Before I Wake

It's not me.

At least, I'm pretty damn sure it's not me. Though, you probably think it's me, right? Otherwise, how could I be here to tell the story? It's a valid point, but I have too many reasons to believe otherwise. Ask me about my childhood. I can provide you with a few canned memories and generalizations; nothing you wouldn't be able to guess or assume.

You can ask me about my wife and child, the house we lived in, the family vacations we took, the car I drove. I can give you believable descriptions of all those things, right down to the grass I could never quite get to grow under the large oak tree in the back yard. Even the worn spot on the inside of my car door where my elbow rested everyday to and from my job in Atlanta. I can supply all the necessary details to convince someone I once had that life.

But ask me how I felt about that life and I come up blank. I can remember standing in the hospital room watching my daughter being born, my eyes tearing up and a sob lodged at the bottom of my throat. But I can't even come close to remembering how I felt that day. My mind and heart are oblivious.

Besides, I can't make myself believe that I am the kind of person that would even dream of doing what I have done.

So now I sit here, the wonders of Vegas laid out before me as if to do my bidding. David, Richard, Paul and Mike are all dead. Their bodies lie scattered around the suite. I've noticed the bodies don't always seem to be where I originally left them-another sign that it's really not me-and there is no decomposition. It should hurt when I see them splayed out, their wounds gaping open like the mouths of hungry baby birds, but I can't find a trace of sympathy or pain anywhere in my body.

I guess it's been a few weeks since we arrived at the suite, as loaded as our luggage. We started drinking on the plane then swilled down a few more at the Vegas airport. By the time we made it to the top of the thirty-story resort we were ready to hit the town. Mike was being really loud, but Paul and Richard managed to keep him under control until we put our shit away and got dressed for the evening. David hopped around like a nervous lookout, ready for the partying to REALLY start.

We came for Mike's bachelor party. It would be nice to use his impending marriage as an excuse for his abrasive personality. I must admit, however, he hooked us up for the trip. Paul was the best man, but Mike insisted on making all the arrangements, as well as footing the bill. He was rolling in the dough since he sold his small chain of sports bars to a larger corporation earlier last year. He'd kept the nicest one for himself, but had to rename it and change the décor according to his contract.

From the minute we stepped into the hotel we were treated like Hollywood stars. The room was stocked with beer and liquor. A long table set against one span of windows held an assortment of meats, cheeses, and breads. There were three ladies employed by the hotel staff on hand for our arrival to make sure we were comfortable. We each had our own room. Like I said, we were hooked up.

The first evening of fun started in the hotel casino where a blackjack table was reserved for us. It didn't take long for Mike's chest-pounding to attract a few healthy young women, who then accompanied us to another casino. And another. And another. The night was a blur of food, drink, gambling and, of course, sex. I ended up with this dark-haired goddess who looked like a cross between my kindergarten teacher and my favorite actress; her name escapes me right now. The actress, that is. The teacher, too, come to think of it.

Our days consisted of swimming, lounging at the pool, and deep-tissue massages to work out the hangover from the night before. In the early evening we would drive the strip in a rented Hummer stretch limo, looking for fun and women. Then it was back to the hotel for more food, drink and sex.