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Alone in his car, he closed his heavy eyes and tumbled fast into the world of the dreamers. The bright sun reflected dimly off the dark-green shades that covered his green eyes. He now stood outside before a red metal door of the motel. He looked down over the railing, behind his right shoulder. He saw the blue ‘69 Mustang Coupe parked next to the black ‘77 Dodge Charger.
Inside of him, rage swelled behind the dam that laid ready to surge into a righteous reckoning. He brought right hand up slowly to the door, restraining the lesser half of man. He knocked firmly on the door. With each knock parallel to his now aching heart. Each was a strum of doubt, sadness, and of anger—such strong emotions and more, all swirled within his distraught head.
The red door taunted and mocked him, as it muffled the sounds of passion from within. His hand raised again—slowly, shaking. With anger now at the reigns, he firmly pushed the door in with his right shoulder. His eyes hastily scanned the room, searching for their target.
His gaze fell upon a bed—a bed of treachery, distrust, unfaithfulness, a tramp with that smug son of a bitch. He walked in. His eyes fixated on the rigorous movement that made the anger grow exponentially. He clenched his hands, fighting back the tears—watching on as they moved as one. The woman cried her mysterious lover’s name, clawing, and scratching his backside.
It was enough. Walter drew his gun, tired of the torment. He raised the barrel and pointed at the mysterious, but well-known man’s head. “You fuck ugly twat. You always did have to hound them.”
The man’s head turned all the way around, still pursuing his carnal needs. “You are just jealous, Walter. You never had the guts or the girth, and you never will. You speak of fuck ugly, yet you’ve never looked at yourself.”
Walter shook his head.“Before, perhaps, however, now it’s different. . .”
The man laughed hysterically as he pushed with more ferocity into the woman. “Oh my, she’s quite good, Wally-boy. Oh, yes, I am certainly having the time of my life!”
Walter grinned, “Ah. You mean the one that’s now about to come to an end? He aimed with precision, “So, long, Elias.” Like an elite marksman, with finesse and precision, Walter pulled the trigger.
The hammer initiated the sequence of one’s demise. The war horn trumpeted the coming end, bringing the specter of Death with it. The scythe was raised high and swung with such elegance and sheer brilliance. The bullet burrowed deep into the back of Elias, penetrating his heart. As the new home had been found, Death followed through, banishing the treacherous man down into the gaping fiery chasm of Hell.
With his vengeance nearly complete, he turned away from the woman. “Goodbye, Terra. . .” Alone and left behind on the bed of broken promises and vows, was the shadow of a now missed lover. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pleaded ‘No.’
Walter exited the room, with the door latching shut behind him—silencing everything. He took off his sunglasses, wiped his eyes, and returned his shades to their place. He gazed up at the clear, crisp azure sky.
Everything began to shift and with it, Walter sighed. He knew very well that what had transpired was fictional, and could never happen due to certain facts. He sat up in the car, adjusting his shades. It was another jealous dream.
Moments later, Dana made his way to the car. He knelt down next to the driver’s window. “Hey, Walt, is that dream still bothering ya?”
Walter nodded. “It’s alright,” he sighed. “It’s just a dream, Dana, no worries.”
Dana shrugged. “Well, Walt, sometimes our dreams speak to us. Tell us of the past, present—hell even the future.” He cracked a grin that he had been retaining.
Walter rolled his eyes. “When the hell did you become all-knowing about dreams, Dr. Katz?” He scowled.
Dana cocked his head at Walter angrily. “Hey, wake up!”
Walter raised an eyebrow, confused, “Huh?”
He felt a sharp, sudden pain in his jaw. He woke up and found himself in his car, dazed, with Dana leaning against the driver’s door. Dana poked his head inside. “What the hell were you dreaming of? Shit besides that, what the hell were you doing asleep?!”
Walter sat up in the car, the driver’s seat springing up. He vaguely remembered what had transpired before the dream. “Jesus, what the hell did you do to me, Dana?”
Dana placed his hands on his hips. “Let’s just say that we are even and leave it at that.” He ran around to the other side of the car. He flung open the passenger door, and plopped in, hastily putting his seatbelt on. “C’mon, Walt. We gotta go!”
Walter grunted as he slammed the pulsating red beacon on the roof of the car, and tore off from the parking lot. “I sure hope you at least brought me a damn cup of coffee, Dana.”
Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group
Other Writing
This piece was inspired by Mark Sandman of Morphine’s “Jealous Dream” off Sandbox: The Music of Mark Sandman
Robert J. S. T. McCartney 