E. K. Charny

Content Warnings: descriptions of blood, murder, and guts. Distortion of reality.

I. 

Usually, or so my therapist tells me, dreams about murder are a sign that you are experiencing an ending. The meaning shifts depending on who the victim is and who the perpetrator is. A part of you is dying. You are killing it. A part of you is killing it. You are dying.

I wonder if I have embraced the catharsis of beating something until it finally stops moving? There is finality in a death, more so than any certainty in life. Exerting my muscles until they quiver, and I can’t move. You’re sick: you’ve had the headache for quite awhile now, a general feeling of malaise, arms are sore. It could be a stroke. Maybe the extra estrogen in the birth control pill finally erupted into a blood clot near the base of my brain. 

No, I’m waking up, and I feel like shit. 

The dream came too late in the night for me to put my feelings on the matter into proper speech.

My dream never showed me the face of my chosen victim. Only the vague memory of brunette hair and a soft, people-pleasing voice. It was a woman —that was certain. I never saw her body. One moment, I was standing in a cabin kitchen that hadn’t been renovated since 1987. Dilapidated linoleum under an off-white fridge, brown stove top with black windows, the worst floral backsplash you have ever seen. I was reminded of my late grandfather’s ranch on the south side of town. It smelled of dust. My nostrils burned. I wanted to curl next to the iron heat vent on the ground, wrapped around my mother’s childhood dog, who was somehow still alive. I never stayed long enough when I visited, and now they’re all dead. 

In the dream, everything was fast and nauseating, and then it was over. The vintage kitchen disappears, my eyes fluttering close. Blinding light pierced through my eyelids like a massive interrogation lamp. I was in the stark white snow. It was so fucking cold, and I wasn’t wearing my coat, hat, or gloves—I always wear my winter clothes (I’m freezing all the time). The incomprehensible logic of dreams makes me dizzy. The biting wind feasted upon my bare arms. Shivering, I lifted my hands high into the air and watched as flurries of snow clung to my hands. Blood coated my fingers; the heat of the fluids steamed from my hands. It was a clean, solid red. Her blood was pure, and the snowflakes sullied it with their pleasant, white dusting.

The fact that the blood was not mine didn’t tilt the world sideways. Colors were vibrant, real, and I was still myself. This murder must have been justified then. Pre-calculated and rational.

Maggie was there; she was helping. I could hear her words muffled through her parka. Her face was emotionless except for the wide terror of her pupils. Even dream-me noticed her hapless gaze at the scene of the crime. Still, she didn’t look at me differently. She didn’t look at me at all. It answered the question of who I would call to hide a body. Conscious-me knows this already, but it is reassuring to know it is a deep-seated belief. I watched the remaining scene with disinterest.

There was no panic after I understood that I killed someone; only the haze of accepting responsibility. 

When I say there was no panic, I do not mean there was no remorse. What I remember most about the dream was not the killing, not my victim, not the blood, but the nauseating guilt suffocating in my chest. Repulsive shame. It violated my guts and sank its teeth into my cavernous flesh. Time skipped (as it does in dreams), and I never saw the victim again. I can’t recall where we took her, or what she looked like. All I wanted to do was reach into my body, grasp around for the mass of wrong, and pull it free. It had done its job. A surgeon examining my kidneys would find perfectly indented tooth marks. Remorse was consuming everything it touched. I had become infected. It was spreading. 

Maggie, don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!

Tell me what to do to get rid of it, please. I’ll do anything. I’ll leave. Let me leave. 

Let me fucking leave!

I wake up gagging at four in the morning.

My body does not startle. It doesn’t seize or scream. My eyes adjust to my bedroom, and to my girlfriend sleeping like the dead beside me. Her skin is clammy. A damp shadow becomes a twin to her lying form; her sweat pools. I could lay my palm on her arm and shake her awake. I could ask to tuck myself under her, where I will fit perfectly.

I don’t want to wake her. 

My throat is dry and raw. I slip from under the covers and pad my way out of the bedroom. The door creaks open, and the mild light of early morning seeps into the room.

I like to test myself when the house is dark, or when I can’t see. I put my arms out in front of me, then I let my intuition guide me to where I want to go. My interior map of the house is my only reference. Does my body unconsciously know that it is five steps to the toilet? The corners of secondhand furniture scrape against my finger pads. I’m quite good at this game. 

But this night does not belong to me; it belongs to the dream. The murder one. And I’m too distracted to remember the layout of the hallway to the living room. My elbow knocks into the bookshelf, and my toe crams in between the splintering ceramic floor tiles. The wooden table groans when my hip rocks it out of place. I will have bruises later, purple and yellow, that provide me proof of my klutzy, stupid mind games. How strange to be gifted such supple skin and a high pain tolerance. My eyes screw shut tighter. I could open them, I could try to gather what little light remains in the apartment, but the sun is still hours away. There is no point. I grimace, holding the pain between my teeth not to wake Maggie. 

Shit, this is usually easier. I can handle pain like the sexiest masochist.

The cool porcelain of the toilet is a sweet relief as I bend over spitting and choking into the basin. 

Nothing is coming up. 

With each sputtering gag, my head pounds in time to my blood rushing back and forth from my heart to my head. Still, nothing comes up. I’m torturing myself. 

I get nightmares often. Luckily, I only remember them half the time. They’re not night terrors. (Much to every medical professional’s chagrin) No amount of Xanax, beta blockers, or weed can block them from coming. Hell, my heart rate doesn’t even rise. Maggie sweats more than I do, and she tosses and turns all night long. I stay still. Hardly moving from the same position. The bad dreams are short: snapping me awake when the overwhelming sensation of feeling becomes too much. I woke up in a lurch last week because I was so sure that my ex-boyfriend publicly posted about me on Facebook. Last year, I was inconsolable for months because I had thought myself a rapist and attacked a nameless, faceless victim. One dream, I had come across my mother as if she were a stranger on the street, and I did the first sensible thing I could think of: I punched her. 

This doesn’t make me a bad person, okay? I swear I don’t actually do these things. I don’t. It’s all fake. My brain pulls police procedurals and bad movies I used to watch with my older sister and haphazardly injects them into my sleeping mind. It’s all derivative. I’m not coming up with these ideas organically; it’s more like everything I’ve ever learned is being thrown in a blender, and whatever smoothie comes out is what I have to eat. And I have no choice but to eat it. Have you ever had a lucid dream? Me neither.

Still, the feeling subsides when I wake up and get my bearings. Or, they should. 

Usually, these dreams do not stick so aggressively once I’m aware of my surroundings, of the truth. They dissolve with my morning exhaustion and the mental to-do list I have prepared. Of course, I’ll feel a bit off for an hour or two. The distinction between awake and asleep grows hazy. But reality kicks in eventually.

The next time I attempt to throw up, shake myself awake with visceral, undeniable real vomit, a pathetically small wad of spit dribbles out of my lips. The dream is still there; it’s still playing in the background of my thoughts even as my toenails scrape across the bathroom grout.

Enough! I’ve had it! I didn’t recognize the 1980’s kitchen, nor the spot in the snow. As dream-me raised my hands to the sky, I couldn’t recall seeing the scar I got on the back of my right hand from a nasty cat bite when I was pet-sitting in high school. The dream might have been from a first-person perspective, but it was not through my eyes. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.

Not that I didn’t think I was capable. 

Well, that sounds like I go around thinking about ways to murder people. That’s not what I’m getting at here. It’s not that I’m uniquely homicidal; it is that I believe all humans are capable of all actions —wonderful, selfless acts of good or rancid, heedless attempts at sin. The most charitable can turn malicious given the chance. The right kind of set-up can make anything happen. One singular complex event that causes a loss of self. It’s easier than you think to lose all that you’ve worked so hard to gain. If I don’t think about it, I don’t have to lose it. 

I am not a murderer. 

No, I didn’t end someone’s life. I would have some proper memory of the event. I pride myself in believing that, at the bare minimum, I would remember my victim’s name. Her face. Her brunette hair. Her crooked canine tooth.

I spit in the bowl again. A thick saliva droplet catapults into the basin.

I need a drink. 

II.

Perhaps it is my fault, after all. I shouldn’t drive so early in the morning. 

My alarm never goes off, and there are twelve different things I need to do before heading off to work. I wake in a daze: a thin, opaque crust between my eyes and the world around me. My hands fight me as I grip the duvet cover away from my bare legs. Maggie was already out for work. Her pillow bore the imprint of her head. 

I didn’t bother to make the bed.

I take the same road to the office every day. It’s exactly thirty-two minutes from my driveway. I could do the turns and exits in my sleep, and I’m afraid that’s exactly what I do. The green highway signs blur in my periphery. Only one other car shares the road, a soccer mom minivan half a mile behind. She has those stick figure stickers that go on the back windshield. One girl, and two boys. 

I change lanes.

Music is playing, but I’m not paying attention. I never pay attention when I need to, and it’s going to kill someone someday. Or someone else.

My tires strike something, jostling the car for less than a second. I felt my body hang in the air. I felt my bumper collide with another mass, a force which impedes my speeding sedan just enough to make it discernible. Could it be the wind? I don’t know, I can’t know unless I check. There’s nothing in my rear view mirror, but there are plenty of blind spots. I’m short, and cars aren’t built for me. I didn’t have time to wash my glasses this morning. My eyes bug out of my head.

I squeal the car to a stop, swinging it over to the gravel shoulder. The minivan passes me without slowing down. I don’t even think she turns to look. She must be going twenty miles over the speed limit. My hands clutch the steering wheel, and I take a deep breath. Last session, my therapist reminded me that breathing helps, so I’ll try. This was not a stressful situation; I was not in a life-or-death predicament, and there was no need to worry. Of course, I’m not fucking worrying! I’m angry, pissed off that I had yet another detour in my morning routine. Fuck my job for making me do this commute, fuck this car for being unwieldy at the best of times, fuck my stupid phone for never actually setting up my alarm. I sharply inhale. 

I exhale. 

Fine. I’ll deal with it.

I swing the driver’s door open, and the wind keeps pushing it back and forth on its hinge. These mechanical beasts can handle some wind. The door creaks, and is that a snapping sound? I’ll be right back. The sun is high enough in the sky that it sprays bullets in my vision, impressing painful bruiselike sores behind my eyeballs. Sunglasses are another thing I forgot on the countertop. Even in the gray afterbirth of a morning, it’s too bright for me. My arm lifts in defense. I can focus on the road behind me.

In the fog, a winding, sick river of entrails spills from my back tire—the red and black liquid shimmers with freshness. The tire is coated in a dark liquid that seeps into its crevices. Pools of blood drip from the tire pattern. Wet tire tracks litter the road and point directly to my car from a few feet behind. The minivan’s now long gone, a full two miles away at this point. I put my hand on the side mirror and bend down. My knees shudder, protesting the movement entirely. This poor fucking animal.

I have to get to work. Shit, I was already running late before I left. Still, I didn’t even get in trouble for being tardy: my boss loved me, the work wasn’t impossible, I was really damn good at my job, and my coworkers were kind. I don’t need to stress, come on, no need to worry. Hey, hey, listen to me. The roadkill; look back at the roadkill. Isn’t it so sad? 

My throat tightens. The tips of my fingers were turning yellow in the chill. The weather notification this morning said it was too cold for snow.  

I look down.

A mass of matted curls tangles in the tire patterns. Ringlets tamped deep into the grooves, twisted and braided into clumps. The thin, half-inch scalp pieces begin to unstuck from the underside, making a squishy sound as they land on the pavement. Organs and gore drip from the ends of the hair. Chunks of meat hang on by a strand, bonded together with the bone and sinew. Tiny fragments of limbs, snapped off and broken, are shoved in the small crevices between the tire and frame. There are no longer angles to each body part, just the blunt, bloody stumps, sanded down from the rough pavement. 

What did I hit? I search around my car, but where is the rest of the animal? The head had fallen from the neck, face down behind the front tire. The flesh was unrecognizable. The nose and cheeks were flattened, scooped out like a Panera bread bowl.

I couldn’t put the body parts together like a puzzle (they didn’t belong together). The bump was not so massive as to be a person. Yet, the amount of body desecration in the undercarriage tells a different tale. I cough, gagging at the very end of my breath with a wet choking sound. I can’t smell anything bad; I can’t even tell you what it is that I smell. The highway was flat, chilly. Nothing but pavement and brown, dead grass for miles. 

I take a knee and look up from under my car. I’m expecting the worst of it: more recognizable features, bloody fur maybe, the intestines of some raccoon. It is a stupid thing that I am doing, regardless. My nose wrinkles in preparation. I hold my breath.

There is nothing there. 

Without thinking, I press my hand further under the car, swiping it up and down to feel for anything organic or wet. For a brief, fleeting scare, I think of my car starting on its own and driving over my knuckles. My pinkie finger is parallel with my back tires, tied to the invisible train tracks. Each one of my fingers is popping out of the joint and ripping away from the palm of my hand. They go numb. I yank my hands from the underside of the car and shuffle back.

The metal is dry. Hot, even, from the twenty minutes of driving I completed before the accident. I leap from my squat and dart about the car, looking for liquid. Looking for: red, hair, fur, guts, the wet tire marks leading to my current parking spot. 

A nervous giggle escapes. Christ, a fifteen-minute nap under my desk at work may be warranted. I laugh again. My voice is so shaky, full of disbelief. I will never forget my alarm again. My head is lazy, loose. If it weren’t for the strict tendons of my neck, it feels as if it would snap and roll far away from here. I move without my conscious permission and let my body puppeteer my soul to the front seat. The mirrors don’t need adjusting, but I move the rearview one three times anyway. 

III. 

“Maggie, Margaret, Darling, Dearest…” I sing. I pass the hot mug to my girlfriend, waiting until her hands are wrapped all the way around the handle before letting go. “Did you triple-check the booking?”

She took a sip. “Yes.” 

“Are you lying to me?” 

“Yes.” 

She’s so difficult sometimes. If you ignore the difficult conversation, it keeps getting bigger. Maggie likes to squirrel away her bad feelings until her cheeks are nearly bursting with resentment. I’ve been trying to coax her out of the habit. “Listen, I know I’m being annoying, but I want this vacation to go well. I feel like the last one-” 

Maggie jerks her head up. “I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“…It might make you feel better for next weekend?” 

“Drop it. I’m serious. You always want to do this; you always want to draw out each problem. Retread the same god damned issues until you’re blue in the face. You said your piece, and I’m still chewing on it.” 

“Still?” 

She slams her mug down on the side table. Coffee dribbles down the lip and stains the white ceramic. I just washed it, too. “Do you really want to have this conversation? Now? Why is there always fucking something with you?”  

I shrug. She’s more upset than I am. “Maybe it’s good to get all the bad feelings out of the way. I don’t want either of us to stew in, well, in whatever we’re dealing with for the whole time we’re in the mountains. Shit, I mean…” I let out a nervous breath, “…Could you imagine the terseness on a broken ski lift? What if there’s an argument we can’t fix in the middle of nowhere? We’ve both seen Fargo.” 

Maggie’s shoulders droop; she’s giving up on the whole ‘I’m never going to think about this again and, instead, pretend I’m not upset’ shtick. I understand why she holds onto it. It gives her something to lose, but god, it’s good to kill the urge of hoarding the negative before it becomes something worse. Maggie, in particular, can be nasty with a grudge: all cold eyes and unforgiving, clipped words. Impulsively cruel and mean. That’s not what I want, even in the uncertainty of what will happen to us. To me. 

“I love you, you know,” Maggie says.

“I know.” I know. 

“I’m being a dickhead. Christ, I’m being such a fucking asshole. I’m sorry, it’s going to take some time to get used to. I’ve never…” She picks up her mug. “I’ve never been with someone who…” She tries again. “It’s one thing to say it, it’s another thing to do it. You know? I’ve just never—”  

I wave my hand about. “Take all the time you need.”

She shuffles closer on the couch, pressing our thighs together. Much like we used to when we were younger, I can feel her body heat through my jeans. She’s like a furnace, blowing full steam all day and all night. She somehow never runs out of fuel. Maggie’s consistent, irreproachable. She must hate me now. 

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.” I apologize, and it might be genuine. At least, a part of me believes I’m telling the truth. “I wouldn’t ask you to go through this if it wasn’t important. It’s not easy for me, but it might be even harder on you. There is no need to torture yourself.” An all-encompassing, full-body shame fills my body. It’s cold like the winter wind, like snow. Oh, Maggie. This is my fault. I can’t live like this any longer, but there is no need to put cement shoes on you, too. Stop being tethered to me. Stop it! I can’t cut the cord myself. “I wish I weren’t this, I wish I weren’t me.”

Maggie’s thumb rubs circles on my wrist. “Shh…” She says, and relaxed into my body. I want it to be like this all the time. But it can’t. It would ruin the moment’s preciousness. Things will be different, but they don’t have to be. I don’t have to be different. I can stay the same for you; nothing will change. I promise.

IV. 

I stumble into our ski cabin with blood on my hands. 

“I didn’t have to kill her, I’m sorry,” I start wailing loud, hoarse sobs from the back of my throat. I could have clutched her living body with my rotting hands and dragged her behind me forever. I could have given up everything. It didn’t need to end this way. I’ll be good, I can be better —I can never be her again. I killed her, I’m sorry, “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

V. 

Usually, or so my therapist tells me, dreams about murder are a sign that you are experiencing an ending.