blows all of our heads off. It will only be a minute or so before somebody comes to the rescue. I just have to stay on the floor until then. When I glance up, moving only my eyes, I realize that Dewey is not himself. His eyes are white with millions of red veins towards the bottom. They had rolled back in his head, but he still stood there as if he could see each and every one of us. He whispered something so quietly that it was unable to be heard without amplification. The next few things that he said were gibberish, and his voice was, in some way impossible to describe, inhuman. But, finally, above all of the nervous breathing, he said something that actually made sense and was completely clear and terrifying. “YOU CAN’T CHEAT DEATH.” Just as he said it, he raised his gun and shot me in the back.
Pain filled me quickly, but I found the strength to look up. The last thing I saw was the elevator doors opening with two police officers standing behind them, holding their guns toward Dewey. The officer on the left, a tall, colored male, rapidly aimed and shot Thomas Dewey in the head, instantly killing him. He fell to the ground with a thud, and a man who had been lying down on the floor near him cringed at the sound and pushed himself away. Everybody in the room shuddered as they stood up, and the room continued to be silent. My eyes closed, and I passed out.
When I awakened, I was in a bed in a white room that was very clean. A television hung from the wall in front of me, and a blue curtain hung from the ceiling just to my right. I pushed it aside to see what was on the other side. An old man lay in a hospital bed not unlike the one I was in. He is asleep, I realize, so I close the curtain again so I don’t disturb him.
I close my eyes as I think of the events of the day—the dream, the taxi, the warning on the radio about cheating death and Dewey’s saying the exact same thing. It was so abnormal that I began to wonder if I was dreaming once again. After all, the first dream felt so realistic, but it was a dream. Why couldn’t the same thing be happening again? After the day’s events, nothing was illogical.
I finger the hole on my back where the bullet hit me. The movement of my finger makes pain shoot through my body and sends chills up and down my spine. I shiver and try not to scream with the pain. I do not want to wake the old man sleeping in the bed on the other side of the curtain. I wonder if the doctors have removed the bullet or if they are just going to leave it in. I think that I remember somebody telling me that it doesn’t matter if the bullet stays in; it won’t hurt you or mess up anything unless it buried itself into something important. I am still alive, so I figure that it didn’t.
A sense of calm comes over me after nothing happens for a while except nurses coming in to check on my blood levels. I realize that I am exhausted, so I lay my head down and allow myself to sleep, telling myself that everything is okay. I am very happy to sleep dreamlessly for once. It is extremely refreshing, and when I wake up, I have slept for nine hours straight. My wife is sitting in the chair opposite my bed.
“Hey, you’re up!” she smiles as she strides over to my bedside. “I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. You haven’t moved.”
“Hi,” I say groggily. I know that I have slept for ages, but my face still feels tired. It is hard to move the muscles in my cheek so I can’t even smile at my wife. She’s probably been worried sick. She puts her hand on my face tenderly. “How are you feeling?” she asks quietly.
“Like shit.” I said, truthfully. I felt like I had been walked all over by an elephant. With the day’s events, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that that had happened.
“Well, that’s horrible. Do you need more pain medication?” she had a frown on her face that contrasted the smile that was in its place moments before.
“I don’t know. I’ve probably had enough, haven’t I?”
“I haven’t been in this room. I needed air. I couldn’t stay in here this whole time.”
“I wish I could leave the room. I wonder if they have a wheelchair,” I say to nobody in particular. I would love to move around.
“Well, of course they do. It’s a hospital.” A machine that I hadn’t noticed before was beeping in time with my heartbeat.
“Yeah, what I meant was that I wonder if they would let me use one. Maybe I have to stay in my bed.”
“I can go ask,” Anna says. She quickly leaves the room to go talk to the doctors. I fall asleep to the sound of the machine beeping. Beep, beep, beep. I can’t tell how long I sleep, but it can’t be long, because when I wake up, my wife is standing over me once again. “They say you can’t use a wheelchair.”
“Oh.”
“They also say YOU CAN’T CHEAT DEATH.” Her words are not her own, not her voice. They come from her mouth, but she isn’t speaking them. They are robotic. She is moving towards one of the machines that I am hooked up to. I yell out, moving to block her. One of the tubes hooked up to my arm falls out. I muster up all of my strength, kicking out with my legs. She falls to the ground. I pull all the tubes away from my arms. I need to be free from them. I search the room and my eyes land on a lamp with a glass base. I run to it to pick it up, but Anna’s hands are on my back. She pulls me by my skin with superhuman strength, bringing to life a whole new pain to the place on my back where I had been shot. I scream. The bullet hole in my back feels as if it is being held over a blazing fire. I collapse in a corner. My head hits the wall and I fight to stay conscious. Anna has the lamp now, charging me with it over her head. I pull my foot towards my body, pulling her weight out from over her. Her head hits the windowsill hard and I know she is dying. I walk over to her, feeling remorse. She was evil in the end, but she was my wife. I had loved her. “You cannot keep doing this, Liam.”
“Doing what? Cheating death?” I ask her.
“What?” she asks. It is her voice she is using, not the robotic voice from before.
Police enter the room. “Damn, it’s a bloodbath in here!” One says. He is tall, with curly hair. “First Dewey, now this… If only we could have made it here on time.” I realize that the police have their guns trained on me.
The second police is the one that speaks this time. “We’re placing you under arrest.” He begins telling me my rights.
“Wait, what did I do?” I ask.
“You can’t be serious. You don’t even know what you did?” The first police is the one that said this. “Every day, you killed more and more people. We just now have enough evidence to arrest you.” They have me in handcuffs now.
“Everyone was trying to kill me, though!”
“Kill you? You didn’t give people a chance to live. First the car wreck. Then you shoot Dewey. Now your wife!” The officer looks extremely angered.
“But Dewey shot me. And… wait a minute! You shot Dewey!” I point to the second officer.
“Damn, this guy is crazy!” the first officer says.
“I’m not crazy!” But as I say it, I reach behind my back, finger the bullet hole on my back. It isn’t there. The room changes suddenly. It is now my house, it was always my house. I look down. I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt, not the hospital gown that I was wearing—thought I was wearing—seconds ago. “I am crazy.” The officers walk me to their police car and shut me in the backseat. I don’t even struggle.
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