Free Duncan's Diary by Christopher C. Payne

before I finished. The preceding activities had gotten me so excited I was ready to explode before I started thrusting.
    I rolled over and lay there for a few minutes. Jill’s movements had stopped now, and she was lying still. I could hear a slight muffled crying coming from beneath the tape, and I felt sad and alone even with her next to me. I had never wanted to hurt her. I only wanted to be with her. I wanted to be with somebody who loved and cared for me in a way that I wanted them to. To stop with the incessant bitching and finger pointing, but to simply be with me and do what they were told.
    I could no longer look Jill in the face. I left the room, turned off the light, and went upstairs. I had to take a shower and spent several minutes washing and scrubbing the dirt and filth off of my body. As the water streamed down my face, I began to cry. Sobbing uncontrollably and losing my ability to stand, I squatted down in the shower in a small ball, wondering about what I had done. It reminded me of the scene in the movie from the ’70’s when Glenn Close hears of her friend’s death and huddles in the shower, crying from the news of the recent passing.
    My daughters have always made fun of my inability to cry. They often comment on why, when things are very bad, I don’t cry. Why didn’t I cry when their mother kicked me out of the house? Or when I sat with them and told them about getting a divorce? Why did I not have the ability to show my emotions as they did?
    I was never sure how to answer them; but, at this point, in time I knew I had the ability to cry. It must just take something extraordinary to move me to tears. I stepped out of the glass enclosure and grabbed a towel. After drying, I put on a pair of black nylon running shorts and went to bed. I was wiped out from the day’s events, and the sexual release had taken almost all the energy I had left. I really needed a good night’s sleep and wished with all my heart that closing my eyes would erase the blackness that was enveloping my mind.
    I felt as if I were lost in the woods, wandering aimlessly but had lost the ability to see. I was waving my arms in front of me, cringing at the scratches the branches were inflicting as they grabbed at me from every direction. When one can’t see where one is going, the sudden attack of panic and the loneliness is as suffocating as being alive in a coffin. You see the first shovel full of dirt being pushed down on your face while the blackness descends.
    You are helpless, and there is no longer anyone who will help. You have used up all your favors from what few friends you had, and you are now left to face the ramifications of who and what you are. Is it worse to die yourself or to live the death of somebody you have killed over and over again? Feeling their pain and their suffering, knowing it was you who was the source of the very infliction you feel?
     

 
     
     
The Detective
     
    Sudhir Takhar was born and grew up in Foster City, but that did not erase his Indian heritage. His mother and father had both come from India, and his father spoke broken English at best. He had married an Indian woman (Janine) as was tradition. She was Sikh and he was Hindu, so the marriage was frowned upon—the two types did not mix gracefully. How prejudiced are we as a society? Not only do we have to be of the same nationality, but we have to be from the same specific region. Granted, India is a big place, but it seemed odd that the two religious factions were that opposed to each other both being from India. Maybe we are at greatest odds when we are close enough to know each other intimately, yet still harbor ill will. Sounds like the definition of marriage.
    Sudhir still told the story of skipping school on several occasions. Even with his flawless mastering of the typical Peninsula English dialect, he could do a great Indian accent. He used to recount the times with fervor of calling his school, pretending to be his father.