The man was in the house; a Florida style ranch house, white shingles and stone, a palm tree in front, wide cement driveway, curved stone walkway.
He was yelling. His voice was trembling, loud, frightening. He was yelling at himself. He had no one left to kill, he said. He wanted to surrender.
I was looking at a pick up truck approaching the house. The back of the truck was open, but the sides were enclosed with splintery, yellow wood. Riding in the back were several people. They were in black and white, like a grainy photo. Everything else was in bright color, the contrast turned up. There was a girl, facing away from me, kneeling down, head in hands. I could only see her hair, her body shaking from sobs, her striped shirt rising up and down with the sobbing, the stripes making slow waves.
Every time the man in the house yelled, the kneeling girl screamed. Intrinsically, I knew what was going on. The man had attacked the girl earlier. She recognized his voice. She didn't want to hear it again. And then she said out loud, in words choked with fear, please don't make me go back there. And when I heard her, I nearly passed out, because her voice was mine. The kneeling, crying, scared girl was me.
There were cops and detectives and news cameras on the street and the man in the house finally stumbled out the door and when he did, he went from color to black and white, and he had no face. He had cut his own face off with a razor, was living to tell about it, stumbling out onto the perfectly manicured lawn, arms askew, face bleeding, and I knew that blood was dark red and oozing, even though it was just grainy gray to my eyes, and as the man fell to the lawn I suddenly found myself high above everything, so high above that I could see the shape of Florida on the map, but zoom in so I could see some children playing in a pool and I tried to yell for those children to get out of the pool because the bad man was coming, but they couldn't hear me. So I jumped from where I was, and fell, fell, fell, what seemed like forever, back into the bed of the pick up truck, where the world kind of zoomed in again, like a camera had just quickly retracted its zoom lens and now I was the girl, sobbing, kneeling, instead of watching me and the bad man on the lawn would not stop yelling or bleeding.
I woke up, couldn't go back to sleep and it's unlikely that I will be able think of anything else for a few more hours.