In the land of America, there lived a woman named Julia. This woman was (mostly) blameless and upright. One day the angels came to present themselves to the Lord and Satan with them. The Lord said, “Where have you come from?”
“From roaming the Earth and going back and forth in it…” Lucifer stated.
“So,” the Lord said to Satan, “Have you considered Julia? There is no one on Earth like her.”
Satan simply answered, “Does Julia fear God for nothing? She will give all she has for her own life.”
“Good morning Julia,” came Kathy’s familiar voice as I walked into the office, “You’re a bit late today, huh?”
“You have no idea, Kathy, I’ve had the fucking weirdest, strangest, absolutely inexplicable day of my life…..”
“What are you talking about…”
(Wow, what a setup for a flashback)
Well, I woke up this morning to that scene in Heathers, you know the one, where Winona Ryder is talking about suicide. I turned to my left and looked down at the street out of my 17th story window. You know how much I love to watch the tiny people on their way to their tiny jobs. But there weren’t many people out walking today on account of the weather. Instead, there were just a lot of pristine white cars as far as my eyes could see until off in the distance, a single black car came into view marring what had been a perfect sea of white. Almost as an afterthought, I drew a knife, or at least I think I drew a knife, from under my bed and slowly drew it across my upper thigh slashing through my cotton pajamas and opening a large gash in my leg. I screamed as the black car passed my building. Writhing in pain, I arose gingerly, I could again see the taillights of the black car as I faded to unconsciousness….
Yeah, I know….It's a fucked up story
Anyways, when I woke up I was somewhere new, somewhere I’d never been before. All I could think was, “Wherever I am, this place must have an impeccable gardener.” (Kind of a weird thing to think, I know) I see two men conversing in the distance. One is revelatory and one is recalcitrant and I can make out pieces of their conversation; “Where have you come from,” the revelatory voice boomed
“From roaming the Earth and going back and forth in it,” the other answered.”
And I awoke with a start. As I came to, I realized that I had no recollection of how I found my way to floor; the pulsing in my leg remedied that. But as I looked down, I was puzzled. My leg was fine, it was as if nothing had happened, but I remembered dragging a knife across it. Where was the blood to go along with the pain? I got up slowly and made my way to the bathroom.
“Uh, Julia….”
“Let me finish Kathy,” I snapped, “Just keep listening...”
(Kathy can be a real dumb bitch sometimes.)
“Where was I? There was no blood, pulsing pain…okay got it”
I was in the bathroom washing my face with that bar soap you always tell me to get rid of, and I was thinking about the twenty minutes prior. Had I really drug a knife across myself? It felt like I had, but there was no noticeable slice, no cut to prove it. I think this must be what it’s like to be an amputee who still feels pain in their lost limb. But then, to make matters worse, the phone rang. I picked up; it was my Daniel.
You know how he’s always calling me even though he’s got that pretty wife. I mean, he’s my boss so I expect he may need to call from time to time. But, honestly, you know this guy. He calls me at least three times a week ostensibly about work but thematically about his chances of banging me. I know I should say something, maybe most women would say something, at least to his wife, but to tell the truth, I just don’t care enough. You know, I kind of like it anyway. The fact that he can’t have me makes him love me more I think, and that’s the way I like it anyhow. It gives me a safety net. And I think I love him on some level because of it. Anyways, the conversation went something like this:
“Hey Hey,” I say say throwing on some charm through my phantom pain.
“Hey,” Daniel replies, “Soooo, where are you, you have a job you know.”
“I can’t come in today,” I answer.
“Why not?”
“I don’t really wanna talk about it.”
“Well, it’s sort of your duty to your contract, you know, so what’s keeping you from work?”
“Alright, Daniel, I woke up this morning and slashed my leg with a knife. Right now it’s bleeding like I’ve never seen it bleed before.”
“What are….”
“In fact, I might have struck an artery. It’s absolutely conceivable that I am dying right now,” I finished.
“What does that even mean Julia? Are you coming into work. I’ll totally make it worth your while.”
“What does that even mean, David? I mean, you’re married.”
“Julia, the offer’s alwaaaaaays on the table.”
“That’s awful,” I said as I slammed the phone down.
But there was only one problem. My leg wasn’t really bleeding and since I’m not an amputee victim I can’t really blame my pain on some phantom ailment. And here’s the worst part Kathy; who would believe I’d sliced myself given that I’m a generally sane person with no blood on my leg and no noticeable gash on my leg. Anyways, I’m here now, so (I guess) obviously I went and caught the BART.
And you know the BART at ten in the morning. It’s like a bastion for self-loathing hipsters, and other (probably self-loathing) assorted individuals. I wish it was just the San Francisco subway system, but whatever… I picked up a paper at the station before proceeding downstairs to catch the train. Usually the ride isn’t really exciting, you know. I mean, it’s just a subway. There’s just a bunch of those aging hippies, reformed riot grllz, well-dressed bible thumpers (Jehovah’s Witnesses???) and bums, lots of bums…you know what it’s like.
Today was no different. As I entered the station, two well-dressed young men approached me asking me if I’d been saved. I replied, “If you mean ‘do I watch that semi-shitty show on the FX network then ‘Yes.’ If you mean ‘Do I believe that Jesus Christ died for my sins and those of all mankind then ‘it’s up for debate.’” As I walked away, I was thinking I was pretty damn witty. Apparently, the Witnesses didn’t agree with me. I had this same self-satisfied grin on my face when the stunned strangers started calling after me yelling something or other about “Jesus coming soon.” I don’t really understand their ire. I pray before meals, tithe my share and generally try not to be a terrible person. But somehow, I’m a harlot? I don’t understand it.
But here’s the crazy thing, they followed me, and started screaming, “Do you think blasphemy is funny? Do you think this is a game? God could be back tomorrow, and then where would you be….?”
They continued yelling and gesticulating until one of the well-dressed young men took out a knife and yelled, “Joking about the Lord is a sin, and she must be punished.”
The other looked confused, but it was obvious he would not (could not?) stop his partner. I’m not going to lie, this was not an event I had forecasted when the duo had approached me. A small group formed around us as and I thought at least THEY could help me, but not one of them made a move. It was like that story about that girl in New York who got stabbed 37 times. Do you remember that story? They were all waiting for someone else to do something while some guy stabbed her. And the worst thing was that my leg was still pulsing and now I was crying. The tears ran down my cheeks and that’s why, on top of everything else, my make-up is ruined. And do you know what’s so fuckin’ funny about all of this.
“What?” Kathy asked.
After they let me go all I could think was, “Louis Armstrong was a lying son of a bitch. It’s a fuckin’ inexplicable world.”
The Story of Francisco Moreno“Please no, Meester Francisco…I meant Yes seer, I swear” the woman wailed. But it was too late Meester Moreno had already drawn his aluminum bat back in preparation of destroying the poor immigrant girl’s pretty face. All he said to her in his slight Spanish lisp was, “You were a good girl, so I’ll make this quick…” and with that, Meester Francisco connected with the girl’s skull. He left the alley behind, ready to move onto the next girl and always, always chasing the memory of Ophelia.
Francisco and OpheliaSeven years ago, Francisco Moreno had been an exceptional playwright. He had written a production called The Last Destruction of Grace, which critics dubbed, “the most influential play of the decade.” The production played in London’s West End for an unprecedented two years. It was Meester Moreno’s first play.
Francisco had everything he wanted and he believed he owed it all to God. Everyday, Francisco, the good Catholic, would pray, saying, “Lord, thank you this day for the chance to glorify your goodness. I ask only one more thing. Please send me a woman whom I can cherish and share your many beauties with.”
One day Francisco was sitting in the third row of the London Opera House casting the role of Veruca Salt for his adaptation of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Somewhere in the middle of that casting call, he noticed that the girl in front of him was pretty and somewhere in the next forty-five seconds, Francisco was planning the rest of his existence around her. When she finished, she simply looked at Mr. Moreno for a beat before whispering in her dulcet voice, “So, did you like it. Was I good?”
One day many months later, Francisco and Ophelia were window shopping in Manhattan when Ophelia walked into the Saks after she spotted a beautiful necklace. She looked at Mr. Moreno with her doe eyes and Francisco knew that it would be impossible to say no. Ophelia had become his immovable object and his unstoppable force, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she had always been both and if he had just finally noticed it. Either way, he knew he was buying that over-priced soon to be under utilized necklace.
Two years passed and Francisco doted on Ophelia. He no longer wrote the jarring, idiosyncratic pieces that critics and fans alike had fallen in love with. Instead, as his heart grew fonder, his writing became stunted. His life and his writing began to revolve around Ophelia. When critics asked him about this, he would simply answer, “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. If my writing reflects that, so be it.”
Three more months passed before Francisco came home from a day of casting for Love, Life and Ophelia. He called out to his bride, “Ophelia, Ophelia….” There was no answer. As he walked up the stairs, he thought of an anecdote he’d pondered earlier. He figured (at least) it would get a chuckle out of his bride when he told her, “Why does anyone ever become a policeman? I mean, no one is ever happy to see a policeman. Why not become a fireman? Like, I’ve never seen a fireman and been angry, you know.” As he pushed the door to their shared bedroom open, Ophelia was there lying prostrate asleep. She looked at peace. Francisco wasn’t sure if he she would wake her so he left her in her slumber and left to prepare supper.
Francisco was jubilant; casting was coming along perfectly and his muse was asleep in his bed. A palatial supper was in order. There was no room for melancholy in his life. {And because this is a story about death, melancholy will (predictably) enter here.}
As Ophelia awoke, she knew Francisco was preparing her a dinner fit for a queen. He doted on her and her awareness of this made him even happier to do it. In turn, Ophelia loved Francisco, hers was a pure sort of love, the kind reserved only for the young; the kind that is often lost, but never forgotten.
With that, like Enoch, Ophelia was gone.
Francisco walked up the stairs with Ophelia’s dinner on a silver platter in his hands. As he reached the top of the stairs, he called out to his bride cooing, “M’lady, M’lady, Dinner is served….” There was no response and as he entered the room and looked at the bed he shared with Ophelia, he gave out a cry that quickly turned into a whimper. In one second, his life was robbed of joy, and in the next, he was out the door of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house. And as he rushed out the door, the old Francisco Moreno rushed out with him to be replaced by the monster he was to become. In that moment, his soul became like the body of a leper, breaking away piece by piece.
The next week, police were crawling around Francisco’s house trying to solve the mystery of Ophelia’s disappearance. They searched for a murder weapon or a body or anything and they fingerprinted Francisco and tested his DNA, but in the end, they found no leads; they found nothing to explain Ophelia’s death. And in the frenzy over the mysterious disappearance of the beautiful Ophelia, the police failed to notice the three young girls, all petite, with brown hair and pretty eyes who were all murdered with an aluminum baseball bat.
Back To Julia “Wow Julia, Uh I think you may need, uh, some…wow…uhh, uh, uh…
“Spit it out Kathy.”
“JuliaIthinkyouneedhelp…I think you need help,” Kathy finally stammered.
“Kathy, don’t be a bitch. This all happened this morning.”
With a hurt look on her face, Kathy simply said, “I’m not saying you don’t think it happened. I’m just wondering if, you know, it ever crossed your mind that this all could have been a dream. I mean, you said it yourself, this all happened right after you woke up.”
“Yeah, but what about those crazy Jehovah’s Witnesses?” I retorted.
“I don’t know, that just seems really unlucky. Anyways, it isn’t my fault that you’re crazy…By the way, Daniel wants to see you.”
“Really, well I guess that’s to be expected,” I lamented, “and Kathy, you’re not a bitch.”
So now, I’m walking through the hallway past my office and towards the end of the hall. Generic pictures of old people line the walls, and my head is throbbing at the thought of playing “the game” with Daniel. I’m just not in the mood to play cat-and-mouse.
As I walk down the hallway, I think to myself that maybe Kathy was right. Perhaps, it is all in my head. But this pain can’t be just in my head; it seems pretty real to me. Anyways, something strange was going on this morning, it couldn’t have all been pure happenstance. I mean, since when do Jehovah’s Witnesses pull knives on people? Now, I find myself in front of Dan’s office door and as I get set to open the door, I notice there is a second person in the room. I open the door and enter.
There’s something odd about his office today, but I can’t pin down exactly what it is. I should probably say something about it, but I know I won’t. I’m just not proactive. Daniel is listening to the unknown man speak and as he notices me enter, he motions me to sit down at the chair on the left side of the desk. The unknown man continues to talk. He has slicked back hair and is wearing an impeccable suit. Gucci, maybe? Finally, the conversation between the unknown man, I’ll call him ‘Ben,’ and Daniel ends and Dan turns his attention to me.
“So, you’re late today Julia”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“Any reason why? At least give me an excuse. ‘Ben’ has been waitin’ patiently to meet you.”
“Of course I have some excuses. I don’t really feel like giving you any of them though, so let’s just pretend that they don’t exist.”
“Alright, well do you have any idea what this meeting is about?”
“None at all.”
This is true. I really have no idea why I’ve been summoned to the corner office this morning.
“Well, you know those apartment buildings we own in the Mission and down there South of Market?”
“The one’s we just bought a few months ago?”
“Exactly.”
So, I’m wondering what this has to do with me.
“So, what does that have to do with me?”
“Well, ‘Ben’ here is an independent contractor and he came to us with this idea. See, the buildings we bought could be a lot more profitable. He came to us and told us exactly how much more profitable and negotiated a price for us. So, We want to raze the buildings. Put in new facilities. You know make them a bit more upscale…”
“A bit pricier….” ‘Ben’ interjects
“Yes, a bit pricier. We also feel that by taking this action we could be an avatar that contributes to curbing crime in the area. We feel like we’re doing something beneficial for the city.”
“But won’t a lot of nice people lose their homes?” I asked.
“Simply collateral damage. Anyways, the city forces us to build low-income housing in other parts of town in exchange for our new high-rent housing so, generally, it’s a pretty equitable process.”
“But doesn’t that just put all of these poor families with at-risk children into even worse situations.”
“In capitalism, Julia, there are winners and there are losers. I mean, I don’t want to displace those people any more than you do. I have a heart, but this is a good move for the company, it makes sense. Besides, that’s not really your concern.”
“Alright, so what is my concern, why am I here? I mean, I understand what we’re doing, but I don’t understand how it concerns me.”
‘Ben’ intercedes, “Well, Julia you’re black….”
This is not news to me.
“Alright ‘Ben,’ I am aware of my skin pigmentation. So, we’re displacing lots of black people and you want me to be the figurehead. You want me to illustrate to them that circumstance and initiative, not Whitey, are keeping them down.”
“Yes. But with nicer words,” ‘Ben’ says.
“There’s a lot at stake here, and we’ll make it worth your while.”
“Daniel, I know you will, I know you will. Can I go?”
I need to get out of here. I need to think.
“Julia, can we count on you.”
“Do I have another choice?”
“No”
“Well then, you sure can.”
And with that I got up to leave. As I reached the door ‘Ben’ called out to me, “Julia, wait a tic. I’ll walk with you to the elevator.”
Dammit, that ‘Ben’ is a creepy motherfucker, but what can I do? He’s obviously an important individual….
“Alright.”
So, now I’m walking past my office to the elevator and I have a slimy looking salesman type to my right, and he’s telling me about the importance and delicacy of my task and I’m day dreaming when suddenly I’m back in that same impeccable garden, and I’m hearing the same two voices arguing.
“Where have you been,” the first asked.
“Roaming the Earth and going back and forth in it,” the other answered.
“Well, what have you decided?”
“I’m going to raze the buildings…”
I came back to Earth as ‘Ben’ and I reached the elevator. He said, “Julia, it’s been a pleasure….I know you’re gonna do great.” With that he entered the elevator and (presumably) left the building. Maybe his real name was Elvis?
I started back towards my office in a haze. I didn’t notice the generic old people in the pictures that line the hallway and I didn’t notice Kathy waving at me. In fact, I didn’t notice much of anything as I walked into my office and sat down in my comfortable leather chair. Kathy just walked in and she’s asking me what happened in the meeting, but I’m waving her away. I need to think. Can I really displace all of those people so that sleazeball ‘Ben/Elvis’ can line his pockets? Is this the kind of person I am or I want to be? Dan said that it would (definitely) be worth my while. Lord, I hate that phrase.
“Julia….JULIA…” Kathy yells at me
“Wha…Huh, you’re still here Kathy, whadda ya want?”
“I jus’ wanted to know what happened in the meeting,” she opined.
What do I tell her? Do I tell her the truth or do I sugarcoat what I’m about to do?
“Well Kathy, I’m going to be the figurehead that legitimates the Till Co. ousting hundreds of low-income (mostly black) families.”
“Because you’re black?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I’m sure they’re making it worth your while. You know, I guess there are winners and losers in capitalism.”
“Yeah, sometimes I think the system is sort of fucked up.”
“Well, you know what I say….”
“What do you say, Kathy?”
“Capitalism; it allows you to buy whatever your heart desires unless your heart desires a soul.”
“Ha, that’s pretty good. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. I just heard it one time, and I thought it was a neat thing to say, but I’ve never been able to use it in conversation before.”
“Well, it’s good. You should use it again sometime,” I said, “Kathy, should I do this. Be my moral compass.”
“Julia, you’re much smarter than me. That’s why you’re in this office and I’m sitting at the receptionist desk. But it does seem awful cold-hearted, you know.”
“Thanks Kathy, but for right now I’ve got some work to do.”
“Alright, I’ll just be outside.”
“Kathy, you’re so not a bitch sometimes.”
“Thanks for the backhanded compliment,” Kathy joked as she left.
This is a fucked up day.
Mr. Moreno returned to his apartment in the Mission. No one was going to miss that girl, and he reveled in the feeling of another piece of himself falling away. He walked up the stairs to the tenth floor, his bat in tow and the memory of the poor girl in his head. As he reached his door, he took out his key and looked across the hallway at the small girl sitting there looking at his bat. She asked, “How come yo bat’s so red.” He answered, “Because I used it like a paintbrush, painting my picture for the world.” “Oh,” she exclaimed, “Are you gonna put your painting on the fridge. My mom puts my paintings on the re...fig…er…ator.” “No honey,” Mr. Francsico chuckled, “But maybe someday I will, and you can come and see. Okay?” “Okay,” she cried gleefully.
Connecting Julia & Francisco “Kathy….I’m gonna leave. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Where should I tell Daniel you’re going Julia?”
“Tell him I’m making preparations, and I’ll be back soon.”
The BART in the middle of the day is pretty much the same as the BART around ten. Self-respecting people with jobs aren’t using the public transportation at two in the afternoon. These are people with whom I cannot relate. Take the bum outside the 16th St. BART station asking me for money. What does he expect out of me? Charity? I’ve already lost my soul.
The building we bought is dilapidated. I’m coming to the faint realization that we were going to raze it from the beginning. There’s no way we bought it expecting it to be profitable as is. Still, I can’t help but ruminate over the people I’ll be putting on the street. Can I really do this?
(Not surprisingly, this is where the two protagonists meet eachother because the story couldn’t be brought together otherwise.)
“Hello, are you alright. You seem lost.”
“O…No I’m fine, thanks.”
“Thanks for your concern,” I say again, “do you live here?”
“Yes I do,” he remarks.
Where is he from? Spain? He has that lisp.
“How do you like it? Is there really a lot of crime?”
“I like it very much,” he answers, “And that’s a weird question. I guess there’s as much crime as anywhere else. You know, would you like me to show you something?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Well, you asked about crime…I’m head of the neighborhood watch, I’ve got a ledger upstairs, I keep tabs on everything that happens around here. I guess it’s a little creepy.”
“So, I’m about to go up to some guys apartment to investigate crimes? I think I need some help after all.”
“That’s exactly what I’m here for,” he says with a smile, “Why don’t you come up?”
It’s been a fucking weird day.
His apartment is a small, dark and unsympathetic shrine to petite brunette women. They’re all different. The bedroom connects directly to the kitchen. There’s a bat on the bed, maybe this guy likes baseball??
“So you have a thing for brunettes?”
“You could say that.”
“Have you seen the fridge?” he asked.
“No, what’s on the….O my God!!!”
Pictures of women unlucky enough to meet this man cover the refrigerator. How am I not in danger right now?
“O my God,” I gasp, “How could you do that, how could you do that, how could….?”
“Don’t worry, you’re fine. You don’t look like her. To answer your second query, how could I take the lives of so many pretty young things?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s my question,” I shrieked.
“My soul was taken from me once. Did you see that picture over the bed? Yes. That very pretty woman was Ophelia. She was my life. She was blameless. She was taken to heaven. She never died, but when God took her, he took my soul with her.”
“She never died? What does that even mean?”
“The police never found her body…she was just sort of taken.”
“So you kill people who sort of resemble her?”
“I kill them in hopes that one day someone will do the same for me.”
“To get back at God?…”
“Lord no, God is unknowable. Was I there when he created the heavens…I destroy these girls to destroy myself.”
“It seems like you could just drink….a lot of other people do that.”
“Ha, they do….they do. Let me ask you something,” he droned in a monotone.
He’s in complete control of his emotions, it’s as if its right out of a movie.
“What are you doing here? Why would you agree to follow a man whom you’ve never met up to his apartment in a (supposedly) crime-riddled neighborhood?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. You told me I’d be fine.”
“And you believed that?.”
“I’m not intellectually flawless, but today has been a fucked up day. Do you like the people that live here?”
“I told you I do. You’re here to destroy this building are you not?”
“How do you know that?
“Well, I’ve never seen you before…and you show up weeks after the building was bought by a large developing corporation. You’re obviously having second thoughts about this. You’re trying to reconcile throwing hundreds of families on the streets with your own moral system.
“Wow, I mean, I am. I don’t want to, but it’ll be worth my while.”
“Will it?
“Well, I can’t stop it. Even if I won’t do it, someone else will. It’s just capitalism, you know.”
“Julia, I’m not exactly morally flawless, but do you really believe that? A person can make a difference.”
“What can I do? There’s nothing.”
“Well then, there is nothing…”
I need to leave this apartment. I need to get a new life. I need, I need, I need, I need…
“Julia….”
“What’s your name,” I asked
“Francisco Moreno.”
Back to Work
“Julia…” came a familiar voice.
“Daniel, I’m on my way back to the office, I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Good, I know you’re having some second thoughts, but I want you to remember that you are better than those people. They’re accountable for their own lives, you know.”
“Daniel, you can’t actually believe that.”
“Julia, not only do I believe that. I don’t actually know how you don’t.”
“I’ll see you soon Dan.”
Francisco is sitting quietly on the BART looking out of the underground train at nothing in particular.
“Francisco, what are we doing?” I asked.
“We’re killing Daniel,” he answered.
“What is that going to accomplish? Those families in those buildings are fucked no matter what we do.”
“But you can make the world a better place.”
He might be right, you know, but who am I to make that decision. The world is full of assholes, and I can’t be there passing judgment on them all. I mean, it’s not like I’m some sort of real life Hammurabi’s Code; an eye for an eye and killing in the name of justice and all that jazz. I just don’t really think that’s my place.
“Julia….I know you’re having second thoughts, but it’s clear to me now that my life has been building to this moment for the last eight years. I’ve been destroying my life one girl at a time in preparation for murdering something much more subversive”
“But it’s not up to us…this is our stop.”
“Julia, it is up to us….The decision is up to us….You’ll find that one person can change the world.”
We enter The Till Building and go to the tenth floor. Francisco and I walk past Kathy as she waves. We head down the hallway with the generic pictures of elderly people (why do we have those?) and burst into Daniel’s room. He looks up from his desk and says, “Julia, how’s it going, who’s that….?” as Francisco walks straight up to him and wordlessly takes him by the hair. Daniel tries to scream, but Francisco quickly punches him in the Adam’s apple. I never heard Daniel speak again.
What’s going on? What have I allowed? Daniel is fighting back, and he’s looking at me, pleading for his life with his eyes. I realize that it’s warm in here. That’s what was wrong this morning. It’s hot like hell in this office.
I’m back in the garden, but I can still see the scene unfolding in front of me. There’s a wooden chair in the left of Daniel’s office. It’s now in my hands. Daniel sees me approaching with hope in his eyes as I bring the chair over Francisco’s back as hard as I can. He and Daniel fall to the ground as Daniel lays their whimpering, but thankful. There is a haze around me and as he tries to whisper his gratitude, I pull the remains of the chair back over my head and bring them down full force on Daniel’s skull. He lays there motionless as I hear that voice again say, “From roaming the Earth and going back and forth in it,” as I come to my senses in a room that is much too hot.
I look around the room. Daniel is motionless on the floor. Next to him lays Francisco. He’s gasping for breath, tired, and mostly dead. But as he looks up at me, there is no anger in his expression. I see happiness in his eyes, like he’s ready. He speaks to me in shots and stutters as he says, “Finish the job.” I look at him, I’m peering into his soul. I’m dumbfounded by the scene in front of my corneas. Who was that person in the room killing Daniel? Because it wasn’t me, I’m not capable of such atrocity. Francisco continues to peer into me with those big black eyes. Finally, I feel my soul leaving my body as I raise the chair ready to hit him and as I connect with his dome four security officers walk in. They tell me to put my hands on my head. But I can’t, I’m paralyzed by the nagging feeling that I’m not finished. And all of a sudden I’m back in that garden. I can see my body in Daniel’s office. The officers are handcuffing me and one of them is talking to me.
“This looks bad,” he tells me.
“I know,” I see myself mouth.
Two dead bodies, two despicable people killed and they’re taking me away. What does it matter though? I’m not even there.
I look around. The garden is beautiful. Daniel and Francisco are sitting in front of me, their faces destroyed by the chair, and there is a voice asking a question.
“Where have you been,” it asks.
“From roaming the Earth and going back and forth in it,” I hear myself answer.
