Chapter 2

David stopped writing. It had only been a few minutes of scribbling, and then came a
sudden halt.

David took the black ball-point pen that was leaning against his sweaty palm, hoisted it
from its still and peaceful stance, and held it horizontally with his thumb and index
finger, with his wrist pointing towards the ceiling. He then separated his two fingers from
the pen, as if it had caught on fire, and let it fall.

The pen dropped silently onto the pad. As David watched it lying there, he felt odd. It had
seemed like he had let go of a puffy feather – not a pen – and that it had moved, just like a
feather would, drifting through the wind, moving round and round, up and about, before
ultimately landing on the even surface.

For David, the concept of time had now been lost completely. What was real and what
wasn’t suddenly mattered little to him. It had been hours since he had been brought in to
that boxed interrogation room, and the wear and tear of Murphy’s interrogation
techniques had slowly crept deep into David, causing him to experience a light delirium.
It hasn’t been all bad though - I’m still alive, he thought. Barely.

In that moment of still and uninterrupted delusion (Murphy was keeping his distance and
staring at David like one does with curiously-behaving creatures at the zoo), where all
David was doing was sitting, he happily embraced the torpid stupor he found himself in
and then comfortably detached from his current painful reality once more (he had, after
all, done it before he had picked up the pen, what was to stop him from doing it now?).
This time however, it was different. This time, his “checking out”, of reality, to a
demented state of mind was due to mental fatigue, and not so much a result of his token
stubbornness.

So, after falling into his trance, the thought of debating over whether he was experiencing
a dream or not, became irrelevant, when he realized he had in fact, made a real decision:
to stop writing.

It was this real decision that forced David to contemplate whether he was dead or not.
The sensation of not feeling fully awake and aware of where he was, and what he was
doing there, made him feel foreign to his surroundings, and this was enough to make him
think “Am I dead?” He wasn’t quite sure whether he was fully capable of taking a
decision, and his drooping eyelids were manifesting a queer sensation, one that made put
him in a semi-awake mode, in which he drifted in and out of consciousness.

He closed his eyes.

Stillness.

He opened them. He closed them again.

There was stillness, with a vague noise in the background. It was clearly audible to him.

He opened his eyes, and then he closed, and squeezed tight. The wrinkles around his eyes
multiplied tenfold and he receded into himself, like a prune, bending inwards.

Until the rattling sound, that had been building up in the background, sped up into a
frenzied commotion, wheezing at his eardrums, then thumping into them like big tribal
drums, did David let out a small whimper. Murphy watched closely, and took two steps
back. The other policeman observed the drool falling off David’s lower lip. It was too
much for David now. He searched and found; he picked up on the troubling commotion
going on in the back of his head and located the source of discomfort.

It was there, like it had been when he bashed the guy’s head in. The feeling of
powerlessness and ultimate betrayal to a principle he couldn’t let go of, and the quiet
release when he so bluntly went against his own beliefs, and decided, to just get rid of the
rules that were supposed to be followed.

When his eyes closed he remembered the damn reason he had fallen into such a mess in
the first place.

It had always been the guilt, the damn Meraviglia guilt. It was that burdensome family
credence of “the way things should be” that so heavily plastered his free spirit, causing
him to distance himself from his family and from anything that bore any resemblance to
them. It was this that had transformed him into a lifelong bachelor. Every girl in David’s
life had at one time or another made his fetid feelings of guilt resurface, and that would
soon cause whatever relationship he had managed to keep, to quickly dissolve. So girls
became sex objects. They developed into one night stands, momentary satisfactions and
playthings, but never companions.

Clara Mint, the girl he had held on to for a year, had been, and still was, the love of his
life. The relationship had survived every insult, irrational action and sardonic comment
that David so bluntly laid on Clara, a lovely girl, who as soon as she would have gladly
left David for having received such hurtful affronts, always refused to do so, because she
so foolishly loved him. Enamored by the thought of “saving” David, Clara had taken it as
her life mission to turn what she saw as a confused, troubled man, into a reformed, lover
of life, whose potential was, according to her unwavering faith in him, to yield fantastic
things. It was this false illusion that made the relationship last. The year they lasted
together then, was Clara’s doing. David only avoided the end of it all by his refusal to
quit seeing her, despite his many empty threats to do so. It was Clara’s insistence to keep
on seeing him, after all, which made her so attractive in his eyes.

Clara’s insistence, and firm belief in him, had been what almost saved him. Almost.

She had first found him after his home had burned down, lying between the burnt bricks,
in his business suit and ugly spotted tie, limply hanging on to nothing, his legs spread out
and his arms flailing against the destructed property. He was there, but not, and that starry
night, he laid bare for the entire world to see, with his soul lost in its own contention. As
vulnerable as he was, she had not permitted her pity for him to take hold of her, and
firmly saw that the man in the ruinous plot of land, where a house had once stood, was
now grieving, in what she thought was a very valid way. So she came to him, and with no
words exchanged between the two, they embraced, his grip tearing into her clothes (then,
clenched into her skin) and as she went forth to further embrace him, she felt not an
ounce of pain.

It was this incredible event that lay the original strength and might that characteristically
made their relationship a strong one. And there was love, much love. It was the power of
that initial encounter, and the clouting resonance of all the significant events during their
time together, that had so intoxicated them both, into such a morphed sense of reality, that
once they had left each other for good, and embarked on their own separate ways, David
spiraled into a self-destructive absence of mind and by that point Clara was too late to do
anything.

And now, he was being interrogated by two policemen, and longing for his loving Clara.

The transient thought of his loved one vanished as soon as it came; he detached from the
dreamland and quickly woke. The realization that everything had been quiet for a while
set in and in a spasm he looked over to his right side, to where Murphy usually was
(Murphy liked standing to his right, because it was there where he could best admire his
work - David’s busted right eye), and was surprised to see that he was now behind him.
He turned quickly and saw only two things: a bulging mass of red hair hovering over
him, with its crop of split hairs and jagged edges shaking about in different hues of red,
and Murphy’s eyes, bulging out of his face, ready to pop out. The rest of the man’s face
was pitch black; darkened completely, and obscured from David’s view.

Murphy was producing a thick ominous presence around David. Feeling rather confident,
he laid his two hands on David’s shoulders, and pummeled his weight on his prisoner like
a putrid set of barbells. The dire situation David was in (to write - or to be tortured),
started to crowd in on him, causing him to once again, feel used, and unfairly
blackmailed. Then, he sufficed wholly and silently to himself to just not care and turned
back to the notepad, and as soon as he did, he twisted right back to Murphy, who was still
staring. He’s drilling holes in the back of my skull with all that fucking staring, thought
David.

David had forgotten all about Murphy and his shit while he had been writing, but he
didn’t want to write anymore, not like this. After all, there was nothing to lose, things
couldn’t get worse, and by now, David figured, at least he knew he was capable of
holding on to the one thing that had gotten him thus far - his stubbornness - and to
maybe use this as a bargaining tool. It had, after all, been hours since he had first been
brought in. David then figured that he was controlling them. So he chose to stay put.
The notepad still lay there on the table, unused, and both men waited for something to
happen.

David became as still as he could, aiding his endeavor by crossing his arms and bowing
his head down a bit. He induced a catatonic state, making sure to show no emotion.
Murphy saw this, and once again started to grow impatient, but he decided to give the
prisoner a chance, at least granting him enough time for him to realize his mistake and
start writing again by his own voluntary will. His small act of defiance had been noted,
but Murphy told himself repeatedly to wait it out a bit, at least to figure out a way to
solve this small dilemma.

The notepad still lay there, but Murphy didn’t make a move, he was behaving just as
calmly as his own self let him manage. He then read the few scribbles and doodles that
were on the notepad.

I really didn’t have to do what I did, but I did it, so there it is.

Everything has a breaking point, and there’s only so much a decent

man can handle. It’s not fair to expect more of me, so I rather resent the
treatment here. These people think they’re so high and mighty with their
stupid interrogation rooms, and their hand-cuffs and their patronizing
comments. I won’t budge, not an inch. I’ll stay here and rot in this chair if
need be. And they better turn that damn light off soon, it’s burning my face
in.

Damn them. Damn all these people to hell. They don’t understand
that I just did what was necessary. That bastard, Murphy, and I hope you
read this too!!, knows exactly why I’ve stood my ground, yet he refuses to
explain that to the other cop, the one who’s keeping busy just staring and
glaring, enjoying the unfair treatment I’m receiving here.

This useless barrage of inefficient interrogation is like hearing a

continuous cacophony of cat screeches and parakeet squawks, and of
course, Murphy’s torture.

Then there was a space, and Murphy thought the text had ended. He looked again.
A space below, there lay a small line, and it read:

Li manco Padre

Murphy was unsure what the last line meant, but it haunted him. He decided to ignore it
for the moment. He was also slightly unnerved at the writing. It seemed arrogant and too
proper, and it caused Murphy to feel dumb.

It was clear that Murphy felt different about the prisoner, after having read the whole
scribbled mess. He was confused as to why the text now caused him to view the petty,
dirty criminal into a being that maybe deserved more respect from him. It was apparent to
him that the written message was more than clear, yet it said nothing. It was more of a
complaint than a confession, and it was just as retaliatory as when David had been saying
nothing. But Murphy had just read it; he had to say something, and was compelled to do
so, but he felt completely clueless as what to say. The truth was, Murphy had nothing up
his sleeve this time, and he was terrified of leaving the briefing room with no statement.
Not getting David to talk would mean failure, and there was nothing more repulsive to
Murphy than failure.

In a very matter-of-fact way, Murphy started to walk around the table, putting on airs of
what he considered ‘superiority’, and kept on walking with this mighty man’s gait,
making sure David could get a glimpse of his new-found overconfidence. David was
unfazed.

Murphy stopped dead in his tracks and cocked his head towards the door, looking at it,
but not at David. He was standing right next to David, with his waist at head level with
the sitting prisoner.

“There’s been progress,” Murphy muttered, still looking away, “I like how you called me
a bastard there, nice touch”.

Murphy quickly looked at David for a reaction, but there was none. He then felt like a
fool, because he knew that David knew what he was doing, and it was killing him inside,
that he had failed, once again, to gain the upper hand in the situation. Murphy was
starting to rot with self-doubt, and quickly realized he had botched his attempt to
intimidate David with what he deemed to be a perfect imitation of authority. His mimicry
had come forth more as a sort of unintentional mockery, and David had silently chuckled
at the sight of Murphy’s pathetic attempt to frighten him into submission (David thought
Murphy seemed like an old film-noir detective, walking aimlessly around the room,
trying to interrogate a prisoner by stating useless threats).

Murphy grabbed his head with both hands and squeezed.

“Look, please, just give us something,” said Murphy.

Then he bit his lip. Damn it, he thought. Murphy had shown a weak spot. He knew that
this was the rule that should never be broken with scum like David Meraviglia. “Never
even think of looking weak to these criminals, always keep them on their toes – make
them always be in debt with you! Never be sorry!” Murphy Senior used to say. The old
man was certainly right, and Murphy felt guilty as hell. This was weakness. And
weakness was unacceptable.

Murphy couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t bear it. He knew he was weak at times, but he
placed less importance on being weak than he did on appearing weak. This serious lack
of conviction caused Murphy much pain. It shrouded him in a quagmire of insecurity, yet
his small triumphs always served as the remedy for his downtrodden failures, and he was
content with holding on to at least that.

Murphy had a habit of never compromising himself in situations that might consider his
actions as unfair or evil. He had resented that David wrote down unfair treatment. And
Murphy felt the need to hit him again, for this is how things had been dealt with his
whole life, and force always yielded results. Murphy had battled his demons through the
years, and had always had an uncomfortable feeling deep within him, that would manifest
everytime he had become violent.

It had been the day he hit his wife that he decided he needed a mental fix for his brutality.
His father hit his mother, all the time, so why did he feel so bad when he did the same
with his wife?

Because he wasn’t man enough. He was after all, a “sentimental sissy”, a brand cruelly
placed on him by his father, at various times in his life, but most memorably when he
refused to kill his own dog at age ten. To kill my own dog, that bastard, Murphy thought.
It was this and other disquieting situations that brought Murphy Jr. much shame, and
made him seem like a lesser individual, not only in the eyes of his father, but in his
mother’s eyes as well. It had been a full on war in his house ever since he had been born.
His father had wanted to have a childless marriage, and was furious when his wife told
him the news of her conception. He wanted his future son to be aborted, and his mother
had resented her son, Hiram Murphy Jr., for the rest of his life, because he was
responsible for the disdain and disrespect his father had so blatantly delivered to her,
every single day that followed her decision to keep the baby. It was, in Helena’s own
reasoning, her son’s own fault for having been conceived, then born (why couldn’t he just
naturally abort?) – He chose to exist.

After Hiram Junior’s birth, everything his father wanted for him became what his mother
wanted too. It was this game of “please him till he loves me like he used to” that
Murphy’s mother humiliated herself through, and as she did, she accumulated within
herself seething resentment, which she took out as much she could on Hiram Murphy Jr.

It was the Thanksgiving Incident that particularly bought Murphy to his knees, whenever
he thought about it.

When Murphy, years before, had surprised his mother with a thanksgiving meal, as a
celebratory occasion -for it was the day he had bought his new apartment - his mother
watched in disgust as the perfect turkey, the stuffing, the apple pie, the cranberry juice
and wine stood at the table, with candles adorning the room and providing just the right
amount of light to make the whole dinner table seem to be cut from a Charles Dickens
book, like Murphy had originally envisioned it. It was this that Murphy’s mother saw,
when she first came, carrying with her own turkey. The woman had not expected this, and
after watching the horrid display of perfect cuisine, she dropped her turkey, smashing the
wooden floor into various interwoven cracks.
“You disgust me! It’s not a man’s place to cook, this was not your role!” she shrieked.

Men don’t cook, the woman does. Helena heard Hiram Sr. say once, in a Saturday
afternoon card game with his weekend buddies.

“You’ve never followed what we’ve taught you, and Dear God, it’s my entire fault.” She
continued, “You don’t have the guts to do anything, be anything, accomplish anything
that’s expected of you!”

She stomped around the room, and then stood quietly beside her limp turkey. The gravy
below it was slowly spreading, like blood oozing from a shot corpse, and the spot on the
floor became bigger and bigger, at a comfortable snail’s pace.

“You know, that day I found you playing with those crayons, I thought to myself, ‘He’s
just a kid’, so I saw no problem with buying ‘ya some more…but then you started
drawing more and more” she said, “and then all you did was draw.”

The boy keeps drawing? I don’t give a damn if he’s a fucking Picasso, Helena! He’s going
to be a policeman damnit, not a fucking artsy fartsy good-for-nothing! Your son, your
son, your son…your son.

“You and your drawing,” she continued. She then took her hand and pressed her head on
it, as she moved the rolling chair she was sitting on, back and forth. Back and forth.

This boy is just like you, Helena…a pathetic, quiet, weak-minded good-for-nothing.

Helena screeched and screamed with all her strength into the window in front of her.

“Why can’t you just speak, you fool?” she shrieked, “Say something!”

Murphy was standing opposite his mother. He turned over and watched his dining room
table, in the adjacent room. On it, rows of cornbread, mashed potatoes and biscuits lined
up between the various sorts of vegetables and meats he had brought home from the
market. In the middle lay his fateful turkey. The pleasant aroma of his home cooked meal
had quickly turned into a distasteful reminder of shameful failure. The meal he had made
was now poisonous, reaming with infection, and was airing its toxicity throughout his
new apartment. And he hated that smell. He had thought, up till that moment, that he
would have been strong enough to still be able to enjoy the meal, one which he had put so
much of his heart into.

Then it seemed like she was about to speak again.

She jerked her head toward him, and her neck let out a loud crack.
“Tell me this, boy, and tell me the truth – because I swear to God, that everything you do
reminds me of everything I’ve never wanted you to be, and everything you are is
basically telling me…”, she trailed off into a muttering.

“…telling me that I’m a failure! A failure as a parent! As a mother!” she screamed.

You couldn’t even raise him well. Why the hell did you want to keep him anyways? Is he
even mine, Helena?

Helena Murphy was bawling and moaning, wrenching around in her rolling chair,
insanely shuddering while holding her two arms together, very tightly.

Murphy watched his mother, less than two meters from him, and felt completely alone.

“Your father’s not coming you know?” she suddenly said.

No response from Murphy.

Helena stood up and walked past her son, heading for the door.

As she stood at the front entrance, she turned around and looked at Murphy.

“Dio! Cosa ho fatto per meritare questo?” she asked, in a guttural tone.

“What?” asked Murphy

He had heard the phrase, yet he wanted to hear it again. What was she saying?

As Murphy stood in his hallway, watching his mother, turn around and leave, he kept
hearing the phrase, and its curious unnatural tone, eerily getting closer and closer to him,
as his mother left and walked further and further away.

The apartment soon collapsed and a dry coldness hit Murphy. He was alone in the room,
the other policeman had left. He was standing besides David.

“Dio. Cosa ho fatto per meritare questo?” He heard it once more.

“Keep writing” Murphy said. He was thinking of his mother.

“Dio. Cosa ho fatto per meritare questo?”

“Are you saying that?” Murphy asked David.

David turned around.

“You speak Italian?” he said.

Murphy’s eyes opened wide.

Murphy took hold of David’s head, and held a firm grip on him. David’s hair was long
and straight enough for Murphy to wrap his fingers around. Then he took hold of David’s
skull and pushed his head, with much force, against the table. Murphy repeated this
action three times, with equal force, and a fourth time with a much more diminished
effort.

Murphy gasped for air, and let go of David’s hair. As he did, David’s brown locks slid
from his fingers. Murphy looked at the red between his fingers.

“David?” asked Murphy.

Linden, the other policeman, stepped in the room.

Linden looked at Murphy, then at David, and then left the room.

“David?” asked Murphy once more.