Original Short Story: "Moving Through Dark Hall Ways"
In this bizarre tale, Sharm Wilson takes you on a bizarre journey, a slice of her life. She speaks her mind but seems to be trying to tell it like it is. Her off the wall language about her off the wall experience begs the questions: What will happen to Sharm? Is she doomed? Where is she going, walking these dark hall ways?
The story, like most pieces of fiction that writers write, stems from an incident in my own life, but it is greatly—and I emphasize "greatly"—embellished. And I am eternally grateful for that. Now just read the story and see what I mean!
Sharm Wilson Goes, "Moving Through Dark Hall Ways"
Sharm was sleepwalking again. Oh, forget about it, I’m Sharm, and I’m not going to pretend again. I’m going to tell this story as myself. So if you don’t like it, that’s ok by me. Just don’t read it. But ask yourself this, would a fakity fake bother to write all those words without some meaning. Hecky darn, don’t we all yearn for meaning? I just want to tell a little story here: so read or don’t. It’s totally up to you. I’ll try to keep it as clean as possible.
I never intended for this to happen, but it did, and I wish so much that I could go back and make all the bad stuff go away, but then who don’t? Right?
At the Y
I was walking to my room at the Y, down the dark hall way. I shoved my key into the lock, opened the door, and went inside. I was so tired after a full day’s work at the salmon factory. (Oh please don’t expect me to tell you which salmon factory. If they knew that someone like me had been working there, they would probably arrest me.)
Anyway, I sat down on my bed and began to think about what I should do the rest of the evening. I decided to light up a joint to me all relaxed. I knew pot was not allowed in the fine establishment, so I also lit an incense and a tobacco ciggy and went on with my tokes. Just as I was getting a good buzz, a knock comes at the door.
I moved the incense closer to the door, picked up my tobacco ciggy, tried to look as straight—meaning non-stoned—as I could, and then opened the door.
“Hello, Ms Wilson,” a matronly looking gal addressed me. “How are you this evening?”
“I'm ok,” I managed to spout out and then she laid it on me. "There have been complaints from other residents. Are you smoking marijuana in your room?" Feeling a little strained, I took a big puff off the ciggy and then announced, "Oh, no! I’m just smoking my regular Marlboros. I burn incense when I smoke because I like the smell of sandalwood better than tobacco. Is that a problem, ma’am?”
“Oh, no! You're allow to smoke in your room, for now. After September, I’m afraid even smoking cigarettes will not be allowed. So you might want to find a new residence, if you continue to smoke after September,” she explained, all the while seeming to buy that I was only smoking tobacco and not wacky tobacky.
“Well, thanks for letting me know. You know, I’ve been meaning to quit anyway. So maybe this is just another reason to do that.” She gave me a knowing look, an understanding look, and left.
It wasn’t five minutes later that another knock came at my door, and it was the cops, who pushed their way inside, found the four pounds of pot, and arrested me for drug dealing.
Tarnation, I had never dealt in drugs. Sometimes I had a lot of pot for personal use. They could never prove that I was a dealer so they had to let me go. But by that time, I had no job, no place to live, and so here I was walking down another dark hallway to another room in a dump called the Cozy Inn.
But I considered myself lucky. I had my freedom. I had the opportunity to look for work. And so when I found a job at the Cozy Dinner, I decided to turn over a new leaf, keep on the straight and narrow (I know that’s a cliché), and keep out of trouble.
Along Came Bruce
Then Bruce came along. He was kind of cute, seemed to have lots of dough, and he started telling me stories about Vietnam. One time he and couple of buddies were captured and taken to a place where they were interrogated. He thought they were going to become POWs, but that night he and the other two guys decided to break out of the little hut they are held in. They succeeded, made it back to their unit, and lived happily every after—they lived to be discharged from the Army with all their body parts in tact.
One night Bruce and I had just made out in the back seat of his station wagon down on River Road. He was great lover—oh the stories I could make up, I mean tell, about his loving making! But then as we were getting our clothes back on, a big bang came down hard on the top of the car.
“Get out of there! You creeps! Step out of the vehicle,” we could see the shape of a very large man, banging on the top of the vehicle, while he seemed to be encircling it, running fast.
Bruce opened the back hatch and yelled, “What the hell do you want? Who are you?”
The man suddenly was upon Bruce beating him with a huge flashlight. He kept beating and beating until Bruce lay a crumbled mass of flesh and bone, unrecognizable. Then the man spotted me. He grabbed like I was a sack of flour and headed for his own vehicle, where he dumped me inside on the passenger side and then entered the driver’s side.
I was so scared. I knew this was it. The day I would leave this world. The day I would be killed like an insect. I was shaking but suddenly I became very calm because I knew nothing mattered anymore. I was dead. And nothing mattered anymore. What happened next is nothing short of bizarre, miraculous, out of this world,—oh crap, you decide!
Along Came Gerrod
“My name is Gerrod Slater,” Bruce’s killer started telling me about himself. “I’ve been looking for that son of bitch for thirteen years. He killed my mother and sister while my father was serving in Vietnam. His name is not Bruce Slater; his name is Anton Norman. He would have killed you too, I’m damned sure of it.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked this new acquaintance.
“Like I said, I’ve been on his trail for 13 long, goddamned years. I need to thank you for slowing him down. When he started making the moves on you, he kind of slipped. He stayed in the town a little too long. And I was able to follow him, check out his history, and then when I saw him on you pretty regular, I was able to catch him.”
Gerrod started his car and peeled out, leaving Bruce/Anton, leaving the night behind. The last night I would spend with Bruce. My mind was a chaos of images: but maybe I won’t die, but what do I do next?
Gerrod drove for several miles and then asked me, “Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, I’m staying at the Cozy Inn, next to the Cozy Dinner, where I work,” I said.
“Yeah, I knew where you worked, wasn’t sure where you stayed, though, but I know Anton lives in Darrtown with his wife and three kids. Wait, did I say, lives — I mean lived,” chuckled Gerrod.
“What are you going to do? How do you plan to get away with murdering Bruce?” I asked Gerrod.
“Well, you know, I hadn’t planned that far,” he said, “My only plan for the past 13 years has been to catch him and kill him. I guess all that planning took up my mind and I have no clue what to do next.”
“Won't the cops be coming for you?” I asked. “If they come for me, what do you want me to tell them?”
“Look,” he said, giving a look that scared the crap out of me, “I don’t care what you tell anybody. I don’t care if the cops come for me. That’s just another story, another day. You get it. I reached a goal tonight that nobody can ever take away. Look, I’m free. You see, I could kill you too, and by all rights, I should, you are the only person on the planet who can put me at the scene of that scumbag's death.”
I Ain't No Rat
“Oh, yes, I see your point,” I said, as I started to exist the car. “I see I’ve asked too many questions. I hope you have a good life, whatever happens. Glad I could help you catch Bruce. Good-bye,” I said as I started to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Oh, God, he’s finally come to his senses, he’s going to kill me too.
“What?” I asked.
“Look, you seem like a nice young lady. Don’t go messing with the likes of Anton Norman again. You got your whole life ahead of you. Make something out of yourself,” advice from a guy who just slaughtered a fellow human being; still it made of lot of sense.
That all happened five or so years ago. What have I done since? I’ve made up my mind to do as little as possible. All I really want is to live a life that doesn’t have my heart in my throat from time to time. Can you dig it?
I didn’t rat Gerrod out. Why should I? Just more crap that I’d have to suffer. I want to be as far away from law enforcement as possible, unless I’m being assaulted, robbed, or something. But then that’s why I keep a very low profile now. Haven’t found the perfect answer though, and if you have a suggestion, I’d like to hear it.
© 2015 Linda Sue Grimes