Inside Closed Eyes

He had power. Not the kind of power that you can get from fame or money, but the savage type; the type of power that some are born with, that swirls up inside of their head and penetrates into your weak soul from the cold stare of their eyes. That type of power that just says "Obey me." It didn't matter that from a distance he looked like a frail and graying old man, or that his black suit was tattered, moth eaten and soiled with blood. Just one glance from those dead-like gray eyes and you knew the meaning of fear. Savage. Nothing but power staring at you and your reflection caught in the abyss of otherwise empty black pupils. Never mind that he was standing in my doorway.

"You got a phone? My car broke down."

His voice was like his body, old, fading and nearly broken, his gray hair plastered to his skull from his sweat.

"Yeah. Come on in." I said.

What the fuck was I thinking, letting this complete stranger into the house in times like this?! Especially someone like him on a night like this? At any moment they'd break down the doors and burn him to a cinder in the dustbowl that I consider my front yard. That's it, they'd bust in the fucking doors armed with clubs and an occassional shotgun, a whole street corner congregation worth and beat him into submission. Then they'd drag him by the hair and arms, kicking and screaming into the front yard where they'd burn lit cigarettes into his eyes and skin until they'd slosh gasoline all over him and finally ignited him with a single match. I'd seen it a half dozen times, seven to be exact. Hard to lose count of how many times you've seen something like that. It happens so often that you almost feel sorry for them. Almost ...

I'd showed him the phone and left the room, but I could hear the clicking and spinning of the rotar as he dialed, and finally his fading voice, but too low and inaudible to make out the conversation. Destined for a Friday night pyre or not, I figure everyone deserves a bit of privacy. Even his kind... Even if it was one of his kind who'd killed my sister when we were kids, and I remember it intimately enough, even tho I was only eight.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear her screams from the backyard, and still feel my heart in that explosive rythm as I ran across the plush grass to the back yard. It had come over the fence for her and even tho the scream inside my head seems to last forever, it had killed her quickly. It seems like I run forever, but it was only in a mere moment that her scream had ended and I saw it sitting there next to her, its arms looking as if they had been elbow deep inside of her for all of the blood.

I open my eyes, the screams cease and he is standing there in front of me and for who knows how long, staring quizically at me, nearly like a cat.

"Bad memories?" he asks, his voice nearly as if concerned.

"Something like that." I answered.

"I see..." he remarked. "Your sister?"

He'd read my mind of course. I know that now.