Kin

“Every dream will reveal itself as a psychological structure, full of significance” – Sigmund Freud.

The cool wind blows upon his face. A baby’s scream bellows down the twisted corridor into a darkened room. Of the seven years Christian Dillinger had lived in that house in the small town of Irving, that corridor had never seemed so long as what it did now. Shuffling down the corridor, the drapes hit his body as they blow fiercely due to the strong wind. Flashes of a sealed envelope addressed to him come and go. The baby’s scream grows louder and louder. Halfway down, he notices a trail of blood leading to the darkened room. He hesitates, but mustered up the courage to journey on. The door is shut. Shaking, he raises his arm to turn the door knob. Inside the room lies a naked baby in a cot, with the umbilical cord still attached, covered in blood. The baby’s scream is so loud it deafens him. Beside the baby is the sealed envelope. Within arms reach, a woman’s voice calls to Christian from behind.

“Chris!” cries the woman.

Christian turns around and recognises the woman. It is his wife, Sarah Dillinger, wearing a beige coloured silk dress, gasping for air whilst regurgitating contaminated water. She mumbles to him:

“It was your…”.

A beeping sound commences. Christian is awakened by his old fashioned alarm clock. The time reads 12:00PM. Half asleep, he fumbles to turn the alarm clock off. Wiping the drool from his mouth, he eventually comes to his senses and realises he is in the comfort of his own bed.

“What a horrible nightmare”.

Arisen from his slumber, he sits on the edge of the bed, and calls out for his wife.

“Sarah?” but no answer. He sighs and calls for her again.

“Honey?

Where are you?”

Naked, he slips into his loafers and jeans, stumbling his way into the kitchen, feeling the effects of the long dreary sleep he had sprung from, and pours himself a desperately needed shot of whiskey.

The house is dead silent. He notices the hallway, leading down the corridor to the room that haunted his dream. Pausing for a moment, he listens out for a baby’s scream but hears nothing. Observing the dinner table in front of him, he notices two items placed there he had never seen before - a small black notebook sitting on top of a silver briefcase.

“Well that’s odd”.

Christian walks to the table and plonks himself on the closest chair. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pushes the notebook aside and drags the briefcase to his chest, eager to find out what it carries. Christian inhales a deep breath.

“Well. Here goes nothing”.

He opens the briefcase. Inside the briefcase is twenty-thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Holy shit” he whispers.

Quickly closing the briefcase in an attempt to prevent anyone else from seeing it, despite him being the only one in the house, his eyes shift over to the notebook he dismissed just a moment ago. Snatching the notebook, he flicks through it until finding a passage written on the last page in what appears to be his handwriting.

“Twenty-seventh of October, 4:00PM sharp. Thirty-four west, sixteen south, three north, route 42 – bring the $!” it reads.

“Huh” Christian mutters.

“Coordinates…But to where?”

Placing his left hand over his mouth, he studies the date and time on his digital watch dangling from his wrist. It reads the same date as the one written in the notebook. Looking at the wall opposite him, he observes a portrait of Edgar Allen Poe his wife had hung up which read the following:

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting”.

“Okay...Well, there’s only one way to find out what all of this means”.

Abruptly, he stands from the table, and makes his way to the kitchen bench, where his worn-out sweater was thrown next to his car keys and telephone. In a rush, he puts his sweater on inside-out, his effects in his front pockets, and grabs the briefcase whilst shoving the notebook into the back pocket of his pants. Heading towards the front door he hears a voice; a voice full of despair - the same voice that had called for him in his dream.

“Don’t go Chris!” the voice cries out.

Christian turns around. It is Sarah standing there in the hallway, wearing the same dress from his dream, drenched in water, yet no water stains appear on the carpet. Tears stroll down her eyes. The sight of her gives Christian a sudden sharp pain in his right temple which he begins to massage.

“Where have you been, honey?” Christian asks.

“Chris, if you go to that place, it will be the end of you!” cries Sarah.

Christian pauses, staring at her briefly in complete silence. He turns his back on her and slams the door behind him. He takes the keys out of his pocket to unlock his car but realizes it is already unlocked. Opening the driver’s side door, he falls onto the seat, throwing the briefcase into the back. He leans to his left and pulls out the notebook from his back pocket, punching the coordinates into the cars GPS System. The pain in his temple is so severe he does not even notice the car start when he turns the engine on. Putting the car into drive, he plants his foot on the accelerator in hopes that the distraction of driving will ease his newfound pain. Swerving through traffic, his only focus is what awaits him at his destination. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other leaning on the arm rest, he briefly looks down to notice his hand is trembling.

“Estimated time of arrival: Three hours and forty-five minutes” the GPA reads.

Nervously sweating, he tries to calm himself down by turning on the radio, but the only thing he can think of is the darkened room he dared not to enter in fear of what lies inside.

“What does this all mean?” he ponders.

A red light draws near. Stopped at the lights is senior police Officer Miguel Martinez patrolling the streets. As Christian approaches, he turns his head the opposite way to Officer Martinez in hopes of not being recognised.

“Mr. Dillinger! Why, there’s the man that I wanted to see!” shouts Officer Martinez.

“Why don’t you come down to the police station, so you and I can have a chat?”.

“Um…You know what Michael?” Christian responds.

“Sorry. Miguel. I’m a bit busy at the moment. I’ll call you later, okay? I gotta’ go!”.

The lights change green. Pedal to the metal. Police Officer Martinez monitors Christians erratic behaviour.

“Okay, Christian” he nods in disgust.

“Okay”.

Almost four hours had passed. The time reads 3:56PM. Exhausted and dehydrated, Christian had finally arrived at his unclear destination.

Turning the engine off, he steps out of his vehicle and views his surroundings. A desert, mostly flat and barren, with not a tree insight to seek shade, the hot sun radiates onto his dry skin, creating a sweat that seeps through his clothes. In the middle of the arid land is a vehicle parked next to a rather large rock, with a man standing there, awaiting him. Cautious and unfamiliar with the man, he slowly makes his way toward him, but not before taking the briefcase from his car.

“Do I know you?

Why are we here?” asks Christian.

The man giggles assuming Christian is joking.

“What do you mean what are we doing here?” the man responds.

“I’m here to collect my reward...for that thing I took care of”.

Puzzled, Christian has no idea what the strange man is talking about.

“Thing? What thing? Who are you? Why did I come all the way out here in the middle of nowhere, to deliver a briefcase full of money?” he asks.

Confused and unsure of what to say, the man shrugs his shoulders, thinking that perhaps Christian had taken an illicit substance.

“Don’t you remember? You approached me a while back. You asked me to take care of that thing for you, which I did…and now you’re here to pay me”.

“What thing did I ask you to take care of?” Christian asks.

“What the hell? Look man, if you’re trying to set me up or something, or if you’re wearing a wire, don’t bullshit me, okay, I just want my fucking” –

“No!” Christian interrupts.

“I’m serious! I don’t remember! What did I ask you to do?”

The mans jaws drop, amazed at Christians lack of knowing.

“…You came to me because your wife was cheating on you with some guy and got her knocked up. So, I took care of it. Now, the money!”.

A hot rage fills Christian. Furious, he drops the briefcase to the ground and lunges at the man, grabbing him by the neck with one hand and punches him repeatedly with the other.

“You’re a fucking liar!” shouts Christian.

“You’re lying!”.

Bleeding from his nose with a newly swollen eye, the man wrestles Christian, pushing him off. He brandishes a knife hidden in the inside of his boot and points it at Christian, threatening him. Angrily, he shouts:

“Listen, Pal! You came to me months ago depressed because you wanted your wife dead! You told me all about it! How you were stressed out from some job so you became dependent on the drink and neglected your wife - she cheated on you, and you couldn’t handle the fact that she got knocked up by a Black man! So, I drowned her, like you fucking asked! Now, give me my God damn money before I put this through your neck!”

“I told you that this would be the end of you Chris!” cries Sarah, suddenly appearing beside the man.

Tears fall down Christians eyes. He knew from the bottom of his heart that the nameless man was telling the truth, a truth too painful for Christian to come to terms with. Shocked, he walks back slowly, leaving the briefcase on the ground, and sprints to his car, leaving a trail of dust as he zooms off.

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening!” he screams.

Ignoring all road laws and giving his car engine the thrashing of a lifetime, he departures from the rendezvous in a desperate hope that this was all a huge mistake, that his wife was not dead, and that the child she was potentially carrying still grows inside of her. Onlookers toot their horns for Christian to slow down but he is unfazed. There is no stopping him. He must go back to his house. He must learn the truth of what lurks in that darkened room.

Almost four hours of intense driving, he finally arrives back home. Approaching too fast, he crashes his car into the leaning fence, breaking his leg and causing the steering wheel airbag to deploy, cutting him. With the car engine still running, he hobbles out of the vehicle and into his house. Limping to the darkened room which is dark no more, he gasps at the sight of a cot, where he finds no baby, but the envelope addressed to him; the same envelope that featured in his dream, only it had already been opened. Heart racing, he is terrified of admitting the truth. Inside the envelope is a letter, a letter that contains the results of a DNA paternity test. He unfolds the letter and begins to read it. Suddenly, the pain that filled Christians head erupts into something far worse. Passages from the letter stick out, as if he had read it before. The letter falls from his hands. Tears stroll down his eyes.

“Positive” he whispers.

Collapsing to the ground, Christian mutters his final words, before insanity takes over:

“I killed my unborn child”.