Anthology Complex (13 page)

After my mother committed suicide we stopped going to church. My father
and I, I mean. My brother was no longer around. I'm not even sure if the
church-going people would want us to keep attending service, considering the
good book says suicide is a sin.

Some even-numbered years later my father developed cancer and it killed
him. Maybe it wasn't the cancer, maybe it was because he was so angry that he
wouldn't be able to continue his quest for knowledge. Up until even now I
question whether knowledge is a good thing or a bad thing because the gaining
of knowledge by humankind is a double-edged sword. It can be what saves us or
what destroys us. Someone said that an individual's gaining of knowledge either
brings them closer to humankind or it causes more and more of an isolation from
it.

I open the front door to the apartment building and I see Lynne checking
her mail. She looks at me and smiles, and takes out all of her mail. I say
hello and we both begin to walk towards the stairs. She asks me if I want some
junk mail and tosses me some of her mail. It's junk mail. I read the name who
it was to be delivered to, "Lynnette Parker." I guess she didn't take
Silvio's last name.

On our way to our apartments Lynne tells me that there was an old woman
here looking for me earlier. Joe's mom. Lynne gives me one more piece of paper
with a name and an address on it, but no phone number. It appears as if Joe's
mom, Kathleen, wants me to visit her. I thought I was out of the whole Joe
thing once she came back.

I put down both the junk mail and the piece of paper that Lynne got from
Kathleen on the table and I sit down on my couch and I think about what she
would want. And then the phone rings. That damn ringing sound. I pick it up
before it makes me go deaf and I hear a lady on the other end. Joe's mom,
Kathleen.

We end up talking about Joe's condition, and about how the doctors say
even if he does wake up, they are not sure if he will be "normal." In
other words, they are not sure if he has suffered any brain damage. She also
gets me to agree to come visit her on the upcoming Wednesday even though she
lives on the far side of town.

Is it our brain that determines who we are? Is Joe the way he is because
of the way his brain is constructed, and if he has indeed suffered any brain
damage, will that change who he really is? We've seen the victims of stroke and
how the ones who suffer from brain damage change completely. How they stare at
you blankly. How they can't recognize people they've known their entire lives.
How they can't do things they did before. How they can't continue their quest
for knowledge because they have been compromised.

If Joe wakes up and there is a screw loose up there, will he still be
Joe, or will he put on a mask that no one recognizes?

Chapter 26:

HEADS, TAILS, SAME COIN

"Our destiny is frequently met in the very paths we take to avoid
it." So many times a young man will curse his father's name and swear
never to follow in his footsteps, and so many times that young man goes back on
his word and does indeed follow in his father's footsteps.

He doesn't follow the imprints in the ground because it is his fate to
do so, but because later in his life he begins to understand why his father was
the way he was. Sometimes these thoughts are met with forgiveness, even long
after the father has died.

I hadn't had a dream worth writing down or remembering in days until
last night. Last night I dreamed that I was at some sort of crime scene, trying
to find the clues to a puzzle that seemed as if it didn't really exist. I see
the chalk outline of a body that was here before, but has long since been gone.
I wish I knew the victim's name so I didn't have to refer to the body as
"the body."

A woman comes up to me and tells me that this is the sixth body that
they've found in the month that was killed in the same manner. The likings of a
serial killer who should only be referenced to as a serial murderer. This is
the life of the sixth damned person who had a damned name that this serial
murderer has taken on my watch.

I'm at the grocery store now, in line, thinking about how a human being
could murder another human being. What it takes. How your brain has to be
constructed. How your environment has to be. I remember one of my teachers in
high school telling us about an experiment.

There was a contained area where rats resided, and as the population
grew the rats started to kill each other. It makes me wonder what will happen
once humankind begins to overpopulate, if those happenings haven't begun already.

Hunting a murderer and becoming a murderer are two different things, but
also one in the same. The first step is realizing that you are a murderer
yourself. Maybe not literally, but philosophically. Just as you may wear the
mask of the law enforcement officer, you can easily go backstage and take it
off and put on the mask of the murderer and the audience won't have a clue. The
scary thing is you may not have a clue either.

So it is gathered that if you want to be able to catch a murderer, it
would be good to know how the mind of one works, how their brain is
constructed, but the problem with this method is that there is a chance the
person who is in pursuit of this murderer persona may lose sight of where the
line is.

The separation between good and bad, and bad for the sake of good.
Icarus flew too close to the Sun and the consequences were less than desirable.
There is no success if you become the very idea you hunt, but that of course is
relative.

I leave the store and when I get outside, I find that the bread I
purchased has been smashed by the milk. That damn baggar. I look back in the
store and I notice that the baggar is gone. At this point the dream starts to
skip around as I remember it and then I find myself following someone.

The only thing I can think of is that chalk outline I had seen earlier
before, and how a person could murder another person. How someone could get
away with it so easily, six times. I stare at the back of the head of this man
I am following and I start to wonder if I could kill him and get away with it.
I start to picture the murderer I have been looking for, I try to picture him
as myself. What goes through the mind of a murderer. Certainly thoughts plagued
with narcissism. I would find it hard for my serial murderer to not be some
type of narcissist if he believes he can take the lives of others.

Chances are every person on this Earth probably has some form of
narcissism in them, big or small, superficial or buried deep inside the mind.
There must be a reason why people long ago believed even the Sun revolved
around the Earth. They must have thought they were important.

I stop walking and I watch as this man walks away from me. Further and
further, until he is gone. I can't kill this man; I have to find out why. I
realize that if I want to catch this murderer, if I want to understand the mind
of a murderer, I need to start smaller. I need to find my murderer persona and
understand it. Maybe I need to kill something. Not a human of course, something
smaller.

Maybe an ant, or a cat. A goat or an elephant. I swear to myself that I
will never go as far as killing a human being.

I woke up and couldn't help but think about how two people who learned
to do something exactly the same way could end up doing that trade so
differently. Roll the dice. This dream leads me to believe that nothing in life
is pure good or pure evil. That everything is merely pure perception.

Now the Moon has taken the place of the Sun and there is a knocking at
my door. It's Jamal, a man I haven't seen in probably a little over half of a
year. Years ago, Maria wanted me to see someone about my obsession with my
dreams, so I did, but it wasn't too long until I stopped going.

Maria realized that I didn't care, that I wasn't going to try, so she
left. The man who I spoke to asked me so many questions that instead of trying
to analyze myself and trying to figure out what is making me the way I am, I
started to wonder about him himself. Why he has chosen this specific field of
work.

My interest in him only ravaged my obsession with my dreams and the many
ideas about life that I had taking up space in my head. Soon after I found
myself visiting a group therapy session that dealt with drug abuse. Not
necessarily for the triumphant stories and the lack of self-acceptance stories
these people had, but to analyze how the human mind can become so attached or
dependent on a certain way of thinking. That fisheye view.

Usually addictions become obsessions, but in my case the obsession
became the addiction. I needed to see these types of suffering people so I
could learn more about existence, and now I had one more addiction on my list.

At a drug abuse session is where I met Jamal, who was forced to go to
these sessions by his friends and family. The sessions didn't help though, I
could see he was still involved in that type of life. That look of paranoia.
Some people prefer Hell. After one session, we both ended up taking the same
bus home and that's where the story begins.

Jamal tells me that he is in some sort of trouble with certain people,
and that this was the last place they'd look for him considering we don't
socialize much anymore. I wanted to tell him that I didn't care about his
troubles, but the truth is he never had a chance. Not where he grew up. Not who
he grew up with. Someone dealt him a shitty hand. He says he only plans to stay
for a night or two at the most, and then he tells me he'll be back. It turns
out his younger brother was standing outside, and that he would also be
residing here for the time being.

Jamal says that his brother's name is Derek, and that he won't be a
problem. I let them both stay in the room that houses my composition notebooks
as it's the only other room in the apartment. I tell them not to touch any of
the notebooks because they are in a specific order.

In the morning when I go to see how they are, I see that Jamal is still
sleeping, but Derek is wide awake. He is reading one of my notebooks. I wasn't
surprised because I knew someone like him wouldn't be able to resist his
curiosity. To see this complex of puzzlement before him.

From the moment I saw him I knew he was one of those kids that didn't
belong out on the street. He wasn't like his older brother even though these
were the types of people he was around all day. At a young age he must've
figured out that life was much more than it seemed to be, but the truth is he
never had a chance.

Chapter 27:

SATAN IS IN THE DETAILS

Jamal is reluctant to tell me who he is hiding from and why he is doing
so. I have to know what I'm getting myself into so I tell him if he doesn't
tell me something, he will have to get the fuck out. He tells me that he
borrowed some money from someone, and that he hasn't been able to pay them
back.

He says that in the past, that person has broken some of his bones, so
before he goes back to his home he has to have the money first. I ask him how
he's going to get the money and he tells me that he has some sort of deal that
is going down in a few days. I tell him that a few days and one night are two
different things.

Derek is now going through my composition notebooks as if he were
studying for a test the next day. The only thing more intriguing than his
reading skills and his comprehension skills are the questions he asks. He asks
me how a dog could have a soul. How come fate and coincidence are the only
options. Why a thief would rob himself. When the universe ends, is it actually
beginning.

While Jamal is making phone calls, Derek and I are discussing the dreams
I have had, except he doesn't realize that they are dreams. He thinks they are
short stories attached with some kind of message.

Three days go by and they are both still here. Derek has taking a liking
to my "short stories," and Jamal is constantly on the phone. Last
night the people on the news say there was another murder around my area and
once again it was filed under "D" for drugs. People killing people.
Sometimes I wonder if man discovered murder or invented it.