It was as though the minute he crossed his parent’s threshold, his spine was jerked out of his back and locked deep away in some hidden box to which, only ‘they’ owned the key. In Houston, where he’d made a name for himself, Ben’s enemies would cross to the other side of the street seeing him coming down the sidewalk. Here, in the house of his birth, he was no braver than the thin waif of a girl who’d yelled out the truth that afternoon. ‘Where’s that bottle?’ the voice of his mother’s demand stormed down the hallway. Since compromise was the middle name of cowardliness, Ben took a pitcher of well water and filled back the bottle to the proper height, washing the outsides with a dry cotton towel until the glass container appeared untouched. The liquid’s color stayed unchanged, a blood red ready to burn the evil out of the most stubborn child – a punishment cloaked as a good deed, the same as his Deacon father preached the devil out of the lowly sinner whether the devil resided there. Their festering, open gashes, flesh wounds were streaming dark red blood as they stabbed their shovels fecklessly at the tile.In these recurring dreams, my teeth were falling from my mouth and I was spitting my teeth out like bloody white seeds from a fruit, and I’d be crawling down my apartment building’s first floor hallway, hearing shrieks and grunts, seeing through doors, seeing angry, wild-eyed men, men with shaven heads, men in dark blue prison jumpsuits banging on the doors, doors that’d been chained, welded shut. The men just slapping, thrashing, headbutting the doors; a couple kicking at the doors spastically, the men shaking like epileptics.Then I’d see a headless man, lurching towards me from the end of the hallway. The man was in a navy blue boilersuit, with an open gash in his chest, and he held a pair of blood-dripping eyeballs in one hand and was lifting a butcher knife, wildly slashing at the air with his other hand.Nearly every night, I had these dreams, if I could.
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