through the side door.
“Mom!” he shouted. “Mom, come quick!”
And that’s when he saw the man from the restaurant, covered in blood, holding a baseball bat in his hand. The man grinned, and his little chicken-eyes seemed to dig holes right into Jake’s heart.
DALE
When I woke up, things were different: the air had no smell, I was afraid of nothing, and, more importantly, the aches and pains in my body were gone. I can’t say breathing was easier, but I can say it was no longer an issue.
My lungs were no longer an issue.
There was no color in my world; everything had turned black, white, and gray. Sounds were muffled, like I was wearing earmuffs over ears packed with cotton. I could still hear things, but sound seemed far away and irrelevant.
I looked at my hands. They were dirty and covered in a strange, jelly-like filth. I couldn’t remember why, and I tried to say so, but all that escaped my mouth was a mumble.
For a moment I didn’t know what to do, but then I realized where I was: sitting in a car in front of my home. Instinctively, I fumbled with the car door until I managed to open it, and then I stepped outside. To my right was my home. To my left was a giant gorilla, engulfed in a battle with people I could no longer relate to. Why were the people fighting this poor, defenseless gorilla?
I looked the gorilla in the eye, and for a moment, the gorilla looked at me.
The world seemed to stop then; everything became unnaturally quiet.
The two of us––gorilla and man––both realized that we were connected; somehow, we were the same. And because of this strange unity, I knew, deep in my heart, that this giant beast would never hurt me, and I would never hurt it. We were brethren; we were family. We were special.
Our moment of tranquility came to an abrupt end with an onslaught of gunfire.
In my mind, I told the beast that he should try to get away from the bad men, and that he was welcome to be with me.
In my mind, he thanked me.
I turned away from the battle and shuffled my way towards the front door. Upon my arrival, I discovered it was locked. After a moment I remembered that my home had more than one door. I made my way to the side of my house and opened the side door. I stepped inside.
Something was going on, something I couldn’t understand.
It was bad. Whatever was happening, it was bad.
I took me a moment to maneuver myself into the living room. Walking was difficult.
There was a man standing in the center of the room. My wife was behind him in a wash of blood, smashed apart like an egg yolk and its shell. My son was lying at the man’s feet. His head was splintered apart; the blood was rolling out of him, as if his head had been opened up the moment before.
In my mind, I asked for help, because I didn’t know what to do. My wife and my son were dead, murdered by the man standing before me. I didn’t know who the man was, or why he had done such a thing to my family. All I knew for sure was that it wasn’t right, and I needed to make things better somehow.
I looked at my wife; her chest was still moving. Even though her arms were broken, her legs were shattered, and her ribs had been smashed in, she was still alive. Somehow, she hadn’t slipped away just yet.
I looked at my boy, and I watched as his eyes shifted position. He was looking up at me, pleading, begging. His head was split wide, and the blood was bucketing out of him; his life was leaving him, but it hadn’t left him yet. Soon, but not yet––
I didn’t feel anything.
Feelings, much like color and sound, had faded from me. I knew the man was a bad man, and I knew that I should be angry with him. My wife and child were in pain; they were dying. This should have made me feel a lot of things, but it didn’t. I felt nothing.
The man was suddenly terrified. He started screaming something terrible about me; he clearly didn’t like the way I looked. He ran to the front door, unlocked it, and
“Mom!” he shouted. “Mom, come quick!”
And that’s when he saw the man from the restaurant, covered in blood, holding a baseball bat in his hand. The man grinned, and his little chicken-eyes seemed to dig holes right into Jake’s heart.
DALE
When I woke up, things were different: the air had no smell, I was afraid of nothing, and, more importantly, the aches and pains in my body were gone. I can’t say breathing was easier, but I can say it was no longer an issue.
My lungs were no longer an issue.
There was no color in my world; everything had turned black, white, and gray. Sounds were muffled, like I was wearing earmuffs over ears packed with cotton. I could still hear things, but sound seemed far away and irrelevant.
I looked at my hands. They were dirty and covered in a strange, jelly-like filth. I couldn’t remember why, and I tried to say so, but all that escaped my mouth was a mumble.
For a moment I didn’t know what to do, but then I realized where I was: sitting in a car in front of my home. Instinctively, I fumbled with the car door until I managed to open it, and then I stepped outside. To my right was my home. To my left was a giant gorilla, engulfed in a battle with people I could no longer relate to. Why were the people fighting this poor, defenseless gorilla?
I looked the gorilla in the eye, and for a moment, the gorilla looked at me.
The world seemed to stop then; everything became unnaturally quiet.
The two of us––gorilla and man––both realized that we were connected; somehow, we were the same. And because of this strange unity, I knew, deep in my heart, that this giant beast would never hurt me, and I would never hurt it. We were brethren; we were family. We were special.
Our moment of tranquility came to an abrupt end with an onslaught of gunfire.
In my mind, I told the beast that he should try to get away from the bad men, and that he was welcome to be with me.
In my mind, he thanked me.
I turned away from the battle and shuffled my way towards the front door. Upon my arrival, I discovered it was locked. After a moment I remembered that my home had more than one door. I made my way to the side of my house and opened the side door. I stepped inside.
Something was going on, something I couldn’t understand.
It was bad. Whatever was happening, it was bad.
I took me a moment to maneuver myself into the living room. Walking was difficult.
There was a man standing in the center of the room. My wife was behind him in a wash of blood, smashed apart like an egg yolk and its shell. My son was lying at the man’s feet. His head was splintered apart; the blood was rolling out of him, as if his head had been opened up the moment before.
In my mind, I asked for help, because I didn’t know what to do. My wife and my son were dead, murdered by the man standing before me. I didn’t know who the man was, or why he had done such a thing to my family. All I knew for sure was that it wasn’t right, and I needed to make things better somehow.
I looked at my wife; her chest was still moving. Even though her arms were broken, her legs were shattered, and her ribs had been smashed in, she was still alive. Somehow, she hadn’t slipped away just yet.
I looked at my boy, and I watched as his eyes shifted position. He was looking up at me, pleading, begging. His head was split wide, and the blood was bucketing out of him; his life was leaving him, but it hadn’t left him yet. Soon, but not yet––
I didn’t feel anything.
Feelings, much like color and sound, had faded from me. I knew the man was a bad man, and I knew that I should be angry with him. My wife and child were in pain; they were dying. This should have made me feel a lot of things, but it didn’t. I felt nothing.
The man was suddenly terrified. He started screaming something terrible about me; he clearly didn’t like the way I looked. He ran to the front door, unlocked it, and
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