To Whom It May Concern:, M.J. Garrett [phonics readers .TXT] 📗

desire to be sexual heroes. The commercials tell me that I can get bigger, last longer, shoot farther, and be the stud that society says I’m supposed to be.

*

Coming home from work was a delight. Every night, I would drive home and see no one. Maybe the occasional bum walking around the carwash dumpsters looking for pieces of food or anything that could be used as a form of currency among their society. I would see the pack of dogs that seemed as misfit as the people that lived in the neighborhood. I pull into an empty carwash and turn the lights off. Sitting there for a moment to see if anyone was around, I get out of the car and dig for change in my pocket. The silence of the night is eerie…but peaceful. I drop one quarter in the machine as the water softly begins to spray from the holder connected to the wall when I hear a low, fragile, familiar, Irish voice coming from behind me.

“It’s going to rain tomorrow, don’t you know?”
“Really? What makes you say that?” I asked cautiously without turning around.
“It always rains after you wash your car.” He said curiously. “I would figure that a lad your age would know that by now.”

Slowly reaching under my suit jacket the voice says something that stops me. “Let’s not get too hasty…I’m just an old man looking for some things to recycle.” I slowly glance over my shoulder to see a quiet little man with a week’s worth of dirty chin stubble and rotting teeth. His clothes are old and dirty. His shirt is covered in dust and has holes where his elbows have rested on his knees for what seemed to be years. His pants were oversized, as if they used to fit, but have not got quite used to his loss of weight. His eyebrows were long and red, speckled with blonde and gray. They were un-kept and hid under a dirty red hat that matched his suspenders.

“Cans you say? Are you having any luck tonight, old man?” I ask him with skepticism.

“Not yet…but I’m more interested in the lovely piece of metal you keep on your back.” He said with a sinister grin as his eyelids softly squint. His focused eyes weren’t as weary as his face and clothes. Closing my eyes, I grin and shake my head at the thought of this old man, the old familiar voice from the past. I quickly turn and simultaneously grab the pistol from behind my back when the world slows down to a complete stop. My suit coat floating in the air and my tie gracefully wrapped around my chest, I quickly glance and see a fading shadow make its way around the carwash wall behind a trash filled dumpster. Rain drops start to fall at a rate so slow that I seem to avoid them. The silence is so loud that my breath and heartbeat are the only noise I can hear. The burst of two shots send flashes of fire and light from the end of my pistol. As I pull my pistol down to my side, the world speeds up. Rain begins to fall and there is no one for what seems to be empty blocks of deserted roads and buildings. Not even the dogs have come out of pure curiosity. I slide the pistol back into its resting spot in the back of my pants and walk over to assess the damage of the two shots fired. Digging both bullets from the brick wall behind the dumpster, a small maroon lampshade rolls from side to side with a single small hole from the bullet that was meant for the shadowed figure that disappeared into the darkness.

“Damn…I’m out a quarter, old man.” I say beneath my breath.


To whom it may concern:
I don’t know what I’m called to do…but I do it anyway.
Give me strength and wisdom…I’m your angel.


CHAPTER 5

My eyes open, as I lay there silent. I look over at the clock…2:08 am. I pull my pajama pants up to cover my nakedness and I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is still the same shape as it was when I laid down and my arms and back are covered in tattoos. Today’s dream has given me a new tattoo. They are symbols of my accomplishments and my failures, symbols of my calling completed for now…new ink; placed there by hands that I don’t know in the midst of my dreams. I wake up and they are there. Fresh and sore, skin raised and burning, they are my secret.

Thinking about my recent encounter with the old man, I wonder the significance of it. Who he was or who he once was. Where he came from or where he went. Was this a dream? His eerie presence made my stomach turn. Anxiety and nervousness filled my body. The sound of his voice was deep and dark, and his familiarity with me was uncanny. He knew when, where, and how I was going to react. I wasn’t comfortable with his curiosity and precision. The way his eyes revealed his zeal and willingness to confront me, made me very uncomfortable. My lack of awareness gave me pause as I ran the dream through my head over and over again. He was the first to get away.

*

My first tattoo came to me as I awoke from a dream where I watched the brutal attack of myself, as if I was there as a silent observer, watching from the sideline of some sort of reality that I didn’t know or didn’t want to remember. I watched in silence as my body was tied to a bed in a ritualistic form of sadism. At the age of seven, the skin of my ankles and wrist cut by the wire that wrapped around them, holding me to captive in a familiar room and to a familiar bed. The wire, slicing through the skin, began to cover in the blood of my innocent skin, creating fresh blood stains over the already stained mattress. My chest and stomach flex as I struggle to breathe through the towel that was wrapped around my face. Tears flowed down the side of my head and soaked into the urine and blood stained mattress. Screaming, hoping to wake up from the nightmare, my toes began to curl as my legs and arms twist to break free from my captivity.

Hopeless and pointless, my body relaxes as my breath became heavy and slow. My eyes close for what seemed to be forever. When they open, I lay there motionless. Useless thoughts of escape and revenge churn in my head. My eyes and mind become numb as the tears stop flowing. Emotion and feelings leave my body and mind as I settle into reality. This is my life. There is no future. There is no hope.

I stood there watching, frozen in my black suit. Sunglasses cover my eyes and the wind starts to softly lift the tail of my jacket. My fists clinch in anger, but my body doesn’t move. I’m stuck. Watching as the tears of my former self start to flow backwards from the mattress, up the side of my face, back into the stone eyes of my younger self, I see the blood slowly seep back into the cuts from the wire around my wrist and ankles. The wire unwraps itself and everything is moving in reverse, as if I’m watching a movie backwards. The naked father figure unwrapped my face as his body goes from dark red to his pale shade of normalcy. He walks backwards toward the door as the smile leaves his face and he closes the door. Silence…the world pauses.

To Whom It May Concern:
I am going to kill you.

My younger version walks toward the door, naked and exposed, as a smile appears on his face. Standing there in nothing but anger, he stretches his arms out to the side and tilts his head up toward the ceiling. Soaking up power from some supernatural force, he flexes his body. Bones crack and his jaw tenses up. Standing there possessed, he laughs and turns to look at me. Smiling, his eyes are forged with power. He puts one finger over his lips, as if he knows I’m watching, telling me to stay still and quiet, telling me to stand there in silence. He slowly opens the door and then quietly closes the door behind him.

Seconds later, I see myself enter the room. Wearing the sunglasses and suit, I see myself walk over and stand in front of me, face to face. I remove my glasses, as does this other version of myself, mirroring every movement. I glance down and see the smoke from the barrel of my pistol slowly disappear as it exits the tip of the gun.

Flashing back to reality, I feel the burning of sore skin on my wrist. Filled with fresh black ink, my skin burns; remnants of my new tattoo.


*

I opened the front door and walked out. Without looking, I reached into the mailbox on the porch and pulled out a box of cigarettes. I pull two out and place one behind each ear. I pull out another one and place it in my lips. The smoke off the first pull slowly rolls up my face and waters my eyes. The cool sensation of menthol fills my mouth as I inhale the smoke slowly.

“I guess I will see you again old man. I know what you look like…and you smell of menthol cigarettes. Next time, I won’t be so generous.” I said to myself. The last one sent to meet me ended up on the news. I didn’t know that a pedophile had such a strong fan base and adoring fans. I do have to say that his funeral was quite an uncomfortable place, filled with faces that I have seen in my dreams and on TV. I just wish that I could remember what he sounded like as I brought him the justicethat every victim wished they could witness.

To Whom It May Concern:
I think I am either the hand of God or the hand of Satan. I’m not for sure…so if you could, enlighten me please.

Amused by that thought, I smile and shake my head. I pull a cigarette out from behind my ear and light it with the tip of the old one.


CHAPTER 6

She propped her head up with her left hand and doodled pictures on the back of old receipt paper. Over her shoulder, her manager Tom said, “That’s pretty cool. What is that? It looks a lot like a vagina.” Carla, not surprised by his nosey interjection, looked down at the paper and was surprised. She wondered why, of all things, she would draw such a thing. Was there