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Tuesday 25 October 2011

His Destiny

Reluctant, short of breath, he opened the trunk, slowly, and shined the flashlight inside. The dark-haired woman's crumpled body was there amid broken glass, as he'd feared. He stifled a sob, quickly closed the trunk, and gazed about, fearful someone had seen his dark secret.

He awoke abruptly, cold, nauseated, shivering despite the number of blankets atop him. He closed his eyelids tightly, trying to chase the frightening image, which remained vivid. The hair at the back of his neck was wet, as were his armpits and the back of his knees. It was four AM. It was the fifth consecutive night he'd been awakened at this precise hour. Tears came to his eyes. He was frustrated and baffled. His study of Freud, who claimed dreams were wish-fulfillment, had been useless. He could not imagine what wish would be fulfilled by the murder of a woman who was a stranger to him.

He dressed quickly, everything at his fingertips in the tiny studio apartment. He set the three locks at his door and tiptoed down three flights to the lobby. He had difficulty opening the building's large outer door, the wind blowing furiously against it. The night was frigid, the area deserted. Light shone in only a handful of the windows of the apartment buildings that lined the street. His teeth were chattering as he approached the small car. The knot in his chest had his tall, wiry frame hunching, as if he were carrying a weight about his neck.

He took a flashlight from the glove compartment and opened the trunk, slowly, respiring heavily, breath visible and filling the air. Although he feared it a concession to madness, he felt compelled to check. He was no longer able to assure himself: It's just a dream. It was too real to be false.

He sighed upon finding the trunk empty. Again tears filled his eyes. Why was he having this dream? It made no sense. Why wasn't he having dreams of his mother's long, agonizing death by cancer, which still, after two years, often occupied his waking hours?

Unable to sleep, he tried to analyze the dream, which he'd been having periodically for months. He was unable to bring the woman's face into focus. He knew only that she was dark-haired, which made sense, as this was the type to whom he was most attracted, dark like himself, his Greek heritage. Even the car was a blur, as only the trunk was seen. He sensed, however, that it was his. Was he only to discover and not murder the woman - or did he want her dead? He cringed as he recalled the venom he'd felt for the women who'd spurned him. Living alone the last two years had not afforded the fulfillment he'd expected. Would bitterness drive him to murder? Had he already killed while sleepwalking? Again he was nauseated.

The alarm sounded just as he'd been about to drop off to sleep. His breakfast consisted of several cups of black coffee, heavily sugared, as his mother had liked it. As he was dipping a cookie into it, a roach crawled across the table. He squashed it with the flat of his fist, grunting maniacally. He sprayed and sprayed and was unable to get rid of the vermin. He feared he would be stricken with cancer before they were vanquished.

He did not perform well in the classroom, mind and body too tired to summon the energy to inspire high school students to an appreciation of Plato. They stared blankly, apparently too bored even to misbehave. He questioned whether he'd ever been a good teacher. He was afraid the nightmare was affecting his waking hours.

After dismissal he went to the school library to research works he would be covering in weeks to come. Before he knew it, night had fallen. He despaired. He hated the early darkness, the long nights. He longed for spring, daylight-savings-time. During winter he liked to get home early and turn the lights on to chase the gloom.

"Excuse me," he heard as he approached the main exit. An attractive, dark-haired woman approached.
"My name's Barbara Cohen. I'm the new dance teacher. I was wondering if you'd mind walking me out to my car."

"No," he said, tense, voice sticking in his throat.

He was unable to offer more than one-word responses to her small talk. Fortunately, she was glib. They did not suffer a lengthy, embarrassing silence. He'd decided to stop trying to communicate with women, having failed with several approaches. He did not think he was unattractive, but he believed he lacked whatever the opposite sex was seeking. 35, he doubted he would ever marry. He was sure the young woman thought him odd, and he wasn't sure she wasn't right. Could all of them have been wrong?

"Thanks," she said, smiling beautifully as they reached her car. "I didn't get your name."

"George Spiros."

"Thank you, George. Goodnight. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

He wouldn't allow himself to believe the statement was anything more than congeniality. He'd deceived himself too often in the past. He waited until she was underway, although incidences of violence were rare at the school, one of the most peaceful in Brooklyn. He considered himself fortunate to have been transferred here. The severe beating he'd suffered at his former school, which had initiated his reassignment, seemed almost to have been worth it.

As he turned onto a street over which elevated tracks ran, he noticed the young woman's car at the side of the road, its trunk open. His heartbeat excelerated. "Oh, God," he choked, as he, against his better judgement, pulled beside her. She was beneath the hood, pouring anti-freeze into the radiator. He prayed she wouldn't ask his help.

"I have a little leak," she smiled as he rolled down the passenger window. "I have to feed it all the time. Someday I'll be able to afford a good car. Thanks for stopping. You're sweet."

He noted the diamond engagement ring. Although he wasn't surprised, he wanted to berate her for having treated him so warmly. Another man might have been misled. She was so naive she wasn't even aware of where she'd parked - in the shadow of a housing project. He told her where to go should she need to stop in the future. A left turn would have led her to safety, even at the distance of only one block.

He placed a hand over his eyes and squeezed at his temples as she returned the container to the trunk. She smiled as she waved goodbye. He mocked her. Terrifying images of what might have been flashed through his mind. He became angrier and angrier as he drove. Although exhaust fumes were leaking into the interior, he would not open the window even a crack, as he preferred the odor to the cold.

At home he sprawled onto the couch, which opened into his bed, and watched television. He pulled an afghan over himself, cursing the landlord for not providing adequate heat. He was awakened by a scream, the dream more vivid than ever. This time the corpse had a face - that of Barbara Cohen. He ground his teeth and clutched at his chest. On the screen before him a man was placing the body of a woman into the trunk of a car. He'd seen the episode before. Was it the story that horrified him - or did it arouse something buried in his subconscious? Or had the murder occurred in another lifetime? He was no longer skeptical of reincarnation. His dreams and the extraordinary instances of deja vu he experienced had him leaning toward belief in successive existences. The thought that he may have been a murderer was profoundly disturbing, however. He was able to imagine himself as a caveman man killing for survival but not simply for the sake of it, as the dream suggested. Were his years of devotion to his mother and his profession merely penance for past crimes?

He realized the murder would have had to have been recent had it occurred in a prior lifetime, as the automobile was only a century old. He was certain the trunk wasn't part of a stagecoach or train. He wondered if he were clairvoyant, envisioning a crime perpetrated by the car's previous owner, whom he did not know. He'd purchased the car from a dealer.

The next day he stopped at a supermarket after school. It was extremely crowded and noisy. He hated such confusion. He lacked items he would not do without, however, coffee and cigarettes chiefly. He could get by on a single meal a day, but coffee was his passion. He had at least two pots a day.

The express line was long and moved slowly. The cashier worked methodically, apparently in fear of error. George steamed as darkness began to fall, prematurely, the sky heavily overcast. He imagined his hands around the dark-haired girl's throat. He shuddered, realizing the extent of his anger. He contemplated returning the items to the shelves, putting the bag of coffee in his pocket and leaving. You're not a thief, he told himself, uncertain, however, if he were a murderer.

Another girl approached with a cash drawer. The first closed the register to ring-out, to the chagrin of the patrons. George, gazing out the window, cursed himself for not having gone to a convenience store, for having chosen to save himself a few dollars. Once an immigrant...he thought.

It was twilight by the time he exited. Headlights were flashing on throughout the huge lot. As he hurried to his car, which was parked a considerable distance away, trunk after trunk was opened by a woman. His head pounded as he broke into a sprint. He was nearly run down at an intersection, tires screeching menacingly. A woman honked and cursed him. His lungs were burning, aching for breath as he reached the shelter of his sedan. "That's it," he said, resolving to seek professional help, the expense no longer a deterrent.

The doctor listened quietly. George opened up immediately, relieved at the opportunity to unburden himself. He had few friends. He'd been working since the age of 14, helping his family, all immigrants except himself. His spare time had been spent in study. He graduated with honors. His brothers, both older than he, put in 18-hour days at the restaurant they owned in midtown. Now that his mother was dead, he saw them only during holidays. The school where he'd taught for ten years had been troubled, the staff hardened and eager to escape after dismissal. The faculty at his current station was warm, but he'd yet to make any real friends. He feared his reticence would isolate him, if it hadn't already.

"I'm afraid I'm going to hurt someone," he said, seated at the edge of the couch, too tense to lay back. "It's so frustrating, always the same length. I wish it'd go on so I'd have a clue to its meaning, even though it scares me so much. Maybe I've already killed someone and my subconscious is blocking it out."

"I'll tell you what," said the doctor. "I'll have someone look over the unsolved murder files to see if there's anything in there resembling your dream. It may make you feel better initially to know there isn't, but the root of the dream is what's really troubling you. As I get to know you better, I'll be able to help you analyze it."

"I know it's crazy, but I'm starting to believe it's my destiny to fulfill the dream - if I haven't already."

"I'll write my beeper number on the back of my card. Call me if you need to talk - any time."

According to the files, none of the city's unsolved murders resembled the dream, or so the doctor said. George suspected it was a lie rendered to reassure him, to lead him into a prolonged analysis that would cost thousands. He contemplated suicide but feared his destiny, if not fulfilled presently, would follow to his ensuing lifetime. He trembled at the thought that an individual's destiny might be the same in each of his existences, that there was no escaping it. Of all things! He lamented inwardly, thinking only a rapist had a worse fate. He wondered if murdering a dark-haired bag lady, whom no one would miss, would end the nightmare. He sensed that destiny would not be so easily appeased, that he would have to kill again, and he had no desire to kill more than once.

Despite therapy, the dream occurred more frequently. It now came upon him as soon as he was asleep. His nerves were frayed. He stopped seeing the doctor, who called several times, urging him to return. His appearance suffered. His hair grew longer than it'd been during his college years in the early '70's. His beard grew in shaggily. He neglected to bathe. He kept to himself at school and exploded several times in the classroom. His students cowered before him.

"I want to see you after class," he snapped at a dark-haired beauty one day.

"But I didn't do anything," she whined.

When finally they were alone he simply stared at her, at a loss for words. Her lovely dark eyes, filled with fear, had mollified him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, bowing his head. "I haven't been myself lately. I have insomnia. You're dismissed."

She hurried away. He was disappointed she hadn't tried to communicate with him, yet relieved he hadn't done anything he would have regretted. She has her whole life ahead of her, he told himself, alarmed at the violent scenario his mind had conjured. Soon, upon reflection, the incident seemed a precursor, having transpired exactly as it'd been destined, as it'd occurred in the past.

Unable to face the confinement of the apartment, he went to the school library and immersed himself in Aristotle. The approach of darkness no longer frightened him. In fact, he welcomed it.

As he was making his way through the parking lot, a familiar voice greeted him. Barbara Cohen was beside her car, whose hood was open.

"Destiny calls," he whispered to himself as he approached her.

"By any chance," she said, "would you happen to have jumper cables?"

As long as you don't come near me, he thought, inwardly appalled at the thought of forcing her into his trunk. "God, it's cold," he said, explaining his shudder. To his relief, she remained under the hood as he got the cables.

Despite the boost, the car would not start.

"Now what do I do?" she said, glancing at her watch. "I have class in half an hour. I can't wait for service."

"Where?"

"Brooklyn College. I'm a few credits short of my Master's."

"My alma mater. I'll give you a lift. It's on my way."

He was not surprised at the ease with which he'd lied. The school, which was not his alma mater, was well out of his way. She had accepted without hesitation, despite his reticence and appearance, as if she'd expected it. Such beauty always had its way. And hadn't this occurred before? Wasn't it all according to script? She deserves it, he told himself; just don't look at her eyes.

He stopped at a convenience store. "I'll only be a minute. I'm thirsty. Can I get you anything?"

She declined. He returned with a large bottle of cola. "I need my caffeine," he said self consciously. He scoffed at himself inwardly, as it would make no difference what she thought of him. He calmly sipped at his drink as she described her courses, how much she hated them. He finished the last of it in a single chug and bided his time, waiting for the right moment. The brights of an oncoming vehicle, flashing briefly in his eyes, spurred him. He swung his arm and struck her in the forehead as she was in mid sentence. She crumpled immediately. She hadn't even had time to scream, so sudden was the attack. He struck repeatedly. The car barely swerved. He didn't care if anyone saw him, anyway. He just wanted it done, the torment ended. "So be it," he said, gazing at the motionless body. He struck once more for good measure - and the bottle shattered. "No, no, no," he said, pulling to the side of the road and clearing the glass from her. To his relief, she hadn't been cut. She had to go into the trunk unmarked.

He drove to a service road, turned into the driveway of a school for the handicapped where a cousin of his worked, and parked at the rear. The grounds were deserted. A single light was shining, in a corner room, the janitor, he was sure.

He put Barbara into the trunk, sprinkled broken glass about her and locked her in. He then took the flashlight from the glove compartment, opened the trunk, slowly, and shined the light inside. "Perfect," he said, the shards glistening exactly as they did in the dream.

He carried the body into the dumping grounds behind the school, which had the eeriness of a graveyard. He chuckled as he realized the rotting corpse would soon add to the stench of the polluted Gravesend Bay. He put her between two boulders, covered her with debris, and hurled her bag and books into the water.

He cruised down his street slowly, wary of the little boy with the impish face who, kneeling on a skateboard, would dart between parked cars. He sensed the boy did not speak English, as scolding had not deterred him. He'd had no success addressing him in Greek, either.

He showered and shaved, alarmed at the length of his hair and his loss of weight, which made him seem effeminate. He vowed to take better care of himself.

He settled on the couch, unafraid of sleep for the first time in months, destiny fulfilled. He dreamed he was rolling down the street on a skateboard, a silly grin on his face as neighbors pointed at him accusingly. His hands were outstretched, fingers spread wide as if he were about to choke someone.

He awoke abruptly, breathing fast, pale, the dream's message clear. His destiny hadn't been fulfilled after all. But a kid? He moaned inwardly, passing a hand through his hair. True, he'd fantasized about running the brat over, but only to teach him a lesson. Was he to be a mass murderer? How many would he have to kill? How many innocent hearts would have to be broken? He was glad his mother wasn't alive to witness this. It would kill her.

He became ill as he recalled what he'd done to Barbara Cohen. Had it been a dream? He wondered, hoped, seizing his coat and hurrying out.

He despaired as he noted shards on the passenger side. Maybe you broke it yourself, he thought, starting the car.

He stumbled through the rugged terrain of the dumping ground, gagging at the stench, which seemed to have worsened. Had decomposition begun so quickly? He raced to the site. The body was not there! He sighed and fell to his knees weeping with joy, hands clasped in prayer.

As he was driving away, he wondered if the dream would recur, vanquish the new one, now that it hadn't been fulfilled. He pulled to the side of the road and closed his eyes, summoning sleep, the motor running so that the heat wouldn't be shut down, the window open slightly so he wouldn't asphyxiate. Within minutes the dream was upon him, as intense as ever. Had he taken her out of the trunk - or had he dreamed that part?

He reeled as he stepped out of the car, sick to his stomach. Suddenly a rat streaked by. He started and dropped the flashlight. Now the device would not illumine. Light-headed, he feared he would faint before he completed his investigation. Although there was a streetlight nearby, he felt around the trunk to make certain it was empty. To his relief, he found only broken glass, nicking a finger. He stared at the trickle, then closed his mouth over it.

Suddenly, as he was bent over, the trunk was slammed down on his back. He cried out, momentarily paralyzed, spine having been struck. He was rendered unconscious by successive blows. Barbara Cohen, still reeling from the beating, struggled to lift him into the trunk and close it.

Upon having regained consciousness, she'd wandered about the dumping ground and softball fields before finding her way out. She'd reached the service road as George was opening the trunk.

She groped along the side of the car like a blindwoman, and opened the door. She started the engine and rolled down the driver's window halfway, strength giving out. At that moment a car exited the Belt Parkway and passed. She fainted as she called out to the driver.

Hours later a patrol car stopped beside the vehicle, whose motor was still running.

"Party's over," said the officer on the passenger side. "You'll hafta spring for a motel. There's one down the road."

There was no response.

"C'mon, sit up. We know you're in there."

He shined a flashlight on the front seat. Seeing nothing, he grumbled and stepped out of the car.
"Call for an ambulance," he told his partner, springing into action., cutting off the ignition.
As he was about to begin mouth to mouth resuscitation, Barbara stirred.

"You can't off yourself with the window open, doll," said the officer softly, caressing her brow. "You must not've wanted to leave us too bad." He felt lumps below her scalp. There was a welt where her hair had covered her forehead. "What's this? What happened?"

She murmured. He brought an ear close to her lips.

"The trunk?" he said, unsure. "Check it out, Eddie."

The second officer opened the trunk, slowly, and shined a flashlight inside. The body lay crumpled, asphyxiated. With long hair before its face, the officer's first impression was that it was female.

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