Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24881951-20150802101945

My Uncle Amos' cabin was about thirty minutes outside the small town of Salmon, Idaho. It sat on the western slope of a nameless mountain overlooking a flat, grass-filled valley that stretched for fourteen miles. A second wall of mountains to the west mirrored the first and in between rested only a plain Mormon temple, a few ranch-style homes and a single two-lane road that split the valley in two.

The cabin, looked like a cabin.

The wood panel siding was of mismatched color and rust streaks ran down the dented tin roof. The front door sat in an unleveled eave, which left a gap underneath, allowing the wind to whistle at night.

In almost every corner of the cabin, a gun of some sort leaned against a wall. Over nearly every piece of furniture draped the pelt of some unfortunate animal. On the back of a chair hung a fox; on the back of the sofa, a deer; and so on.

In the garage next to the cabin were two four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles, an assortment of tools, and odd pieces of hunting gear.

Next to the garage built into an earthen mound, there was a storage shed originally designed to keep the goods edible throughout winter. That's what Amos told me. He liked to use it as a place to skin, stretch, and tan the coats of the animals he had killed. Pieces of wood of various sizes and shaped like small ironing boards sat on shelves, stained brown and smelling of death. Adding to the morose atmosphere of the shed were the residual odors of these countless animals, hung by a chain fixed to the ceiling and bled out. Their skin and meat removed. Their blood soaked deep into the rich black soil.

***

I was in Idaho on leave of absence from a casino job in Reno. I felt as if I was losing my mind. some would call it a mid-life crisis, but it seemed more than that to me. My fortieth birthday had just passed and for a present I received a let's-just-be-friends speech from Shelly. I could usually take birthdays and break-ups in stride, but that time I took the combination punch hard. It left me sobbing at the blackjack table in the middle of dealing a game one afternoon. My boss suggested I take some time off and get it together. I had no choice but to agree.

I hated the fact that I was forty and still required to wear a nametag to work. It wasn't that dealing cards was a bad way to make a living. It paid well, better than most jobs, and the casinos offered full benefits. It just wasn't where I wanted to be at that age. I couldn't say I knew where I thought I should be, but I could say it wasn't there.

And Shelley, I thought she was the one. I spent the whole year during which we were seeing each other imagining us growing old together. I thought I would never have to worry about dating again. I was tired of it. I was ready to settle down, and I wanted to do it with her. She had moved to Reno running from some bad relationship. She said she felt safe with me. We spent a lot of time talking about how lucky we were to have found each other. I was saving for a ring and almost had enough when she told me she was leaving. It was more than I could take.

I wasn't sure if going to the cabin would make anything better. I just knew that I had to get away from people. I knew I had to get out of town. I had to think, so I thought.

***

I spent the day riding the larger of the two four-wheelers. The noise of the engine drowned out my thoughts and I found some peace traveling down the graveled fire roads. At one point I stopped by a brook where water fell over a large boulder. The crashing sound was like the world giving me permission to cry and scream as loud as I could, so that was what I did for an hour or two. It gave me some relief.

I came back to the cabin in the late afternoon. I wanted to and felt I should nap, but I couldn't. I hadn't been able to sleep for days. I was able to eat, though. I was hungry. At least something was changing.

There was elk meat in the refrigerator. I readied the grill, sat down, and watched the coals burn. I pulled out my pocketknife and picked up a branch I'd found. My intention was to whittle a new walking stick, but instead, I lost myself staring at the flames and smoke. I was still staring when a truck turned into the steep drive up to the place.

It parked in a small cloud of dust and a man about my age stepped out. "Hey there," he said.

<p class="MsoNormal">I picked up the stick and began to whittle. "Hey," I said, making a long cut into the branch. "You looking for Amos?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Kind of," the man said. "He around?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"No, sorry," I told him. "He's in Salmon. I'm his nephew. I'm staying here."

<p class="MsoNormal">The man pulled off his hat and scratched his head with the same hand. He looked around, toward the cabin, up at the mountain, down on the valley, everywhere but where I sat. His eyes finally stopped on the grill.

<p class="MsoNormal">In the country, there was a protocol. A more neighborly set

<p class="MsoNormal">of rules than the ones I lived by in the city. There, I may greet a stranger, but I would never invite him in. Here, in the country, things were a little different.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Hungry?" I asked. "I got more than I can eat."

<p class="MsoNormal">The stranger put his hat back on and placed his hands on his hips. "What are you cooking?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Elk," I said. "Cooking two would be just as easy as cooking one."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah," he said, "I could eat, I guess."

<p class="MsoNormal">I put away my pocketknife and stood holding my hand out toward one of the folded lawn chairs leaned against the cabin. "Take a seat. I'll get it going."

<p class="MsoNormal">I went in, took to steaks out of the refrigerator, and scrounged around for a few things to cook on the side. When I came back out, the man was sitting in my chair, rolling a cigarette. I smiled to myself for the first time in a long while.

<p class="MsoNormal">"How do you know Amos?" I asked, unwrapping the steaks from the white paper.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Just from around," he said licking the seal on his cigarette. "We worked together." He patted his pockets until he found a book of matches.

<p class="MsoNormal">My Uncle Amos worked as a logger, a hunting guide, and an inspector for the US Forestry Service. He also made money finding antlers in the woods and selling them to artisans. He had a knack for collecting strange friends along the way. This man was one of them... I assumed.

<p class="MsoNormal">I put the steaks on the fire and got a chair. I stretched out my hand to the stranger. "I'm Trey."

<p class="MsoNormal">He looked at my hand before shaking it. "June Bug," he said.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah?" I said. "How does one get a name like June Bug?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"I don't know," he said."Someone just started calling me that and it stuck. I didn't put up a fight."

<p class="MsoNormal">"How do you like it?" I asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">"What, the name?"

<p class="MsoNormal">I smile. "No, June Bug, your steak."

<p class="MsoNormal">"I'm not particular," he said looking out over the valley. "However you're having it is fine." He looked straight at me for the first time. "Thank you, though."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Ah, it's nothing," I said sitting down. "It's good to have some company, get a break from my mind."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah," he said, "I know about that."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Sorry, man," I said, noticing that I'd forgotten the most important show of country hospitality. "Do you want a beer or something?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Well shit yeah," he said.

<p class="MsoNormal">I went inside and grabbed two bottles of beer. When I came back out, June Bug was flipping the steaks. I handed him one of the beers and sat back down in my original chair. "Tell me. You ever have a girl get away? One you thought you'd be with forever?"

<p class="MsoNormal">He laughed. "Yes, sir. But mine didn't really get away from me. She was kind of... stolen away."

<p class="MsoNormal">"That's a bitch," I said. "Someone you know who took her?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah... I know him," he said grimly.

<p class="MsoNormal">"That hurts," I said.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Sure does, partner. Makes a man kind of... crazy. Kind of sad and mad at the same time... I got her back, though."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Well that's good." I didn't really think so. Misery loves company. "Where is she now?"

<p class="MsoNormal">There was a long pause.

<p class="MsoNormal">"I don't really want to talk about her," he said. "...If you don't mind."

<p class="MsoNormal">"No, no, I don't mind," I said. I did mind. IN fact, I thought he was being somewhat rude. I changed the subject anyway. "So, what brings you out here?"

<p class="MsoNormal">He sighed. "Just been driving a bit. Kind of... trying up some loose ends. I was close, so, you know, thought I'd just, drop in."

<p class="MsoNormal">"Well, there's no phone, or I'd call Amos and tell him you're here."

<p class="MsoNormal">"That's okay," he said waving his hand. "Just the same."

<p class="MsoNormal">Even though he wasn't much for conversation, as the beer settled, I warmed up to the idea of having June Bug stay the whole evening and rink with me. There was a case and a half in the fridge and, if that weren't enough, a couple of bottles of whiskey. I had been alone for three days, and it didn't seem to be doing me any real good. Actually, it seemed to be making things worse. I couldn't shake the bad thoughts. It was as though I was slipping deeper into my mind, and I was afraid that if I kept slipping, I might not ever be able to crawl back out. I was getting too old to be alone. Having June Bug there with me was good. I needed the distraction.

<p class="MsoNormal">I went back inside the cabin  for plates and two more beers. We ate, mostly in silence. June Bug didn't really loosen up much. Buy round three, I was still doing most of the talking.

<p class="MsoNormal">I just don't know what I am going to do with my life," I confessed after telling him all about my troubles with the job and Shelley. June Bug's eyes looked hollow and glazed, and his mouth was slightly agape. When I noticed he was staring past me towards the skinning shed, I could tell he wasn't interested in hearing about my woes. I decided to change gears and loosen up. "You can crash here until morning," I told him. "I wouldn't want you to drive all liquored up." I held up the third empty bottle. "You want another?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Sure," he said, eyes still fixed on the shed. "That'd be alright."

<p class="MsoNormal">"So you wanna stay?" I asked getting up.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Sure, I'll stay... if it's no trouble."

<p class="MsoNormal">"No trouble," I promised. "No trouble at all." I went in for two more.

<p class="MsoNormal">When I stepped back outside, June Bug's chair was empty. I remember thinking that a fire would be a good---

<p class="MsoNormal">Then out of nowhere, the son of a bitch hit me.

<p class="MsoNormal">It could have been with anything from a two-by-four to a crowbar, but I don't know. The only thing I knew was that something smacked the back of my head. I hear da ring, like a brass bell, and I smelled something odd as the ground came up and hit me in the face. Then sleep: not full sleep at first, for I remember feeling  no pain but only a vague sense of someone pulling me by the arms and leaving me on a pad of cool, flat dirt. Then I was sleeping completely.

<p class="MsoNormal">I dreamt of an old trick we used to play at sleepovers: We'd put a friend's hand in warm water and try to make him piss his pants. It never worked.

<p class="MsoNormal">I woke up in almost total darkness.

<p class="MsoNormal">The smell of rusted metal, urine, and ripe animal flesh wafted over me. It was enough to guess that I was in the skinning shed. My face and hands were covered with a slick wetness, and I remembered June Bug. The now eminent pain of the blow came onto me like crashing waves, and I vomited, making the stabbing ache in my temples even worse. Nothing was making sense. I tried to sit up, but a rush of blood from the back of my neck to my forehead knocked me back down. I fell asleep again, and this time the dreams were torturous.

<p class="MsoNormal">I dreamt I had to take a bus to work, but the bus kept leaving me at the stop. I would run to another stop, then another, only to watch the bus pull away just as I got there each time. All the while, I could feel my head throbbing as my headache even pervaded my realm of sleep.

<p class="MsoNormal">I woke again, this time in total blackness.

<p class="MsoNormal">The sun had gone down. The crickets chirped outside, and although I couldn't see it, I could feel and smell a mist beginning to dampen the air. I remembered where I was, but I only had a general idea of how I got there. I tried to figure out why June Bug would do something like that, as if drawing the conclusion would somehow get me out. I came up with nothing.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Hey man!" I said in the direction of the door. My voice was raspy and the words stung in my throat. "You out there?" Each syllable shot lightning through my eyes. I heard nothing, but like the mist, I could feel he was there, quiet and close. "What the hell is going on, man?" My voice sounded pitiful, like a child's whine. "Let me out of here. We can talk." I head the hiss of a cap twisting off a bottle, the slight creak of a chair, and the chink of a cap hitting the shed door. "Why'd you hit me like that?" My voice wound like a cassette tape running too fast. "Seriously, what did I say? Why did you put me in here, man?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"Shut up already!" June Bug said. He sounded as if he was about ten yards from the door, by the grill, in my chair. "You had it coming."

<p class="MsoNormal">"What do you mean I had it coming? What did I do?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"You stole her." His words were unemotional. He was insane. It didn't seem real. This guy thought I tried to steal or actually stole his girlfriend, or his wife, or whatever. I started to feel panic rising within me. How could I bargain or talk reason with crazy? "Nighty-night," he said.

<p class="MsoNormal">I heard the chair creak again, and then in the distance I could make out the sound of the cabin door opening and closing. I started kicking at the door. Every time I kicked, it became more evident that it was not going to open or break, but it felt as though my head would if I kept trying. I caught my breath and began groping the walls for an idea, some tool that would help me get out. I backed into something that hung from the ceiling of the shed. I thought he'd put up a fresh animal kill in with me. I remember that this guy was a real sicko. It angered me that he would find that funny. I pushed the dead lump and it swung back at me. I caught it, and in my hands I felt no fur, only smooth, ice-cold flesh. I ran my palms down what felt like a pair of legs. They ran over hips and stopped on the buttocks of a human being.

<p class="MsoNormal">I heard myself screaming.

<p class="MsoNormal">I fell back into a corner of the shed, knocking down a shelf and sending everything on it crashing to the ground. I pulled my knees to my chest and began to rock. Keeping a steady rhythm, my mind went blank and tears began streaming from my eyes, widened by the shock of complete horror. I saw ghosts moving in the corners of the shed, and demonic voices whispered threats and insults. Time no longer moved normally. I could have sat there for one night or ten.

<p class="MsoNormal">I don't recall sensing the morning sun rise and creep through the small cracks in the shed door. When I heard June Bug's voice again, it took a while to separate it from the voices in my head.

<p class="MsoNormal">"I have a deal for you," he said. "Can you hear me in there? I said I have a deal for you. Are you listening to me?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"What do you want?" I whispered, almost to myself.

<p class="MsoNormal">"I want you to make a choice," he said. "You ready? I want you to make a decision: You can either shoot yourself like a man, or, and I like this one, you can let me have the pleasure of chopping you up, piece by piece. What do you say?"

<p class="MsoNormal">The door opened up, and against the morning light stood the silhouette of June Bug with an axe in one hand and a gun pointed at me with the other. I wanted to, but I couldn't move. I cursed myself a coward.

<p class="MsoNormal">"The gun," I said, holding out a shaking hand. It seemed my only hope.

<p class="MsoNormal">June Bug laughed and tossed the gun just inside the door, and as I scurried toward it, the light shown on the face of the person he'd hung by the ankles.

<p class="MsoNormal">Shelley.

<p class="MsoNormal">Her once tanned complexion now a bluish white, her neck cut from one corner of her jaw to the other. Blood ran down the sides of her head, most of it dried, some of it still dripping into the soil. I snapped good, went mad, started honking like a spooked mule. June Bug slammed the door and I heard the lock snap tight as the shed went dark. I made a random guess as to where he might be standing and fired at the door until the gun clicked empty. June bug laughed as I continued to pull a worthless trigger. I saw his eye peer through one of the bullet holes and disappear again with more laughter.

<p class="MsoNormal">When he finally regained his composure, he said, "Okay now, you'll only get one more chance to do this painlessly." He started laughing hysterically again. "Sorry man, that sound you were making sounded like a damn duck." he tried to catch his breath. "Okay, okay, listen." He let out a long stream of air. "The only reason I'm showing you mercy is because you fed me last night. That, I thought, was pretty damn nice of you. I originally planned just to go straight for the axe, so you're lucky. So, here's one more. This is your last shot."

<p class="MsoNormal">He dropped a single bullet through one of the holes and it fell through the floor.

<p class="MsoNormal">As I sat there on my knees by the door, I suddenly saw the bullet as the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen: the only key to escaping the world of June Bug, nametags, and heartbreaks. I just had a couple more questions.

<p class="MsoNormal">"Why are you doing this to me?" The sound of my voice was weak and still barely a whisper. "Why did you do that to her?"

<p class="MsoNormal">"You did this to yourself, man. And you know she had it coming. Shoot yourself and let's be done with it."

<p class="MsoNormal">There was no choice left for me, no reason to argue. I found the bullet and put it in the gun the way my uncle had taught me. I pressed the barrel to my forehead and began a prayer that I never finished.

<p class="MsoNormal">I pulled the trigger.

<p class="MsoNormal">I heard a loud pop cut quickly in half. I felt a burning, violent jolt, and then sleep. Black sleep. Peaceful sleep. Painless sleep. The best damn sleep I ever had.

<p class="MsoNormal">***

<p class="MsoNormal">I awoke in a hospital.

<p class="MsoNormal">I couldn't remember a thing. I had no idea why I was there or why my wrist was handcuffed to a special O ring attached to the bar on the side of the bed. I didn't know my name or who I was. I placed my free hand on my forehead and felt a bandage. The pain was tolerable. A nurse was busy tidying up, and when she saw that I was awake, her eyes went wide and she rushed out of the room.

<p class="MsoNormal">The amnesia was complete.

<p class="MsoNormal">A soft-spoken detective had to tell me all about how I murdered my girlfriend, cut her neck, and hung her by the ankles in the root cellar. He showed me the photographs. It was gruesome. I had to agree. He had to explain to me how I then tried, without success, to take my own life. I felt the bandage again.

<p class="MsoNormal">A doctor with an unusually nervous disposition later explained to me that the odds were astronomical of a bullet entering the forehead, traveling just under the skin on the outside of the skull, and exiting through a neat whole in the back. But that's what happened. He didn't tell me, however, that I as lucky to be alive. Instead, he said that he guessed God wanted me to pay for my crime. I couldn't argue. I'd seen the photographs.

<p class="MsoNormal">I had no choice but to believe them all.

<p class="MsoNormal">The judge and the jury believed everything too. The press called me the Salmon Skinner. They were not kind. My bloody pocketknife was evidence. A white-haired prosecutor in a ruffled suit waved it in front of twelve horrified upstanding citizens. A poster-size image of my finger print cinched the case, but because my competency to defend myself was in question, the State had to settle for a plea of insanity. When it was over, and it was over quick, I got a life sentence in the Southern Idaho Psychiatric Pavilion for the Criminally Insane.

<p class="MsoNormal">I thought it had a nice ring to it.

<p class="MsoNormal">I had someone to do all my thinking for me. They told me when to eat, when to sleep, and when to take my medicine. The pills were n ice. I was treated like a child and didn't have any problems with that. I didn't know any better. Whenever I went from one room to another, the doors always locked behind me. I felt safe. It was all I knew. It was a life I was born into and it seemed the only way.

<p class="MsoNormal">I was fine, until the amnesia started to fade.

<p class="MsoNormal">At first, my memories came back in short clips. Before long, it all came back. My whole life. My childhood. The job. The casino. The nametag. Shelley. June Bug. The shed. The nightmare. The axe. The gun. The peaceful sleep.

<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, nobody believed me. The story just made me look even crazier. A lawyer tired to look into finding a guy named June Bug. He didn't try very hard, and the trail went cold.

<p class="MsoNormal">The pills still help.

<p class="MsoNormal">My doctor says that when my delusions begin to show signs of improvement, parole may be considered and perhaps one day I'll have a second chance. So, I have that going for me. It may take ten or more years, but the chance of starting my life over is enough to keep me going.

<p class="MsoNormal">I've learned deliberately to keep June Bug out of conversations with the doctors, but he's always there. I am the only one who knows I'm not crazy, just unlucky. I know I just have to play the game, and when things get a little too overwhelming, as strange as it may seem, I return to the shed in my mind. Not the shed with the dead girlfriend and the psychopath talking to me from just outside the door, but the shed where I found peace like no other. Where everything went away and I felt completely at ease.

<p class="MsoNormal">I can tell by the way the doctor smiles at me that one day, they will let me out. It has more to do with making them look good than anything else. If it happens, I like to imagine finding a little job dealing cards somewhere, perhaps in Vegas. I like to imagine finding a small, comfortable place to live, and sometimes, when the night is quiet, I even like to romance the idea of finding someone to love again.

<p class="MsoNormal">But there's still something nagging in the back of my mind: I was sleep-deprived in the events leading up to this nightmare of mine, and since June Bug won't stay out of my thoughts, I sometimes cannot help but wonder whether he was in fact just a figment of them... <ac_metadata title="&quot;Leave of Absence&quot;"> </ac_metadata>