José M.

Sanchez Consudec
Short story Language IV

Doubt

On that day I had a vision. Perhaps it was what had occurred the previous day. But
should I put the blame on my mother for having departed without a decent farewell? Or
should I believe that her suicide comes to be among other burdens, which still belong to
another part of me, another soul, and another person. Anyhow, what with still having to
deal with that and, reluctantly, having to recall my latest burdens – for I think I will
have to endure more – was far from enough.
My father would say “Bobby, you’ve got to take care of your family and by that I mean
my business”. I dare say that I hardly ever heard him say such a long almost endless
utterance since he was concise the few moments he conveyed low-pitched sounds. He
rarely made whole utterances and his latest words were practically unheard. My father’s
sudden order and a later promise turned into high treason given that my older sibling
took command of the company. You might wonder why I have decided to place the
word “command” if the matter under discussion is business and not the army. My
family business was a family war and sometimes I felt I unintentionally went over the
top ending up in no man’s land and that was what irritated me most, the fact that I was
supposed to run my father’s business since I always endured my family’s disgusting
talks about money and other obscure affairs.
As I am still sober and I have not had any of my hallucinations I may say I take after
Seymour, my progenitor, owing to his speechlessness and unemotional personality.
Anyhow, I would have never thought that this laconic feature would lead me to end up
changing my identity and longing not to be Robert Durst. Running away from Texas, I
attempted to elude not only law inforcers but also the Goddamn tabloid, both trying to
have sight set on me. As for the day of my spectral vision I undoubtedly believe that the
visitors who dared enter my puzzled mind came to persuade me to plead guilty. How
come! I would never confess to have killed my mother for she decided to - literally and
metaphorically - jump into the game, the death game. If those ghosts who frequently
pay a visit to my psyche - when I come to the decision of elevating my psycho
personality somewhere else so as not to hurt anyone - want me to feel responsible for
my mother’s fatal decision, they are wrong. But if those ghostly presences attempt to
come to life again, I should refer to these rather than those since the latter belongs to the
past and if I am saying that they call on me again, it means that these torturing spectres
are pursuing me, this time, leading me to sing like a bird, which, decidedly, I do not
have the design on that. What I ought to contrive is how to leave this corpse out so that
these visitors do not dare disturb my mind anymore. They tend to be seen only by my
blood-red eyes, which I would say that, at this particular moment, are devilish-red. Guilt
seems to be their goal, and their next stage will probably be confession. Who could be
that idiotic to think I would sing! If confession means incarceration, I will never give in!
Not even what my reluctant hands and arms have recently done. Robert may have
become a serial killer but this humble man would never have the guts to kill the tiniest
insect in the world. This homeless guy does not have the mere idea of what a suspect
might mean. But this psycho frustrated businessman does. I always had a strong desire
for dividing myself into two and being able to play two opposite roles, what a sagacious
design! Who would mistrust a hard-up and pathetic folk shoplifting in a low-class store?
The cops would not be able to enter my obscure mind, only spirits and devils, and, if
needed, a bloody shrink are allowed to accede. You may wonder whose corpse this is.
Neither the vagabond nor the billionaire since I am all that. But do not panic! This
lifeless body is not me for I have not murdered me,…yet. It appears that, among my
faults, I do not possess a self-destructive feature… Or do I?...However, I have killed an
old man and I must face that grim fact.
Morris Black was my best friend ever. The problem was that he simply dared imitate
me. Our features were alike; stubbornness, speechlessness and stoicalness.
Nevertheless, he lacked the talent – which I did - to realize that Dorothy Ciner and
Robert Durst were…or was one human being. And I must say that, sometimes, I blank
out the former name, perhaps for my delirious state of mind caused by a pleasurable
dependence on a strong-smelling plant. This seaman had the courage to behave in the
ill-tempered way I usually do. That was what freaked me out. I was always surrounded
by docile people, and Kathleen was one of them, till she took a road which should not
have been taken, defying me. Why? For the simple reason that the other part of me -
which I was telling you about at the very start of this cathartic speech – would not
withstand the macabre neurons that are now invading my psychotic and distorted mind
and which are leading me to do this terrible act, which even a low-life would not dare
do and any modest person would, all of a sudden, puke if that abominable sin came to
any pure mind.
It was either me or him. “Black was waiting for me with a gun, ready to kill me” I
would use this utterance with no complicated lexical items so that, in case I was
captured, prosecutors thought I was telling the truth by that “spontaneous” statement. I
started with his head. After reading so many books related to criminal law I knew the
vital role the head might play if this were encountered. I took a saw and began to slit his
throat. I had found that grievous element in his shed without knowing whether it was
sharpened. Anyhow, it worked. I was able to dismember the mentioned part while
another part of me was metaphorically abandoning me. I started to have an abominable
sensation but then I continued with my work. Although my blood-covered hand was not
making any contact with any organ the sensation was as if it were touching the pale skin
since I could see how the spinal column was splitting and discovering what a clavicle
was like. Gone were other parts. I placed the saw on the thigh making pressure which at
first I found it hard but then I had managed to carry my design out without any kind of
remorse, leaving a complete bloodbath. What was more disgusting - I swear – was the
moment drips of blood started to go up and down in the same way as drops of water do
in a fountain. I had never seen so much of that vital liquid the human body has staining
my face, arms and hands. After having splitting the whole corpse I counted the parts and
still now, I find it difficult to remember how many there were. But I was completely
aware of having placed them in a large nylon black bag, and of course, not with the
head, which remains a mystery. My mind had been so disturbed that – Believe me! If
had to tell you where it is, I would not be able to do it. Schrzzz….schrzzzz…
schrzzzz…Those macabre sounds are still present in my mind and among other tortured
events I recall this: the killing sound that first dismembered the most important part of
Black’s body. This five-senses-organ was never found and will never be seen.
As I have told you that many presences invaded my body and soul and I was made to
play different roles I cannot distinguish between reality and imagination. Did any of my
cruel acts belong to recurrent nightmares? Or did those unwanted dreams reflect
something real? Should you choose the latter, there would not be way out and I would
end up being an ordinary inmate. At least I did not have any accessory! Or perhaps I
had….Dorothy Ciner? Who was she? Would it be useful to plead guilty?
Now I am starting to have another vision that tells me that someone will find this piece
of writing somewhere and that it will even spread more doubts than expected…Doubt…
An appropriate word that, for a perp, might mean much...No recalls… no head…
nightmares or real scenarios?... too much smoking...too many hallucinations…No
evidence…A path, either towards an insane asylum or towards freedom?...Simply a
doubt.