And on that last unfinished word he fell as silent as a nude clothing store mannequin on display, staring straight at Dorothea unblinkingly, but at whatever comprehension his vision beheld it was not of this world in this time frame, rather a dream world featuring a former lover no longer enjoined in either his life or perhaps this life at all. Fleetingly, Dorothea felt a measure of sympathy and pity for this strange man; herself still suffering through any parents' worse nightmare: the soul-wrenching, traumatic loss of a child. Then Boris moved. It briefly startled Dorothea as she presumed the human mannequin had suddenly animated to conscious life. She breathed a sigh of relief as he clamored with ease back into the bed at first in a sitting position, covering the lower half of his nakedness beneath the sheet, then closed his eyes and slinked back down upon the pillow ever so gently, resembling the infamous Count from Transylvania reclining in his coffin moments before the dreaded sunrise. It was then Dorothea realized that the stare in the man's transfixed eyes and the broken words that left his tongue in English with a hint of Russian were not meant for this world but for that parallel netherworld where dreams and perhaps even death reside. The experience felt eerie but much welcomed not to have been worse. Breathing in and out deeply and quickly and as silent as possible given the circumstances in order to regain her equilibrium – for the semi-dark room was swirling now – Dorothea wasted no more time. She swept her purse from the floor – something had fallen from it – but in her haste went unnoticed. She gathered her shoes, stockings and waist-length rabbit fur jacket on one arm and made her way quickly and quietly across the floor to the door. She unlocked and opened it as it creaked softly, and she hurried from the room with the urgency of an angel fleeing from the presence of Satan.
The deserted concrete-reinforced motel stairwell smelled of ammoniated urine intertwined with the stale-sweet odor of human copulation mixed with a hint of the coppery, alkaline scent of blood. It offended her nostrils and sickened her empty stomach. The floor beneath her feet felt wet, slippery waxy and made Dorothea feel even dirtier than she'd already felt both inwardly and outward. Used discarded condoms were carelessly strewn about the floor here and there, as well as what seemed thousands of cigarette butts and empty cellophane wrappers that once contained the users escapes from reality in whatever form, and yes, even a blood-dried Tampon and Kotex were spotted. Dorothea carefully stepped over these items in her bare almost numb now cold feet as though she traversed a field peppered with land mines. The only positive she could glean from this sinful dirty threshold was momentary privacy to slip into her stockings and shoes, but the opportunity as well to break down and cry and sob and cry and sob and cry some more and sob even more until her tear ducts emptied and she was reduced to an achingly dry wrench. But the shedding of tears was anything but cleansing. Though it may have released an insignificant measure of toxin from her body it did nothing for her soul. For that remained in hellish torture, more so now since she had cried away any distraction from the thoughts that ravaged her mind like an invading army of demons.
What had she done?
Why did she do it? How?
'Why on earth was there no memory of her sinful indulgence?' she wondered in agony.
Dorothea questioned her sanity.
She could not erase the picture of the well-developed, naked stranger from the screen of her mind. The harder she fought against the visualization of him the stronger and more persistent grew the image, remaining, fixed, like the ghostly burned-in image on a phosphorous-based television screen, haunting her. So too was she bedeviled by his dream-induced words, playing over and over in her memory like a record players needle stuck in the vinyl groove of a scratched album:
Mi… Mia? Mya..? Mi… Michele!
Like a lightning bolt out of a storm cloud the revelation struck her: Michele'.
Dorothea gasped at the shocking recognition of that name. Her very first and last disturbing encounter with her intrusive alter-ego was over nine years ago. She and Jack argued over the issue of their sons and herself being guinea pigs, experiments for the benefit of a cold and careless, clandestine compartmentalized agency within an agency whose only interest was in manipulation, control and eventual complicit annihilation of three quarters of human beings from this earth. Though not a church-attending Christian, Dorothea held firmly to most of the tenets of her Baptist upbringing. She believed the gift she had genetically and regrettably passed on to her sons was in fact no gift at all – especially from one God – rather it was Satan's curse. Jack, with the best of intentions, was aiding the government in developing and strengthening that gift-curse, whereas Dorothea was praying for release from it for her and her offspring. The volatile situation had one day come to a head and seemed eventually to have brought on a psychosis episode in Dorothea that was expressed through this other personality named Michele'. She appeared only momentarily – to curse Jack worse than a drunken sailor on a half day pass - but it was long enough to leave a lasting, frightening impression on him both their sons and Dorothea herself once she was made aware of the event. Not only had Dorothea's personality changed but her physical features drastically altered, making her appear ten years her junior and of such striking beauty as to make any man's loins ache with lust. And even more frightening, Dorothea remembered nothing of the event except registered shock on the faces of her loved ones once she recovered and spontaneously reverted back to her original self as Jack described the unbelievable description of what had taken place. As quickly as Michele' had staged her debut she just as quickly exited and had not manifested herself since that time. Thereby leaving Jack and Dorothea convinced or hopeful that Michele' was just an anomaly. Last night however exploded that optimism to fragments of shredded despair.
'Oh, dear God,' Dorothea lamented whispering, "Jack… my dear beloved Jack… My husband for life. How will I explain… how? Dear Savior in heaven, how?"
Never, never had she cheated on Jack or considered the thought. Even in her loneliest moments when Jack's call to duty had been for years honored and obeyed over her needs. Dorothea felt a burning desperation creep over her like hot molten lava. She began to perspire though the stairwell was shivering cold; she no longer even noticed the foul odor that had earlier breached her nostrils. How would she even begin to explain her indiscretion to Jack when she could not fully explicate it to herself? The disastrous news would more than likely have a devastating effect on Jack's emotions and already ailing health – it may even lead him to an earlier demise than fate itself had already pre-arranged. Not to mention the damage it would do to their marriage and relationship – the negative ramification it would produce within their community standing, their social status, friends and family. She would forever be labeled an adulterer, whore, slut, prostitute and a crackpot – and she was none of these. It could be blamed on a chemical imbalance perhaps, brought on by an accumulation of stress and grief at losing forever– and God forgive her - her favorite son. About this too now her guilt intensified.