Sleep No More

Seagulls combated for scraps on the beach in the distance and distracted me from the pounding hammers on the new bleachers below my window. A wave of depression slapped me with the reality that I would never feel the wet sand from the surf squishing between my toes again, moonlit walks, or the soothing crashing of the ocean waves. Memories of a chili-laden Coney Island foot-long made the moldy cheese sandwich on the bunk seem even more revolting. At best, I had three days to live before my final breath on this earth. Seventy-two hours before a lie from a demonic child shot me through the heart in front of a community in want of a target. The two girls who had gone missing in the last month would soon become four, five, six, or more girls after my execution. They had convicted the wrong man. Correction; they were intent on killing the wrong person. Below the jail cell window, a young girl in a faded blue dress, maybe seven or eight years old, held up an emerald necklace and mouthed "Die.. die… die!" With an evil smirk on her lips, her eyes blazed red like the embers of a spent fire. A woman took her hand and led her away as I slammed my fist against the iron bars, and blood spurted from my knuckles as the skin split open.

I bolted from the bed and heaved air as I parsed the nightmare from reality like I had every night for the past year.

Reality, I was in my bed.

Nightmare, I was in prison awaiting execution.

Reality, blood dripped off my knuckles and onto my shorts from the shattered lamp scattered across the floor.

Nightmare, the little girl reminded me of Amy, our seven-year-old daughter who drowned ten years ago in our backyard pool. She loved the beach, Coney Island hotdogs, and squishing her feet in the wet sand.

Every night for twelve months the same nightmare had invaded my sleep. Each episode added a new element. Tonight, the emerald necklace was new. Did she blame me for not saving her from the pool in the backyard? I did. Isn't it a father's job to protect his children?

My cellphone chirped with a message from Susan, my wife, a night nurse.

Don't forget. Our interview with Child Services is at ten a.m. Please don't be late. I want this.

I cleaned up the broken lamp pieces, bandaged my hand, and dressed in the one suit I owned. I'm a beatnik at heart, and suits are only needed for funerals. I knotted the tie and shuddered as I slipped it tight, thinking of the nightmare and funerals, maybe mine.

***

Midmorning, Susan embraced me on the steps of Child Services and held a certificate in her hand.

"Daryl, I can't believe it. We passed. We're now foster parents. Thank you," and hugged me tighter.

The rare affection was welcome, yet a surprise. The scars of losing a child created a chronic numbness. Parents who have lost a child can attest.

"Did Mrs. Embry just say they are bringing a child tonight?" I said.

"Yes! They are evacuating the orphanage we visited last month. The two girls bodies who went missing weeks ago were found in an abandoned well. During the investigation the state is shutting it down temporarily out of caution. We need to stop at the grocery and hurry home to get ready."

***

Premonitions are like misting rain in the sunshine. My grandfather always said it meant the devil was beating his wife. I felt like he was beating me. The moment Mrs. Embry and the guardian stepped from the gray sedan in our driveway with a petite blonde-haired girl, my stomach tightened. Her wispy hair was like Amy's, and her stark gray-blue eyes refuted the innocence of her eight years. My breath caught when I spotted a gold necklace with an emerald stone around her neck. My wife sensed my reaction and took my arm.

"You okay? We can do this," she said, "The poor girls in the orphanage have been through a terrible ordeal and this one needs us. I need this."

Mrs. Embry, from social services, introduced us to Joanie in our living room, and once we had signed the appropriate documents departed. Joanie fingered her emerald necklace, stared at me, and moved closer to Susan.

"I don't like him," she said and pointed to me, "he scares me."

Susan escorted Joanie to her new room while I moved toward the kitchen. Joanie turned her head back to me, and I swear her eyes blazed red and lips curled open, and she mouthed, "Die!"

I knew that it would take a while before a child, even more so a young girl, would trust me. We had one thing in common, we'd both experienced trauma and loss. I sat on a bar stool put my head in my hands and thought,

You're just imagining things. This is not the girl from your nightmare. Get a grip.

***

Pounding on the door woke me at three a.m. from my nightmare just as my nightmare visitor mouthed "die!" When I opened the front door two police officers with guns drawn pushed me back.

"Get on your knees," the taller one said.

"What's going on?" screamed Susan from the hallway with Joanie looking from behind her.

"We just received a nine-one-one call from this number that a girl was being attacked by her foster dad. Where is the girl?" said the shorter of the two.

The tall officer pushed me to the floor and handcuffed me.

Joanie cried out, "That's the man. The man I saw the night the two girls went missing. I thought it was a nightmare but then today when I saw him I knew it wasn't."

Two hours later, after sitting in the back seat of a patrol car, a detective presented a search warrant for the house. Three hours later the detective dragged me from the car, punched me in the gut, and I fell to the ground.

"You dirty murdering animal,” he screamed and shoved a girls bloody t-shirt in my face.

***

Three months later a jury of my peers convicted me with the evidence found under my bathroom sink on two counts of murder. They had found a t-shirt that belonged to one of the victims, a knife, and a pearl bracelet. The testimony of Joanie, pointing her finger at me, while crying hysterically, sealed my fate. My wife had worked the night shift and could not provide an airtight alibi. Two days later, to great applause, the judge sentenced me to death by firing squad in the town square. It was a re-election year.

Susan never visited me while in prison. No one visited. I learned from my court-appointed attorney she had listed the house for sale and had filed a petition to adopt Joanie. The town wanted a target for the horrible murders and they had found one. The nightmares had stopped and I felt maybe I deserved this. When I installed the pool against my wife’s wishes I had condemned my sweet Amy.

***

Seagulls combated for scraps on the beach in the distance and distracted me from the pounding hammers on the new bleachers below my window. A wave of depression slapped me with the reality that I would never feel the wet sand from the surf squishing between my toes again, moonlit walks, or the soothing crashing of the ocean waves. Memories of a chili-laden Coney Island foot-long made the moldy cheese sandwich on the bunk seem even more revolting. At best, I had three days to live before my final breath on this earth. Seventy-two hours before a lie from a demonic child shot me through the heart in front of a community in want of a target. The orphan girls who had been murdered months ago would soon become four, five, and six after my execution. They had convicted the wrong man. Correction, they were intent on killing the wrong person. Below the jail cell window Joanie in a faded blue dress, held up her emerald necklace, and mouthed "Die.. die… die!" With an evil smirk on her lips, her eyes blazed red like the embers of a spent fire. Susan, without looking up, took her hand and led her away as I slammed my fist against the iron bars and blood spurted from my knuckles as the skin split open.

I wasn't asleep.

Soon, I would sleep no more.

*** *** *** *** ***