Bill of Wrongs (Completely Revised)

Chapter Four

A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.

-Christopher Reeve

         Bill sat in the car, engine running. It was the next day. A restless night had occurred, and he did not wish to remember the dreams he had. Dreams of ice, of fire, of lightning, of color, of music. It all swirled around in his mind. It truly made him feel small.

         He hadn't planned on having a child anytime soon. He just wasn't father material. His eye-lids sagged with tiredness as he sipped on his coffee. This made all the recent events seem like small fragments of nothing. He felt, wholly, like nothing.

        The ornate door swung open and he looked up nonchalantly as Samantha walked over to the car. He reached over and opened the door for her, and she stepped in, looking just as tired as Bill did.

        "You didn't get any sleep, either, huh?" said Bill, mouth rakish, looking at his wife out of the corner of his eye. As if she were a stranger. And that's how she seemed to him—a stranger with his baby, his new life, in her body.

        She shook her head. "No. I was awake all night wondering how we're going to raise a child when it comes," she said, setting the mood even further downward. "Wondering how we can live the same lives we live."

        Bill furrowed his brow and put the car in gear.

        Samantha looked at him, hard. "I hear your dreams, Bill. I hear what you've done. Or maybe what you'd like to do. Sometimes I'll just sit there, awake," she explained, "listening to it all. Everything."

        "Like what, Samantha?"

        "I hear you say things. You sleep-talk of chaos, mostly. You get real cold, your lips turn a dangerous blue." She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her small, round ear. "I've been ignoring it for I don't even know how long."

        Bill sighed. "Samantha. You know I wouldn't do that, don't you?" he said. He knew that wasn't true. He'd always loved when things went utterly wrong. He didn't know why. He did not care why.

        "Really?"

        "Well," he paused, "no. Not at all. If we're going to speak truth, I'll speak it true." The words did not sound like his own—he was supposed to be a master wordsmith. He just really did not want to lie. Whatever the reason may have been. "I see things, in my dreams. Things I want to do. Desperately. I see massive wars break out. Wars fought over a single man: me. And I absolutely love it. It invigorates me, makes me feel powerful. I stand on a grassy hill in these war-dreams. Holding a gnarly staff, ice creeping up it from my ice-blue hands." He took a breath. "I feel on top, I feel I should be on top. I feel I should rule-" he stopped himself. "I-I'm sorry. I just really can't control this."

        Samantha's eyes were steamy. Not in an I'm-about-to-cry way, but more of an I-just-learned-more-about-my-husband-in-one-sitting-than-I-ever-have-before way. "Bill," she croaked. "I dream too, you know. Not of death and chaos. I dream I take my case in court, and I rig it. I make sure the guilty one goes home, and the innocent is put in shackles. The grief of it all is empowering."

        Bill wasn't sure what he should think. He always made sure the innocent got away. He took pleasure in freeing the wronged.

        She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, catching him by surprise. "I think we can do this, Bill. But we've both got some work to do. I need to work on how I treat others, because honestly, I need to quit being a sour bitch all the time." Bill smiled and she went on, "Really! I'm surprised I didn't get into this car and scream at you right off the bat for taking so long yesterday. You know I'm not one to get all touchy-feely." She returned the smile.