Suicide: Death In A Dream

"Oh look...ah, here we go. He left a note at least."
"Good grief, the body stinks!"
"Have the crew come up and clean this up, will ya?"

"You done here, Detective?"

"Yeah, for now. Let's see here...they say dead people don't talk. But this guy's got a lot to say..."

Date of death: March 6, 2004

There he was. He was in the doll's house. Dancing side to side, shuffling his feet and waving his arms and hands. Her hair was frizzy, dirty blonde, torn, and stringy. Her skin was a cold, broken plastic-stiff with age and bitter with despair. His clothes were worn and thin. Exposing the gritty aftertaste of his sorrows dried over crusted wounds. The eyes were stuck open with injurious stare-glazed by depression and dilated with lost passion. Nylon thread forced eyebrows into a shape of anger and surprise.

Without warning, I walked into the dollhouse to the second floor--center bedroom. The room was gray and cold with only the light from the broken ceiling fan above. It was a thick distance between us. My large nature against the small-framed doll gave me a sense of godliness and therefore, encouraged my control. He stopped dancing side to side in a panic and without shifting expression in his cutting eyes, opened his rotted mouth wide with a maniacal grin. Nothing could stop the radiating hate from shooting through me from her soul. I pushed with all I could muster in my sub-conscious state and forced movement of my body toward him. With ever-changing motion, fast to slow, I raised my
arms, torn and bleeding from blades of years repressed. He screamed and tried to fight me from taking hold of the stiff, plastic arms. The stream of his voice screamed over me as I continued to struggle for control. I managed to take hold of him and move him from the upstairs center room to the far right living room where the fireplace burned brightly.

We argued with our emotions and wrestled with our fears. Hate and tears kept score and refereed the fights. I managed to win him over but her taste, I could not swallow. The halls of self-love were cold and damp and the bell tower of human dignity was hollow. I forced him into a vicious shift in environment from nowhere to worse-a rusty, mustard-yellow, button padded room, no light, no windows, no doors. He struggled and fought to break free from my grasp and shouted obscenities of truth. Each word blocked a major artery to my heart and slowly choked me still. He begged and begged
and the louder he became, the softer his words fell into the air. I paused before fading into the darkness because out of the senseless shouting, I heard reason. I asked her, what do you want from me? She simply dropped her arms, lowered his head, closed her eyes, cried and said, "free me. Please. Set me free."

-DeMaster Thomas-

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