Anthology Complex - M.B. Julien (best non fiction books to read .txt) 📗

The killer asks him what makes him so sure they aren't dumb, to which he replies, "When two white cops roll up you know they do it because they just hate us niggas, when two black cops show up you know they do it because they look down on us and expect better, but when a black and a white cop shows up, and they are as cool with each other as them two were, and they ain't all up in our business hittin' us and shit for no reason, and they fucking actually respect us and talk about sports, that's when you know somethin' ain't right. Them bitches are plannin' something and they ain't dumb enough to let little shit come between them and the job."

Chapter 49:

1947

And then I woke up. I just had a dream where inside the dream I had a memory. A friend and I are hammering nails into a wall when he asks me if I remember that one time Jason accidentally nailed his index finger to the wall. I laughed and told him that I did, because I actually did. The thing is, while I remember Jason, there was never actually a time when he nailed his own index finger to the wall in this reality.

What this dream suggests is dream memory, that we can have thoughts of memories that never happened in our reality in the dreams that we have. This idea is the very first thing that propelled me to believe that our dreams are simply other versions of our lives.

As I'm writing down this dream, I run out of space and realize that I am writing on the last page of this particular composition notebook. Marked number five-hundred, this means I have five-hundred composition notebooks completely filled. Five-hundred notebooks each with two-hundred pages, give or take due to the fact that I've ripped some pages out and have added some from quickly scribbled-down notes.

I start to look for a new composition notebook to continue writing down my dream but can't seem to find one, however, I am positive there is at least one around here somewhere as I always have an extra.

In the bedroom, I go to the drawer near the window, nothing. I go to the closet near the door, nothing. I look under the bed on the other side of the room, nothing. Nothing except a penny. I reach for the penny and take it, and then I look at the year the penny was created. Every time I see a coin I look at the year and understand that I am holding something that was around before me. If it's old enough, of course.

This penny was created in 1947, one of the years that I've traveled back in time to visit. Not literally, it was in a dream. In the dream I knew I was in a time that I didn't belong, which made it even weirder. Looking around in 1947, I would have to say that the area I was in was one of the most comforting places I had ever seen or visited. The only way I could explain it is by having you compare a world that is full of toxins in the air versus a world that has virtually no toxins at all.

The clearness of the life. We will never be as wise and perceptive as we were when we were children because we can no longer see things as clearly as we used to be able to. Decay slowly consumed this life.

One thing that is all too common now is the destruction of perception by certain medical agents. You take a pill, and it might fix certain things, but it might also break others. Some of the pills I took destroyed my memory. Not to say I couldn't have dreams, but I couldn't remember them. A sort of Dreamer's Block. Before that, there was a time when I actually believed there were things that no one could ever take from us.

I take a quick glance into the bathroom. Pointless place to look but we all do it. I don't see any books but I notice there is a fly sitting on the window. I walk up to the door and close it and continue my search in the living room.

It's been eight minutes and I have searched the entire apartment and have not found a single new composition notebook. That's when it hits me. Thoughts of Julia explaining what an epiphany is in the use of literature, or writing. The thought of Julia reminds me that she no longer works at the store, and that I could just purchase some notebooks there now. As I take a smiling step forward, I have another sudden realization.

After I had found out she was working there, a few days after I went a few miles further to a different store and bought fifteen composition notebooks that I later stored down in the basement storage.

I open my front door and make my way down the first flight of stairs, and then down the second that lead to the basement. As soon as I open the door I hear a box fall, and when I look inside I see the first-floor man. Tall skinny fellow who does not talk much. I notice he is putting something into his storage section and as I pass by I see something that looks like a fragment of a bone, but I can't be certain.

I open up my storage, the combination number is 31, 17, 16, just in case you ever needed something, and then I take out one of the composition notebooks. That fresh smell. By that time the first-floor man is gone and as much as I want to look inside his storage, I don't. He is strange enough.

As I'm walking back up the first flight of stairs I see the mailman putting mail in the mailboxes. I nod, he nods, and then I make my way up the next flight and enter my apartment to finish writing down the dream.

When I'm done, I grab a bottle of bug spray and walk towards the bathroom and open the door then close it shut behind me. This fly is bigger than the previous one. I go to the window and open it in an effort to let this fly fly outside and continue its days, but even after five minutes it decides that its home is here.

I start attempting to spray the little thing but it's quick. However, its luck runs out even quicker and I hit it right above the bathroom sink, to which it falls in. It lands on its back, legs kicking just like the previous fly that entered my chambers.

I watch it for a few seconds as it kicks, and then I pull up the knob of that thing that stops water from draining. Then I turn on the hot water. I watch as the sink fills and the fly begins to rise, but it's still kicking and won't drown. After a while I start to spray it again, and with each spray, the kicking becomes weaker and weaker until it's gone. Who made such a creature, and creatures like it? Was it a mistake?

In a dream I've had, it's been long since God and Satan have died, and after spending time with both of them I learn that they are both capable of mistakes. Fallible. It makes me wonder if it's possible for a human being to be incorrectly judged and sent to the wrong place in their afterlife. Someone who was suppose to go to Heaven goes to Hell, and someone who was suppose to go to Hell goes to Heaven.

Is there a way from Heaven to Hell? Hell to Heaven? Are they physical places in our universe? Such a journey would have much to entail, I'm sure. If you are in Heaven, or in Hell, and for the sake of the discussion, say someone wants to kill you, do you defend yourself? If you defend yourself, that means you either don't like getting hurt or you want to live, but how could one want to continue living when they are dead? One might then ponder the meaning of true death. Is true death when you completely cease to exist. Is it the death that atheists believe in? If I were to try to kill you now, would you fight me?

The tombstones of both God and Satan stand next to each other, each with a message to the world, or in their perspectives, a message to their seemingly complex creation. On the bottom of God's tombstone is a list of words. The seven virtues; chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, and humility. And of course, at the bottom of Satan's, the seven vices, the same list I've seen before in a dream I've had not too long ago.

Suddenly I begin to hear my name. It's coming from across the living room, and when I get to the living room it's coming from the other side of the door. I can tell it's Lynne, but she sounds different. Tired. When I open the door, I see why she sounds the way she sounds.

Bruises on her eye and on her mouth, not to mention the body bruises. She looks up at me as if she almost wants to laugh, but instead there is a tear.

Another tear, and then a smile. Is that strength? For the moment I want to take back what I said about punching her in the face because she smiles too much. I ask her who did this to her but I already know who. She can't even say his name.

She leans forward and hugs my body and begins to cry. I maybe should have told her that this shirt hadn't been washed in a while, but I suppose we are even considering she makes it worse. That and the fact that she doesn't seem to notice.

Battered person syndrome. If Lynne were to one day murder Silvio, her lawyer could use the "battered person syndrome" as a defense. The defense has been used in cases where physically and psychologically abused women kill their abusers. One of the symptoms of this condition is the fear of endangerment to the person's own life or the lives of their children. David and Sarah can be the only reasons why she would even tolerate him in her life.

Lynne eventually tells me that she was attempting another relationship with Silvio but soon realized that it could never work. When she finally told him that herself, and asked him if he could stop trying to see the kids, he snapped and beat her. Lynne could call the police and have him arrested. Maybe even make sure that he legally cannot visit the kids now because of what he's done. The problem is that she won't, and it makes no sense to me. Why do some people stay in destructive relationships.

Another symptom of the battered person syndrome is the belief that the abuser is omniscient and omnipresent. I'm guessing this plays a part in her psychology towards Silvio and also plays a large role in why she doesn't make sense.

There are a lot of things that make me angry, people who prey on the weak is one of them. Wine-drinking narcissist. Fancy-suit wearing unbalancers. Million-dollar ring wearing frauds. Fucking manipulating businessmen. Goddamn disease invoking masterminds. Little fucking politicians and puppet-masters running their own fucking little world. If I could get my hands on any of them, I swear to both God and Satan and all of their angels and demons that their last breath would slowly speak my name.

"Give me your car keys." She asks me why, and I tell her because I need to talk to Silvio. "What are you going to do?" She came here because she wants me to save her, but I can't. All I can do is help. "If I don't talk to him he's going