Death Visions

DEATH VISIONS

"Mister Quinn, it's good to see you again. So tell me, has your
nightmares abated since we've last met?" asked Dr. Montrose, sitting
loftily on a soft, rich leather chair, reclining only slightly. Through
his stately beard, he mouthed the curved stem of his pipe, blowing out
heavy, redolent plumes into the air. On the other side of the haze, sat
Joe Quinn, a high-rise builder and long time patient of Dr.
Montrose.
He was a small, wiry man, but strong from years of pounding rivets into
steel girders. His forearms were thick and veiny; his facial feature's
bony, and hard. He sat with his back against a wooden, high-back
chair-a chair he learned to despise, because it precluded his need to
slump comfortably, which he was usually prone to do. His hands were
ringing his hat nervously upon his knees, a quirk that didn't go
unnoticed by Montrose.
Quinn thought it was ironic, that he should be so uneasy whenever he
paid the Doctor a visit, especially when just a few months ago, he was
sixty-five stories high, waiting for the crane operator to deftly guide
a 3,000-pound beam into his hands. He had no fear of such great height,
nor the possibility of a premature death by any number of things that
could go wrong. With 25 years behind him, he walked the slick, narrow
steel paths with confident indifference.
Then the visions came-prophetic visions of death that were revealed in
a dream state. First they were only fleeting, nonsensical scenes;
fragmented bits that he hardly gave any thought to during his awakened
state. Then, they became less disjointed, and over time, they became
laced with familiar voices and faces he recognized as his friends and
co-workers; those who had skirted the tops of buildings along side of
him, high above the teeming world below.
The first series of visions ended tragically. An apprentice, Mack
Harvey, a cheerful young man obsessed with the Chicago Cubs, fell to
his death when he neglected to hook his safety belt to a solid support.
Quinn watched the whole ordeal take place as if he was a spectator in a
movie he'd watched a hundred times, but could only remember the end
with greater clarity; the events preceding it were always wrapped in
vague confusion.
Quinn could see through Mack's eyes as the earth came up to greet him,
each floor of the high-rise blending into one as he descended like a
cannon ball shot from space. He saw the faces of the people as they
followed Mack's screams, their mouth's gaping with surprised horror
before they ran for cover, making room for the hurling object as it
crashed into the pavement, an unrecognizable heap of blood, bone, and
guts.
Quinn then tried to warn steel welder Sammy Bartlett about the dreams
that followed soon after, that something horrible was going to happen
to him and that he should be extra careful. Sammy, a good-natured
fellow, laughed at the suggestion and quipped, "As long as it doesn't
happen during my poker night with the boys."
A week later, Sammy was taking the elevator cab up to the fifty-fifth
floor when the elevator's steel cable broke and the brakes failed,
propelling him like a rocket downward, picking up speed with every
floor that he'd past, smashing him and the elevator into a million
pieces.
Again, Quinn was able to see through the window of Sammy's eyes; wide
opened and frozen in fear, stilled upon the horizon; his central
nervous system was numb and disbelieving, as both hands clutched the
rail handle with a vise-like grip, anticipating the impact. It just
happened to be his poker night.
Quinn decided to see a Psychiatrist. He felt responsible for the two
deaths and it was making him crazy. He wouldn't sleep for days. He
became a nervous wreck-exhausted and depressed. Finally, Quinn took a
sabbatical and started seeing Dr. Montrose regularly.
Things were getting better for Quinn at first. The prophetic nightmares
of death on the high-rise buildings ceased for awhile, but eventually,
more sinister visions started to plague him-visions of murder. That's
when he decided to confront Dr. Montrose about his present
condition.

Quinn, red eyed and agitated from lack of sleep, answered Dr. Montrose.
"Not exactly Doctor, the dreams have returned-much worse this time. I
think I'm about to go off the deep end."
Montrose said, "Oh? Tell me Mr. Quinn, is it the usual outcome? To be
more specific, is someone going to die?" Montrose said it with
condescending sarcasm, as if he was making light of Quinn's
condition.
"Don't they all die in the end Doctor?" said Quinn, feeling
desperate.
"Come, come now, Mr. Quinn. There's nothing to suggest that those two
men who fell to their deaths were anything but fate. You simply have
the gift of premonition, which is rare, but certainly does exist. You
did nothing to cause those poor fellows their unfortunate demise, as I
have explained to you in previous visits.
"While in a sub-conscious state of mind, you were given a glimpse into
their future, a portent of something imminently dreadful. Oh, I'll
admit, the relationship between your premonitions and the subsequent
occurrences were quite remarkable in their detail, but experiences such
as yours never last a lifetime. They will slowly wane and you will be
back at your job, high above the cacophonous hustle and bustle of
Chicago's populace."
"But Doctor, the visions have changed. They're not about men falling
from high-rises. I'm having these sordid visions
of&;#8230;murder."
Dr. Montrose blinked then his eyes narrowed. "Really?" he said,
lowering his pipe to his chest. "And who is being murdered, if I might
inquire?"
"I don't know&;#8230;yet. I haven't gotten to the ending. I've been
staying awake for days, trying to avoid it. Once I see the ending, bad
things always happen."
"I see," said Montrose, suddenly feeling a little unnerved. "You
understand Mr. Quinn, that you cannot avoid sleep forever. I think it's
best you face your demons and then return back to me. Perhaps only then
can we work on a permanent solution."
"Doctor Montrose," said Quinn hesitantly, rising from his chair.
"Yes," he said.
"There's one more thing I didn't tell you."
"Oh, and what is that?" he asked curiously.
"You're&;#8230;there."
"And where is there, Mr. Quinn?"
"In my visions. You're sitting in your chair, just like you are right
now. You're smoking your pipe, but I sense the scent of gunpowder, not
tobacco."
"And what are you trying to infer?" asked Montrose, suspiciously.
"Nothing&;#8230;I mean, I don't know exactly, but somehow, you're
involved. I'm not sure why or how yet-all I know is that you're mixed
in the jumble."
"Mr. Quinn, this whole thing is ridiculous," said Montrose with some
disdain. "Can you really imagine that I, a highly respected Doctor of
Psychiatrics, would be involved in any sort of nefarious activity, much
less murder? Do you realize how preposterous this all sounds?"
"Your right Doctor Montrose, perhaps I've read to much into these
dreams. Forgive me for taking your time," said Quinn, his head feeling
heavy, exhausted.
"Think nothing of it Mr. Quinn," said Montrose, extending his hand.
Quinn shook it absently and turned for the door.
"Mr. Quinn," said Montrose.
"Yeah Doctor?"
"Uh&;#8230;if these present visions of yours should eventually
conclude, would you be so kind as to inform me of the outcome? I would
like to submit the information to the Psychiatric Journal. Cases like
yours might be of some small interest to my colleagues of the same
field."
"Sure, Doctor&;#8230;sure."
"Splendid. Now go home get some sleep Mr. Quinn. You look positively
ragged. Never underestimate the benefits of a good rest. I'll see you
again at a later time."

Quinn didn't remember when his body hit the mattress. He hadn't slept
in three days and his sub-conscious was a whirlpool of furious
activity, his body a constant motion of contorted shapes and restless
struggles. For hours upon endless hours, pieces of the dream scenes
raced before his eyelids in taunting circles, never quite connecting or
making any sense. Then slowly, little by little, voices became
familiar, conversation became intelligent, loose fragments fused
themselves together, finding a rational conclusion.
Now, Quinn framed a semblance order-a short struggle, the smell of
gunpowder, a smoking gun, and Dr. Montrose, bleeding to death upon his
leather recliner.

Quinn sat bolt upright in his bed. He looked at the clock. "Mother Mary
of God!" How long have I been asleep? Forty-six hours? Almost two
days?"
Quinn felt lethargic, his internal body clock being out of sync. He
made some strong coffee and toasted bread. Then he took a long, hot
shower, while wondering how to break the news to Doctor Montrose. As
the soothing water ran down his face, a piece of the dream that had
eluded him broke into his consciousness like a sudden slap in the
face.
Perhaps he missed it because he didn't want to admit it, or because it
couldn't possibly be true&;#8230;maybe he is delusional after all,
Quinn thought. It had to be a cruel joke upon his mind; after all,
sleep deprivation causes all sorts of assaults upon the psyche, he
reasoned. But Quinn knew without a doubt, the dream was now complete.
He had the materials, along with the location, and he had the
characters. He had the ending, but not the motive.

Quinn stared remorsefully at Dr. Montrose as he lit his pipe and
settled back comfortably into his chair. He wasn't sure how to tell him
that his life would be over soon. His mouth was dry and he started to
speak, but Montrose spoke first.
"So Mr. Quinn, have you reached a conclusion to your latest
visions?"
"Yes Doctor, I'm afraid I have, and I'm afraid it might be quite a
shock to you."
"Oh really? And why is that?" said Montrose, disconcerted.
"Because before I awoke, you were sitting in your chair with a bullet
wound to the chest-a fatal wound I'm afraid."
Montrose grinned with forced amusement. "I must say Mr. Quinn, that is
most vivid. Tell me please, who is this perpetrator so that I may take
some pains to prevent my impending death?"
"I'm the perpetrator, Doctor. I'm the one who puts that bullet in
you."
Montrose lost his grin and said anxiously, "You can't be serious Mr.
Quinn. You're not even armed. If you were, security would have arrested
you in the lobby as soon as you entered the metal
detector&;#8230;unless you were somehow able to circumvent
it."
"There's no reason to fear anything today Doctor, I don't even own a
gun."
"Then why are you here, if not to shoot me?" asked Montrose, as he
lowered his arm to secretly release the latch on his lower right desk
drawer.
"I'm not sure-to warn you maybe. I have no idea why I would kill you.
I'm not a violent person, Doctor Montrose. But I'm afraid when the time
comes, I'll have no control over it."
Montrose quickly pulled a 38-caliber revolver from his drawer and
pointed it at Quinn. "Stay right where you are Quinn. One move from you
and I'll shoot you. Do you really think that I'm going to let you kill
me at your discretion? Did those silly little dreams of yours tell you
when you would put a bullet in me, or am I to live in fear, wondering
when you felt it was time to end my life? Perhaps the logical solution
would be to end your life to save mine, Mr. Quinn.
"It's perfectly simple you see. A little slight-of-hand and your files
would show a recent proclivity for violence. It wouldn't be difficult
to explain to the authorities why I had to shoot you to protect myself
from a psychotic patient who hears voices in his head, commanding him
to kill me.
"But I have no weapon, how can you justify self-defense?" asked
Quinn.
"That's easy. You took the letter opener from the top of my desk and
started to wave it maniacally in the air, threatening to stab me to
death. I managed to secure my pistol from my desk drawer, which
incidentally, I have a legal permit to carry just for these
contingencies. Then you sprang for my heart, but I was able to move in
time and shot you dead. Case closed."
"I'm afraid it isn't that simple Doctor. The future is set and no
amount of manipulation on your part can change it. I'm no murderer, but
nothing changes the fact that it was I that killed you, if the
premonitions are correct-and they've always been. I pulled the trigger,
and it was you who was killed Doctor, not me. It was you who bled from
the chest and there's nothing that can be done about it. I'm
sorry."
"Your insane," cried Montrose as he rose from his chair pointing his
gun at Quinn. He pulled the trigger, but Quinn ducked instantly, the
bullet lodging in the chair where his head once rested. Quinn then
leaped over the desk before the doctor could get off another shot, and
with strong hands, easily wrestled the gun from his weak grip."
Now it was Quinn who stood with the gun pointed at Montrose. "I'm not
going to shoot you Doctor. I told you I'm no murderer, even if the
visions show otherwise."
"Your lying," said Montrose. "I believe you enjoy this sick little
drama. Well, I refuse to play along. Go ahead, get on with it!"
Quinn lowered the gun. He turned to leave when Montrose grabbed the
letter opener and lunged over his desk toward Quinn. He turned in time
to get a shot off into Montrose, the blade just inches from his body.
Montrose, grabbing his chest with both hands, staggered backwards onto
his leather chair. Blood ran down between his fingers. Doctor Montrose
was dead.

Six months later, Quinn was exonerated of the Doctor's killing. The
defense proved that nobody knew the gun was hidden in the drawer except
Montrose. Montrose, under some paranoid delusion that Quinn was there
to kill him, panicked and tried to shoot him. Quinn, in regard for his
own safety, stole the gun away and shot Dr. Montrose after he attempted
to stab him. The doctor's fingerprints covered the gun and the knife,
confirming Quinn's innocence.
Quinn eventually returned to the tall buildings and the steel beams
that floated effortlessly through the sky on cables to be joined and
bolted securely to others. He recalled how happy he was when he stood
above the rest of the world and all its problems. But he knew his
happiness was to be short-lived.
The last thing Quinn heard was a desperate cry above him, "Look out
below!" Quinn instinctively looked up instead of crouching under the
safety of his hard hat, when an unsecured, 18-inch wrench dropped 4
floors, crashing into his face, sending him hanging limp over the side
from his safety belt. Unconscious, and bloodied with a crushed skull,
Quinn drifted into nothingness.

Quinn wouldn't have been surprised at his death.
It was six days previous when the visions revealed his end. Because
there was no way around it, Quinn had resigned himself to his fate. His
dreams seemed to have gone in full circle.
He had seen it many times. The gleaming, galvanized steel wrench during
his nightly struggles for peace, as it floated downward-like a searing
iron as it became lost in the sun's brilliance. The vision haunted him
for weeks before it was revealed that it was him who was hanging by his
belt, sixty stories high. He knew his end would be bad, but there was
nothing he could do to change the future. After all, isn't that what he
tried to explain to Dr. Montrose?
His cup was full, and all he could do was to tread anxiously-moment to
moment, hour to hour, day to day, anticipating the inevitable-his death
on a high-rise.

.