"If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."
― C.S. Lewis
HE noticed the bed first. His back had begun to grow used to the hard, shapeless prison mattress, but this was obviously different. Softer, more supportive. The sheets weren't thin and coarse, either, and the pillow wasn't flat as cardboard, and turning over didn't bring about the groaning of rusted springs.
That was enough to warrant opening his eyes. It was dark, very dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust, for silhouettes to form. The mundane shapes of toilet, sink, and shelf, the cold limits his existence had been reduced to.
But that wasn't the sight that greeted him. Oh, these things were familiar to him, even though they were blurred. He'd owned that dresser since he was a child. The chemistry set, a gift from Dad. Animal bones on the nearly-empty bookshelf. The weight-lifting set in the corner.
He sat up and fumbled for his glasses. They were there on the nightstand, where he had always kept them. Yet when he put them on, he was still hoping the image of his old bedroom would disappear, replaced by the gray, featureless walls of his cell.
Because that, at least, would have made sense.
The walls didn't recede, the furniture didn't change. There was no mistake about it. He was in the bedroom he had shared with his brother David for most of his teen years, in the house where he had finished high school, in the town of Bath, Ohio, circa the late seventies.
As if in a trance, he got out of bed and wandered down the hallway to the bathroom, where he had left the light on.
His reflection stared back at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He'd put on weight in prison. Put on years, too. At thirty-four he looked at least ten years older. But the boy in the mirror was impossibly young and slender, his long blonde hair styled to fit the times. Only his eyes betrayed any sense of a future already lived, the blue irises darkened, the light behind them dimmed.
Was it possible he had dreamt it all?
Rushing back into the bedroom, he scrambled to get dressed. If he weren't so nervous, he might've laughed at the floral prints and the oversized collars. On his way to the front door he grabbed the car keys, the flashlight (they always kept it in that one drawer) and briefly glanced at the clock: 3:23 AM.
And then he burst out into the humid night air, alive with crickets and heady with ozone. His feet carried him down underneath the house, to the crawlspace, and his hands fumbled for the switch on the flashlight—
Nothing. He shone the beam on every corner, looking for blood splatters, but there were none.
His heart pounding more from dread than exertion, he clambered back up the slope. His father's car was in the driveway, just like it had been that night in 1978—
He pressed his face against the window, shining the flashlight inside. No bags. Just to be sure, he opened the door. No smell, either.
There was still the drainage pipe a few houses down. He broke into a run.
Please God don't let him be there—
It was empty.
The beam trembled wildly. He was shaking so badly he would've dropped the flashlight, had he not fallen on his knees first, his back bowing and his sweat-covered hands coming together in his lap. He thanked God over and over again, sobs of relief wracking his frame.
It was a long time before he could muster himself up again. He staggered back to the house, shivering in spite of the summer warmth, and stood on the porch for several seconds, afraid to go back inside the house on Bath Road.
Frisky is gone.
The thought struck him at that moment, when the furtive fervor of the search had finally begun to fade. His dog had died—would have died?—shortly after he joined the army.
He pinched himself, increasing the pressure until the pain nearly brought tears to his eyes. The summer heat didn't dissipate. He wasn't dreaming.
He glanced back at his father's car. The keys were still in his pocket.
Without a second thought, Jeff Dahmer got behind the wheel and sped away.