Acre Under a Green Sky

The photos splashed across the table in front of Luka. At first, their true nature didn't register in his mind. They were only pictures of people. There was no recognition of anyone he knew or might have known. They were a curiosity. He was far more shocked by my father's burst of temper than he was with the pictures themselves. His eye fell on the nearest picture and fixed on it as one might fix on a magazine cover in the dentist's office. Then he recognized the woman as Estelle, but still there was no feeling attached to the recognition. It simply looked familiar. It reminded him of something; a scene from a movie or something. Then he saw his own fingers open the highest buttonhole of her blue robe at the open neck and insert a beautiful orchid. He saw her face looking up at him, and he bent to kiss her cheek. Had this ever happened? Yes, it's real. Then the photo supplanted the memory in his mind, and he could see the flower in the photo. It was real. Now, the laughing face of Patty McIntyre filled the scene that was his mind. He saw her unpin the orchid from her breast and place it behind his ear. That was real. That was vividly real. Estelle's face loomed again.

"We don't want you here anymore."

Suddenly, a hundred snapshots strobed through his mind. Gwen resisting as he tried to pull her nightgown off. Seeing Jeff's back as he disappeared into the bathroom. Marilyn dragging herself along the floor to the door; then being pulled back by her ankles. Estelle's eyes dead open; staring at him. A red hand holding a red knife. Gwen covering her face with both arms. Jeff on his back in the bathtub kicking out and saying, "No Daddy, please." Donald Duck. Donald Duck. Donald Duck. Stabbing Donald Duck; all over Jeff's pajamas; Donald Duck. Stepping back from the ever-encroaching red pool on the blue and white tiled kitchen floor. Her blood was seeking him out. It was after him. This was all real. This happened. This is a memory.

Then something curious. A black curtain rising. Not parting or falling from above like a theater curtain, but rising. His vision disappeared from the bottom up; as if unconsciousness had come up from the floor to envelope him. Then blissful black nothing. Until he saw the face of the doctor listening with those things in his ears.

And what about the night of the murders? Let's piece together those snapshots. Hold them in one hand and flick them fast with the other hand. Make a movie of them –– a flicker.