Noam Lockwood

My wife, Emmah, always said I have an overactive imagination, that it was one of the essential parts of me, something that made me—me. I don’t know, I am beginning to see her point. 

Last week, we had a debate about who had gone to bed last. I claimed to have left her in the sitting room when she had decided the new show on channel 19 was all she felt like seeing that night but she had a totally different opinion of it. In fact, she said she had left for bed when I refused to let the T.V. rest on a single channel. 

When she said this, I initially thought maybe she had it wrong or maybe she was still mad that I had gone to bed without her but the next words that came out her mouth were what baffled me the most. 

“Noam, there is no channel 19, it stops at twelve,” she said with so much concern that I ran down the stairs, took the T.V. remote and punched the numbers one and nine on the remote but nothing came up. I was sure we argued about the channel the previous night, I was sure of it all but that moment, I knew I couldn’t be more wrong.

We decided it was best I get a psychologist or at least see someone. That was when we met Mr. Herald on the internet. 

Herald’s ways were unorthodox and disturbing to a degree. He kept asking questions without giving suggestions or any official conclusions. On the last day of our session, Herald walked into the room and said:

“Today, we will be doing something different.”

I remained quiet, waiting for him to finish but instead, he pulled his chair closer till we were only a meter apart. “Think about an event, preferably one that is unclear to you.”

I tried to think of the remote incident with Emmah but my mind kept drifting to a later event that had happened only when I was thirteen.

I was in my room that night when I heard my father drive in. I knew he was not supposed to be there that night, my mother and he separated for three years already. So, there was no reason why he would show up out of nowhere. 

I paused my game and made my way to the door, I could hear the television’s volume grow louder than normal and my mom’s voice screaming above them. “You can’t be here.”, “You have to leave now or I will call the police.” My mom kept screaming but I never heard my dad’s voice. I could hear my mom say, “No, I don’t want you anywhere near him.”, “I don’t want you anywhere near my son.” But again, I never heard him speak but I could hear him throw things at her, smash them against the wall but not his voice.

Then, I heard my mom say, “That’s it, I am calling the police.” There was silence for a while. Then, the next thing I heard was the sound of her pistol. I ran to my bed and called the police immediately but when they arrived, my father was long gone but the weapon was found on the kitchen floor.

I did not know why my mind kept taking me back to that day but it was the only event I had in mind when Herald raised a silver ball pen to close to my eyes.

“Concentrate on this pen and listen to my voice,” he said. “You are to keep a steady fixed gaze on it and know that nothing matters except the object in front of you.” 

I cannot tell what happened next but when I opened my eyes, I found myself in that room, that night.

“You are in a room,” Herald’s firm-but-soft voice came. “There is a door—open it. What do you see?”

I pulled open the door, making my way down the stairs. I had my flip-flop from when I was thirteen and my white pajama on. My father stood beside my mom by the door stand. She was wrapped in his arms and she had his coat on top of her blue uniform. I stood beside the stairs watching as they laughed and smiled like they were in love. My father raised his head and saw me. “Hey, Kiddo,” he said with a smile but I remained still, staring at him and my mom. 

My mom rubbed her upper arms then bowed her head. She pulled his coat and handed it back to him.

“You should go. I will handle this,” my mom said.

My father nodded again, while we maintained eye contact. He pulled his coat from her and opened his mouth to say something but closed them again, deciding to wave his hand instead.

The door closed and my mom exhaled, turning to me. 

“That was rude, Noam,” she said.

“You said, you were not seeing him anymore,” I said.

“Well, adults say a lot of things.” 

“You lied.” My voice grew louder.

“I did not lie, Noam. I—” she paused. “I simply did not know I would be seeing him again, then I didn’t know how to tell you.” She waved her hands, dramatically.

She strode to the kitchen, pulled open the cupboard then closed it; walked to the microwave, pulled it open and closed it again.

“You lied to me. Why are you seeing him?” I shouted.

“That’s enough, young man. I am the adult here, not you.” 

She exhaled then placed both hands behind her on the cooker.

I remained still for a while, then, turned to the drawer behind me. I pulled the drawer open and reached for the silver pistol inside it.

“Honey! Honey, what are you doing?” She stammered.

“You lied to me,” I said again.

“Honey, put the gun down then we can talk.” 

She raised her hand but I pulled the safety off instead, raising the gun at her.

“Honey… Noam for Christ sake put the gun down.”

 Her heart was racing now; I could feel her fear from where I stood. I moved closer. She tried to move but bumped against the cooker behind her. She cast a gander at her back and then swiftly back to me.

“Why did you lie to me?” 

“Because mommy was scared. Honey, put the gun down, please. You are scaring mommy.” She took one successful step back and then another. I followed with two more steps forward.

“Mommy doesn’t need to be scared, mommy needs to die.”

On hearing this, she turned swiftly, reaching for her purse then tried to run up the stairs. 

I squeezed the trigger immediately, the first hitting against the wooden cupboard then the second against her thigh. 

She screamed as she fell to the ground, holding her bleeding thigh with her hand. She turned to face me as I walked calmly towards her. I stood above her, looking her straight in the eyes.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me.” 

I shot her three times to the chest.

I jumped out my chair, hitting Herald’s hands off my face. My heart was pounding fast and sweat stood majestically against my skin.

“What did you see?” Herald asked.

I had almost forgotten he was there. I turned to face him. “Nothing, I didn’t see anything,” I said.

He cocked his brow. 

I turned around, still startled by what I had seen. I stared at the clock on his table, stilled at 0:00. “My time is up. I should go now,” I said, walking out before he could object.

I returned home. Emmah was in the sitting room, seeing one of her favorite shows. She turned to face me for a brief second and asked:

“How did it go?” 

“Fine,” I said, kissing her forehead softly then made my way to my room.