I think we all know what inspired this (if you've kept up with the latest Simpsons news). Most people are saying he's at the top of death row, and that got me thinking . . . . T-Rated for one, single little F-bomb. :/ Otherwise, we take a trip down memory lane with some characters mentioned.
Good luck, Bob. Please don't die. :( Might make a second chapter when we find out who dies in the series.
It's happening every night now. Every single night, the same dream over and over again.
I'm in an empty room. Much like a police interrogation room, except much larger. It had the table, and chairs. My hands are cuffed to rings mound into the table. And the same people sit beside me most every time—it changed a few weeks ago. Edna Krababble used to sit beside me, closest to the metal exit door, but she disappeared. I wondered what happened to her, pondered what they had done to her.
I stopped thinking about it when I realized I didn't want to know what happened to her. I was the next in line, the closest to the door now. Still in the dreams though, her chair was always empty. On my other side sat Rabbi Hyman Krustofski, Krusty the Clown's father. And then there was Krusty himself, my ex-employer. Next to him sat Grandpa Simpson, Homer Simpson's father.
We were all on the list, and there was no getting out of here. All our hands are cuffed, every one of us. I have begun to feel an emptiness spread inside me over the past few dreams, and it followed me into real life. Did it have meaning, my dreams?
As I sat there—here, now, presently I am inside the dream—the rabbi and clown gave each other sad smiles. None of us spoke a word. We couldn't. Like losing our tongues, it wasn't a simple decision that kept us from speaking out. A physical force, seemingly, but not . . . I-I don't exactly know how to explain it, really. It was like something controlling us, our decisions. Who or whatever was behind the only exit in here.
. . . . . I didn't want to die. Don't.
We usually sit here for a few hours, and then the door opens . . . and I am inside a dreamless sleep, floating around until my mind releases me from the cruel pits of my subconscious. It isn't fair, isn't right that we sit here in these death rows. Anticipation is always the worst part about life and death, especially when it is your life and death! What will become of us? What will happen to me when I go through that door?
Once again, I snap myself out of my thoughts and inner turmoil, not wanting to delve any deeper into that realm of thought.
Oh, have I mentioned yet the paintings? The hidden message that, if pondered over a few minutes, is our death sentence staring us right in the face?
Edna does not hang with them, that we have seen. From left to right, there is a picture of the deceased person, along with his or her name underneath. Beatrice Simmons (the picture Mr. Simpson won't stop staring at…), "Bleeding Gums" Murphy, a Dr. Marvin Monroe, Frank Ormond, Shary Bobbins . . . my eyes always rest on Frank Grimes.
I had once saved Homer Simpson from his son—they really did look alike. From what I had gathered, Frank did not deserve his cruel fate. Had he, along with these other people, sit here on their death rows as well? Waiting? Or was it quick, without warning?
There were four people after that: Maude Flanders, Mona Simpson (who makes Mr. Simpson tear up, if not cry, every time he looks at it…I can only assume the worst, from their sharing the last names), Dr. Nick, and Fat Tony.
I vaguely recall now being invited to the mobster's funeral, but could not go due to . . . well, prison. I instead sent flowers.
In case the quite obvious hint had not been picked up, these were all people who had died. I may not have known some, but considering what the people I did know at one time had in common, you knew.
And hell, it scared me.
What waited beyond that metal slab door? Beyond these grimy gray metal walls?
We all looked up when the door slowly creaked open. Never before have I seen who opens it. We all are at an angle that saves us the sight of the likely horrors that wait beyond this cursed room. All I ever see is a shadow that hovers at the entrance for a second before I am thrown back into the wall, and somehow going through it.
And then I have no memory of how long I float in the inky blackness, the Void. It has no feel to anything, nothing but emptiness and silence wherever I turn my head. No, I merely remember where I was before waking up, remember that it was a long time spent trapped.
Bob sat up, gasping, ripping a few of the wires off his head in the process.
The prison psychologist had jumped a little, but otherwise helped Bob get the test wires off. He handed him his shirt (as he had gone shirtless for this experiment), and turned to the monitor screen.
"Well," The doctor said after a few seconds, "your brain waves are normal. Heart rate accelerated a bit when you woke up."
"And how long was I asleep?" He finished buttoning the shirt.
He turned back to the screen. "You were unconscious for three hours, twenty-six minutes, one second. Precisely. You stopped describing it after falling back into the wall, when you, eh—"
"Entered the Void," He nodded impatiently, "yes, I know. But was the hypnotism any better than me going off of my memory? Describing it out loud for you?"
"Hm? Oh yes, very much . . . tell me again, have the medications been of any help?"
He shook his head. "No. It's the same thing, every time."
The man nodded, and punched in something on the keyboard.
"Do you suppose it means anything, Doctor? We have taken every rational explanation and tested every theory, none have worked."
He inhaled deeply, and turned slowly to Sideshow Bob. "Are you positive you have never seen those people before? In the paintings?"
"Some of them, such as Miss Beatrice, or that Bobbins woman. I have not met many personally, but have heard some of their names. But no, I haven't heard of so-some of them."
"Okay…because you just named not only all of the names of deceased people, including some you've never even met before, but you named them in the fucking order of their deaths."
His eyes widened.
"See, Beatrice was the first dead, then Bleeding Gums, Monroe...Perhaps we should consider a supernatural theory, eh?" He chuckled. "Okay, okay. Humor me: can you describe the shadow you see? When the door opens?"
He frowned, shutting his eyes and thinking. "Um…It-it's hard to distinguish. It's like the shadow of a man stretched out. Very long, skinny. But blurred."
"Blurred?"
"Like somebody rubbing their finger across a pencil sketch, the details will mend together? The shadow is never clear in my memory, I can never look at it directly."
"Yes, I understand." He grabbed a clipboard with some papers on it and jotted down notes. "Is there anything else about it?"
He shrugged. "No. I hardly remember anything at all about it."
"Okay . . . Oh, one more question. When you were talking about Edna disappearing, and you being next in line, you said you 'ponder what they had done to her.' Who are 'they?'"
"…I don't know, honestly. There is only one shadow that appears. Perhaps there are more of the shadows behind the one, behind that door, that I know about in the dreams."
He nodded, writing it all down. "Well, Terwilliger, you can go now. It's dinner, anyway. Josh can escort you while I finish up some work." He nodded to a guard, and turned back to the monitor. "Goodbye, and I'll have some new meds sent up to your cell by tonight."
"Farewell, then," Bob got up, stretched out his back, and followed the guard out. "See you soon."
If I live that long . . . .