Murder Recall

Accused of Murder

Prosperous times were returning. As part of the celebrations, the newly designed lake-front park was having its grand opening. It was a sunny, cool, spring early afternoon. I was enjoying the day, walking along the road, closed to traffic, by myself amid crowds of people. Everyone seemed to be smiling and happy. It was a new generation and the troubles of the past were forgotten and omitted from history. Pots of geraniums hung everywhere possible, beautifying the brick walls of shops and cafes. On either side of the entrance to the park, teenagers were handing out pamphlets that described the various opening celebration activities going on inside the park. A constant stream of people was entering the main gates, I among them. A high fence extended all around the border of the park to keep out wild animals. The park was huge. Large flower beds filled with blossoming tulips, all evenly spaced from one another, each flower bed had the same colour of tulips within it, a different colour for each bed. Nature was waking up. Tall old deciduous trees were sprouting new leaf. The quills of the evergreens enlivened with luster from the quickening circulation of nutrients. I walked towards the water, the intense reflections of the sun threatening blindness and prohibiting contemplation. The lakeshore promenade was long and wide. Clusters of people gathered around various events.

I stopped at one event because of an odd sense of familiarity. A woman stood on a raised platform, reading excerpts from a newly published book she had written. Many people were listening and clapping in praise at intervals. I politely worked my way closer to the platform, hearing the words she read more distinctly. A table was in front of the platform stacked with copies of the book she read from. The copies were modestly priced and disappearing fast. I bought one. The author paused in her reading and was interviewed by a newsman seeking clarification of the philosophy seeping out from between the lines. The author spoke graciously and had the respect, attention and admiration of everyone. She was currently the country's best seller. I agreed with what she said. It sounded familiar. More people were coming up to the table of books and I was eased to the back of the crowd. I began reading the story and immediately recognized it as my own. It was word for word the same as a book I had submitted to a publisher several months ago. I went to the sandy beach, sat there reading more of the book and confirmed it was what I had written. I checked the publisher on the information page following the title page. The publisher was the same as the one I had submitted my work to. I approached the woman speaking on the platform again, staying back at the outside edge of the crowd. The park would be closing soon as dusk fell. I felt dizzy, realizing that I hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day. As I drifted gently to the ground, the last I remember was hearing gunshot.

As the people nearest me noticed I was down and were calling for medical help, I stood up, unnoticed by any of them, and at the same time could see I was unconscious and still on the ground. I moved away from the crowd, feeling frustrated, cheated and unreal, leaving the sight of myself on the ground. I rationalized that I achieved what was always my true intention: to reach readers beyond myself. That had happened. People enjoyed and praised my story, they just didn't know it was written by me and not by the woman on stage. The pursuit of fame and fortune, as well as fame and fortune itself, aroused suspicion and fear in me. I distrusted the market, its value system and social circles of all kinds. The reason I wrote was to record and thereby remember my exploration of the mind and imagination. I wanted to experience and understand the inner life as much as the outer life.

I woke up much earlier than usual one morning when it was still dark. A sliver of a waning moon hung over the trees outside my window. The wind howled and the tree branches were pushed against the glass and held there. I didn't feel like myself. I was still dreaming. I thought I was Winnie and I knew the reason for my distrust of others, including my mother before she died, was due to being swarmed suddenly as a young girl by the children in the school yard during a game of marbles. When I was six, my father decided to send me to the local school to learn how to relate to other children, specifically how to dominate them. I had no friends and he thought there was something unhealthy about that. "Not everyone takes for granted the privileges you have at home" he would lecture me, while I stood still in front of his massive desk and he sat on the other side. Our eyes would lock and I learned to avoid their devouring effect by keeping the direction of my eyes right onto his, and at the same time by not looking at the focus of attention but on my peripheral vision. "Winnie, you must learn from your own age group, how to rise to the top of the power pyramid, if you are not naturally there." I never understood what he was talking about but let my eyes and feigned attention tell him I did.