"Officer, can you step in my office for a second?"

"Yeah, sure," I responded. I knew what I was being called in for.

The truth is, for the past couple of months, I've found myself sleepwalking in a state that I can't get myself out of. I don't know what I'm doing and I can't see what's going on, but I can feel myself moving. Walking. I'll wake up in some random part of my house, outside my doorstep, in random places. The farthest from home I've ever woken up was near a dumpster I discovered was behind a McDonald's a little under half a mile from my house. I had never heard of such a thing, and the thought of telling the professionals I work with every day made me feel a little embarrassed. This wasn't something I could comfortably talk about unless awfully pressured into it, and I figured that had to be why Mrs. Harlow wanted me in her office.

I've been waking up and coming in to work late.

I sat down in the visitor's chair as she shut the door behind me, and she walked round her desk and sat down, her elbows on the table and her fingers interlocked.

"Officer Stuart," she said, "do you know why I called you in here today?"

"I think so. About me coming in late?"

"Yeah, what's been going on with that? Are you getting enough sleep?"

"I've been sleeping okay."

"Oh, you have?"

"Yeah."

"What's been going on with you coming in late?"

I sighed.

"This is a dumb reason, I get it, but while I've been sleeping okay, something's been happening."

“Something?.. As in what?”

“Now, I know this is stupid so bear with me here but I’ve.. I’ve been sleepwalking. That’s what’s going on. It’s been happening for over a month now and no issues have come up from it until this week.”

“Yes, as you’ve begun to come into work late.”

“It’s embarrassing, I didn’t want to tell you or Dave or Bryan because of embarrassment. It hasn’t been an issue so I thought it’d be fine not to mention.”

“But now it is a deal, Stuart. Stuart, you’re a police officer. If you can’t come in to work on time because of troubles sleeping, how does that look?”

“I understand that that doesn’t look good..”

“This is a serious job. You know that. And if you can’t fill in the entire time you’re supposed to be here, coming into work either late like you have been, not showing up at all, what have you, you better tell me or Dave or Bryan or any of your other commanding officers so that that is taken care of. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded, feeling rather uneasy and dreadfully helpless.

“Have you been taking any new medication lately?” She asked me in a distinctly different tone than the one she had been building.

“No, I just take my vitamins. I stopped getting allergy shots back in January, I know that that’s not very much related at all but those two are really the only medications I’ve taken in the past year.”

“January.. 3 months ago?”

“April.. yeah, 3 months ago.”

“I’m going to ask you a question, a little weird one, okay? Have you got your phone on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead and take it out.” I did as was instructed. “I want you to go through your camera roll, texts, anything and tell me what you did on the day of March 22nd.”

“March 22nd?”

“Yes.”

“Well I know off the top of my head that was the day before the first murder case,” I told her. “I’ll look but I remember I had a cookout for the neighborhood that day. Fired up the grill for the first time in a while and just invited people from the block over to have fun on a Saturday.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll ask you one more question, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything.”

“How’s the search going on the killer?”

A routine question, yet it struck me in some kind of way. The way she asked reeked of distrust in the sense that she was accusing me of something, insinuating, involving me in the crimes. I didn’t have a clue how to take it besides treating her, like always, as my boss.

“The search hasn’t come up with any one particular suspect yet,” I told her. “I have some suspects but nothing concrete yet.”

“You’ve told me about one of them, a Anthony Hopkins, you said. Anything on him?”

“He’s got a record for shoplifting. Last year, he got into a big altercation with his landlord at the time and put him into the hospital. Could be something.” I remembered at that moment that there was a piece of information I was meaning to tell her, and I let it out.

“I’ve gone back and tried to review the tape, but something strange happens when I do. Not only for that one crime on the 23rd but every time the killer has been caught on camera.”

“Which is?”

“He’s blurred out,” I said. “I can make out that he’s lanky from the looks of him I could make out from the pixels, kind of like the way I am, but he’s all blurred and indistinguishable. Anthony Hopkins is 6’ 4”, Officer Hopkins. My height. So height-wise, that does match. But he’s always blurred out so I can never get anything concrete.”

Out of nowhere, she began to look puzzled. This wasn’t an expression I knew her for, it seemed from a genuine response to something, maybe to something I had said, that must’ve set her off.

She spoke into her walkie-talkie asking for someone from security to come to the office before addressing me. I didn’t understand why.

“Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier?”

“I was only officially given access to the footage yesterday. Today’s the first time I’ve gotten the chance to mention it to you.”

“In the videos, our guy’s the only one blurred out? Not his victims?”

“No, not the victims. Just him. It’d be hard to spot him anyway because of the bad lighting from each of the videos, but the pixilation makes it impossible to make out anything definitive.”

“Can I see some of the footage now? Do you have anything saved on your phone?”

“None of it’s on my phone.. but I emailed you and Bryan a link to one of the videos. You could pull it up on your computer, it should load.”

“Alright.”

She went ahead and got it going. One of the security staff came in as she began onto the email and started the footage.

It was instantly obvious the moment our killer stepped into frame that he was completely and utterly pixelated and that even though it could be determined that he was facing the camera on his way out after the attack, no distinguishable features could be made out.

The footage showed the killer walking up to an elderly lady walking by herself down the street. No explanation for why the lady was there walking at that time of night, right after 21:00, but she headed in the direction our guy was walking from.

I expected Officer Harlow to be upset, questioning the possibility that the footage had been hacked or tampered with in some way. But what I saw was a look on her face that didn’t look puzzled or mad. Instead, she squinted in a way that gave off some feeling of insight, as if she knew something that I didn’t. I became the puzzled one. Why was she looking like that?

The footage continued and I noticed she and the security guy were looking more at me than at the screen. An unsettled feeling came down on me; I kept my eyes focused on the crime scene and made sure I didn’t look over at Harlow and the guard.

Our suspect, now close to the old lady, stopped walking. He stood still about 10 feet in front of the woman, who stopped walking herself and seemed thrown off by the situation and the man’s look.

After a moment of tension with the lady beginning to appear worried, she turned around to go back the way she came.

As soon as her back was turned, the man pulled out a gun from his right pocket and shot her twice; the first bullet got the back of her head just above her neck, and the second aimed and went right into her spine. The lady toppled over fast. She had moved a hand over the head wound as she fell forward onto the pavement, grasping at it as if she had a nasty headache or a concussion.

The man, our suspect, was peculiar. Any sane criminal, any person with a sense of fear of being caught and tried, runs from a crime scene. They want to show no relation to the events taking place unless they’re trying to send a message or committing an atrocity in an act of revenge. But this crime seemed different. He didn’t turn and run or step closer to the body. What would’ve made more sense if they were completely out of it.

He stood still. He had lowered his gun but hadn’t put it away. It was just out there by his side. He kept looking at the lady he had just murdered, I had to check the little clock in the bottom corner to make sure the screen hadn’t gone frozen. He faced directly at her becoming corpse and kept so for about 15-20 seconds.

Finally, he put his gun into his right pocket and took a step back before slowly turning around and going back the way he came. But even then he walked slow, poised. A few other cameras picked up his walk away from the scene, but he eventually stepped out of sight. The footage ended abruptly.

I felt a gripping sense of needing to say something because of the looks on their faces. Harlow wasn’t saying anything and the guard wasn’t either. I felt their stares.

"Goodness," I said in response to the footage, although I had already viewed it over twice.

“Yeah,” said Harlow. “Any more footage of this guy?”

“That’s the only link I’ve received, the only one I’ve heard that was recorded. The others happened in people’s homes or around neighborhoods, not one that’s usually recorded and surveilled.”

“Okay..” She thought for a moment before speaking again and I let her do so without butting in. “Have all the crimes happened within the same area?”

“With the exception of this one and one other, yes. They’ve all happened close to where I live, I believe. I can run you over the files and tabs I’ve gathered on evidence and locations but the bulk of the murders have happened not far away from my house.”

“Really?” Harlow asked in a tone that didn’t seem thrown off in the way I had anticipated.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been thinking that’s why I’ve been having trouble sleeping, this all happening so close to me. The sleepwalking’s scaring me, too, and I know I should’ve talked to you guys about that already. Now that I’m talking about it now I think I’m going to try and see a doctor about it before anything bad happens.”

“I understand,” Harlow said. She turned to look at the security guy she had called into the room, still without explanation.

“10-35,” she said, and that was all.

“10-35?..” I spoke out fast with a flush of anxiety, and then everything went dark. The man from security nodded at her code, and immediately he came upon me.

---

I awoke in a cell. I had my same clothes on (my uniform, though my weapons were missing) and all of the cells around me were vacant. I knew this place, but not from the position I found myself in. This was the city jail, from the numbers of the cells opposite mine I could determine I had been put into one of the farthest cells down deep into the facility. No one had explained to me why.

The camera in my cell flickered; after a couple of minutes of being up, I came to know that there was a red light just under the camera that would blink just about every 10 seconds as a sign that it worked and was picking up everything I was doing. I called up to it.

“Hey, Officer Harlow, Officer Finley..” I thought my way through other names. “Dean, if you’re there, bring someone down. Explain all this to me. What’s going on here?” I felt defeated inside the cell, an unexplainable essence of dread.

How long was I going to be down here behind these bars? When would I get an explanation? Why was I placed here?

The camera’s red light continued flickering, and every blink of red sent me farther and farther down a rabbit hole of rage. The cell was cold and unloving, with a nearly rock-hard bed in the corner with no other décor or furniture. I waited with a morsel of patience for someone, anyone to come by.

It was about an hour later, or at least what felt like an hour later, before a guard, the same one that Harlow sent earlier, walked his way over and stood just outside of my cell.

“Officer Stuart,” he said to me, “Do you know why they had me put you behind bars?”

“No,” I said rather distastefully, worked up still.

“This is going to be something to take in, and I know this isn’t exactly the best place to have this talk but they’re having me tell you the truth.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t been an officer long, right? Like a few months or so?”

“I was hired in December, I’ve been here 4 months.”

“4 months, yeah. Quick question for you, do you sleep with your gun on you?”

“Yeah, I do,” I told him.

“All of our guns have a little small chip on them on the handle. Here, take a look.”

The guard pulled out his gun, looked for the chip he mentioned, and held it up for me to view.

“You see it?”

“Yeah.. Yeah, I see it.”

“It’s small, I know. With our camera technology and our policing technology combined, they’ve added these chips on our guns to recognize that we work for the law, for the state. These chips can scan through state issued camera systems, I don’t know the exact science behind it but they can, and our department has been using this system to blur out deputies, sheriffs, officers and security like me from CCTV and security footage.”

“What?” I felt unnerved. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wish I was. Anything we do gets covered up for the most part, or at least enough to battle things out in court. You could guess the footage showed someone pulling out a gun and pulling the trigger, but it’s so blurred that nothing can truly be proven against any specific officer. This is a police state, I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Well yeah, I’m aware,” I blathered, “But I obviously didn’t think that this could possibly be something we’re doing.”

“Yeah, and I understand that. But you need to understand something and I don’t think you’ve caught on yet. The shooter’s blurry. Officer Harlow mentioned you thought they were lanky in the way that you are. 6 foot 2 inch guy, you fit that description. You see what I’m getting at?”

I was too stunned, shocked, to speak. I, on my knees, and the guard stood firm; I felt so small.

“The only reason you’re behind bars right now is because, as you mentioned, the guy in the video is lanky. If the footage gets out to the public, they’ll eventually find you. You killed that Lisa Montgomery that night. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. I don’t think you meant to, Harlow doesn’t either. So in an attempt to get you out of jail for 20 years to life, we’re going to run an experiment on you.”

The guard reached over to his back pocket and pulled out a different gun. I knew this gun to be mine.

“That’s your gun, I’m sure you can tell.” He handed it to me.

“Like I said, I don’t think you killed her on purpose. I think you know what that implies as far as.. the other murders.. but I want you to understand that if this experiment works, you’ll go free and will continue to be an officer, although you will never again be allowed to sleep with a gun in your pocket.”

“What experiment?” I asked in fear.

“Harlow’s decided that we’re going to keep you in this cell for 2 weeks, okay? You won’t be treated like a prisoner in terms of harshness against you. You can’t leave your cell for the 2 weeks except to use the restroom but you’ll be provided with good meals of your choosing.

“You will sleep with your gun in your pocket for all 14 nights that you’re here. 14 nights should be enough to prove your innocence or guilt. We’ll have eyes on you at all times. If on any of the 14 nights your gun goes off, if you shoot your gun, we’ll let you go free. But if you don’t on any of the 14 nights, we’ll have to keep you here. Officer Harlow has made sure that you will be scrutinized by multiple people, and if any of them think you purposefully shot your gun off so that you go free, you’ll be kept here.” He broke character for a moment. “I hate to do this to you, man. I believe that you did this while sleepwalking and that you weren’t consciously in control, but my God. The circumstances, you know?”

I didn’t know how to feel. Every bone in my body felt weak, every hair as if they were to fall off onto the floor. My eyes felt like crying but they remained dry. If I ever experienced a depressed emotion throughout my life, that would be the most horrid. Feeling that gun in my hands now, there was always a certain thing about machines and inventions that scared me.

“I killed them?” I asked.

“That’s how it sounds, man. You haven’t noticed bullets missing at all?”

“I..”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I really hadn’t realized all the bullets had gone missing. I had refilled the gun with a mental fog surrounding me; a routine maneuver.

Was it possible, really possible, that the hands that held my gun now, my hands, were the same ones that killed that woman? That older lady who had somewhere to be, even if she was only on her way home. All of those other people.

There was no mass murderer, there was a sleeping cop. A sleeping cop, and a blurring camera that was meant to cover my atrocities.

The guard’s walkie-talkie went off, someone on another side of the jail had beaten up an inmate, and bruised him badly. The walkie-talkie on my uniform must’ve had its batteries removed.

“I’ve gotta go help out up there,” he told me. “You have a right to life if you’re innocent. Don’t blow your brains out if you are.”

I looked out at him as he ran away from me, and when finally out of view, my attention turned to my gun. I had set it on the ground because it felt heavier than it ever had. And it looked more grotesque than ever the longer I stared at that thing. And the memories of practicing with that gun rang back through my head, and suddenly that person I was left the room.

14 days, that’s all it would take until out. That’s all. I still couldn’t believe what they had told me, but in 14 days I could go back to my bed, without a gun in my pocket, and I could try and get some rest. I could go back to being an officer, working on high-profile cases like I was hired for.

But there’s no life left with settled guilt of murder, and every glance at that gun of mine made its sound to my head more and more justified.

It's too late to be found. I'm really lost and theirs no coming back. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I love. I don't know what person will hurt me. i'm so lost. I don't know who is a real friend and who is fake. I don't know who cares about me. It's too late to be found. I don't know me. My brain won't help. How can I be found. I'm lost. How can I be ok? When i'm lost.

The lost feeling that's

often experienced

perhaps, in every person's

life, there comes a time

when everyone feels this way.

We may try to find the right

path again through

often what may be

described as temporary things.

As for me, when I feel like

I'm down and might go out,

'cause of the trial that's weighing heavily on my mind,

my back and my chest...

I find that God's Word -

The Bible, I read and it

encourages and enables me

to walk on the right track again.

As His Word is forever and

however, sliced or diced

there's thankfully no

refuting that.

People scare me

People scare me because

there's always a part of us

ready to listen to and follow through with evil

People scare me because

people talk

even when they don't listen

People scare me because

people try to empathize

when they should only listen

People scare me because

people try to understand

when they couldn't possibly ever get it

People scare me because

people listen

then make you a cautionary tale or an example

People scare me

so when I'm lost

I crawl into my head because

better the devil you know

right?

In my head,

I turn to music

and poetry

I turn to that other part of me

that wants to heal

and I speak to her

like I would speak to people.

When the world sinks around me

When I feel I'm drowning

I turn to the things of the younger me

The happier me.

I dig up my cards

I boot up my xbox

I tune up the songs on my personal mobile radio

Getting

Lost all over again between the

Words and thoughts of my youth the

Channels of joy, the old tracts of passion

Lost

But still here. Still breathing.

The passage of time between then and now

It brings me back to safety.

For if I lived once, was happy even once

I shall one day lose myself in happiness once

More.

With my confidence to bolster me, I reach the mountain I climb in my dreams. I trained, I studied, I did all I could to prepare for this ascent. Everyone knows I will reach the peak, I earned it.

But I don't. I fall. I fall again. And again. Each time I fall, I lose something I needed to reach the top. At the final fall, I lose hope.

A unique form of "lost" plagues me. I know where I wish to go but it is out of my reach. The destination was all I had. I wait for the universe to take pity. I did all that was asked of me and more, why do I not deserve mercy?

I realize I will wait forever. No matter how far I trek, the mountain's shadow will cover me. Yet, I must leave the mountain behind.

I forfeit. The hardest thing to do, the thing I was raised to refuse. Not if I cry, not if I bleed.

I retrace my steps until I find myself in the past. A passionate child with an imagination. She will walk on Venus. She will invent a new source of energy. She will save the whales. She will climb the mountain.

Except she won't. So I tell her so.

She argues with me but eventually accepts it. But she doesn't dismay. She will still walk on Venus, invent a new source of energy, save the whales, and run a science fair.

When I am lost, I find this little girl. She reminds me failure is not the end.

I want silence for my soul

And meaning for my goals

Neither of it is at peace

Nor are any of my paths clear

As I try to make my way out through this haze

I keep stumbling and faltering

Small, subtle diversions

Momentary illusions that bring fleeting emotions

Is it meant to be liberating, cathartic or

some sort of an amusement

I may or may not know

But what I do know undoubtedly

Is conscious effort gives calculated results

And right now I may not be enough

However I will persevere as long as I can

For I am in search of silence for my soul

And meaning for my goals

©avia_dn

When I'm feeling lost I go "to my world of making it happen."To explain this I mean I take my mind to places that I am familiar with. The Prose is a family of geniuses that I feel totally comfortable with. I can express myself without trying to be someone I'm not. Coin collecting I love because there are so many errors on coins that people know nothing about. Working on my books settles my mind because I set myself a deadline to finish them.

When I'm feeling lost I go "to my world of making it happen." To explain this I mean I take my mind to places that I am familiar with. The Prose is a family of geniuses that I feel totally comfortable with. I can express myself without trying to be someone I'm not. Coin collecting I love because there are so many errors on coins that people know nothing about. Working on my books settles my mind because I set myself a deadline to finish them.

I often find myself riding out to help those that I know need the help. My mind is so busy.

He opened the small book in his hands and moments later, the smoothness of his velvet-lined voice soon drifted across the expanse of the small room:

“The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it downs from fears"

Entranced, Zelda listened to the words wrap fluidly around his eloquent tongue and spill forth into the stillness of the dimly lit room. Despite the silliness of it, all her mind could seem to think upon was the ‘swooning’ that was often detailed in Romance novels she had read in younger years. She was certain at this moment in time, she might swoon and faint fast away upon the floor of The Prose & Wine, so overcome was she by his lovely recitation of Sir Walter Scott’s prose. Fleeting thoughts of him bent over her lifeless body, attempting to resuscitate her lingered pleasantly in her mind until she forced herself to focus again on the beautiful words and timbre of his voice as he continued to read. Ah, but she could live life in such a way, listening to such beautiful recitations by such a one as he.

Thus, the night ensued with readings from various excerpts of the famous poem. Once they had ended, the waiter made his rounds, replenishing drinks. As he poured a new glass of Merlot for Zelda and stepped away, she gasped for he was standing there, behind the waiter and directly in front of her small table.

“Good evening,” he said with a brilliant smile and voice of velvet that made Zelda’s heart skip a beat. “I hope you enjoyed the reading this evening.”

Zelda found her voice, returned his smile, and managed to answer him without stammering like a timid schoolgirl. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Sir Walter Scott’s writings are so beautiful.” As are you, she thought.

“Excellent. I am so pleased.” He looked about the room for a minute before his gaze found hers again. As if unsure what to say, he cleared his throat before he continued, “I’ve noticed that you’ve managed to attend all of my readings.”

Zelda felt a blush creep across her cheeks. He had noticed her repeated attendance at his recitations after all. Well, she could only hope that was a good thing. “Yes,” she nodded. “I have enjoyed each one of them very much, too although I think tonight was my favorite.”

For mere moments, the two stared at one another, seemingly frozen in time. Blue eyes met green ones, and in a microcosm of time, connected. Zelda felt a small shiver run through her that had nothing to do with the cold weather outside.

“May I join you?” he gestured to the empty chair at her table.

“Yes, of course. Please forgive my manners,” she said as she quickly moved her wine glass and copy of Lady of the Lake. He motioned to the waiter for a drink, and Zelda watched him from beneath her lashes, wondering if she was dreaming. If so, it was a beautiful dream, and she hoped never to awaken.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he told the waiter.

Zelda was suddenly self-conscious as the waiter brought her companion’s wine. Her slim, woolen skirt seemed shorter and tighter by the minute, and the burgundy turtleneck she wore seemed to bind her chest tightly, preventing an adequate flow of air. Nervously, she tugged at the hem of her skirt and then fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, glancing up at him to ensure he was, in fact, still there. She refrained from the temptation to pinch herself just to be sure she was awake.

“You like Merlot then?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Why of course he liked Merlot. He had ordered it, hadn't he? Stupid, silly question!

“Yes, I do,” he smiled, and a big dimple grew in his left cheek. “It’s a favorite. I find it to be such an approachable wine. It is full-bodied and elegant while it pairs with nearly every kind of food but also manages to stand alone quite well. I enjoy the sleek softness of it: fruity, velvety, and so rich,” he added, taking a deep sip from the glass the waiter had placed before him.

And softly sensual, much like the way in which you partake of its sweet richness, Zelda could not help but think to herself, watching his throat as he swallowed. My God, but had anyone ever been able to describe the deliciousness of a glass of Merlot in such a way? Zelda was sure not. Indeed, the enunciation and the beauty in his description, rhythm, and flow of words were like the velvety, rich smooth sensuality and taste of the wine personified.