A dream of a lifetime
| Picket Fences
"Since I was a child, I have dreamed of living in a large country cottage with white picket fence surrounding the yard. It was a picture postcard that had sparked my intrigue. The picture on the ten-cent mailer was the perfection that eluded me, with poppies growing in the field and the quaint porch swing. It never mattered to me that the card was crinkled and smudged with grime, because it had been rescued from the refuge of the dump. It was the picture that portrayed all of the simple things I wanted out of life. It was an ideal, a goal to work towards, and the obsession of my dreams. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"
"Sometimes the fault lies in the means in which we choose to obtain our desires. Doesn't any part of this scene register as a little abnormal to you?"
"I don't expect you to understand! But finally, I have been fulfilled. A little girl's dream has been turned to reality."
"And it doesn't matter about the people you harmed in order to fulfill that dream?"
"Don't you see? This was the dream, just like you see it, here with my white picket fence!"
Each of the three men standing by me lowered their eyes and shook their heads from side to side, as if in mourning. I smiled at their stupidity. It was a bit funny to me that they couldn't appreciate greatness when it hit them in the face. They live in their small little worlds, unable to see the bigger picture, like the one on my postcard.
"LeAnn, listen to me. We are going to get you the help that you need, but we need to know what happened here. Let's step inside now, and you can start from the beginning. Okay?" said the burly detective, shivering more because of the crime scene than the chilly weather.
Like a zombie I moved up the walkway, leading the men past the fence, up to my quaint little porch, and into my picturesque home. I waved them to seats on the couch by the fire, but they declined. Again, they lowered their heads and averted their eyes. Small men with small minds found it difficult to value my masterpieces. My artwork on the coffee-table in its various stages of completion seemed to disturb them. Maybe, it was just that they couldn't imagine the finished products. With their stiff Quaker-like morals, the detectives were incapable of art appreciation. They couldn't see the beauty and the detail of my work. Instead, they guided me towards the den with its well lit desk and large uncovered windows. We marched like characters in a funeral procession.We took seats in wooden straight back chairs that were less forgiving than my couch.
"LeAnn, tell us what happened. If you want a lawyer present first, we can arrange that," Detective Monroe muttered, still fighting the ache in his bones from the chill.
"You still don't get it, do you? It was my American dream. I've done nothing wrong. Millions of people have done the same thing as I. I worked hard to get the things that I desired."
"What about the lawyer? Do you want one?'
I couldn't help but laugh, a full belly laugh, at the question. It unnerved the men and they twisted uncomfortably in their seats.
"No, I have no need of a lawyer. I will tell you what you want to know. I, what do they call it? Waive my rights? Besides, my lawyer is propped up at the moment."
"Yes, picket number twenty-three, I believe. Such fine work, I did on him. So life-like!"
I watched as each of the men showed signs of wanting to upchuck. It was quite fun to see the involuntary spasms of their jaws and necks resist the urge to release their stomach eruptions. I couldn't help but think that they would make great works of art. They took a moment to compose themselves. They returned their faces to the stony and somber grave markers they were before the tide nausea had visited.
"Shellac is the perfect tool of preservation, don't you think?"
"Yeah, sure," Detective Monroe said with his lip curled up in disgust.
"Alright, I've told you that I wanted a house with a picket fence. It was the only dream that allowed me to survive my childhood. I won't bore you the details, but things were not good. There were no poppies in my field or swings on a porch. So the idea of having those things, gave me something to hope for."
"Okay, what about all the rest of this?"
"Slow down a minute. I will get there. I grew up and got away from the discontent of my youth. I worked three jobs to get what I wanted. I avoided all of the traps that I saw people my age fall into. Pregnancy, drugs, and immorality were not on my agenda. I had bigger fish to fry. Do you see?"
"No, not exactly. When did all of this start?" he said, waving his hand around in a general arc about the room.
"Well, while I worked towards my dream there were the inevitable folks that wronged me. I chose to be the better person and rise above the pettiness. I brought them all along with me. They got to be a part of my dream."
"I...don't think they dreamed of death, do you?"
"It was my dream, not theirs! But I let them share in it. Do you see the beauty, now?'
"LeAnn, we are going down to the Police Station now. You will be arrested on multiple charges of murder in the first degree. You will be appointed an attorney to be present, as we take your official statement. Psychiatric help will be available to you as well. We will need you to provide any details of the victims that you are able to supply. You know, names, ages, or anything you can tell us about them. We will need to notify the next of kin, at some point. Do you understand?" Detective Monroe said.
"Yes, of course! I have a scrap book that will give you all of the details. All of my friends are pictured in here. I am very proud of their transition within my dream," I said, as I handed him the bible of my life.
They placed cold metal cuffs upon my wrists and led me out of the house. We walked past the living room with my most recent sculptures prominently displayed on the coffee table. My craniums propped on sticks had not yet been completed. The terror of death had been painted on their faces, just as I wanted. The vivid gore was realistic and heavenly to my keen eye. I had preserved the dripping blood of their murder scene. All six of my heads seemed to ogle the room with a captivated eye-glistening awe There was a sense of surprise and fear in their faces that made me proud. It was art in the making. They were missing one more layer of shellac to be fence-post worthy.
"Is there anyway I can finish these before we go?" I asked.
Detective Monroe, unable to control the spasms any longer, leaned over and vomited his dinner in the potted plant by the door.
We walked out of the house and past the picket fence. I bid my farewells to the friends that lined the fence. I waved goodbye to each and every skull that we passed. Each gory melon that I posted on my fence told a story. On the picket fence of my dream, the bloody heads of my betrayers sat watching.
Word Count 1289