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Darkness shrouds his vision as he slowly moves his aching body.  Dean is unable to remember what happened. He is hovering on the edge of consciousness.  He stumbles through a tangle of wild grass; falls onto the muddy ground, slowly picks himself up and struggles to carry on. There is nothing ahead of him. He only sees more and more overgrown grass. Although Dean is not able to remember anything, he still feels a strong sense of dejavu as he walks down the muddy path. Everything seems so familiar but completely different at the same time. Dean tries his best to clear his muddled brain and recall what he is doing here.  

His mind is completely blank and all he can think about is the dilapidated motel in front of him. It is the first time it catches his eye. The motel is abandoned and old with broken windows and doors. The half rotten door swings in the light breeze. Where is this place? Why am I here? Did I harm somebody or did something happen to me? Thoughts clamour his head as he questions himself. His memory is gone. Is it wiped out because of shock or fear? Or is he trying to erase his memory in purpose to forget something painful. 

He continues to follow the muddy path, looking back and forth fearfully.  He knows that he was hiding from something or someone but he just couldn’t remember why. He looks up at the sullen black sky and wonders for how many hours or even days he has been here. It is a murky night and Dean continues to walk aimlessly not knowing where the path is leading him. It strikes him as a puerile thing to do, obliviously groping through darkness not knowing what was ahead of him. Suddenly he hears squeaky sounds in the distance but he still could see nothing. It sounds like a windscreen wiper moving back and forth without having any water to be wiped away. Most probably a vehicle he thinks to himself as he fastens his pace towards the sound. He staggers on ignoring the branches and leaves as they scratch his skin and tear his clothes. He continues to fight his way through the branches till he reaches the road. The road is the only thing in his mind and he knows that he has to reach there before the vehicle leaves.  

A van is parked and there is no movement indicating anybody’s presence in the area. The only thing that is moving is the windscreen wiper. It seems as if it was waiting for him all along.  A spasm of terror runs through him as he sees the bloody stains on the side window of the van. “Could a murder have taken place?” he wonders as he takes one step at a time walking slowly towards the van. Did he kill someone? Doubts cloud his mind.  Dean stops for a moment and lights his cigarette. The depth and intensity of the silence makes him feel awkward to be smoking in front of a bloody abandoned van. He stands there puffing his cigarette, carefully scrutinizing the van. Finally, Dean goes nearer to the van and opens the door with much hesitation. 

 A sudden stab of anxiety overcomes him as he sees the motionless body lying in front of him covered with blood. In a split second, his memories come flooding back with intensity unknown to him. It is a nightmarish experience to say the least. Sweat courses down his cheeks as he doubles over in agony when he finally realizes what happened. 

It is him! Dean stands there looking at his own body covered in blood right in front of him. He is dead. His own body stashed away like a bundle of unwanted things. A bloody mess.  Realization dawns on him. Very slowly it comes back to him, that fateful day when his own wife killed him. “I don’t want to die, I couldn’t die, I still have my life ahead of me,” he screams in pain, a piercing cry which shatters the silence and reaches the depths of hell. Suddenly his eyes narrow as he slowly takes a cigarette out of his pocket and puts it in between his lips. A sinister look envelops his face. The face of his wife contorted in anger flashes in his mind as the violent scene repeats itself over and over again. He stares at the bloody mess, which was once him. Melancholy turns into mad vengeance.  

There is only one path in front of him now and revenge is written on it.  The silence of the night shatters yet again, not by a helpless scream but by a deep throaty laughter which resonates in the emptiness around him as he walks on to accomplish what he could not do when he was alive. Mist envelops the path and Dean’s lean form merges with it. The monotonous squeaks made by the windscreen wipers reverberate ominously in a most still and eerie grim night as Dean disappears into the fog.