Sleepwalker (5 page)

She rocked back and forth in a sitting position, now crying, injured face buried in her hands.

Richard could feel the air racing in and out of his lungs. His legs trembled, violently primed to pounce or run--he wasn’t sure what he’d do if she came at him again. She pulled her hands away from her face. With tear-filled eyes she looked at him, then struggled to her knees, spreading the bloody puddle across the laminate flooring in wayward streaks.

Richard leaned back against the refrigerator, one eye on the steak knife at his feet, the other pinning Pam’s every gesture, every move. His heart slammed against his ribcage. A wave of dizziness beset him as the throb in his jaw intensified. Struggling for balance--and trying hard not to let her notice his lightheadedness--he gripped the handle of the refrigerator to keep from falling down. He closed his eyes, and in that moment a bright blue-tinted flash of light lit up the darkness beneath his lids.

When he opened his eyes, Pam was looking up at him, head cocked, brow arched: an inquisitive, mixed-up look. The spark of insanity in her eyes that had commanded her bizarre actions since arriving this morning had cleared. Now, in its place, something else dominated. Something entirely different. Fear, perhaps, now devoid of violence, fusing uncertainty with utter confusion. She gazed at the mess surrounding her, at the spilled knives, at the blood. Head shaking, eyes doused with tears, she uttered, “Richard, I didn’t mean it. I am so sorry.”

In embarrassment or fear or something else that Richard could never understand or explain in a million years, Pam remained in a kneeling position for another few seconds, then quickly clambered to her feet. She spun around and staggered to the back door, slid it open, and quickly fled the spectacle that had become of Richard
Sparke’s
home.

Stunned, unmoving, Richard watched her from the windows as she careened across the grass and road, around the corner of the building. He remained silent and still with his back glued to the refrigerator, waiting, catching his breath and looking out the window until absolutely certain Pam wouldn’t be back to resume her attack.

Five whole minutes passed before he tried to move. His knees were weak, muscles like wet strings, mind absorbed with shame for what he’d done to her, for what she’d done
 
to him. Soon the shock and fatigue from her attack overcame him. All he could do was drum up the tiniest spark of energy, a spiritless resilience enabling him to stare at the chaos in the kitchen and let the horrible truth of what just transpired set in.

Once it did, he collapsed to the floor.

And Richard
Sparke’s
world went black.

Murky. Damp. Hot.

When Richard came to, he thought for a moment that he might be in the midst of another terrible nightmare.

Pain
.

A gray smokescreen, a warm metallic odor. A tackiness holding him in place.

He opened his eyes and found himself in an uncomfortable position, tailbone against the refrigerator, face plastered to the floor. The first thing that came into focus was the blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to cause immediate alarm: splashes of red on the floor, on the center island cabinets, slow rivulets running the grooves of the laminate tiles. He peeled his face from the floor, then struggled to his knees and looked at his hands. Blood there too. On his shorts and tee, his bare feet.

Is this a dream? No! Too real!

The reality of the situation struck him like a force of energy. He started, yelled out as his chest tightened with feelings of dread, the essence of the scene too tangible, too
real
to be a circumstance manufactured from a wild dream.

Dear God, what happened?

Were you sleepwalking again, Richard?

A chill ran through him. His hands started shaking, body trembling. Cold sweat trickled down his chest. Frightening images flew in and out of his mind like snippets of edited film. He closed his eyes and took a series of deep calculated breaths, in through the nose, out from the mouth. From the viewpoint of an outsider, he could clearly see himself having committed some heinous act, his eyes glassy as they swam in the waters of unpremeditated actions, his body helplessly mirroring the workings of the wicked deeds encompassing his dreams.

Did Pamela spend the night?

Think! Think! What did you dream?

He ran a hand through his short black hair, visualizing the scene as it may have played out during the night.
No, she wasn’t here
, he tried to convince himself. Yet he remembered their argument, she leaving him but still promising to come back in the morning to officially end things on a good note. He struggled to recover fragments of his memory.

Had he been sleepwalking when she returned?

Think! Think!

For a moment his mind wandered and he recalled the time when their relationship started souring. Their nights together, innocent, a couple months of dinners, laughs, hand-holding and caressing, evolving to kisses, foreplay, and sex. The intimacy between them had been electrifying, Richard experiencing pleasures never once imagined in the past.

Now, seeing the chaos in the kitchen reminded Richard of his introspective problems and how they’d reached a profound level that became impossible to explain. On those nights when their energies ran dry and sleep threatened to whisk them away, Richard, without clear justification, begged for her to leave, eventually having to persist against her hesitation until she fled in tears, utterly frustrated. At the breaking point, she fully resisted his demands, and he became arrogant, leading her to break off their relationship without a satisfying explanation for his sleep-alone stipulations:
why
he wouldn’t let her sleep with him.

Why? Because he was deathly afraid he might hurt her.

Just like he did to Samantha.

Now, it appeared he was too late.

Using the refrigerator handle, he pulled himself up, careful not to fall. His head swam in nutty circles, wading through clouds of confusion. He took a faltering step forward and leaned with his palms against the center island. His feet skidded slightly, leaving smeared impressions in the gummy blood. Once stable, he did a cursory check on his body. Saw or felt no lacerations, although a burning throb stiffened his jaw, complementing the harsh headache in his frontal lobe.

Pamela was here, all right,
his conscience piped in.
You remember? The two of you fought. Do you remember why? Maybe she came back in the middle of the night, crawled into bed with you? Did you do the same terrible things to her as you did to Samantha?

“No.”

So then...where is she?

He looked to the floor, at the knives scattered about like child’s toys. None of the blades had blood on them, leading him to assume that they hadn’t been used to inflict, hadn’t been the cause for all the blood on the floor. The butcher block lay on its side by the windows, next to the silk
ficus
tree. It too had blood on it.

“Pam?” His voice was weak and gravely, like pebbles on sandpaper. He trudged to the sink, ran the water and washed his face, drinking from trembling hands. In a few moments he turned and surveyed the chaos again.

“Pam? You here?”
Noresponse
. His mind searched the fog for answers. None came. He debated his next move, contemplated calling the police--just as he did after the incident with Samantha.

How could he possibly explain to the police what took place here when he didn’t even remember?

Yeah, Richard, what will you tell them? ‘That’s correct officer, I woke up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood. Not my own blood, mind you, but someone else’s. Now my girlfriend who broke up with me last night is missing and I can’t remember what in God’s name happened here. Thanks, and have a nice day! Just call if I can be of any assistance.’ That ain’t gonna fly, my friend.

He used a dishtowel to wipe the blood from his hands and feet, then looked at the clock. 11:43 AM. The sun filtered in through the kitchen windows, the blood on the floor reflecting its golden beams, an orange-yellow brilliance seemingly formed of melted sunflowers cascading across the kitchen. Tossing the dishtowel in the sink, he sidestepped the blood and went into the living room. He sat on the couch next to the phone.

I called but your line’s been busy for hours. The phone in the living room was off the hook. You look like shit, Richard.

The telephone handset sat snug in its cradle. Pam. He remembered her saying something about the phone being off the hook--this morning in fact.

Damn
.
She
was
here
.
Wasn’t she?

He picked up the phone, dialed 911 on the keypad. It rang in his ear. He quickly changed his mind and disconnected the line just as someone on the other end picked up. He punched in Pam’s number instead.

A dozen rings. No answer. He hung up.

He rubbed his temples, trying to coerce his mind for suggestions to the cause of the blood.
Whose
blood was it? Damn, he thought, what the hell difference does it make? Blood is blood. Is there any sense in trying to figure it all out?

Well, yes, Richard, there is. Might be Pam’s blood
, his conscience said.
You might have hurt her just like you did
 
Samantha.

One thing was certain: he couldn’t just leave the kitchen like this. There was no crime, nothing
he
committed anyway.

Are you sure about that, Richard?

Ignoring his conscience, he went back into the kitchen, opened the pantry closet and took out the mop. He filled the sink with ammonia and water, soaked the sponge end until it was fully saturated, then slapped the mop to the floor. It sliced though the crimson puddle as he pushed and pulled. Rising ammonia fumes assaulted his nostrils, eating at the coppery odor. His eyes burned, sprouting tears. He brought the mop back up into the sink, dipped it in. The water turned dirty brown. He squeezed the mop dry, soaked it again then slapped it back down on the tiles.

A knock against the kitchen window startled him. He looked up.

At once his body stiffened. He dropped the mop.

The wind chimes tinkled, adding bitter-sweet music to a daunting scene.

On the other side of the window stood two uniformed policemen, peering in at him.

“Don’t move!”

The back door flew open, one cop pointing his gun at Richard, the other pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

Richard came to the immediate assumption that Pam must’ve gone to the police to tell a tale of violence, something he still couldn’t remember, even with his freedom now at stake. Hands high in the air, Richard felt a terrible rush of emotion racing through him: the trepidation of knowing that he might be accused of some hateful act, one he knew he didn’t willfully--or knowingly--commit.

Trembling, he gazed at the poised cops, then down at the blood and knives littering the floor. And then, at the fallen mop.
 
He was caught red-handed, abetting an apparent cover-up. Just like the plausible circumstances he imagined upon awaking and how they could have appeared from an outsider’s eyes, the aftermath here was equally alarming, and condemning.

Under the watchful guidance of the cop with the gun, the second officer commanded Richard into one of the three kitchen chairs at the dinette table flanking the far wall. Richard obeyed his demand, and the cop swiftly cuffed Richard’s arms behind his back.

Richard closed his eyes. “Am I under arrest?” He tried not to show his panic, but failed miserably, his voice choppy and weak.

The older of the two cops, a thick, ruddy man with a multi-colored moustache answered, “Sure looks like you’re guilty of something.” He replaced his gun, keeping a careful hand nearby.

“I did nothing wrong.”

The lead cop, whose badge read ‘
Moldofsky
’, pinned Richard with an unwavering stare--dark, tired eyes that more than likely had seen their share of crime scenes over the years, ones much bloodier than this little mop-up. He pulled the radio from his belt and put it to his mouth. “We have a possible 316, scene includes an irregular volume of blood. Subject appears uninjured, and at the moment cooperative. Will call for back-up if necessary. Out.”

Moldofsky
replaced his radio, stared at Richard. “
Sparke
, Richard. That you?”

Richard nodded.

“Been doing a little house cleaning?”

Richard shrugged. How could he possibly explain what he’d been doing when he really didn’t know?

Moldofsky
continued, “We received two calls about thirty minutes ago. Your neighbors reported seeing a girl running from your home. They said she appeared injured, blood on her face. Soon thereafter a white
Sentra
was seen speeding through the complex. Damn near hit a couple of kids playing nearby. Tore through the security gate. Caused quite a bit of damage.”

Pam…it’s starting to come back to me…

“Oh, shit...” Richard bowed his head in shame. He wondered what
 
‘quite a bit’ of damage really meant. After all, the ‘gate’ was no more than a manually operated security post not unlike the electronic ones used at train crossings.