and was curious what he was up to. I was guessing that tomorrow morning when he woke up and found out she was dead in a hotel room in Daly City that would change. He would need somebody to confide in as he tried to piece together what happened.

I got my pistol and needed supplies then packed up the Volvo. After putting Delilah in the garage, I headed off to my adventure. A few months ago, killing Janine would have been difficult. I am not sure that I could have managed the feat, but I was a different man today than I was back then. I was the new, improved Duncan – a nearly invincible, killing machine. Okay, that might be a little much, but I did feel the energy surge of adrenaline as I got pumped up in anticipation of the experience I was about to have.

As usual, I parked in the side parking lot not wanting to go through the main entrance. It was a habit that now served me well for my new purpose. Over the years, we had wanted to avoid detection. I called her to let her know I was entering the hotel, so she could open the door for me. Sometimes hotels have those annoying locks on the side doors so you can’t access anything except through the main lobby without a key. Too many homeless people sneaking in and sleeping in the halls, maybe.

She let me in the door dressed in a tight-fitting pink lingerie outfit with silk stockings that ran up her thighs. Sadly, she was destroying the look with her incessant bitching of Sudhir and his loser habits. As we walked back to her room, I admired the contrast of the fabric with its neon color next to her dark tan skin. I love women with dark skin. Maybe it has something to do with their being completely opposite myself, as I make love to them with my chalky white body next to their flawless smooth, dark flowing outline.

Even the coarse hair that so often accompanies somebody of darker tones is wonderful to hold in the act of making love--the darker hair held in my white hands as I run my fingers through it, holding it in both hands. I imagined making love to the young, supple bodies took my mind back to the Dominican Republic. I was losing concentration and tried to bring myself back to reality. That was somewhat easy to do with Janine, as her voice was her main obstacle from being a perfect female specimen.

God, if she would only shut up. As I so often did, I informed her that while I did want to commiserate with her and listen to what the latest occurrence was that had her so worked up, I as usual would be unable to concentrate until I could relax. The only thing that would make me relax was the sensual release of her beautiful touch. She smiled and said, of course; and we, then, embraced in a long passionate kiss that bordered on frantic as we tore at each other in the throngs of mutual pleasure.

I stood next to the bed, and she began to please me with her mouth for the one purpose that did not annoy the hell out of me and everyone around her. I had my bag on the bed; and as she was busy, she didn’t notice my pulling my pistol from inside and laying it on the nightstand with my right hand. She attempted to pull me to her; however, I insisted that she finish, not wanting to make love to her tonight, but preferring instead the sole gratification of being pleased.

She reluctantly agreed and continued her work. I felt the familiar, initial twinge of my climax inch its way up from the depths of my toes. I was now grabbing a fistful of her hair with my left hand. I had reached for the pistol and was about to mimic my experience from a short few nights ago since it had been such a memorable one. I was now thrusting in unison with her mouth; and, at the moment of truth, I lifted the gun and felt myself exploding with excitement as the flash of the discharge entered her left ear and with it slightly pointed up must have lodged itself somewhere inside her skull.

At that exact instant, I opened my eyes to see Sudhir standing in the short hallway with his mouth open, looking like he must have just urinated in his pants. His slacks were forming a liquid pool all around his crouch that was growing quickly. He just stood there as Janine’s body became limp in my hands. I raised the gun, pointing it in his direction, and fired off two short blasts. The silencer that was permanently attached to my weapon purposely kept the noise to a minimum, and I walked over to see if the door remained closed.

I will never forget the look in his eyes as the bullets seemed to trace every inch from the gun to his body in slow motion. He just stood there transfixed as if he had no idea how to digest the scene that was playing out before him. He was obviously in shock as he vacantly stared in my direction. His lack of reaction had me confused. It seemed he was truly playing out his life in the seconds he had left to live like watching a movie in fast-forward, jumping from picture to picture.

I had not heard him walk in the room, but saw the key on the floor as the pool of blood coming from Sudhir’s body worked its way in that direction. It was forming a growing pond of dark red liquid encircling my former friend of many years. It was odd looking at Sudhir and thinking of what had just occurred – the surprise that not only were his wife and I embraced in a compromising passionate sexual position, but the fact that she was also now deceased. He had seen the entire event, standing helplessly by.

I wonder if he had known that she was dead or if it was simply the sheer act of what she was doing that had stopped him in his tracks, keeping him immobile. He had seemed to be asking for death, as he blindly willed me to turn my weapon in his direction and fire it, ending his misery from what he was forced to witness. I sat down in the chair and tried to inhale the scene, not understanding what Sudhir was doing in the room in the first place.

Had he finally, after all of these years, become wise to Janine’s and my extracurricular activities? What had thrown him into the fray? He had kept a blind eye for so long; it was as if he didn’t want to admit what was occurring let alone face the truth. He was one who lived in his world and did not have the strength to face reality on his own. Without a crutch, he was a small man, and the honesty that he held close had done nothing but doom him to failure. His soul mate was the deceiver that had undone his frail hold.

Still, he had been a friend of mine since we were kids. He was somebody I could always count on, and now my actions had directly led to his exit that evening. He would no longer be there for drinks or to catch a game or to simply listen when I wanted to rant about the latest crazy thing that my ex-wife did. I now understood that I was isolating myself. Ironically, this was the single thing my ex-wife had attempted to do. I was doing it for her.

Either by alienating my friends or simply by killing them off, they were dropping by the wayside as my journey moved forward. I was by myself with no one else around. I wish that I had planned this out a little, but the surprise of Sudhir had now left me with a predicament of uncertainty toward the next step. He was a police officer; and, as such, the investigation into his and his wife’s death would be a full-blown, heavy-duty inquiry. He had friends in the FBI, and they, as well, might get involved. I was most likely either going to be caught, or I would have to flee and be hunted. My life was going to be changing very soon, I thought.

Obviously not to the extent that Sudhir’s had changed, but nonetheless different all the same. I made a couple of trips to the car and brought in the bottles of gasoline that I needed and started spreading the contents across the room. It was important as much evidence burned into ash as possible. It would have to be a quick burst of flames to overcome the sprinkler system and drive home the destruction. I carefully stepped around Sudhir’s body, not wanting to get blood on my shoes.

I had not even gotten undressed, as I glanced over one last time and saw Janine’s head hanging over the side of the bed where it had dropped when I disengaged with her to focus on Sudhir. I gathered up my bag and the emptied contents making sure that I had left nothing behind, and I opened the door a crack to peek out, ensuring nobody was in the hall. I dropped the lighter to the floor and saw the instant swoosh of flames that immediately engulfed the room.

I closed the door behind me and walked to the exit. I left the familiar hallway of the Extended Stay Suites for the last time. The bag felt a little heavy, and I realized I had one more bottle that I had failed to empty. Seeing Sudhir’s car now in the parking lot, I dropped the contents over the hood and lit that on fire, as well. Might as well destroy as much of this memory as possible, I thought. I heard the alarm blaring as I opened my door. While driving away, I saw the flood of people flowing from the exits, wearing all sorts of clothing as everyone was in a different stage of the evening.

They were like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Everyone ran and screamed, pushing their way to the safety outside. The flames were doing a great job, as they leapt from the structure, grasping at the sky above. In a huge burst, they appeared to attempt flight only to be pulled back toward the building in a large explosive sound. I would’ve liked nothing more than to sit and admire the work that I had created, but I knew that I was already out of luck. I did not want to be anywhere near this place in the next few minutes.

I slowly pulled onto the highway and made my way home, stopping only at the local grocery store. I emptied the contents of my bag in the garbage can in the back. I wanted to get the evidence as far away from me as possible and as quickly as I could, so I didn’t attract unneeded attention. I was going to lay low for a while. If by some miracle I wasn’t compromised, I would continue my mission down the road in the future.

The killing spree of Duncan was not at an end, but was simply pausing to take a breath so everyone could take a break and replenish their snacks and soda for the next stage of the game. Nothing goes on continually without pause for reflection, and the need of another beer or possibly a glass of scotch takes precedent at times.

Several days had now gone by, and I had not heard anything from anyone. It was in all the papers, which stated that the cops were looking for the murderer of a local law enforcement agent and his wife who had been spending a romantic evening in a local hotel. The spin that people put on things always amazed me—or maybe that is what they thought had actually been occurring.

I went to the funeral as they both were close friends of mine and played the role of the concerned citizen as was needed. Oddly enough, it was when I was at the viewing and needed to use the restroom that I first saw the spotting on my boxers. It was an odd, green color and appeared sticky. It was somehow coming from the tip of my penis.

The next day, I called my doctor and since she was not in, I agreed to meet with her father who shared the practice. I had seen him several times before during the 10 years that I had been going to them. He fit me in that day, and I went in to show him what was occurring. I had since looked at other pairs of my boxers and discovered this must have been going on for at least a few days. All of my underwear held that same splotching, staining discoloration that seemed to be permanently scarring my underwear.

The dirty pairs were worse, as they were stained, but it was much stickier. The clean pairs held only the small, spots of foreign coloring that must now be imbedded in the fabric as some reminder of one of my past deeds. My doctor went through the physical exam ritual, since I had not been there in a while. Even to the extent of having me bend over so he could examine all parts of my body with those latex-gloved hands and that scary lotion gel that is frequently used. He stated that I had a definite problem and lined me up to get the familiar tests for HIV, gonorrhea, syphilis, and chlamydia.

It was surreal going through the motions and anticipating the worst, as with my lifestyle it was most likely going to hold true. How many women had I been with in the last year? He asked. I honestly couldn’t answer the question. “Ten?” He asked. I said “Definitely.” “Twenty?” he asked. I said, “Yes, at least.” He asked me how many I had been with and not used protectionand I said two which I believed to be close to the truth. I honestly could not be sure.

When you find yourself drunk on scotch or even beer and in the moment of naked ecstasy, you don’t always think that now should be the time to protect your penis. All those commercials and even the talks I had with my oldest daughter seemed ironic if I couldn’t follow the same basic rules myself. The women that I associated with were the ones most likely to have issues. It would be from them that I should protect myself the most. How stupid could I possibly be?

I left his office in a trance as I walked down the long hallway to the front lobby that held a couple of couches and some chairs, all of which were filled by ladies and men in their 80’s or 90’s. It was like walking in a dream that I was trying to wake from, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unable to rise from the bed.

The next two days were long, painful, and slow as I spent the time with my daughters, enjoying my stint of the custody rotation. I had planned on some parent-teacher conferences with my oldest, so I went to those, as well. My ex-wife attended with me and embarrassingly showed how little she knew about what my daughter did in school or how her studies were progressing. She really was out of touch.

I went through all of the motions, making dinner and helping with homework, reading books and snuggling. My oldest is perceptive and asked me several times if I were okay or if something were wrong. I wear my emotions on my sleeve most of the time; and while I enjoy being transparent, there are times when I wish I could hide them better.

It was on the third day that I called my doctor to see if he had heard any news. He said he wanted to see me in his office if I could make some time as quickly as possible. I agreed and told him I could be there in 10 minutes. He confirmed that would be acceptable, but he wanted closer to 20 to prepare my file. The ticking of a clock doesn’t change from one second to the next. A minute is a minute, and an hour is an hour. So, how is it possible that some minutes fly by while others move like a snail, inching its way across a busy freeway?

As a rule, if a doctor agrees to see you on short notice and then additionally wants to see you in person, it will never be good news. I jumped in the Volvo, made the quick drive to San Mateo, and quickly ran up the stairs to his office. I was shown directly in, stopping just long enough in the waiting room to give my name. Again, none of the above can possibly be good. The receptionist simply looked at me in a detached, sympathizing glance that oozed pity and foreboding.

As I sat down in the small chair in his office with his reviewing my charts, he closed the door. “Duncan, there is no easy way to say this,” he said. “You have tested positive for chlamydia for which there is a cure. Unfortunately, you have also tested positive for HIV for which there is not. There are several drugs that are now on the market that can keep the virus at bay for years, if not decades, but….”

I started to lose track of what he was saying at that point. The entire room instantly became engulfed in a fog, and I drifted in and out of reality. I pushed my way forward, trying to understand the words that were being directed toward me.

I was in his office for about an hour, but I can’t remember what was said after the initial news. How many new cases of HIV are reported per year in the United States alone? I was now simply part of that statistic. I was one of the percentages that had drawn the short straw and would now have to face the future that was unknown. I had felt so invincible just a short time ago, and now I was face to face with what most likely would be the cause of my death. Did I not reference myself to God? God doesn’t catch HIV, does he?

There were so many things that I didn’t know and would have to learn quickly. Were my daughters safe? How did the disease really spread? You always hear not to fear people with HIV, but is that truly how anyone feels? If you knew that in the office down the hall or in the cube next to you there was somebody with a life-threatening illness and that illness was something that could be contagious, would you not have a twinge of anxiety no matter what you were told?

Kissing, is that still allowed? Can I kiss my daughters anymore? What about the times they are sleeping at my house and want to spend the night in my bed or snuggle in my lap? Do I have to now tell them no, as Daddy doesn’t want you catching his germs. Daddy’s germs are now fatal, sweetie, and there is no second chance. I went home and sat in the darkness in my favorite chair. I did not watch TV or read a book, but just thought about the price you pay for your actions.

Everyone knows to wear protection, yet not everyone does. Why is that? Could I answer that question myself? Why had I chosen to take a chance for a few minutes of pleasure with somebody I would never see again and didn’t even know her name? I would now be forever connected in life and, then, in death, to this unknown person. My trips to the Dominican Republic, which I now know has a prevalence of HIV in the women prostitutes, were froth with almost daily encounters. Apparently the government keeps a tight lid on the true statistics in that country, so nobody is sure what to believe in the percentages.

Homosexuality is frowned upon in the tiny island nation, so they are not as open about their sexual preferences. Who knows if it is more prevalent in that group of people or if it is just widespread? Does it even matter? You hear that HIV is the disease of homosexuality, but what kind of person even says that. I can’t stand other people telling me or anyone else how to live their lives. Who are these pretentious groups that seem to think they can dictate who can and who cannot be married.

Isn’t it ironic that in the face of my death, I now feel most human? More human than I have felt in a long time. I understand that I have caught the virus early, and that is a positive for me. I also understand that with the knowledge we have today it is possible to hold off the metamorphosis to AIDS for several years. At my age, I might very well die of something else before HIV gets its tentacles in me to the point of turning to AIDS. I could have a heart attack just as easily in my early 60’s.

Still, it is an odd feeling not knowing what is coursing through your veins, or how your body will change and be affected. How will I live, and will people see me differently? Should I tell my ex-wife, or should I keep it a secret? What about my kids and the stigma that comes with saying I have HIV. Will they look at me differently? Even if I can hold them, will they be too scared to be held? Will I feel like I have the plague, and my only recourse is to move away in isolation?

I need some help understanding this, what it means, and how to face the next day. I have to go to a help group and start gathering facts or get some support before I lose my ability to function mentally. The speculation will kill me faster than the disease itself if I don’t stop my thoughts from taking off on these tangents of ridiculous speculative unknowns. The one thing I knew for sure—my life was going to change.

My trip to the Dominican Republic had opened up a door for me to begin my hobby and start the killing spree that had made me feel alive. The trip had also been the instigation of where I most likely picked up the very thing that would ensure my demise. Life is so closely coupled with death, and the two are intertwined in ways that I will never fully understand. One thing I knew is that the tiny island nation was now an integral part of shaping who I was.

I sat crying uncontrollably. Crying and reflecting on what kind of monster I had become. I didn’t like myself and didn’t like my path. If my historic demise was known to the public, how would my kids perceive me? Would they remember the father who read them books and snuggled them when they were sick, or the father who butchered and murdered innocent people, calling it his hobby? I was sick in so many ways, and the fallacy that I was in control and functioning normally was a paper-thin veil that was now cut in shreds.

I couldn’t stop crying. Would I ever be able to stop? Please help me.

I grabbed my head, as the pounding would not cease. I heard myself screaming, but I had lost control of my body. I threw anything within my grasp in whatever direction it could be hurled. I saw the vase leave my hand. It impacted the flat-panel TV hanging above my fireplace, shattering it to pieces. The chairs were flying in different directions as one squarely hit the glass door to my wine refrigerator, disintegrating it to pieces. All of this happened as I continued to scream.

I was human, after all. I was being punished for my sins by a God that was merciless. Was it time I begged forgiveness? Should I go outside, grab my gun, and start shooting anyone that came within my sight? Is it fair to take out my pain on random people, or is that not what I was already doing? The screaming would not stop. It could not be stopped. The furniture continued to fly, as pieces were now littering the floor of every room in the house.

The screaming was continuous. One long scream of death and destruction. One unbroken note that held steady as my head pounded, listening to the scream echoing constantly.

The screaming kept going.

The screaming kept going.

The screaming would never stop.