Another Tae on February

FEBRUARY SUCKS -- TAKE 1000

The other day the 999

th

(?) take on the original story by George Anderson had murder-suicide. Murder of children. I thought that went way too far. I had written several (sort of) alternate versions, using the name Tom Joad for the hero (?). Joad was a capable, violent man. But Jim in the original is not. He's quite ordinary. So here I'm switching back to Jim. We'll see what happens.

Mr. Anderson has a way of arousing lots of anger with his stories. This one, and some others, pose the question of what would happen if a 'loving' wife suddenly put her husband through hell, abandoning him for pure sex in a completely public manner.

Warning, there's some legal material in here, for those of you who find that too disturbing. Also a little violence.

This picks up as Jim checks out of the hotel.

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I drove home in a trance. I left the car in the drive, zombie-walked to the front door. Eventually I got it unlocked. I sat on the couch.

My love for Linda and my hatred for her floated around my head, until they melded into a dark mass of hurt. I found myself whimpering, sitting on the floor. I had no idea how I got there. It seemed like a million pounds of darkness descended upon me, enveloping me. I had been subject to dark moods before, but those paled in comparison to this. Always before I ran my way out of the dark. Once I had to take meds, a long time ago.

I was walking upstairs. I was walking down the same stairs. I had on sweats and sneakers. I opened the door, started running. I had no idea what time it was, or where I was. I just ran. The effort began to clear my head. I stopped. I could see the beginnings of dawn creeping into the sky. There had been no moon that night, matching my mood. But now there was some inkling that the sun would rise. I looked at where I was. A freeway was nearby, and I saw a sign for an exit. It seemed that I had run almost twelve miles. I turned around and ran back. As I ran -- jogged really -- toward my home, my dark mood lifted just a small amount. Images of the previous night flashed through my mind. They were interspersed with images of the life before Linda abandoned me. Our family. Our wedding. Sex in our bed. Our children. Just flashes. As this happened, I found myself back on my street. I saw my car in the drive. I looked at our house -- the door was wide open. I stopped in the yard. Our neighbor, Mr. Smiley, came out. He was an early riser, and it was just dawn.

"Jim, are you all right. Is something wrong?"

"Oh," I said, in what must have seemed like a robotic voice, "I will be okay. I just needed a run." I stepped into the house.

Mr. Smiley followed me to the door. He looked at me standing there in the living room. "Will you be okay? Where's Linda?"

"Linda's......not with me now. I'll take care of it, though. Thanks." He turned and left. I closed the door.

I sat on the couch in the living room. I looked at the clock. It was 8:08 am. I walked slowly up the stairs, took off my togs and showered. At least, when I looked at myself again, I was naked and wet, standing in our bedroom, dripping. I got a towel and dried off. I put on thermals, and another set of sweats, boots. I walked downstairs, thinking to run more. But I could hardly stand. The flashes of our life began again, and the darkness returned, worse than before. I screamed, and screamed.

Then, for some reason, I stopped screaming. I couldn't stand any more. I walked up the stairs, went to my gun safe. I got out the one gun I had, a .45 semi-automatic pistol. I found myself sitting on the couch again, gun in hand. I couldn't recall how I got there. I checked the gun, pulling back the slide. A round was ejected, and I saw that the clip was in place. I knew what I had to do. I put the gun to my head. I looked at the clock, to see what time I would die. It was eleven thirty. I tried to pull the trigger.

Nothing happened. I looked at the gun. I wasn't much familiar with guns. This one was from my dad. For protection. Sure.

The safety was on. I fiddled with it. Then I thought that I would mess up the living room. The kids had to live here. It wouldn't be fair to them, for me to do it inside the house.

I walked outside to the porch, sat on a yard chair just off to the side of the entryway. I put the gun to my head again, trembling. Mr. Smiley, who lived across the street, began shouting.

"NO! NO! NO, JIM, NO!"

I looked at him. He was crazy. He started running toward me. He was old, though. I saw him stumble and fall. I put the gun to my head.

A fancy sports car pulled up to the curb just as Mr. Smiley went down. Out came Asshole. (Bad timing.) I looked at him. He was walking around the car. He didn't seem to see me. I started to jog toward the car. He opened the door and Linda got out. By that time, I had approached the car. They both turned and looked at me. I had the gun to my head.

I can remember their faces as they saw me. Linda was starting to scream, her mouth in an 'O'. Asshole just looked on. He took a step toward me, raising his hand. He looked like he was going to tackle me -- as if I were a ball carrier.

I was overcome with a rage so all-encompassing that I felt like I would burn to a crisp from spontaneous combustion.

I shot the asshole in the chest.

He looked surprised, as he clutched himself. I ran further toward him, as he slowly fell onto the front of his car. He was propped against it as I looked down at him.

I can vividly recall his expression as he looked up at me. His surprise had morphed into an abject fear. He looked up at me, gasping, with terror in his eyes.

I blew his brains out onto the hood of his fancy sports car.

There was a short pause then.

I heard Linda, "Oh my God! Oh, Jesus. Oh....." She was screaming.

I looked right at her. I put the gun to my head. She stared at me in horror, frozen. I uttered one word to her then.

"Slut."

I pulled the trigger.

PART TWO: (Given the reaction I got when I split up 'Losing the Fight,' you all get all of this at once.)

As I pulled the trigger, I felt myself being thrust sideways and hitting the ground. At the time it didn't occur to me that I should not have been able to perceive this. I heard screaming, and bellowing. I didn't understand any words. Then I heard sirens. I felt woozy. I didn't understand why I was feeling anything. I was dead.

But I wasn't.

Mr. Smiley, it turned out, had tackled me just as I was pulling the trigger. The gun went off. It blew away a small part of my skull, and a bigger part of my scalp. When I later looked at the crime scene photos, there was so much blood around where I fell that I was amazed that I lived.

But I did.

I awoke in a hospital setting. I could tell that, at least. There were flashing lights, in a dim room. A machine of some kind droned. I couldn't move my legs. My arms and hands were numb, but at least partly mobile. I tried to speak, but there was something -- I later learned a tube -- in my mouth. I started to thrash, if that's what you could call it.

Someone noticed. A nurse appeared. I saw her look. Her face was blurred, but I heard her gasp. She disappeared. That was disconcerting to me, to say the least. I tried to shout again, but only made some weird noise. I started to fade.

A man appeared above me. He smiled. He spoke. "Jim. Jim. You're in the hospital. You're going to be okay. Stay with me." I faded.

I came back, more alert. Nurses and doctors came and went. I faded, then came back. Every time, it seemed I was a little bit more alert and aware. I started to recall what had happened. They took the tube from my throat. It hurt. I had a coughing fit, and blacked out.

I came back. A nurse was looking at me. At least I believed it was a nurse. A guy also came. He said he was a doctor, and, "Jim, you've been shot. You sustained a gunshot wound to the head. But the wound was not a penetrating one. You sustained a serious concussion, and damage to your skull. We have repaired that damage, as far as we could. You've been unconscious for four days. We didn't expect you to wake up so soon. It's important that you remain still, and not thrash. That's why we have your legs strapped. Do you understand?"

I nodded. I tried to speak, but my throat was very sore.

He said, "You don't have to talk now. You'll be able to do that soon."

Some time passed, and I kept getting more and more alert. I recalled what had happened in fits and starts. I recalled Linda screaming. I recalled her treachery and blatant adultery. I was headed back into the darkness that was with me after that. But then I recalled Asshole's face before I killed him. And the darkness abated. I started to smile.

I recalled Linda's screams and her look at me when I put the gun to my head. The 'O' when she first saw me with the gun. I started to laugh. I kept laughing. A nurse came to look at me. I saw her alarmed face as I kept laughing. I was pretty sure that no matter how great the sex was with Asshole, Linda would never be able to think back on it with fondness. Good. The bitch.

Asshole's last moments, I knew, were filled with abject fear. Real terror as he faced his own death. He deserved no better than what he got.

Linda? I found that I....hated her with a passion equal to the love I used to have for her. I wished that I had killed her as well. I could only think that it was the kids that kept me from that. But, as I thought, I realized that the idea of killing her had never crossed my mind when I had the gun and the chance. It did now, though.

My parents came to see me. I had been in the ICU unit for two weeks. I was to be moved to a different room. Of course, I was under arrest. However, the authorities allowed my parents to visit.

Mom came in first. "My boy. Oh, my boy. What has she done to you?" She leaned over and kissed my cheek. I saw my dad past her shoulder. He patted my hand.

"We got you a lawyer, Jim. I'm going to arrange for you to see her. Her name is Margie Kinder. She'll come tomorrow when you get to the other floor. How are you feeling?"

"I'm much better. They tell me that the wound has healed up, and my brain -- the concussion -- has waned. Not gone. But I can talk, and maybe I can get out of bed soon. Oh, where are the kids?"

"We have them, for now. They're in school. They want to see you."

"Why aren't they with Linda?"

My mom said, "Linda was badly scarred by what happened. She's been in a facility. She doesn't speak much, they say. We talk to her folks. We haven't been to see her."

The next two weeks were spent with me getting my physical abilities back. I did physiotherapy. There was always a police officer with us when my helpers and I were in the rehab room.

The kids came twice to see me. They were at first frightened by the head bandage. But after a few moments they seemed to get back to normal, and described their school and sports. I was happy to see them. I wondered about their future.

My lawyer and I had several meetings, in a private room off the rehab room. She was sharp. I told her what I recalled, up to a point. That point was when I decided to shoot myself in front of Asshole and Linda. I told her that I had no memory at all of an actual shooting. The next memory was waking up in hospital.

She said that a court appointed psychiatrist was going to interview me, and also one she had hired (with court funds). She told me that I was charged with second degree murder while armed. The charge could carry up to sixty years. She said that there was no doubt that I had shot and killed Asshole. (She asked me not to keep calling him that.) She said that it didn't create a good impression. I decided to refer to him, in court, as that guy. Or the dead guy, maybe. She didn't like the 'dead guy' reference.

I was under medication for my black moods. They had abated, but had not gone away. I was working hard to regain my physical ability. And, surprisingly, I was making good progress. I could easily walk and jog at times. I was getting stronger as well.

I appeared in court remotely from the hospital. I was held without bond, pending a psychological evaluation. I pled not guilty. I had been indicted on several charges, the most serious of which was the murder while armed. Second degree.

The doctors I had knew that when I was released, I might go directly to jail. They decided to keep me a little longer than the ordinarily would have done. I kept working hard. Now I was lifting weights and doing aerobics.

I saw my psychiatrist. He gave me a battery of tests, answering questions about stuff that seemed completely irrelevant. I paid careful attention, though. At times when I answered, he paused and looked at me. I changed my answer when he did that. It didn't happen often. I spent a total of five hours with him, over two days. Then I was discharged from the hospital, and transferred, in custody, to a mental health facility with a lock ward. It also had an exercise room, and I used it very often. My fellow inmates didn't seem too interested in it. They were a strange crew, numbering about fifteen. Some were there learning about how court worked. Some were being evaluated or awaiting trial. Some were zombies.

The government shrink came and gave me a battery of tests. I now understood that she was there to see if I was 'malingering.' That was what the tests were trying to determine. The questions were designed to see if I lied, trying to make my case look better. The tests were very similar to the ones I took with my own doctor. So, I gave the same answers. Sometimes those answers were not completely accurate.

I was at that facility for three weeks. My folks visited, but not the kids. I asked about Linda. She was now with her parents, but not well. Medicated. She had seen the kids once, and that did not go well. Her flat affect, I was told, scared them.

I went off my meds. When I did, the black moods sometimes came, but I exercised them away.

My lawyer entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity. She said the following. I had a mental defect -- depression so severe as to be a psychosis. That mental defect, in terms of the law, did not allow me to realize the wrongfulness of my conduct; or allow me to conform my conduct to the law. That last was what she was going to go with. I was unable to stop myself, when confronted with asshole and my wife.

The report from my shrink supported my position. The report from the government shrink was ambiguous about the question of whether I was faking.

I had a trial. At the trial, it was conceded that I shot and killed Marc. It was on video from doorbell security cameras. Almost the entire thing.

Mr. Smiley testified. He told how worried he was when he saw me come back from my run, and before, when he saw the door open. He almost called police after our first interaction. Then he told how I had the gun to my head, on the porch, and he shouted and ran toward me, fell, and got up. He saw me shoot the football player (his words) and then turn the gun on myself. He was up and tackled me. But the gun went off, and I was unconscious on the ground. He believed that I was dead. The cross-examination of Mr. Smiley was brief. He was clearly telling the truth.

I took the stand and recounted what had happened, up to the point where I decided to shoot myself in front of them. Then I said that I no recall of what happened until I was in the hospital. There was nothing to contradict that.

The government psychiatrist testified that the tests she gave me did not definitively show malingering.

My psychiatrist said that I was so deeply depressed by the events of the prior evening that I became psychotic. Suicidal. Then unable to stop myself when I saw the people who had put me into that state. It was clear that I tried to kill myself after killing Marc.

I was acquitted after only an hour of jury deliberations. That got me committed to a mental institution, but not one where I was locked up. I had to show that I had regained my sanity, and ability to control myself.

It didn't take long. Experts testified that my depression could be controlled by medication, if needed. I was not, according to them, a danger to myself or others. The judge agreed, and I was a free man. January of the next year. My kids and parents greeted me as I walked away from the institution. I went to live with my parents, for the time being.

Linda had regained custody of the children, and had moved back into the house. She was also medicated. She had been able to return to work. But she needed help with the kids, and both sets of parents provided that. I had not seen or spoken to her since the night of the shooting.

Of course, my case had generated massive publicity. When Linda returned to the house, media types pestered her. Then after the trial, that died down a bit. But now that it was reported that I was being released, the story got hot once more. Just another problem among many.

Linda had not filed for divorce, or done anything about custody of the children. After a week, they came to my parents' house for the day. Linda did not come. I had a tremendous time with them. It was a Saturday, and we spent all day until bed time for them, when they went back home.

I decided that Linda and I had to meet and discuss all that had happened, to try to see our way forward. I wrote her a note to that effect, and had my dad deliver it.

Linda agreed that we needed to talk. It was set up for ten days away, at her parents' house. I had to decide how to approach it, and what I wanted.

I decided that I wanted to understand what she did. I also needed to see what she wanted going forward. I wanted a relationship with my children, for sure. But, I was completely unsure of whether I wanted anything to do with Linda, or, for that matter, if she wanted anything to do with me -- the killer of her lover.

Before the meeting I was a wreck. But I did not go back to meds. And, it turned out that the black moods did not return, despite the stress. I had worked myself into tremendous shape, and had started working for myself, in a sporadic fashion, to get some cash. I felt able to stand on my own. I just wondered if seeing Linda would set me back.

I rang the doorbell at her parents' house at ten am on a Saturday. He dad answered, and showed me into the living room. He left and Linda walked into the room.

I stood up, across the room. We stared at each other. She seemed gaunt and had a haunted look. I thought that I would not seem that way to her. If anything, I was more physically robust that before. Not football player level, though.

I said, "Hi."

She answered softly, "Hi, how are you?"

"Much better than....well." I was so nervous. I saw that she was also nervous.

"I'm sorry that I didn't come to see you sooner," she said. "I was unable for some time, and then I was told that it might be detrimental to your defense."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for all that happened. I'm sorry for losing it like that. I just....couldn't take what happened. It was so.....terrible and out of the blue. I...." I was tearing up. I couldn't say more.

She walked to me, gave me a hug. She said, "I'm so sorry for what I did. You called me a slut before you shot yourself. And....I knew you were right. I...have thought a long time about why that happened, and I can't really tell you. The guy just took me by storm."

"Well, I just would like to, maybe, go with you to see someone about the entire episode. I have been to a counselor. Have you?"

She gave a rueful smile, "It didn't help much. I was traumatized, of course. It was so scary. For a while, I couldn't stop visualizing it. I have controlled that now. But I can still call it up if I want. Crazy."