How Did I Get Here?

*CW: Physical violence, gore, sexual violence.

How did I get here?

Not just here; under violent pouring rain.

Naked. Eyes strain.

How did I get here?

Not just here; under lamplight in pain.

Vulnerable. Blood stains.

How did I get here?

Wails mixed with the crackling sky.

Alone. I cry.

How did I get here?

To this place?

In this state?

How did I get here and why?

The morning started like every other boring Monday. I slinked my long, pasty-white limbs out from under my green gingham blanket and slipped my naked toes into my brown, fuzzy slippers, which are losing their cloud-like comfort, flattened into pancakes after many years of use. First, I turned on the shower because I’m on the top floor, so it needs a good five minutes before the hot water finds its way up to my apartment. I made coffee while I waited, as I do every morning, and then showered, put some gel in my hair, and was almost late for my bus trying to figure out which outfit to repeat today. I wondered if the bus driver or the routine transit crowd noticed I wore this same green hoodie yesterday. My favourite. I threw on the same jeans with black Blundstone boots, since it’s supposed to rain later.

I dragged myself through the workday on autopilot, answering questions that people have the information for, solving my boss’s problems that he’s fully capable of solving himself at his big age, and listening to my coworker ramble about what types of clouds are forming in the sky. Something about a cumulus congestus, which to me just sounds like an STD.

“This written statement reads like a fantasy novel, Mr. Vinovny.”

“I’m a writer, Officer. What can I say?”

“You can say the truth. What happened?”

“I’ve told you already. I don’t know.”

“I thought you said you were an accountant, Mr. Vinovny?”

“I am an accountant. Is this all you do, Officer? Do you have no hobbies or passions outside of this stale, dark room?”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Now, tell me what happened.”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

“Well then, tell me what happened after you left work yesterday. And please leave out the unnecessary details.” He tosses the pages of my written statements onto the table.

“How am I supposed to know which details are unnecessary? Shouldn’t every detail be necessary to you, Officer? I want to know what happened to me just as much as you do.”

“Go on.”

“After work, I went to a bar. I needed a beer and decided to work on some poetry.”

“Do you write a lot of poetry?”

“I do. I wish I could show you, but I think I left my bag at the bar, which also had the latest manuscript of my novel in it. It was really good, too. It’s about a young boy who wakes up on another planet and—”

“Mr. Vinovny—”

“Sorry. Unnecessary details. Anyway, I had a few drinks, then left the bar.”

“Did you leave the bar? Or were you kicked out?”

“Seems I forgot a few necessary details.”

“A few. Your written statement says there was a fight in the bar.”

“There was a fight, but I didn’t cause it.”

“It says here that you punched someone in the face.”

“I did punch someone in the face.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because he deserved it.”

“So he caused the fight?”

“Correct.”

“Go on.”

“He stole my poetry book from the countertop and called me a slur.”

“Which slur?”

“I’m sure you can put those puzzle pieces together on your own, Officer. Isn’t that your job?”

“But that fight is not where the blood came from. So, they kicked you out, and then what happened?”

“Thank you for the clothes, by the way. I appreciate not having to wear an orange jumpsuit or whatever. Your showers here don’t get hot water, though. I waited for five minutes, and it was still ice cold.”

“Yeah, well, the holding cells aren’t exactly meant to be a luxury. And you’re just lucky a guy about your size died here yesterday.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“I never said you were.”

“You’re making me feel like one.”

“Am I? Or is that your own projection? Your own guilt, Mr. Vinovny?”

“I’m not guilty of anything. You need to find who is guilty of doing whatever the fuck happened to me!”

“So what did happen to you? After you left the bar?”

“Just like my statement says. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Allow me to read your written statement aloud. ‘I hated that bar, anyway. Their beer is flat, and the bartender is always trying to have sex with me. And it’s not that he’s ugly or anything; he’s actually quite hot. But he has a wife, and I’m not interested in being anyone’s little experiment. Anyway, I was working on a poem about clouds since it had started drizzling outside.’ Do you see what I mean by unnecessary details, Mr. Vinovny?”

“Yeah, yeah. You can skip ahead. You already know the dude called me a faggot and I punched him.”

“Yes, let’s jump ahead to where you provide some details you left out just now. You ran into the gentleman from the bar again, outside.”

“I did?”

“You know you did.”

“No, I mean, I left that out?”

“You did.”

“I didn’t mean to. I barely remember running into him. Did he knock me out? Did he drug me?”

“Is that what you think happened, Mr. Vinovny?”

“I don’t know! I’m asking you!”

“Why don’t we watch the security footage?”

“What security footage?”

The officer pulls a silver laptop from his leather bag, opens it to a video already loaded up on his desktop, and hits play.

“Here we see you in your green hoodie, exiting the bar.”

“My favourite hoodie that I’ll never see again.”

“Then you proceed to punch the brick exterior wall. Enough to make your hand bleed. Do you remember this, Mr. Vinovny?”

“I do. I was pissed off that they kicked me out, and the homophobe who harassed me faced no justice himself.”

“Pissed off enough to hurt someone?” He pauses the video.

“No, of course not.”

“So the blood on your hoodie is your own?”

“Yes. I remember wiping it off on myself after I punched the wall.”

“On your favourite hoodie?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is someone else’s blood all over it?”

“How would I know? How would you know?”

“Because we found your hoodie and shirt in a garbage bin not far off from where we found you. And your pants in the alley by the bar. We couldn’t locate your boots, socks or underwear, Mr. Vinovny.”

A female officer enters the interrogation room with two bags of evidence containing my damp clothing. My green hoodie has turned a deep purplish-brown from the mixture of rain and blood. She sets them on the table and quietly leaves the room.

“So if you found DNA on my clothes that is not mine, you should be able to determine who did this to me, right?”

“And what exactly do you think was done to you, Mr. Vinovny?”

“You need to stop asking me questions I don’t have the fucking answers to. And how did you find out that it’s not my DNA so fast? You saw me wipe my bloody hands on my hoodie.”

“That amount of blood did not come from your one hand. We’ve asked the lab to make this a priority. We know it’s not solely your DNA, but we don’t know who it belongs to yet. I should have that information within twenty-four hours. So you have exactly that amount of time to tell me the truth. Preferably sooner.”

“So you’re telling me in twenty-four hours, you’ll be able to tell me who did this to me?”

“Let’s get back to the security footage.” He hits play again. “Here, the gentleman you punched finds you outside. It seems you had a bit of a heated interaction. What did he say to you here?”

“I don’t remember.”

He pauses the video again. “Good thing I’ve sent a copy off to our forensic lip reader, who will have a written transcript on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. In any case, it looks like he is approaching you for another confrontation. Do you recall that much?”

“Maybe a little. It’s all a blur. I was seething with rage still, and I had too much to drink.”

“Earlier you said you had a few drinks. Are a few drinks enough to get you that drunk, Mr. Vinovny? Or did you have more than a few drinks?”

“I hadn’t eaten much at that point. I didn’t take my lunch break at work, so I was drinking on an empty stomach.”

“So you were drunk, seething with rage, and the man who called you a homophobic slur was in your face again. And you didn’t do anything to him?”

“I don’t remember. But why are you, and the bartender for that matter, more concerned about what I did, when I was clearly the one being hate crimed? Seems nobody gives a shit about that, huh? You’re painting me as a criminal when I’m the victim.”

“Again, I never said you’re a criminal.”

“But you don’t believe I’m a victim.”

“I never said that either.”

He hits play again. I watch myself exit the frame.

“See? I walked away. I knew it. I told you I didn’t do anything.”

“No, you said you don’t remember anything. Now you remember walking away? Where did you go?”

“I don’t remember.”

Suddenly, staring at my favourite ruined hoodie in a clear plastic bag, a vision flashes back to me.

I’m running down a dark alley, the pavement is wet as rain starts to fall. Dim, yellow flickering light reflects off the gleaming surface. As I run at full speed, I feel him gaining on me. My vision becomes cloudy, and I’m slowing down as my limbs begin to tingle, heavy, like they’re falling asleep. I can hear the man shouting something at me, but I can’t make out the words. And then I feel the blow to the side of my head, which finishes my ongoing journey to the pavement.

“Mr. Vinovny?”

I gasp back to reality, where the officer is carefully packing his laptop and my written statements into his leather messenger bag, and collecting the evidence into his arms.

“We’re going to have to call it here for the night.”

“Do I get to go home?”

“No, you’ll have to stay in the holding cell for the night again.”

“Can I have a notebook at least?”

How did I get here?

Not just here; between walls of white brick.

Stiff. Sick.

How did I get here?

Not just here; where, from grace, I fall.

Afraid. Blind to it all.

How did I get here?

In a dead man’s garments.

Criminal. Varmint.

How did I get here?

To this place?

In this state?

How did I…

Wait.

He’s on top of me, pulling off my boots and jeans. He throws my boots down the alley, and my jeans land near my face, one pant leg falling over my neck. I can’t see much, but I can feel his hands undo my belt and zipper, and the wet pavement and cold air against my bare thighs. I feel him pull my underwear down and lean himself against me.

“You really shouldn’t leave your drink unattended like that,” he grunts in a low voice. “Took long enough for it to kick in though, huh?”

I want to speak, but my mouth won’t open, and the words won’t come. I’m lying on my stomach, my cheek on the pavement, pressed against a soggy cigarette butt. He starts undoing his own belt buckle and unzipping his jeans. This homophobe is trying to have sex with me.

Being gay can be a pretty unsafe existence in general, but especially in the area in which I live. At least twice a week, I get heckled by someone on the bus or walking down the street. I’ve had people jump at me, spit at me, throw things at me. I’ve even had a few people threaten me. Which is why I keep a switchblade in the pocket of my jeans. My jeans which are next to my face within arm’s reach.

I jolt awake in a sudden gasp for breath, eyes darting around the empty, cold holding cell. The four institutional white brick walls. The thick, locked door. The heavy reality. My heart pounds out of my chest so hard I might throw up.

I know how I got here.

I whisper the words aloud as they form clearly in my brain.

“I killed him.”

“Did you find your accommodations suitable, Mr. Vinovny?” The officer pulls his chair and joins me back in the interrogation room, setting two cups of coffee on the table.

“Yes, the autopsy table you call a bed was exceptionally comfortable last night.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“As was I. And you should use the word facetious. It’s more sophisticated.”

“There’s a coffee for you. I wasn’t sure how you take it, so there’s some milk and sugar in the drink tray.”

“How kind of you, Officer—I never got your name.”

“Officer Pender. You can call me Jake.”

“Are you trying to disarm me, Officer Jake Pender?”

“Security footage transcripts came through, Mr. Milton Vinovny. By the way, do you know what vinovny means in Russian?”

“Guilty.”

“Guilty.”

“I killed him.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Vinovny?”

“I killed him. The homophobe. He drugged me. I knew it, and you didn’t believe me. He attacked me in the alley. He tried to have sex with me, and I killed him.”

“Mr. Vinovny, we tracked down the man you fought with in the bar. He’s alive and well.”

“What?”

“He’s not dead. A minor bruise, but that’s all. You didn’t pack much of a punch, apparently.”

“So I didn’t kill anyone?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“What did he say?”

“He confirmed you walked away; said you turned down the alley, and he went back inside.”

“Did I just have a really fucked-up dream, then?”

“The gentleman left shortly after, he said, because he waited for twenty minutes and nobody took his drink order.”

“I killed him.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“I killed him.”

“Mr. Vinovny—”

“The bartender. I killed him.”

“What? How would that be possible? We never saw him on the security footage. We never found a body.”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see because he put something in my drink. He was the one who drugged me, and it was him who attacked me in the alley. That’s why nobody was serving drinks. It came to me last night when I was sleeping. Does memory loss from whatever he slipped into my drink work like that? It comes back in fragments? It wasn’t a dream.”

“I suppose it can work like that. And I suppose you wouldn’t admit to a crime like this if it weren’t true. Unless you’re hiding something else.”

“It was self-defense! I’m not hiding anything.”

“So, where’s the body then?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Quit playing these fucking games, Milton.”

“I told you, he drugged me! I don’t remember anything after I stabbed him for the first time and his blood started spewing onto me. Maybe it will come back to me, but right now, I still don’t know how I ended up naked under the lamppost, either!”

The same female officer from yesterday enters the room again. She has three new bags of evidence. She sets them down on the table and exits.

“Where did you stab him?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t really see much. I think I just stabbed blindly. Many times, I think.”

“And you don’t know what you did with the body? Or your clothes?”

“I don’t. At least not yet.”

“Does this jog your memory of anything?” He places one of the evidence bags in front of me. My switchblade.

Like an old projector, a blurry vision flashes in frames behind my eyes. My knife slashing his throat. His eyes bulging, so much blood.

He places another bag in front of me. My boots.

Another vision.

I’m peeling my formerly white, soaked-red socks off. Rain pours. Blood mixes into streams down the storm drain. I stuff my socks down through the gaps in the drain and pull my boots onto my naked feet.

Officer Pender places the bag with my hoodie in front of me again.

A vision of myself peeling it off as I run at full speed, stopping only to throw it in a residential garbage bin.

“We found this with your boots.” He slides a bag toward me containing my underwear. “On the beach.”

A vision.

I’m peeling off my last layer of clothing, my underwear, and tossing them into the ocean over the sea wall, kicking my boots off with them. I want to jump into ocean. Cleanse myself from this mania, wake myself from this poisonous spell, wash the thick layers of blood from my skin. But I’m too weak. I can barely stand upright, let alone swim. My eyes turn to the streetlamp a few yards away. Through the blurred vision, I can just make out in the lamplight how hard it is violently raining. I stumble naked toward the illuminated downpour and hope the rain will wash away this nightmare.

“So what did you do with the body?”

“I don’t know—”

“Officer Pender!” The female officer rushes into the room again. “We just got a call from the dump. They have a body.”

A vision.

And then, “I threw him in the dumpster. Garbage trucks come at 7 AM. That’s how he got there. That’s how I got here.”