Blackout Blues

A few hours later, I stumbled into my apartment. Although they had tried valiantly, Mr. Jennings and Bert didn't have

sufficient evidence to hold me for more than forty- eight hours. As it turns out, there was a break-in earlier that

night that had gone unreported but in all the hubbub the landlady had admitted that she had seen a man in the hallway

who had been trying to break into a room near Linda's. Therefore, I was not the only suspect in the case. I collapsed in

my favorite chair and sprawled my six foot frame out and pushed my long legs out to bury my toes in the plush cream

carpet in front of me and groaned loudly. It felt good to be able to finally vent my frustration verbally so I did it

again, relishing in the primitive noises and the comfort they brought with them. I cracked open an eye and glanced

towards the kitchen, my gaze resting hopefully on the liquor cabinet. But no, it wouldn’t do to be drunk right now. Not

with this mess going on. And what a mess it was. Fuck.


I forced myself up and poured a glass of water, ignoring the part of my brain whispering that alcohol would be so, so

much better, and would it hurt to drink just a bit? I normally wasn’t a heavy drinker, but oblivion sounded really good

right about now. Unfortunately, if I drank until I blacked out—which given my state of mind was inevitable if I picked

up the bottle—I would be back to the start of the problem.

Six years ago, when I was twenty-two, I started having these blackouts. But they weren’t from drinking too much, Oh no,

I thought sarcastically, can’t be anything normal, not for me, rather the doctor’s told me that they were stress-

induced, and that something had likely gotten fucked up in my head after the accident when I was eighteen. Granted, the

terms they had used had been more medical and doctor-y in nature, but you get the idea. They told me it would probably

go away with time. Probably. So far, I had no luck as far as it going away. Shitty predictors, doctors. They should

leave it to psychics and tarot cards, I grumbled inwardly, irritated at them for getting my hopes up. While ‘my little

problem’, as I had so lovingly dubbed it, gave me a great excuse to take days off from work for absolutely no reason

when I was feeling particularly lazy, it was also what landed me in this mess in the first place. How do you prove you

didn’t do something if you don’t entirely believe that you didn’t yourself? You don’t, that’s the problem.


I grabbed my glass of water and gulped down a portion of it. I stood still and concentrated on the feel of the water

running through me, imagining that it was cleansing my soul and washing the day’s detritus off my weary self. I plopped

back into the chair I had previously occupied and burrowed my toes into the carpet once more, taking comfort as the

familiar strands seemed to hug my toes, soothing my worries to the best of their ability. I blinked, trying not to think

about how the—what was that English term again—personified my carpet. Most inanimate objects do not give hugs, and if

they did, they certainly wouldn’t want to embrace my toes. I took another sip of water and set it on the beautiful

wooden stand next to my chair, careful to place it on coaster so the moisture wouldn’t leak onto the gleaming mahogany

surface. The stand had belonged to my grandfather. He carved it himself, and although simple in design, the finish was

exquisite and one’s eyes could get lost trying to trace the subtle patterns engrained within it.


“The soul of the tree.” My grandfather explained with a chuckle when he caught me tracing the pattern with my fingers

when I was a little boy. I remember being awed, and hesitant to touch the stand for weeks after. My reverence for the

wood was no little amusement for the rest of my family, who thought it was adorable. I can’t tell you how many pictures

there are of me sitting there, staring open-mouthed at the stand.

I grabbed the sleek black remote and jammed the ‘on’ button with my thumb. The screen flickered to life and I quickly

sucked in a breath. It was a picture of Linda—the girl who had been murdered. She was smiling in the picture, though it

looked a little bit sad to me. Of course, I could be biased. I did, after all, see her dead body and who wouldn’t be sad

about that? I mused, sucking in a breath, trying to forget that face twisted in pain and fear. Suddenly, Linda’s face

was split open from the left corner of her lip to her forehead, a gouge leaking blood and tissue into her pretty blonde

and hair and into her mouth, open wide in a scream that would never be heard. One of her eyes was swimming in blood, and

the other was glassy, frozen in a look of unparalleled terror.


I heard a helpless sob and looked at Linda, thinking that she had made the sound and was alive, thank God, but the image

swam and I was back in my living room, staring at her smiling, uncut face on the television. I gave another low cry when

I realized the sound had been made by me and that Linda would never, ever make a sound like that again. I buried my face

in my hands, not wanting to look at her face.

“…suspects are being interviewed as we speak, although the police haven’t confirmed anything yet, they hinted that they

have narrowed it down to just a few people who could have been involved in this gruesome murder,” the lady’s voice

droned on professionally. That caught my attention. As far as I knew, they hadn't yet caught the man who had broken in.

Perhaps they had found him and were 'interviewing' him as well. Right, I mentally snorted at her choice of words, that

was an interview. Did I get the job? I sure as hell hope not. Maybe they had caught him, and maybe my carpet was

actually hugging my toes. The chances of the two events were just about the same. There had been no one else around to

see the man, and the landlady had barely even gotten a look at him. . Sure, they might have questioned a few people

about any 'suspicious activity' that night, but Mr. Jennings had basically told me that all evidence pointed to me, and

that nothing to prove my innocence had been discovered on the scene. It didn’t help that the bruises marring Linda’s

pale throat matched the shape of my fingers. I mean come on, aren’t a lot of hands close to the size of mine? It was too

much of a generalization to be counted as evidence.


I turned off the tv, and walked over to my painting studio. I took a deep breath to release my tensions and stood in

front of my easel, admiring the crisp white of the blank canvas. I picked up a brush and started to paint, relishing the

feeling of getting lost in the deep, rich colors. Painting is like a voluntary blackout for me, I sighed happily,

enjoying my work. I felt the stress melt away with each measured stroke and dainty stipple. A few hours later I stepped

back from my work, satisfied. Lisa's face stared back from the easel. One half was smiling, a mirror of the picture on

the television, subtly altered by my own artistic nuances. The other half was her visage in death, immortalized by my

precise brush strokes. Life and death both stared at me from the baby blues of her eyes, and neither was accusatory. Did

I kill you? Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.


I padded into the bedroom, not even bothering to undress before I flopped into bed. I laid in

my jeans for a few minutes, before making an effort to shuck them off. Ever tried to sleep in jeans? Yeah, well. If you

haven’t then I suggest you try. You’ll get the best night’s sleep ever. Really. I snuggled under the covers and felt

myself rapidly falling into the land of Nod. My last thought before I fell asleep was of the interrogator’s smug grin

and cold, predatory eyes.

*~~~*

Author's Note:

There you have it, folks! Wonder if Mike is having sweet dreams (or beautiful nightmares??) tonight! haha. Review and let me know what you think! As always, thank you for reading!!