Part 1
1.
There I was sitting in the dark, wondering about my life to come. I lit a candle to remove the darkness enveloping my room. As my room illuminated, it dawned on me that my room was quite empty. All that I had was a single bed placed underneath the window and on the other end of the room was a table. On top of it lay only three items: a partially finished painting, a paintbrush, and a short prayer of Saint Francis. These were my worldly possessions. I needed nothing more.
The canvas on my table was teasing me as I had to do more work on it. I had drawn something that always appeared in my dreams. These dreams were all the same. I was always running. The trees rushed by me and the snow made me cold. The woods were quiet except for my heavy breathing and my thudding footsteps. I did not know what I was running from, but that did not make me turn around to see what was chasing me. Out of the woods, I would come to a small clearing. Upon reaching there, I would feel this sudden calm surrounding me. It was peace. It was a sense of subtle happiness.
In the middle of the clearing there stood a stone statue. The figure resembled that of an angel. However, the peculiar thing of the dreams was that every time I faced the angel, it expressed different emotions. Sometimes it was happy, on other occasions I could see a tear sliding down its cheek. Mostly, it was confused. Once I reached that clearing I would sit beside it and rest. Once I had caught my breath, I would turn to the angel and talk to it. Although the angel never spoke I conversed with it. It just stayed there listening to my woes. I would talk about my life, my expectations, my hopes and my despairs. When I would want to desperately hear something back, the wind would howl in my ears, the leaves would fly around me, and the sun would then disappear leaving me alone in the dark. It was then that I would wake up.
Reflecting upon these dreams, I decided to draw the angel and talk to it when there was no way for me to wake up. Maybe then I would get the answer I was so desperately seeking. However, I could not complete my painting. There was always one thing or the other that prevented me from completing it. Like the other day, as I was applying the base color, somehow, I managed to get paint in my eyes. I was blinded for the day. Similar incidents prevented me from completing it.
I heard a siren passing by my apartment. I could not place to what the siren belonged to. I looked out of the window and saw that it was an ambulance. Apparently, someone out there was in dire need of help. It made me sad that it was not I who was going to help him. Ever since I was a child, I had wanted to help others. Maybe I had watched too many movies or dreamt a lot; anyhow I wanted to be a savior. Someone who would be recognized for the good things they do. I wanted to become a superhero that children would idolize and love.
This all started when I was young and I saw a man passing by. He walked the walk and talked the talk. He was everything I wanted to be. It was then that I decided to become ‘that’ guy instead of being ‘some’ guy. I did what I could but to no avail. I was still the ‘some’ guy. When I realized this, I thought that it would be just as good to be as a ‘nobody’. It would not be so bad to be part of the background landscape. After all, what more is there to life? I have survived. What could be a greater challenge than that?
I blew out the candle and yet again sat in the darkness. It was a kind of ritual. I would light the candle, and after a moment I would blow it out. I did not use electricity, as I never had enough money to pay the bills. I knew a guy who would give me a little bit of money for some of the paintings I drew. Although he changed the name and sold it as his own, I did not complain. I could not sell my paintings on my own as it was. At least, this arrangement gave me a sense of accomplishment. At some fancy house, far away, my work hung on their wall. What more could I ask for? This way, I had food on my table, clothes on my back and a bed to sleep in.
Even though it was killing me from the inside, I could not complain. I had to survive. Other than this kind of life, for me there would be no life at all. I was a misfit and that was the only thing I would ever be: an outcast from the world. I have seen the way girls look at me when they pass me on the streets. They turn around with disgust. I do not know whether it is because of the way I look, or the way I dress or the way I am. How is it so that people can make judgments about other people before actually knowing them? They are so prejudiced that they themselves cannot see the truth beneath their own skin.
I lit the candle again. I stood up and walked to the window. Looking at the other buildings in the slums, I thought to myself that I would find a way out of here. I believed that I was meant for something greater. I felt that I would set a new world order. I may have been wishing for a pie from the sky, but a change was inevitable. It was why I wanted to complete my painting of the stone angel. Once that was done, I would have the answers I was seeking. With these answers, maybe then I would know how to leave this godforsaken place.
I turned away from the window knowing that what I had wanted could never be achieved. If I could have left the slums, I would have done so already, and as I had not, it only meant that I could not. Life is not like a fairy tale that as soon as I completed the painting, I would be stronger and be able to find a way out. I went to the table and looked at what I had achieved on the canvas. It was insignificant. I only had the vague shapes. I could see the figure clearly in my head, but on the canvas it was just a white spot on a black background. There was still a lot more to do. I looked at the prayer of Saint Francis.
I may not be a religious person, but I have faith in a greater good. The prayer I had on my desk was given to me by a friend before he died. He had given me the prayer hoping that I too would be redeemed. I did not know what he was talking about. Redeem myself from what? Out of respect, I had not asked him. When I looked at the prayer and spoke the words I had memorized, it gave me hope. For no apparent reason it made me believe that my life was not as dismal as it seemed at present.
I placed the prayer on my table so that I could see it from anywhere in my room, particularly, when I was painting. The prayer was the closest thing I had to a friend. The picture of the Saint was my companion, and the prayer was his words of wisdom telling me to believe. I said the prayer out loud, silently hoping that someone would hear it and be saved from all the treachery this world had to offer.
‘Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is doubt, faith,
Where there is despair, hope,
Where there is darkness, light,
And where there is sadness, joy.’
These words meant a lot to me. It made me feel not alone, when I was. It gave me a new insight of the world, and of how to tackle life which is this difficult. This prayer is truly a prayer as it was able to reinforce the fact that all lives are meant to be lived not just survived. Each time I would read this prayer, I would feel a warm sensation flowing within me. It would begin from the heart and then spread around my body.
I picked up my paintbrush and began to paint. I was not an artist. I had no such spectacular skills. I was just a painter. I knew how to put paint on a canvas and make shapes out of it. Van Gogh was an artist; Da Vinci was a master, but not me. I was but a mere painter. An artist is able to tell stories with their art. Mona Lisa’s smile is a story on its own, not my stone angel. I could not enthrall people. Let alone persuade them to buy it. The only reason why my paintings got sold was the fact that the man had influence over other people. He could take it as a personal insult if his fellow peers did not appreciate his ‘art’.
I filled in the outlines and watched as my painting slowly began to take its form. The black mass in the center sprouted wings and finally looked like the angel I had come to know from my dreams. The painting was finally able to depict the scenario of that in my dream. By the time it became time for me to sleep, the painting was near completion. I had to let the paint dry before I could apply the finishing touches.
I placed my paintbrush down and looked at Saint Francis. I asked him what he thought of it. Although he did not say anything, I knew that he liked it. Even though it had no artistic charisma that Picasso holds, for those who had seen the Stone Angel, came to know how accurate my painting was.
2.
After a few days, I had the painting up on my wall. It was the only decoration the wall had. It had no frame whatsoever. I had stretched the canvas by the means of strings. The stone angel seemed gracious beside the white wall. The lighting of the candle gave it a more dazzling look.
Once again, I was running. It was the same woods, the same trees, the same path, and the same feeling of fear. This time, I turned around and all I saw was emptiness. All the trees that were there had gone. There was nothing behind me except a total void. I began to run faster, but it was of no use. The darkness still caught up with me. A few moments later, I reached the clearing. With high expectations, I ran to the center.
When I reached the center of the clearing, I got the biggest shock of my life. The Stone angel was no longer there. I turned around and saw the darkness creep into the clearing. I was vulnerable. The stone angel was not there to protect me. I was doomed. Death was now certain. Just when the ground beneath me gave away, the prayer of Saint Francis was in my mind.
‘Where there is darkness, light’
With that thought I woke up. My pulse was racing, my hands were sweating, and I was having trouble breathing. It was a nightmare; a terrible one at that. I got off my bed, feeling scared to fall asleep again. I went to the window and opened it. The gush of fresh wind made me feel better. I stayed there for a few moments before I turned to my desk and lit a candle. I went to the wall and looked at my painting. Astonishingly, there was no stone angel in my painting too.
I could not believe that the angel was missing. It was like out of a Stephen King novel. How could an object of my painting go missing? It would have made more sense if my painting was missing, not a part that I had drawn and painted. I was puzzled. Intrigued by this phenomenon, I lit another candle to make sure that the stone angel was really gone. However, the other candle did not change the fact. My painting was indeed mysteriously tampered. I took out the painting from its hook and placed it on the table. I closely examined my painting to see what had happened.
Looking at the painting for five minutes, I decided that it was magic that cause the angel to desert me. I guess that the angel was a part of my imagination from the very beginning. I must have imagined seeing it in my dreams, and must have also imagined painting it. However, I knew that it was not possible.
Human imagination is not that fine. Even though human imagination is limitless and can still imagine the unimaginable, it has certain limits. The sub-conscious imagination is crude, very crude. Fables like Star Wars and the Lord of the Rings were given much thought. They were analyzed and scrutinized. If my stone angel was to be an imagination, it would not have been fine. It should have been hazy.
I mean that the image of the stone angel should not have been vivid. If it was an imagination, I would be in no position to recall it; I would only be able to remember parts of it. The only explanation I could come up was that the angel had abandoned me. Looking at the bright side of things, I would say that the angel had other places to go, but I knew that I was lying to myself.
Even knowing this, I accepted the lie whole heartedly. I could not accept the fact that I had offended the angel and had caused it to leave. Maybe my attempt to draw the angel had angered it and caused it to stand up and leave my painting. I was disheartened knowing that I would not receive the answer I was hoping to obtain. I decided that maybe I should draw upon the painting again.
I took out my brush and closed my eyes to recall the posture of the angel, but no figures danced in my head as it used to. My memory had no recollection of the angel whatsoever. I knew that I had seen the angel many times, and I had been able to memorize it. However, I could not imagine the angel then. It was almost as if the angel too had walked away from my memory.
I began to wonder whether I was losing my mind or not. Did the stone angel actually exist? I began to doubt myself. Had I reached the point where I could not trust myself? How could I not trust myself? It is like not speaking for the fear of biting your own tongue. I looked at the painting for a final time before I tried to hurl it out of the window. It hit the wall instead. I heard the wood, which was supporting the canvas, snap and the nail ricocheting against the brick.
I was angry at myself. What was happening to me? Why was the stone angel playing tricks with me? Could it not understand that I needed it the most? Instead it deserted me like I was worthless. Was I worthless? Or had I just angered it. Maybe it had no desire to be drawn. If that was the case, maybe it would not have allowed me to remember it properly, but it was none of that.
There are a few things in this world that can actually make me happy. One of them is painting. I guess I was angry mostly with myself as the painting I was desperately painting, never quite actually finished in time. I went to my window and tried to look at my canvas for a final time, but it was still dark outside. The street light was not working. Just then, a gust of cold wind swept over me. The wind was not cold, and yet I shivered. I must have been afraid that I could no longer sit alone beside the stone angel.
Human beings are queer animals. They have the tendency to want something, even when they know that they cannot have. This is because our desires sometimes blind us. Being blinded we forget to see the most obvious. Forgetting this will always lead to resentment and disappointment. Even though I do not know many people, I have seen people being beckoned by the ‘Angel of Sin’ and it was not pretty.
I read the prayer of Saint Francis again. I needed reassurance that things would become better. I turned off the candle and held the prayer in my hand. I reread the prayer slowly, and out loud. I always thought of myself as a messenger. I wanted to be the instrument of peace. Even though it may not be for everyone, at least there could be one person I could help. So far, I have not actually saved anyone.
After I said my prayer, I set it aside my bed. I laid back and looked at the tattered ceiling. The angel must have left me, because I was already touched by it. After all I am a one in six billion. Maybe all that I had to do was to see a blessing in disguise. Maybe I was supposed to spread happiness, as the prayer of Saint Francis said. Maybe that was what the angel was trying to tell me.
Even though I had doubt over what I was thinking, I decided that I should not ignore it. The worst thing that could actually happen was that I would end up making someone happy. Even if I could not, at least I would be happy and pleased. For me, that would be invaluable. Before my eyes closed for the night, I decided that the next day would be the first day of a quest to become an instrument of peace.
I looked at the painting that I had made. Although it was empty, it was not a bad painting. I had managed to capture the aura of the clearing. I looked at the place where the stone angel was supposed to be. It was amazing that it was not just a blank space but it was filled by the back ground. The last time I had seen it, I had not noticed that there was a small church in the distance. I recognized the sign of the cross that it had. I had seen it in a painting at the art museum.
If I had to embark on any quest, I decided that it would be the first place to start. Maybe I would obtain the answer to this mystery. With this thought I laid myself onto my bed and closed my eyes. For some apparent reason I knew that the day to come would be a long one. I would need my rest.
I have always found it weird that it is sleep that comes to us, not the other way round. If I was feeling sleepy, I would sleep despite where I was, but when I tell myself to sleep, I do not. This makes me think and worst of all, it worries me. The reason as to why this anomaly frightens me is the implication that I have no control in my life.
3.
When I woke up, the sun was pouring down in my room. The light bounced off the wooden floor and was reflected onto the wooden ceiling, which in turn reflected it to the floor. This unending cycle made my room unusually bright. I took it as an omen. It marked that the wonderful journey was about to begin. I took my coat from my chair and left the apartment. I locked it carefully so that my only worldly possessions were safe.
On the pavement, I picked up a newspaper. I pretended to read it. In fact, I could not read well. I just carried the newspaper, as it would help me blend in the background. I never wanted to be out in the front. I did not want to be noticed. I could cover my face and act sophisticated whenever I wanted. Being an illiterate was never a problem with me. I was never afraid that I would get caught carrying the newspaper upside down, because the pictures on the cover would help me to know which way to rotate.
I began my walk to the art museum. The art museum was my escape from what I call life. I would stay in the museum for hours looking at the masterpieces of different artists. I always day dreamed that one day, one of my paintings would be here and that a group of people would be discussing about its flawlessness.
I reached the art museum in good time. I exchanged a few words with the security guard outside. We knew each other from our childhood. We grew up together. I became a painter and his brawn earned him his bread. We talked about the weather and the cold that kept on increasing. Shortly, he let me in.
I looked at the art that surrounded me. I allowed myself to be captivated and engulfed in the pictures. I passed by a replica of Rodin’s ‘Thinking Man’ and thought to myself about what was there out in the church. I took my time into reaching the picture of the church. I did not want to haste. I had all the time in the world. For me, there was no deadline, there was no place I had to be, no one I had to meet. I moved slowly from picture to another.
As I neared the picture of the church, a sense of awakening came over me. I began to grow scared. For no apparent reason I wanted to run. I wanted to leave the art museum and go back to my apartment. Despite my will to run, my feet could not move in that direction. I was drawn to the picture. My feet seemed to glide. I could not lift my eyes away from the picture. Finally my eyes focused and I look at the picture. It was the same church as in my painting.
The only difference was the angle of sight. I had drawn the church from the behind whereas the picture in front of me was the façade of the church. I slowly looked down at the caption and realized that I did not know how to read. So I called upon my friend and asked him to tell me what it said. He told me that it read that it was in the neighboring town, east from where I lived. I thanked him, and he went to his post by the door. It was great news. I needed a vacation even though I did not work. And a trip to the countryside would do me fine as well.
The only problem with all of this was the fact that I did not have enough money. I guess that the only way I would generate enough money would be making a couple of more pictures and sell it. I looked at the picture again to see if I could see the clearing in the background. I could not. It was as if the clearing did not exist. There was no disturbance in the canopy of the trees signifying the existence of a clearing.
I left the art museum and went back to my apartment. If I were to go to the town, I would need some money, and for me to get any money was to sell my paintings. However, I did not have any paintings to sell besides the one I had done of the stone angel. I walked up to the painting and gave it a final look. I knew that if the painting had a soul it was looking up at me and beckoning me to go to the church.
My gut feelings were telling me to go to the church not to the clearing. I reflected upon this feeling. It did not make much sense. I had seen the stone angel in the clearing not in the church. If my dreams were looking into the future or the past, either way, I would have to go to the clearing. Nevertheless, I decided that I would follow my gut instincts. I followed my gut instincts for it had never let me down. Somehow, everything turned out fine for me.
I left the art museum and went back to my apartment. I pulled up my chair in front of the painting and I spend some time just staring at the painting. I was letting the painting absorb myself. As I stared into the painting, I searched for clues. I searched for other minute details that I may have been missing. There were no other landmarks, no people, no faces, no buildings, and no animals, except for some birds flying south.
I looked until my eyes grew weary. I could no longer focus properly at the distant images. My eyesight was weak from birth. I could never look into the distant and look clearly. My vision would get blurred quickly if I spent too much time looking at the things that were close to me. This flaw of mine has taught me an important lesson. It taught me that I could not spend too much time focusing on a particular problem or thought. By doing so, other distant objects would grow hazy. I would lose my concentration and my ability to see things clearly. This would be an irrecoverable cost.
That was why I did not like to spend too many days on a particular painting. If a painting took longer than a few days, I would let it lie there. I would not touch it for a week, and then I would work on it again. I believe that by this way I would be able to remain efficient and that I would not grow monotonous. There is nothing duller than leading a repetitive life.
I always wanted to wake up and decide what to do for the day. I did not keep a routine for myself. I am the kind of person who would believe in spontaneity. Even though I would like to have little amount of control in my life, I would want to make decisions right before they happen. By this means, I filled all of my empty canvases. I never imagined the complete picture. I wanted to let the canvases unfold the way it wanted to. This was one of the reasons that made me a painter than an artist. I was not the master of the relationship I had with my brush. I was the slave.
Finally realizing that there was nothing more that I could gather from my painting I unhooked it and wrapped it up with the dirty cloth, which I had laid across the floor to keep the paint off from the floor. The parcel was ready to be collected by my broker. I went out of my apartment and to the pay phone across the street.
I dialed in the number that was given to me by him several years ago. His mistress answered. I knew that it was his mistress because it was not the familiar voice of his wife. After a short time, I heard his voice on the other end. He asked me what I wanted. I told him that I had a parcel for him. Through the phone I could hear him smile. He was pleased as I thought he would be. It had been a long time since my last parcel. By the looks of it, he needed the painting more than I needed the money. And it so happened that I was the poor one.
He arranged a time later that evening and said that it better be good. I assured him that it was. He took my word to his heart and hung up. I went back to my apartment and reopened the parcel. I cursed myself for packing it earlier. I placed the painting on the table and pushed the table against the wall. I raised the painting against the wall at an angle and covered it with the cloth.
As I prepared for the show I was going to put up, the windows shuddered and it rain. The winter was getting colder. I knew that later in the evening it would snow terribly. The weather had been unpredictable over the last few days. Even the weather man on the TV was nonplussed. I went towards the window and closed it. I looked again at the streets below and wondered about the lives of others. I saw a couple walking pass the street holding hands. There was love in the air. They reminded me of a past that I always wanted to forget. There had been a girl in my life a few years back. Looking at the couple below my window, it made my mind wander in to the past.
4.
When she was by my side, everything made sense. I felt complete. Although our relationship was built up on lies, we both completed each other. She too was a broken heart woman, and I was a heartless man who did not know what it was like to love. I remember that she kept on inquiring me whether I loved her or not. She was insecure, but I could have cured that. The reason that I did nothing was that I, myself, was not sure whether I loved her or not. It was the first time that I was in love. I did not want the relationship to come to an end, but her need of being loved led her to despise me.
We broke up over a stupid painting that I was doing. She wanted me to give her my undue attention, but I was in no position to do so. She came into my apartment one morning. I was busy finishing a painting that I needed to do as I was out of money. She wanted to show me something but I had made her wait. All that I needed was a moment, but she could not afford to wait. We had a row and she walked out.
For a few days I waited for her to come back, but she never did. After a week, I stopped looking at the door and continued with my life. It was after a month or so that I saw her. She was with another man. She had tears in her eyes when she told me that I should have gone after her. She said that maybe she would have come back but I knew better. I told her that I did not regret losing her. Although it pinched my heart that she had another man, I learned to let her go.
It was until I saw the couple passing down my window that I remembered her. I did not know as to why her memory was triggered but it was a good feeling. I reflected upon the good times I had with her. There was this instance in which we had gone to a music store and I played her a song on a piano, which was for sale. I remembered the lyrics and laughed upon our stupidity. I sighed recalling the good days.
About an hour had passed until my door opened. My acquaintance had arrived. I showed him my painting. Although there was nothing in the foreground, he liked my painting. He was mesmerized. I looked at the painting again. Without the angel, the composition of the painting was also flawless. It was in accordance with the rule of third. The sky took the upper third, the canopy of trees took the middle third and the snow took the lower third. The church tower was exactly one third from the right and the flock of birds, one third from the left.
Never in my life had I seen such a perfect composition. If I did not know better, I would say that it was done by an artist; a professional artist. Had I turned into an artist? I guess that it was coincidence. The composition was subtle. I had only noticed it because I had looked for it. I turned to my guest. He was literally blown away. His mouth gaped amazement. I smiled at myself. I asked him if he liked it. He did not say anything. He just nodded his head. From his wallet he took out two bundles of money and left it at the table. He said nothing more and carried the painting with him. He said that this was the painting he was waiting for. He added that he would become rich. He had a stupid grin on his face when he left the room.
I looked at the money on my table. He had given twice the usual amount. I guess that he really liked the painting. The money would be more than enough for my trip to the town and back. I looked at the prayer of Saint Francis and smiled. It seemed that he too was smiling back at me. I closed my eyes and said the prayer. It was due to the goodwill of Saint Francis that brought by the good fortune. For me, there could be no other explanation. After all, it was Saint Francis who had looked over me all those years.
I went to my bed to sleep. I knew that I would have a longer day when I would wake up. Unfortunately, sleep did not come to me. My thoughts only drifted to my past. It drifted to her. I saw her as clearly as I saw the ceiling. She had her arms spread out to me. She wanted me to grasp it, but I did not. I was in no position to. She was now sitting on the curb like the very day I met her.
On that day, she was crying and sitting on the curb outside my apartment. I was transporting a painting of mine. I was happy on that particular day. I had just completed a painting that had taken me more than a week to complete. It troubled me that I was happy and she was not. I sat beside her and tried to talk with her. For the first five minutes she said nothing. She kept on crying, with her hands covering her face.
I was beginning to grow uncomfortable. I was not used to situations like these. I wanted to make her feel better. I wanted to tell her that everything would become better. But she was busy crying; she would not hear anything I had to say. I guessed that I would have to convey my message by an action. I did not know what to do. The most common thing to do would be by placing a hand on her shoulders. I considered it for a moment before I acted upon it. My intentions could have been interpreted both ways.
I had to take the risk; if I wanted to do any good in the world. I slowly placed my hands on her shoulders. The moment I did it, she stopped crying and looked up at the stranger who dared to intrude in her life. When she looked up, she saw a happy man, carrying what was unmistakably a painting. I did not know that she also liked art, and that she worked in an art gallery. I offered her my hand and told her that she was in front of my apartment, and that she could use my bathroom to freshen up.
She wiped her tears and nodded. She grabbed my arms and I helped her up to her feet. I took her into my apartment and showed her to my bathroom. She placed her bag on my table and went into the bathroom. The silence grew louder as she came out. She was looking radiant. I wanted to ask her as to why she was crying, but I could not bring myself to take her back to the pain. If I had to know she would tell me. I did not want to concern myself with things that I would most probably not understand.
She was the only girl in my life with whom I had actually spoken to. Even growing up, I did not know any girls. The only thing that I was concerned with was my survival. I may have seen a couple of girls here and there, but our paths never crossed. It was the way I liked it.
She began to speak, but no words came out. She closed her mouth and looked at the parcel I was carrying. I followed her eyes and saw that she wanted me to open it. I asked her if that was what she wanted. She said nothing but she nodded.
I unraveled the cloth and showed her the painting that was there. It was a painting of an old man. The portrait was mainly dominated by a shade of red. The main feature of the painting was the wrinkles on the old man’s face. It was due to the wrinkles that had taken the painting a long time to be completed. I wanted precision. I had spent the whole week, trying to bring out the character alive, but in vain.
I had finally given hope on the painting and left it as it was. The painting was not bad, but it was nothing close to spectacular. The girl looked at me and asked if I had drawn it. I said yes. She then asked me if I was an artist. I said yes again.
I wanted to correct her that I was not an artist, but a mere painter, but I did not. I wanted to impress her; I wanted to look good for once. Never in my life did I actually care about impressing anybody, but at that moment I felt that I wanted to be with the girl. I had no idea who she was, where she was from, but it seemed for an instant that she was the one for me.
She then asked me where I was going with it. I told her that I was going to sell it. She then turned away and scanned my room, as if looking for something. She came across the prayer of Saint Francis, and held it in her arms. She then turned to me and said that she a huge fan of my work and that she liked all of my art. I asked her where she had seen all of my work. She told me that she worked in an art gallery and that she recognized my style in the old man.
I asked her if she worked in the art gallery two blocks away from the train station, she said that she did. I understood as to how she came to know of me. My friend who bought my art would put up his exhibition in that art gallery. It seemed that she had never met him, and thus mistook him for me.
I know that I should have told her that it was not me she was thinking of, but another person. But I did not. I lied to her, without saying anything. I wanted her to accept me. I asked her if she would like to accompany me to drop the painting off. She agreed.
I never told her that she was mistaken. I lived in a lie with her. It was until my friend held up an exhibition. She saw that I was selling my art to live. That night I was not aware of the exhibition. I had gone to collect her from the gallery, but I saw that there was an exhibition going. I went in and saw her. She gave me one look and walked away.
I stayed in my apartment cursing at myself. Later in the evening, my friend came to my apartment along with her. He had explained everything to her and she accepted the cold hard facts. Although I was not the person she thought I was, she accepted me for my character. I was grateful to my friend.
5.
I woke up the next morning with vibrant energy flowing through me. I was ready to tackle the day. It had been long since I felt that kind of energy flowing through my body. Somehow I was rejuvenated. I had the peace of mind I was so longing for. It is weird how someday, everything falls apart, and the next it just falls back into place.
In my dream, as I was walking I saw her on the street. She saw me but had tried to avoid me. I called out her name several times; however she turned a deaf ear to me. I ran up to her and tapped her shoulder. This time she was compelled to face me. As she turned around, I saw fear in her eyes. She hid her fear and painted a smile on her face and said hi to me.
I asked her why she was afraid. She said that she was not. She wondered as to why she should be afraid. I told her that although I knew her for a couple of months, I knew what I had seen in her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders and gave in.
She told me that she dreaded meeting me. She had realized that she had demanded a lot from me. She said that I was an artist and that I needed my space. She had no right intruding whenever she felt like it. She had not fully appreciated my sacrifices for her, and yet she asked for more. That was why she decided to break up with me.
She felt that she was doing me a favor. She wanted to let me live my own life. She said that she realized that she had prevented me from what I was capable of. She felt that she was holding me back. She was afraid from meeting me because, I was angry with her. She did not expect me to understand. According to her I had the right to be angry at her. She kept on babbling for a couple of minutes before she realized that I was smiling.
She asked me why I was smiling. I told her that it was good to see her again. I explained that I was not angry with her. What had happened did happen. There was no stopping it, let alone changing it. And to top it all, I did not regret it.
I asked her if she remembered that I had told her once about my life and goal. She nodded. I told her that there was something that I wanted to do, and that there was nothing in the world that would stop me from doing it. We walked down different directions because we thought differently. I asked her if she could change lanes.
She told me that it was not possible for her to do so. There were new things in her life that she could not change or leave. She had grown accustomed to the fact that I was not in her life. She found other people and work to fill in the empty place in her life. These activities, as she put it, were now a part of her new life. If she was to abandon it all, her life as she knew it would crumble.
I wanted to ask her if she was willing to let it crumble away for a new life with me, but I did not have to. I already knew what she would say. She would say that she could not put herself through that path again. She could not bear to watch me held back. She wanted me to soar. She wanted me to do great things, and by her presence in my life, it would not happen. I knew that I could persuade her to believe otherwise, I knew that it would not work. I believe that a broken relationship will never work again. I knew that I may be wrong, but I had no reasons to think otherwise.
I smiled at her and said that I had to go. She understood. Then she nodded and kissed me goodbye. She turned around and walked away. I stood there motionless looking at her go further away from me. Before she turned a corner, she turned and waved back at me. I waved back her. As she vanished from my eyesight, I missed her presence. I looked at a passing man. He smiled at me showing his half-decayed teeth. I nodded in acknowledgement. He asked me to follow him. I did.
He led me to the pier. Seagulls surrounded the sky and I heard the distant blares of the ship coming to shore. He pointed to a boat in the sea and whispered to my ears that the stone angel had returned. He told me to find it. When I would it would explain everything to me. Before I could talk back he too vanished. It seemed as if everyone was vanishing from my life.
On the pier I looked at the seagulls dancing in the air. One of the seagulls was injured. Its wing was hurt and was flying funny. I kept on looking at it until it grew tired and went to rest on a crow’s nest of the boat, which the old man had showed me. I plunged into salty sea and swam for the boat. The water was cold. My spine shuddered.
I reached the boat and got in. I dried myself and began to climb the crow’s nest. I slowly advanced to the bird, not trying to frighten it. When I was close enough to grasp it, it flew away. I watched it fly away into the clouds. As it was flying I noticed that it was not injured anymore. I guess that it was a ruse to get me on the boat.
All of a sudden the boat began to move. It sailed surprisingly fast for a boat. I climbed down of the crow’s nest and looked over the railing onto the horizon where the boat was heading. No one else was on the ship. It would seem almost conclusive that the boat was moving on its own. Even the wind was blowing in the opposite direction, and it was a sail boat.
It was then that I realized that I was in dream. It is rare to realize that you are in a dream, because that is the time when you wake up. I walked around the boat gathering the environment as it was my first time on a boat. I had no idea of how to sail. I looked at all the ropes and where they led to. At the end I just got more confused.
In a way it was not like a dream, as I remembered all the minute details. The thing with dreams is that, it seems so real when you are in it, however when you wake up you forget more that half of what we had seen or heard. It all becomes a haze. It is of these unique features that make dreams a mystery to men. But the dream I had that night had been different. I realized that I was in a dream, and that I remembered every minute detail that had happened.
The boat kept on sailing. The shore was far behind me. I could roughly make out the pier in the horizon. I felt the icy cold wind beating against my face. A seagull was following the boat. Or it was following me. Either way, I was surprised that the bird was able to keep up with the boat, as the boat was travelling pretty fast. I had no idea how fast boats were supposed to be, but by the intensity of the wind, I guess that it was going really fast.
Soon, the boat made a violent jerk and stopped. The sudden loss of motion caused my body to go overboard. As I was thrown out of the boat and soared through the sky, I felt light. I felt warm as I landed in the icy cold water. I did not know how to swim. I did not struggle. I tried to scream for help, but I swallowed a mouthful of salt water. Instead of sound, I saw bubbles drifting away from me. It was then that I realized that I was sinking. I was drowning.
As I went lower, the sun diminished before my eyes. Everything turned from a bright blue into a murky green. I tried to move my arms, tried to push the water down so that I would come up but it was all in vain. I was going to the bottom of the bed, whether I liked it or not. I looked down and saw the ocean bed beneath me.
When I felt the land on my feet I slowly began to walk. The sea bed was very different than what I would have imagined it to be. It was empty. Not a single life form was seen. It seemed like a desert underwater. I began to walk aimlessly. I thought I saw a fish, but it was not. The murky green water added to cast the illusion of total emptiness and silence. As I walked forward, I saw a figure becoming more prominent.
The figure seemed familiar and yet different at the same time. I quickened my pace and began to run towards the figure. It was until I was too close to recognize it. It was the statue of the stone angel. But it was different. The statue was old and covered in mould. And it was a mermaid, playing a harp. Nevertheless it was the same stone angel. It had the same face, the same body just a different posture and a tail for legs.
I extended my hands. It seemed like an eternity before I had last seen the stone angel. I touched the statue. As my fingers connected with the stone, I felt a chill which was soon overtaken by a warm sensation that tingled in my fingers. That was when I woke up.
6.
I grabbed my coat and the two bundles of money, which I had got the previous night, and walked out of my apartment. I walked to the train station. I searched for the clock. I found a digital clock hanging in the centre of the station. It was useless for me. I looked at a man passing in front of me and asked him what the time was. He said that it was 9 o'clock. He inquired if I did not see the big clock behind me. I turned around and pretended to laugh and tried to cover it up by a joke. The man shook his head and continued walking. I walked to a place that looked like the schedule list of the trains. I asked a young child to see what time the train to the neighboring town would come.
He looked up at me and asked if I could not read. I told him that I had forgotten my glasses and that the letters were a bit too small for my eyes to read it. It is strange how the mind of a child works. How gullible and yet so intelligent. His eyes sparkled as he told me that the train would not come for another half an hour. I thanked him and walked away quickly.
I was ashamed that I could not read, could not write. I depended upon strangers to be my eyes and hands. I wondered for how long I would be able to keep it up. Not many people will accept the fact that even in their society, there is a man who does not know how his name looks like. Even my signature was nothing more than a familiar scribble. One of my greatest fears is that someday, someone will find out and will be embarrassed, humiliated by strangers, and looked down upon. I guess that the idea of being treated like dirt did not appeal to me. I wonder who feel that it was alright to be illiterate. I have seen people sympathizing over other illiterates like myself, and yet they scorn us. They would not even let us touch their children.
And it was not because we were hideous, deviant, threatening, dirty, nor unhealthy; but illiterate. It seemed as if there was a death mark hanging above our heads. In some instances, it was worse than dying. However, I would have preferred to die. At least that way I did not have to bear the shame and in a way, people would still feel a little empty knowing that a person passed away. I believe that death eradicates all boundaries the society had created to shut ourselves out.
I went by a bench and sat down. I took a newspaper and blended into the background. In the middle of the page there was a picture of some famous person. His face was on the newspaper for the past week or so. I flipped a page and saw that there was a short review of an art exhibition. I recognized that it was a review of an art exhibition because it had a picture of a painting that I had drawn a couple of weeks ago. At the bottom of the page was a small picture of my friend. He was shaking hands with another person.
I turned the page and looked at a picture of a car. I guess that it had something to do with the launch of the vehicle. I admired the car for another fifteen minutes before my throat became dry. I walked up to a vending machine and got myself a can of coke. I had some spare change so I kept everything one at a time until the can of coke fell down. Sometimes it took me five coins or two coins. On the basis of that it became obvious that the smaller coins held lesser value.
I drank my coke in silence, despite the noise around me. I folded my newspaper and placed it underneath my coat. I threw away the can in the bin and looked at the tunnel, waiting for my train. I looked at the people around me. They all were different and yet the same. I found it weird that the people all looked different, as they led different lives, and still they were bounded by the common rules created by them as to be normal, to be equal.
The train arrived with its thundering sound. As it stopped there was a split second of silence. The doors hissed open and there was the ugly exchange of human beings. I managed to squish my way through the doors and found a place by the window. I looked out of the window and stared at the wall. Within a few moments the train commenced its journey.
As the train moved forward, I felt a growing uneasiness. I asked myself if I was doing the right thing. I wondered if by going to the church, I would find all the answers. Answers to the questions I did not know I had asked. I felt this mystical pull towards the church, but I had not actually found a solid reason to go there. I was basing all of my actions and decisions on impulse and instincts rather that reason and logic.
There was nothing I could do at the moment than to shrug my shoulders and to go with the flow. I looked out of my window. The train had left the tunnel and was now racing through the countryside. Green field swept past me. The trees and the clouds made a wonderful sight. I looked up to the clouds and unto the sun. The sun shone brightly in between the clouds giving the illusion of heaven.
I stopped asking questions to myself and took the time to appreciate the scenery. I took in the trees, the green fields, the clouds, and the rail tracks beneath me. As the landscape swept past me I wondered about the church. I had never set foot in a church and yet I knew what it was. I could imagine myself in the church. I closed my eyes and saw the white high walls, the painted ceiling, the organ, and the catacombs beneath me.
I opened my eyes to find the ticket collector asking me for my ticket. I told him that I would need to buy one. He took out a ticket and gave it to me. Without waiting for him to say the price, I gave him a single note and he gave me some change back. I always dealt with money this way. I would give the clerk some amount and he would give me back the change. If I paid him less he would tell me. And if I paid him more, he would have to give me back the change. And if I was cheated, so be it. I would not know either way. On top of that, in a way I did deserve it.
My train came to a halt with in the next quarter of an hour. I got of the train station and followed a man in grey suits. As he was walking quickly and awkwardly, I assumed that he needed to go to the bathroom. I followed him and ended up at the men’s room.
When I came out I saw the exit and walked outside. The aura of the village was quite different than that of the city. The air somehow seemed fresher. And the trees looked a shade greener. The wind was cooler and the cacophony of nature was like music to my ears.
I searched for a taxi, but found none. I walked aimlessly down the street until I came across a diner. I took a table beside the window and order a cup of coffee. The waitress asked me if I wanted something to eat. I said yes, and she gave me the menu. I pretended to read something and I asked if could have a sandwich. She noted my order and went away.
As I had my coffee and sandwich I wondered where the church would be. I looked around the diner in hopes of seeing someone who was likely to know. I looked over a variety of people, judging them before knowing who they were. I labeled them into different groups to which I was already familiar with.
I saw a teenage couple. The girl was all dressed in pink and looked like a life size Barbie doll. For me, she just another daddy’s little girl who wanted a pony for her birthday even though she did not know how to ride one. The guy was wearing old tattered jeans and was smoking a cigarette. He ran his fingers through his hair. For me, he was just a mama’s boy who thought that he was cool and sophisticated. He was most probably in the football team and played baseball with his father on Saturdays.
Sitting a couple of chairs behind them was an elderly couple. In a way they seemed sweet, however I found it pathetic. The fact that no one tended their needs was quite disappointing. They must have raised their children with expectation of being cared for in the days of desperation, but fell down to bite the dust when the day came. When they realized that their daughter in law was a gold digger, she had not married the family; just the money, nothing more.
She and I were not too different. We knew what was important in life; we agreed upon the basic principal that money was everything. It was money that would give her a house out in the suburbs, with a lawn and a garden. It was also the same money that was going to get my answers. If it was not for the money, I would not have been in the diner drinking my coffee, and judging people I had never met before, and chances were would never meet again.
I judged them because I could not bring myself to think that they were better than me. I had seen and heard it all. My life was everything but spectacular. I wanted to be different, to stand out in the crowd, but in the end I just ended up becoming nothing. I was a painter who was not recognized for his worth and who fed off charity.
I hated my life but I had found my peace by judging others. Maybe at some level I felt better thinking that my life was better off than anyone else in the diner. Maybe I was right. Maybe my life was better, but I had to ask myself how it was so.
The door opened and a man walked into the diner. He walked to the counter and asked for a cup of coffee. He then moved to a table beside the window in front of me. He took his newspaper and spread it out across the table. He skimmed from one news headline to another. When his coffee arrived, he looked up and found me staring at him.
I smiled and nodded that it was a good day to be out. He gave me a brief smile and returned to his newspaper. It was quite evident that he was not paying much attention to the paper. He constantly jumped from one article to another. One might have said that he was searching for something, but the lack of concentration in his eyes gave it away. He looked at his wrist watch then he looked out of the window. He was waiting for someone to show up. He then looked at me. He was waiting for something to happen.
I got up to go to the counter and pay my bill. Just then the window exploded into smithereens. Glass shattered onto the table and the floor. I heard screams and shouts of all the frightened people behind me. Everyone scrambled on their knees to hide for cover behind the tables and the chairs. Then for a moment, there was a split second of silence.
In that fraction of the second I looked out of the broken window and looked at the street placed before me. The street was empty, not a single soul was seen. No man or woman was walking outside carrying the day’s groceries. All the vehicles were gone. Not even a bird was chirping. As I turned my head back to the diner I saw it. A small flash in a window across the street, a few floors high caught my attention. Sound returned to my ears when I realized what had just happened.
7.
Behind all the screams, cries, and racket, I found myself staring down a barrel of a rifle. As I stood there, letting the facts sink in, the man on the other end of the rifle pulled the trigger. The bullet that was meant for my heart landed on my shoulder and knocked me down to the ground.
The shards of glass cushioned my fall. Blood spurted out of my shoulder and the fragments of glass cut through my skin. Soon I was covered in a pool of my own blood. I looked at the ceiling trying to comprehend the situation. As I was deep in thought, another bullet ricocheted off the tiled floor a few inches from my head. I tried to drag myself for cover, but in vain. I could no longer move. I had lost a great deal of blood and my hand was not strong enough to pull me way. I was scared to do anything.
My vision got blurry. I could not clearly see what was happening around me. I heard gunshots, one after another and each time, I felt the bullets coming closer to me. Despite the sun, I was getting cold. My hands were trembling. I was beginning to sweat. Blood kept on gushing out of my shoulder.
Another gunshot echoed in the street. This time it sounded different. It was closer than the rifle. With grave difficulty I opened my eyes and strained to see who was firing the gun. I saw the man who was having coffee in front of my table holding out his gun and shooting the sniper. He fired six rounds.
For a moment, everything went silent. No guns were fired, no screams were shouted, even the wind died down. Silence gracefully crept into the diner. The man came over to me and placed my hand on my wound. He pressed hard. Pain seared deep into my shoulder. He then looked out of the window. After that he turned back to me and asked how I was feeling.
I stated that I had been worse. Despite his smile, I knew that he was not happy. He said that he needed to get the bullet out. He reached into his pocket and took out a seven inch blade. He asked one of the waitresses to bring some whiskey. The waitress retorted that we were in a diner, not a bar. The man pointed the gun to the waitress and said that there was a liquor store on the other side of the street.
The waitress quivered and crossed the street. Obviously she did not want to get shot. The man reloaded his gun. Within moments the waitress came back with a new bottle of whiskey. She handed the bottle to the man. He said thanks, or something along the lines, because the waitress smiled.
The man opened the bottle with his teeth and then he took a swing. He poured some into my mouth. As I swallowed the burning alcohol, he said that it would sting a little. He removed my hands from the wound and poured a great deal of whiskey in it.
The pain knocked me out for a few moments. Everything had gone black. I heard screams echoing in the distance and realized that it was mine. I tried to open my eyes, but in vain. I tried to move my arms but they were numb. I could not help but scream.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the seven inch blade digging into my shoulder. Looking at the blood and whiskey pouring out I knew that I was supposed to feel pain, instead I felt nothing. The whiskey had numbed my senses. After a great deal of struggle, the bullet finally came out.
The man held the bullet. It was surprisingly unlike any other bullets I had seen. Instead of being cylindrical, it was conical; pointed at the front and flat on the end. It also had green and red stripes near the base of the bullet. The man sighed as he looked at the bullet and threw it out of the window. A series of small explosions blasted through the diner. It sounded like fire crackers.
He turned to me and said that we needed to get away from there. I tried to get up, but my body was still numb. I tried to speak, but only raspy breaths were heard. He grabbed me by my other hand and helped me to my feet.
He walked me outside to a car. He smashed the window and let me in. From the diner a man came out shouting that it was his Volkswagen. The angry man stopped shouting when he realized that a gun was directed at him. He was told that a man was dying, and that he had the opportunity of making a difference. The throbbing vein in his head subsided as he handed over the keys. He tried to threaten the man by saying that he would report the car stolen in an hour.
My savior placed me in the back seat. He got behind the wheels and drove the car away from the street. After a while he gained speed and I knew that I was on a highway. He adjusted the rearview mirror to look at me.
He told me that I had a chance of living. He must have seen the surprised look on my eyes as he mentioned that even though the bullet was extracted, I had lost a lost of blood. He stated that I would live, just as long as I trusted him. He was not taking me to the hospital. He told me that it would be stupid and careless. He told me that the men who were trying to kill me would find me there.
I tried to ask who were trying to kill me, but no words came out. I only managed to mutter something insignificant. He looked into the rearview mirror to look at me. For a fraction of a second I saw fear in his eyes.
He faced the road and said that knowing my killers were unimportant. Not for the time being. He told me that our primary concern was to get me somewhere safe. I needed a place where I could heal, where I could lie low. He added that I would come to know everything in due time. He asked me to trust him. I closed my eyes and nodded.
With each minute, I grew numb, grew weaker. I was half expecting to see my life flashing before my eyes. I had given up. I had lost a lot of blood. I was feeling cold. I knew that I would not make it. Lying in the backseat I tried to think. I tried to figure out who were trying to kill me. I was not someone who was important enough to be assassinated. Who was to gain from my death? What did I own that was of value? What secrets did I held that was worth killing? I came up with no answers. I tried to think who my savior was. I tried to think why would any man be carrying a gun? And why would any man carrying a gun would try to save me? Again, I got nowhere.
My eyes got heavier, and the effect of the whiskey seemed to level out as I felt a tingling sensation in my arms. My palms got sweaty and the inside of the car began to swirl. My head felt as if it was splitting. I began to shake my hands wildly, and the saliva in my mouth accumulated. The last thing I heard before I blacked out was the screeching brakes.
Part 2
8.
Why was I here? Why was I driving this stolen car, helping a wounded man I had never met before? Where was I heading? All that I knew then was that there was a small motel at the end of the interstate where I could stay low. It was a place where the stranger could stay until he got better. It was an ideal place where no questions would be asked. Well at least not to me.
I looked at my rearview mirror and looked at the wounded man. He was not bleeding anymore. At least it was a start. As I looked at the blood stained seats, I felt sorry for the owner of the car. It was not due to the fact that the car was stained and that it would take a lot of money to clean it, but due to the fact that when I would reach the motel, the car would be not be seen again. I could not afford to be tracked down.
The man in the back groaned. I looked back and saw his eyes flickered. He was slowly regaining his strength. I told him that we were almost there. He looked at me and tried to say something before he went back to his dark slumber.
It had been three years since my last kill. I had retired. No, I had quit. And there I was, doing the same things I had hoped not to do. All because of a lousy reoccurring dream. A dream that I had thought was something more. It was too accurate to be just a dream. It seemed real.
Nights after nights I woke up from the same déjà vu. I was in my diner, drinking my coffee, looking at the watch strike three. Then total darkness ensued. And then I would wake up with my gun in my hand, sweat pouring down my face. And worst of all, I felt fear.
Was this what my dream was trying to tell me? That I needed to be at the diner before three so that I could save a man’s life? But how could it be so? I had ended a life of another. I tried to reason with myself that it was the right thing to do, like I had done so many times in the past. But it was all in vain.
In the past I knew exactly what I was doing, and more importantly why. I had a purpose back then: Money. But what was the purpose here? Why did I deem the man in the back seat had the right to live, and his executioner did not?
Then I realized that it was not a random murder, but an execution. Not even an assassination. The sniper had fired a warning shot. He wanted to make sure that he saw his kill in the eyes so that the bullet meant something. But his kill knew nothing. Not even a single thing at all.
In the distant I heard sirens; I looked into my rearview mirror and saw two patrol cars gunning their engines. They were coming close. I checked my watch; it was obvious that my one hour head start was over. The owner of the car had reported it stolen. I stepped on the gas and accelerated. There was no way I could out run the cops in this car. It was not built for speed. I had simply chosen it because it was simple, and it could blend into the streets.
I reached over and opened the glove compartment. There was the GPS navigation system. With one hand I took out the batteries and let it fall onto the seat. That should come in handy later on. I switched lanes constantly, placing more cars between me and the patrol cars. But it was no use, the blaring sirens was to the cops advantage.
I looked at my fugitive, he was doing better. Some color was coming back to his face. I opened my window slightly and let a gush of cold air fill the car. I took a deep breath and took out my gun. I fired two shots into the air.
The police slowed down. It was common protocol, an armed car thief is more than the highway patrol could handle. They would need to call in the big shots, and that would take time. And time was all that I needed. I took the next exit off the highway placing a truck behind me. Looking into the mirror I saw the highway patrol following suit. I accelerated and re-entered the highway.
Even though it was the oldest trick in the book, it seemed to do the job. The highway patrol left the highway and went for the gas station, following the truck. It would be a matter of minutes before they figured out that I had given them the slip; another couple of minutes then there would be road blocks on every exit for the next miles or two; shortly followed by a helicopter. I needed to change my vehicle. I would need something more subtle.
Just then a car, few vehicles ahead of me, ran out of gas and stopped in the middle of the road. Another car smashed straight into it. I pressed on my brakes and served to the right. I avoided the pile and skidded across the asphalt. I got out of the car and helped the stranger to get up.
He looked at me with dazed eyes; I told him that things were getting better. He looked at the crash pile in front of us. He tried to ask if we did that, I shook my head before he could speak. I told him that I needed to help the drivers. I walked to the cars and checked for any damages on the vehicles. The first car, a Citroën Picasso, was damaged badly, although it would still work, if only it had gas. The car that rammed up its behind was ruined. The V8 engine was sticking out at odd angles; a shame.
I helped the drivers of both cars get out. In the meantime another vehicle had pulled up and the driver was calling an ambulance. I took out my gun and told him to do as I said. He dropped the phone and looked at me with fear. He was in his mid-thirties, judging by the way he dressed and the color of his red Honda Civic, he was most probably in advertising or something. It did not matter what he did for a living, just as long as he did what I told him to do. I did not want to kill another being today.
I told him to help my friend beside the Volkswagen. I pocketed the gun and lifted the stranger to the Civic. I then picked up his phone and told him that he would get his car undamaged, in about four to five hours tops. He said nothing in return. He found it hard to believe that he was being car-jacked when he had pulled over to save a few decent human beings. I got into the car and rolled over the window. I tossed him his phone, and his briefcase. I told him that his meeting was less important than saving the drivers in the accident. And then I sped off.
9.
I was beginning to enjoy myself. It was like the good old days; when I would save people, save the world, or so I thought. It all started about ten years ago. I was in a bar, drinking away the memories. A man came and sat beside me. He told me that he had a job to offer. I told him that he was mistaken and that I was not looking for one. I looked at him and saw that he had the perfect face, no strong facial feature; he wore a cap and trench coat. For a moment it seemed like he was out of a Ludlum novel.
He told me that he was not mistaken, he knew my middle name, where I lived, in which year I graduated, what my first, second and third jobs were. He knew that I was drinking away the memories of my late wife, and of my first criminal offence, of which I was never convicted of.
As I listened to him ramble on facts about me, I noticed that he was carrying a gun, and was wearing a vest. I told him that the bar was not a place to talk business. He smiled. He told me to go home and that he would be waiting for me.
As I walked home I wondered as to whom he was, and more importantly what he wanted from me? It was quite obvious that he needed me for a ‘dirty’ job. He was blackmailing me. He knew of my past, which means that he had resources, special resources. I assumed that he was from the government but then it did not fit the scenario. The government would not put such effort to be discreet. And the government had far more better people than me to do the job. I was a low life scum, who dealt in petty crime.
This man was from an organization or “the company” as many TV shows is based on. Maybe it was the case but I was not to ask. As I entered my room I went to my bookshelf and took out a box. I opened it and found it empty. The bastards…they had already swept my room. I walked to the window and saw an unmarked SUV outside.
The bell rang and I peered into the peephole. It was the man from the bar. I opened the door and let him enter. He told me that he was impressed with my record. I had managed to stay underground for seven years. It was a pity. He went telling me that had I only waited for a year, my entire life would have changed. After a pause to light his cigarette he added that it would have changed for the better.
He told me that he liked with what I had done with the place. It was eccentric. He liked my hiding places: the bookshelf, the toilet, the lamps and his personal favorite the coat hanger. For a moment I was scared, was he here to kill me? Or was he here to offer me a job in his organization? Who was he? And how did he know so much about me?
I decided to play along, to humor him. I asked him if he wanted anything to drink. He smiled and declined. He did not want me to go to the kitchen to get a knife, clever, but not subtle enough. He offered me a cigarette and walked to the couch. He sat down and beckoned me to do the same.
I was only twenty five then. Nothing more than a young man, a man with broken ambitions, with no desires, with no thirsts for the greater glory. Why was the man in front of me so interested in me? As I smoked the cigarette in silence I tried to study him. As he was most probably doing the same; he had taken off his hat so he was showing his grayish hair, he was in his mid-forties. I looked at his face, despite the fact that his face was proportionate; there was nothing I could read from it. He showed no emotion, his eyes let out no signs of fear, happiness or restraint. He had an air of confidence around him. He was comfortable sitting in the chair, which means that he had been in the apartment before. He must have conducted the sweep. It was only natural to do so.
He broke the silence. He asked me if I was happy with what I was doing, delivering goods. I nodded my head. He asked me if I was happy with what I done. I told him that I had no regrets. He then asked me if I wanted to do more. I asked him what was there for me if I did. He smiled. I saw his tobacco smitten teeth and surprisingly it twinkled.
He got up and walked to the window. He looked outside at saw the SUV. He turned back and told me that there was nothing in return. There would be nothing more to gain from them. He told me that I was expendable. And that no one would miss me when I was gone, let alone shed a tear.
I pulled in a long drag from the cigarette and told him that if I was as expendable as he said, then he would not have been in my room, with a prior sweep, ensuring that I could not kill him, asking me to help them. I had something that I could offer, that no one else could. And that if he really did not need me then he might as well take out his gun and put two slugs in me.
He reached for his hostler. As I looked at him pull out his gun I stood there watching his every action. He had not cocked his gun, which meant that the safety was still on. The gun was not armed. He flicked his cigarette out of his window and aimed the barrel at my forehead. He silently shook his head, as if to say that he liked me but he had to kill me.
I took a step forward and let the barrel of the gun touch my temple. I looked at his eyes. I could read nothing from it. I slowly placed one of my hands into my pocket. He saw it. He then cocked the gun and told me to get my hands out of the pocket. I slowly did so. I raised my hands palm up to show that I was carrying nothing.
He placed the gun down to the floor and kicked it over to me. He told me that there were three men in the SUV, one in the driver’s seat and two in the back, and that there were three bullets in the gun. I looked at him and asked him if he was serious. He did not smile back.
He just told me that this was the break I was waiting for. He told me that he needed a protégé. He needed new blood to carry out his task, his function, his purpose. He needed me. I picked up the gun and looked at it. It was a Colt .32 automatic. He told me that I was already familiar with it, and that I should have no trouble with it. And he was right. I had used a Colt .32 twice before, and both of them served well.
I took out the cartridge and saw that there were indeed only three bullets in the gun, including the one in the chamber. I pocketed the gun and headed for the door. Before I left, I turned around and asked him how he knew I would have accepted it and not killed him instead. He told me that he did not. And from his coat he took out a cartridge and tossed it over to me. He told me to use these instead of the blanks in the gun.
As I closed the door and walked down the stairs, my life had indeed changed, for the better.
10.
As I pulled off the interstate, I came to the motel. I parked the car, and got the stranger out. I carried him inside. I got the keys from the reception, no questions asked. I told her to send some clean towels and a bucket of warm, not hot, but warm water to my room.
I laid the stranger onto the bed and took another look at his wound. He would live. Within a few moments, the girl came in with an assortment of pink and yellow towels and a pail of water. I took a pink towel and dipped in completely in water. I hate pink. I cleaned the wound softly. The girl just stood there looking at me delicately wipe the blood off the skin and reveal the gunshot wound at its splendor. The skin was pierced, no fragmented bones, and most importantly, no nerve damage. He would slowly regain control of his hands.
I turned to the girl. I told her to get me a needle, some thread that is not pink and whiskey. She nodded her head and walked away. All of this was not unfamiliar to her. Four years back, I had brought her father here; in the same room, on the same bed. The only difference was that he did not make it.
As I waited for her to come back, I lit a cigarette from the pack I found in the car. It had been two years since my last. It felt strange. I was picking up on old habits, doing things that I had thought I had left behind. I smiled as I thought of Al Pacino echoing out “Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.”
Even though it had been a long time, it did not feel that long ago. Everything was so familiar to me and yet so different. This time I did not know who he was, what he had done, who was trying to kill him, nor why. And most importantly I did not know what to do with him. I would patch him up; make sure that he got all better. Then maybe ask him questions. But I knew that I would not get any answers. He did not know it himself.
And then what?
The girl walked in. she handed me the bottle first, I opened the bottle and drank some to dry my throat. I bended over the stranger and slowly shook his head. His eyes flickered, and slowly opened. He looked at me. I saw emptiness in his eyes. He was dazed and bewildered. He had lost a lot of blood. He would need some, no a lot. I asked him his blood type. He looked at me with the same blank expression he had on earlier. It did not matter. My blood would do fine; another advantage of being a universal donor.
I told him that he needed to drink something. He still did not understand me. I took the bottle to his lips and poured some down. He drank it. I let him finish half of the bottle. He would need it. After he passed out, I took the needle, dipped it in the whisky and did the same for the thread. I then asked the girl to stitch him up for me. She took the needle and did what she was told. She was a quiet girl. Only twenty three years old, she knew how to take care of herself and her two brothers. I was even surprised that I knew the details.
While she was stitching the stranger up, I went around the motel. I found a thin tube pipe. I looked at the car which I had jacked. It was standing out. I had to get rid of it, soon. I went back inside, told her to clean the pipe, and not to use whisky. It had to be sterile. And I told her to keep an eye out on the stranger. He would wake up thirty minutes after my departure.
She silently nodded her head. She looked up at me and spoke for the first time in four years. She asked me if I would come back. I looked at her for a while. Her question was not that absurd. Four years ago, I had brought her dad home. Told her how he died. Told her why he died. And then I had left. Only to return with another bloody body
I told her that I would. This, whatever this was, had just started. And it was a long way off from being finished. I also added that it was unfortunate that I had to bring her into the midst of this. She smiled and said that she was glad that I had.
As I got inside the car and drove off, I knew that this would get ugly. When people start caring about other people, risks becomes difficult to measure. The prediction of actions becomes hard to cipher. And above all the purpose of the task at hand changes. Different ends emerge and different consequences to choose from.
I drove the car for fifteen minutes on the interstate then left it on the side. Letting the people following me, assume that I had switched vehicles. I hitched a ride back on a truck. I indulged myself in idle chit chat with the trucker. We talked about a game that was on last night, which I had not watch, but it is not that difficult at all to feign knowledge, nor intelligence. Something my mentor taught me.
A helicopter passed over us. I stuck my head out of the window and looked at it. It was an unmarked helicopter. It did not belong to the police or any news station. Interesting. It was going towards the car I had left behind. Even more interesting. There was a faint familiarity of the chopper, but I could not quite place it.
My immediate thoughts went my old acquaintances and accomplices. However, I instantly dismissed the notion. It was too reckless for them, too open and above all too soon. We worked with precision, but we did not haste. The chopper denoted that there was a new player in the game; a resourceful player, but a newbie nonetheless. When you have been in the game for so long, all the tricks, strengths and weaknesses become apparent. Even though you may be a lousy player, you would still see it.
Soon the helicopter went out of sight. The trucker looked at me and said that it was not absurd for the helicopter to be flying so low. He had heard about the highway car chase on the radio. The chopper was going in circles. I asked how far apart each cycle was. It was only a matter of twenty minutes.
I corrected myself; the newbie knew what he was doing. He was not chasing the car. He was chasing its occupants. It was only natural to assume that we would be hopping vehicles. You would be surprised by how many cops and feds forget to take this little thing into account. This is where you would draw the line between the smart ones, and the stupid ones.
I told the trucker to pullover at the next exit of the interstate. I had reached my destination, but I needed to go a few steps further. The trucker handed me a can of beer and bid me farewell. I stood in the dust, and watched the truck disappear into the horizon. Then I waited. Ten minutes passed before the chopper passed by. Like clockwork. Something apparently was drawing it towards the motel.
I looked at the chopper and found what I was looking for. I saw a barrel of a machine gun prodding out of its side. There was no mistake in identifying it from its turret: the Browning .50 caliber machine gun. The M2 a.k.a. Ma Deuce as the US Marine calls it. I had every reason to worry. It has been used since 1920 as a vehicle weapon and for an aircraft armament by the US. It was heavily used during the Second World War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, as well as during operations in Iraq.
Just as the helicopter banked left, my eyes caught a sight of a lens flare. The M2 was mounted with a scope. I had only heard stories of these, but was never fortunate to come across one. During the Vietnam War, there was a US Marine sniper, Carlos Hathcock, who used a Unertl telescopic sight with an M2. He had a mounting bracket of his own design. I heard that Hathcock could quickly convert the M2 into a sniper rifle, using the traversing and elating (T & E) mechanism attached to the trip to assist in aiming at stationary targets. When firing semi-automatically, he could accurately hit a human target at a distance of 2000 yards. This was twice the range of a rifle-caliber sniper rifle. I hate snipers.
Then it hit me. The stranger was being hunted down. He was being tracked. There could be no other explanation. I had taken steps. I was not followed, but the people in the chopper were following him by other means. Most probably bugs. After all these people did have resources. A bug could have been planted before he reached the diner. It had to be something that allowed the initial sniper to follow him.
My best bet was one planted on his dress as I had not seen a cell phone with him. The signal was evidently weak, since the chopper was running in circles, trying to triangulate and pin point his precise location. However, this was not my primary concern. Not yet anyways.
I was still trying to digest the fact of the bullet, which had been used back in the diner. It was a vital piece of the puzzle. I had worked with those bullets before. It was a prototype which was never produced commercially. It was the ideal sniper bullet. Its unique conical shape allowed it to penetrate a Level IV Kevlar vest with ease. A Lever IV Kevlar vest is the highest grade of Kevlar. It is a conditioned armor that protects against 10.8g .03-06 Springfield M2 armor piercing bullets. Even when it runs at a velocity of 878 m/s give or take 9 m/s.
This prototype would pierce the Kevlar like sheepskin. The bullet was made out of lead with a copper jacket that was left open at the tip, exposing some of the lead inside. This results in the bullet expanding upon contact thus tearing away more tissue. This went against The Hague Convention that prohibits the use of certain kinds of ammunition used by one uniformed military personnel against another.
This prototype was also modified to accept a small pyrotechnic charge in their base. This charge would be ignited upon firing. This composition burns quite brightly, thus making the projectile visible to the naked eye. This enables the sniper to follow the bullet trajectory relative to its target. Naturally, this allows the sniper to make the necessary corrections to his aim. These kinds of bullets are commonly known as tracers.
The new player definitely meant business. I was fucked.
The sound of the blades slicing the air echoed. If the chopper found what it was looking for, both the stranger and I would be dead. I had to take down the helicopter before it took us out. I had my fair share of choppers in my past. I was trained to take them out. By any means necessary. However, just because you can does not mean that you should. And in retrospect, just because you should, does not mean that you can.
Having a sidearm, is no match against the M2. I would have preferred some heavy artillery by my side. Nevertheless, through time, we all pick up on little things that enable us to mobilize what we have to what we just need.
The chopper banked left to complete its circle. The M2 was facing away from me. This was the opportunity to take it out. In the distance, I saw an oil tanker speeding across the interstate. It gave me an idea. Not an original one though. I walked to the edge of the road and pulled out my sidearm. I had to be delicate; precise, but delicate.
I fired a shot at the tires. It missed. I fired another shot. The tires busted. The rubber rapidly eroded and caused the tanker to tilt. The sudden shift in weight caused the tanker to topple over. It skidded across the asphalt. The screeches of metal grinding across the road echoed through the skies. Sparks flew. I held my breath and silently hoped that it would not burst into flames. Not yet, anyways.
As intended, the accident caught the chopper’s attention. Perfect. It began to circle the wreckage, hoping to find a survivor or the cause. It was only a matter of time before they spotted me. When they did, I would be a dead man. The pilot continued circling. It was finally close enough. I looked for the driver. He had smashed the windshield and was crawling out. He had a shotgun in his hands. That explained the windshield. Despite what they show on television, one cannot kick down a windshield with a mere kick. Soon he was on his feet and running away from the wreckage.
I waited until he was off the interstate. He was safe. He was expecting an explosion, and if I was not mistaken, he knew how to take care of himself. It was safe to assume that as he was already curled up into a ball. I looked at the massive trail left behind by the truck. I stole a glance at the chopper. It was still hovering around. Evidently, not the smartest pilot in the business. From his angle, one would see the alarming amount of oil spreading out.
I took aim and fired.
11.
I entered the room. She was waiting for me with the tube. The tube was slightly longer than I needed it to be. There was a knife on the table. With it I shortened the tube to the right length. It was no more than a foot long. I placed the needles on both ends of the tube. I dried my hands against the skin of my pants. I would have been lying if I had said that I was not nervous. Blood transfusion by this mean was not that safe. Let alone an exact science. This was why new methods had emerged.
He was awake, but barely. I cleaned his arm with whiskey, and then did the same to mine. I searched for my artery, which took no time at all. Once I found it, I pierced it with the needle. Blood began to ooze out into the tube. So far, so good. There should not be any air pockets in the tube while carrying out the transfusion. It was just one of the many potential pitfalls of this transfusion.
A large number of diseases are easily transmitted through blood; HIV/AIDS, Hepatitis B and C, malaria, Lyme disease, to name a few. Since I was giving my own blood, I perfectly knew what it contained. It was my duty to know. In addition, I did not have to worry about the blood coagulating. It was a direct transfusion. These days, since blood has to be medically checked, verified and approved, most doctors would have problem with the clotting nature of blood. Therefore, people started using anticoagulants and refrigeration.
I connected the other end of the tube to his vein. As my artery would pump blood into the tube, his veins should suck in the blood in, just like a pump. It was simple high school physics. It was a crude process. This was a process any sane doctor would disapprove. However, it had worked once before. My only fear now was that his body would reject my blood. It would be a pity if his immune system started attacking my blood, but the chances of that happening was slim. His body needed the blood. However, the chance still stood.
We stared in silence at the tube as blood trickled from my artery, down the tube and into his vein. He needed a lot of blood. I alone would not be enough to satisfy that need. I could push myself beyond the limit however it would render me immobile, hence vulnerable. It was something that neither of us could afford to be, especially after eliminating a chopper. The thought of the chopper reminded of the fact that I would need to sweep the place for the tracker once the transfusion was over.
I looked at the girl and told her to get some juice or water for me. She nodded and left. I felt around my pockets for the pack of cigarettes I had earlier, but I could not find it. All for the better. After all, smoking a cigarette was not that good of an idea, particularly during the midst of a blood transfusion being the donor.
As I stood beside the stranger I looked at the tube. Blood was flowing at a steady pace. It almost looked as if his body was sucking the blood, feeding off of it. I followed his veins to his finger tips. I saw that he had a considerate amount of paint on them. I leaned in to get a closer look. It was not enamel, but acrylic. So the stranger was an artist. This definitely made things a bit more peculiar. Peculiarity always brought something interesting, at least in my line of work.
The discovery of this new information raised more questions rather than answering it. All I knew was that he was an artist, who was being hunted down for his execution of a crime he did not know he had committed. The other variables in the equation were the ‘Who’ and the ‘Why’. Once I would have this information my job would only be half done, well by my standards. There were codes that I would have to uphold.
Human beings strive on knowledge. Our action and reactions are all defined by our knowledge. We change as we now know better. Looking back at the history of human civilization this phenomenon is omnipresent. The idea and concept of consequence has driven us forward. Our ability to weigh the consequences of our actions enables us to judge which path to take. However, this ability is greatly defined by what we know, and what we do not know. This inference changes with time as again we know better.
My mentor once told me about this phenomenon when he was explaining the basic premise of ‘Symbolic Interactionism’.
Human beings act toward things on the basis of the meanings they ascribe to those things.
That was the first premise of Herbert Blumer when he first coined the term in 1969. My mentor was explaining the fact that with each interaction with a being, an entity or a phenomenon our interpretation of it changes. This is due to the presence of new variable that were not seen before. Whether it was there before or not is not quite important, as it went unobserved. In light of this new information, our perspective evolves, as we have a better picture, either reinforcing the existing inference, or evolving it.
He had taken the example of a child playing with a knife. At first, a child is curious about the knife as his parent would have warned him not to play with knives. His curiosity would lead him to the kitchen counter and take out the knife. He would closely examine the blade, as he was told to stay away from it. His first encounter is mixed with fear and awe. He would hold the knife by the hilt and examine it. He might even possibly be drawn toward it for its sleek look. Beauty is an instinct; that is the rationale behind it. Either ways, while fiddling with the knife, he would most probably cut himself while running his finger over the edge of the blade and finally see why his mother had warned him.
With his fresh wound, the kid would fear and loathe the knife. It represents pain, death and evil. With this perspective in mind, the kid would maintain his distance with the knife. However, this inference would clearly change if he was attacked by lets say a rabid dog, which chased him to his kitchen. Using the knife against the life threatening rapid dog, as the kid knows that the knife harbors pain and death, he would emerge triumphant. The knife would appear to be a war hero: a savior. His premature fear of knives would be eradicated.
In essence when he would return home after his shots for the rabies, he would see his mother preparing a delicious meal to cheer him up. He would look at his mother chopping up the chicken using another knife. After all, using the same knife that stabbed the dog would not be all that preferable. While she would be cutting the chicken she accidently cuts herself. This would show to the child that a knife is a powerful yet dangerous tool and that in order to wield it well, one would have to know to how.
With this plausible situation, my mentor taught me the power of knowledge over anything else and more importantly, he later showed me how it worked and how to use it to my own advantage. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. I beg to differ. The pen has no power over the sword. It is the person behind the pen and the sword that determines which one is stronger. A similar principle is seen in street races. It is not the car that is fast, but the driver.
I have met people who argue this by saying that the car will determine how fast the driver will go, but they forget the fundamentals of comparing things: the ‘ceteris paribus’ assumption. Everything else remains constant. This brings us down to the fact that in order to test the racer every driver ought to be given the same car and record the fastest time. Given that the better racer is deemed by speed; and not other attributes like handling, stunts and performance.
However, present day races are not just about speed, many new factors have evolved that changes the aim of the race. We seek the better racer, and the car becomes an asset of the driver. Hence with the diversity of cars on the track, the driver chooses which car he races. This choice ought to be based on which car he wields best.
Coming back to the pen versus sword story, the person who can wield their weapon and cause much damage to their opponent wins. Note that damage may take any form. Due to this factor the contenders would have to consider which weapon suits him the most and fight accordingly. Fighters determine the outcome of the battle, not the weapons. The weapons are there to aid them. It’s the fighter’s responsibility to know which weapon to use, and how to use it. If not, it is his loss.
The artist opened his eyes for a brief moment. In that moment he looked at me and formed what some people would consider to be a smile. He closed his eyes and began to mumble. It took me some time before I recognized the mumbling to be a prayer of some sort.
I began to feel dizzy. My vision was getting burry. It was about time. I was losing blood, and it had been some time that I was standing beside him lost in my own thoughts. A person is knocked unconsciousness after losing massive amounts of their blood. A ‘Prime Human’, in other words an average healthy man weighing 70 KGs, has a blood volume of 5 liters.
The American College of Surgeons has broken down hemorrhaging into four classes. Class I hemorrhage involves up to 15 % of the blood volume. Changes in vital signs are not observed by this phenomenon. Fluid resuscitation is not usually required. Class II hemorrhage involves 15 – 30 % of the total blood volume. Here, the skin may begin to look pale and feel cold and changes in behavior are to be expected. The loss can be resuscitated with crystalloids, ideally the saline solution. Blood transfusion is not typically required. The third class is up to 40 %.the symptoms: BP drops; heart rate increases; peripheral perfusion and the capillary refills worsen.
The last class involves the loss of more than 40 %. The limit of the body’s compensation is reached and aggressive resuscitation is required to prevent death. I was nearing that threshold. I sat down beside the bed. I did not want to break the connection of the tube yet.
The moment I sat down, the world around me spun. I heard the creak of a door opening. After that I heard nothing. I saw the floor racing up to my face. A sharp pain surged through my right arm. A numb feeling came across my face. I felt a cold hand on my neck, checking for a pulse.
She pulled me up and laid me down on another bed. She had her thumb pressing against my hand, blocking the blood flow. She was not doing that great of a job. Blood seeped between the gaps, flowed down her thumb, hand and then fell onto the sheets. The moment my head landed on the pillow, I was knocked unconscious.
12.
In times of darkness, your mind wanders to your past. It wanders to almost forgotten memories and experiences. It searches for an answer: a small matchstick, hoping to shine some kind of light to the current predicament. When no answers, nor hints, nor guidelines are thrown in our way, we retreat to those moments we are so fond of. Perhaps some consolation is all that we need. Perhaps it is all that we deserve.
Consolation comes in many forms and reappears at different times. Consolation is necessary to suppress guilt. Not only that but to manipulate it into building something that we need. By definition, all humans are good, or at least have some good in them. This is only so because we can feel guilt, and we act upon it. Most good found in the world is all derived from guilt. Guilt keeps us in check whether we like it or not. However, a thin line is drawn as to where guilt ends, and pleasure ensues.
Most crimes are not committed for the fear of guilt and some crimes have taken place so that someone else did not need to bear the burden. Perhaps, it may be a significant other who would have crumbled under the sheer weight of it. Even by this fear of guilt, something good has emerged. Whether the crime was just or not is highly debatable but not the issue.
Despite all of this the guilt will continue to live on. Every day is a reminder, and with each remembrance it does not get any better; nor should it. Most of our actions are regulated by what we have been through, or by what we are aware of. Our reasons to love and hate are all influenced by our past. It is rarely possible to forget the past, more plausible to change it, difficult to accept it but essential to look back on.
My mentor taught me that guilt can be a powerful weapon. Just as strong as fear is, guilt can also persuade people into doing something that they did not want to do. That is true power. Guilt is a weapon that women use all the time.
My mentor had a peculiar sense of humor. He would see humor in almost anything. Maybe he was looking for it, trying to compensate for something. Nevertheless, he found it and made use of it. In addition, according to him it had saved his skin one too many times.
It was a cold winter afternoon. My mentor and I were hiding behind a bush. I was staring down the scope of a Heckler & Koch PSG1.
The PSG1 or ‘Präzisionsscharfschützengewehr’ German for ‘precision sharpshooter rifle’ is said to have been developed in response to the Munich Massacre in 1972 during the Summer Olympics. As the West German police units could not engage the terrorists fast enough to prevent them from killing the hostages H&K was then commission to design a high accuracy, large magazine capacity, semi automatic rifle for police and military use.
The cross hair of the scope lined up perfectly between the eyes of a deer nine hundred and fifty meters away.
All PSG1s are free of the iron sights but are mounted with the Hensoldt 6x42 scope with illuminated reticle. Like most Hensoldt scopes, it has a built-in range adjuster which can be adjusted from 100 to 600 meters. This gives the impression that 600 meters is the maximum range of the rifle. In truth, the rifle can still shoot out to 1000 meters accurately.
Some would say that it was an impossible shot. They were close to right. In the hands of an amateur it was impossible. The deer was far away and the wind was strong.
Breathe. My mentor told me to control my breathing, to focus on my breathing. Not too fast or too slow. It was a matter of timing. Anyone could fire a gun, but not everyone could hit their target. Several people had made this shot, only a few now remain.
The deer looked in my direction. I thought that it had seen me. It looked away and continued to feed on the grass. I eased a bit. My mentor told me that I should not be tensed. Many shots had been fired prematurely because the shooter was too tensed, too focused and too absorbed by his target. None of those shots were productive.
He told me a story of a sniper in a hostage situation. Three crooks had abducted a school bus. The bus broke down in the woods and they were soon surrounded. The negotiations were not successful. Soon it became nightfall. There was a sudden burst of light in the bus, and a shot echoed through the trees. As it turned out, the crooks had sent one kid to turn on the lights inside the bus, and it took a sniper by surprise. He panicked and fired.
I asked what happened next. Apparently the bullet hit a child killing him instantaneously. The sniper was dishonorably discharged only to be found days later in his uniform with his brains plastered over the ceiling.
Even if you were trained to be a cold hearted killer, all it takes is innocent blood to shake your foundations. It is something that I should never forget. It was to become a part of my code, and it did.
I held my breath, squeezed the trigger and kept on looking. The rifle coughed as the bullet pierced the cold air. I counted the seconds that passed. It was not much. The rifle has a muzzle velocity of 868 m/s. A little more than second later blood erupted from the deer’s head. The deer collapsed into the snow.
I exhaled. I had made the shot.
I looked at my mentor. He was smiling. I asked him if he had ever made that shot. He took the rifle from my hand. He crouched and took aim. He told me to take his binoculars and to look at the tree behind the deer. I did.
He adjusted the scope. It needed to be aligned with his vision. I tried to hear his breathing, but I heard nothing. Soon enough, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle coughed. Bark spewed out of the tree. Naturally he had made the shot before. He handed me the rifle. He told me that it was finally mine. It had served him well in his prime, and it would now serve me. He gave me a pat on the back and pointed to the deer. It was time for dinner.
During dinner my mentor told me that it was finally time to talk. It had been a year since the bar, the offer and the van. We had not talked much about my purpose, my goal and moreover, what it meant to be a protégé. Each time I raised a question, it was met with a response denoting that it was not yet time.
Throughout the year, I had travelled along side him. most of the times, we would have these ‘excursions’, hunting deer, climbing mountains, sailing boats and even sky diving. At other instances, we would be at these extravagant parties where he would introduce me to people who I did not know. It would be a formal gathering, engulfed in cigar smoke where we would jump from one person to another and talk about the weather, the game last night, the situation around the world and every mundane things boring people talk about. Then he would introduce me. Just by name. Nothing more, nothing less. He did not say where I was from, who I was or what I did. Just a name my curiosity was only met by the same fact that the time was not right then.
He asked me to pass the salt and said that over the year, I had suppressed my curiosity and for that he was grateful. He was thankful for the amount of trust I had placed in him. I nodded my head and said that I was equally grateful for the amount of trust he too had placed in me. He smiled.
He told me that before I could have the answers that I had been waiting for, he first needed to clear something between us. Some things had to be said as it needed to be said. It was a matter of the past and a matter of his personal curiosity as well. I understood his concern. He had told me countless times that a man’s past will define who they are and what they are capable of. For me, in order to become his protégé, he needed to know and understand my past. He too had waited a year in satisfying his curiosity.
I looked at him in silence, waiting for him to continue. I wondered as to what he may have wanted to say. Then again, it was better for me to just wait rather than trying to fathom the unfathomable. Never once could I look into his eyes and figure out what he was thinking. Whereas, he could read me like an open book. The only thing that I could think of my past worth noting was her: the girl that had made me into a killer.
He sprinkled some salt over his meat. He looked at me and told me that he had his eyes on me since I was fourteen. He told me that he had studied me, had followed me, had guarded me and had groomed me. He wanted me to know that he planning on collecting me years ago, but before that could have had happened I had run away from my home town. He did not blame me, but it sure did make it difficult for him to find me again. He was impressed with the way I had just suddenly vanished from everyone’s radars, especially his.
And even after he found me, a couple of things always bothered him. It was nothing bad, but just a matter of personal curiosity. And before things could actually commence, he needed to say something. He told me that he could have intervened during the times of my darkness but he did not, as it was not his place. He needed me to understand this.
I told him that I did, and that it would not be my place to hold things again him. He had taught me that just because you can does not meant hat you should, and just because u should, does not mean that you can. I told him that I was under observation, and more importantly, he would have to need to see me at my worst. He smiled again.
My mentor then asked me if I remembered the night that I left town. I did. He then placed his hands on top of mine and asked me why I had killed the man. He told me that he know of what the man had done to me, done to her but he wanted to know why I had done it, even though I knew that she had betrayed me.
I was astounded by his grasp of the situation and his knowledge of the details. He looked at my amazement and said that he had me under observation, when the subject goes missing, you figure out why. He added that he had a talk with the survivor from the boat.
It was my turn to take the moment of silence. I guess that I never really knew why. I loved her and did it so that she did not have to. Maybe my misplaced sense of heroism got caught in the way, one thing or the other I had no idea.
He nodded as though he understood. How could he? Even I could not understand it. He told me that I did it because it was the right thing to do. The degree to which morality holds is debatable but in my eyes it was just and I had to play the cards that I was dealt with. One thing governed my actions and it was my love for her.
I liked the way he put it, but it did beg the question of who won? Who came out of it victorious? She left the town running away from people who would not be chasing her. I lost her. He lost his life. He then asked me what my purpose was. Why did I do the things that I had done back then. I told him the same things that I tell myself everyday.
Because she would not have to.
He told me to never forget it. Never forget what you are doing and why you are doing it. If you meet these objectives then you have done it right. I would have to make a lot of hard decisions in the years to come. Quick decisions will never be the right decisions and to assume otherwise would be naïve. However, one cannot afford to second guess oneself. If a problem results from a bad judgment, take actions to rectify it or let it slide. Do not dwell upon the ‘what ifs’ but rather ask yourself ‘what now?’.
He talked to me about the case. He ran the sequence of events by me, ensuring that he had the story straight. He did. I guess it was not amazing as it should have been. Once you have seen David Copperfield vanish the statue of liberty, pulling a rabbit out of a hat seems futile; but is it?
Once all was said and done, there was one thing that he could not put his finger on, A part of the puzzle was missing and he knew that from professional courtesy he could not demand to know the truth of it. After all, it was a secret and only mine to cherish.
As he made his opening to his question, it quickly dawned over me as to what he really wanted to know. I only had a moment to consider. Should I disclose the location of my victim to him? It had been my leverage that would ensure my immunity incase things had not turned out the way it was supposed to. If I had been captured, I could never be charged with manslaughter as there would be no victim. Without the body I could not be convicted and more importantly, I could not be executed.
Soon after my disappearance, a bounty was placed on my head. The father was not pleased. Despite his thirst for my blood, he wanted me alive. So that he could give his son a proper burial. This secret had kept me alive all these years. Otherwise I would have been dead ages ago.
I explained this to him. He raised his hands signaling me to stop. He had heard enough. He did not need to know and when he would find out, he would keep it only to himself. I thanked him for that.
We were done with our food. He got up and walked to the refrigerator. He took out two bottles of beer and walked back. He opened the bottles and gave me one. As he passed the bottle he told me that the next day would be the day I would begin my new life. He had spent the year grooming me for what was to happen next. He raised his glass and toasted. My new life as a US Navy SEAL.
13.
We were sitting by the fire, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. Dossiers were spread across the table in front of us. In a couple of days I would be collected and transported to an undisclosed location, whereupon I would begin my training.
I was reading the criteria that the candidates needed to meet. The pipeline as they called it was that the candidate is a US citizen between18 and 28 years of age. He must be a male in the United States Navy or Coast Guard. He must be fluent in English with no less than a High School Degree. Uncorrected vision no worse than 20/200 in both eyes is essential. He must have obtained the minimum ASVAB score of General Science, Mechanical Comprehension and Electronics Information, which sums up to 165 or Verbal Expression, Mechanical Knowledge, Mechanical Comprehension and Coding Speed with a sum of 220. No recent prior drug abuse nor criminal offence and naturally passing the SEAL Physical Screening Test (PST)
I did not meet most of these requirements, but as it would have happened my mentor knew people who owed him a couple of favors. In his line of work, favors are all that they have to offer. He briefed me in on what I needed to know. He had given me an identity. Not a new one, but something I would consider to be a revised version of me. It was the version that would have walked down the right path.
Everything was already cleared out by my mentor, but I needed to play my part. He needed me to understand that my role as a SEAL was important. Aside from the tactical advantages and motivation, it would become my identity. It would be my secret identity. He stressed on the fact that it would be the person my enemies would come after. The identity would be protecting.
If Peter Parker was a Navy SEAL, it only raised more questions as to whom or what Spiderman would actually be. It was a bit unnerving. My mentor laughed. Only time would truly answer that question. He told me that the people I had met over the year were the people I could come to trust, once I earned their trust. The skills that I had acquired only ensued that I would stick around in the SEALs.
I turned the page to read more about the screening test. The minimum requirements of the PST consisted of a 460 m swim under 12:30 with a competitive time of 10:30, 42 push ups in 2 minutes with a competitive count of 79 or more, 50 sit ups under 2 minutes with the same competitive count. 6 pull ups from a dead hang with a competitive count of 11 or more and running 2.4 kilometers in boots and trousers under 11:30 with a competitive time of 10:20 or less.
I took a moment to think of whether I could manage such a feat or not. My mentor interrupted my thoughts and told me not to doubt myself. Evaluating your position is one thing, doubting is another. I always liked the way he differentiated things. Just along the lines of these small nuances. I guess it was his way of looking at the world.
He told me about the SEAL training programmed and what is consisted of and of what was asked of me. I would spend 4-12 weeks in a Naval Special Warfare Preparatory School followed by 3 weeks of Indoctrination. I would spend 24 weeks training in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALS (BUD/S) at the Naval Special Warfare Center, Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, California. I would also spend 4 ½ weeks parachute training. This incorporates 5 days of static line, and 3 ½ weeks of military free fall at the US Navy Tactical Air Operations School in San Diego. Finally 16 weeks of SEAL Qualification Training would ensue.
My mentor told me that my life as Navy SEAL would determine what kind of operative I would be, since by now I should realize that I would be involved in sensitive issues. I had to shape myself the way I wanted and the way that I needed it to be. The resources and network I would gather would all prove to be vital and powerful.
He told me that training aside he had one particular mission for me. He showed me a picture of a man roughly my age and build. He told me that the person would also be attending the training. He passed me a manila envelope. He asked me to read it once he was gone. It was my first directive. He shook my hand and we both went outside. The business of the day was concluded. If I had any questions, I would have to asked them, or wait for another day. However, knowing my mentor, the answers would be in the manila envelope.
We stood in silence as we braced the winds of the mountains. I took out a cigarette and offered him one. He declined. He preferred the after taste of his cigar and he was comfortable with his scotch. I shrugged and lit mine. I looked up to the sky. It was all a haze. The thin sheet of clouds made it hard to view the stars.
I turned to my mentor and asked him if I could ask him something about the case. He looked at me and told me that he would not tell me what happened to the girl. If she lived happily ever after, I would wonder if she ever thought about me and more dangerously I would want to see her again. And if she was not, well I would not be pleased with that either. All in all, there was no answer that would satisfy me, and its best to leave it untouched.
I looked at him. He had never eluded my questions with such tack and crooked knowledge. He looked innocent as he drank his scotch. I asked him if she had told him to say that to me. He smiled. He nodded, yes he was asked, but not by her. He added that it was all that I was going to hear from him regarding this matter.
It was admirable what I did for her, but it was about time that I left it all behind. I was going to forge a new life, in order to do so I would have to let go of my old one. I should retain to those memories that make me who I am, but I should not live in them. She was no longer a part of my life and moreover I was not a part of hers. If I were to look at it as an operation, she was the objective and I delivered her to safety, that is all I needed to know and all that mattered. What happened next is of no consequence to me.
I told him that he made it sound as if she was dead. He chuckled. He just stated that this was not applicable to her but for the future instances in which I had a personal stake in the objective. He told me that he will not lie. Personal attachments will become a part of the job, but it should not override the task at hand. My survival would depend upon this. Their survival would depend upon it. He needed me to understand how to rationalize my actions that would condition me to become a better operative.
I thanked him for the words. He told me that he had taught me nothing yet. Well nothing compared to what he had still yet to offer, and of what I would accumulate on my own. He always told me that there are two ways of learning anything: the easy way and the hard way. One is being told by someone else and the other is finding it out on your own.
I looked in through the window at the table inside. On the table, the manila envelope stood out. My mentor caught this and told me that he was taking his leave. In the distance, a pair of headlights shone through the snow. A black SUV pulled up and my mentor got in. He wished me good luck and told me that I would make good friends there.
That is exactly what the manila envelope was about. It consisted of several photos of him in different parts of a city. Some were taken in a subway station, outside what would appear to be his apartment and a couple of him by the window. These were evidently surveillance pictures. A letter was attached with the pictures. In it, it told me about the man in the picture: his name, date of birth, his origins and his history. Details of his medical and criminal records were also mentioned in it. Later on, I discovered that these records were sealed information.
There was no directive as such. No mission was stated. No order was given. All I had were pictures and a description. What I was I supposed to do with it. I looked at the pictures again. I could gather nothing from it. Was it a puzzle? Of course it was. I checked if the photos had time stamps. They did. I kept it in a chronological order. It just gave me a summary of his day starting from a cup of coffee to a subway station to his walk back to the apartment. I noticed that there unusually one more photo of him crossing the street than others. Every other picture was taken at an interval of 2 hours, but there was one that was taken a minute after another. I took the anomaly of the sequence and examined it closely. I ran a finger over it. I felt a bulge that took form of a word. I took the letter and grabbed a pencil. I scribbled on the white space of the paper across the bulge, getting its imprint. It read ‘befriend him’.
The concept of a one man army is wrong. Even covert spies do not operate alone. They just spend most of their operation in isolation from HQ, and this is where their friends come in handy. In order for me to become who I needed to become, I would require help. Help from someone I could trust, someone my mentor could trust, and someone who could trust me. Apparently, my mentor trusted him. I would need to ensure that the other two criteria are met. Therefore, I did.
14.
The ceiling was the first thing that I saw when I came around. She was by the window looking outside. I asked her if there was anything of interest out there. She turned around and smiled.
It was quite warming to see her smile and yet I felt the unsettling wave of guilt passing by. I could never find satisfaction in wiping away someone's smile, and when I did guilt ensued. A conversation was waiting to happen; one that I was not particularly thrilled about.
She brought me a glass of orange juice. It was the ideal drink to replenish your system, it was a start. I got up. I felt dizzy. I was weak. I leaned up against the rest of the bed. I thanked her for the drink.
She smiled again. Why is it that a girl's smile is always intoxicating? There will always be a certain gleam in their eyes that enable us to feel its authenticity. She brought her hand up to my temple to feel my temperature.
She was carrying out my instructions to the letter. The world could do with more people like her. Due to the crude nature of the transfusion, obtaining an infection is highly likely. When you are on the run, not all services and facilities are at your disposal. You will have to make do with what you got and what you can get your hands on.
I was not feeling hungry, but I did need a little bit of food. My mentor always preferred an apple. It had something to do with 'Shinugamis'. I on the other hand, took a leaf out his book and always made a mental note to a banana whenever I could.
She asked me how I was feeling. As I unpeeled the banana I told her that I had been worse. Her smile faded for a moment. When it came back she explained that despite the humor, she knew it to be true.
She turned away. As she looked at the drapes on the window I saw her mind drift back to that night. Silence hung in the air. I got up from the bed. The numbness had subsided, however the weakness had not. I took a moment to regain my balance. I walked behind her and placed my hand on her shoulders.
There is only so much that words can do. She turned around and buried her head into my shoulders. I stroked her back and said nothing. She would not have been listening to me anyways. All I could provide was comfort, saying calming words would not get me there.
She pulled away. I raised her chin so that our eyes met. I wiped away the tears. I asked if she wanted a smoke. She said nothing. I turned around to locate my coat. I found it hanging behind the door. I walked towards it.
I took out the pack of smokes and the lighter. As I handed it over to her, I pointed out that given the state I was in, I should not be smoking them. Therefore, she ought to help me get rid of them. She smiled slightly and accepted the smoke.
I was hanging my coat back on the door, when I noticed the stranger's coat. The pockets were bulging out. I stuck my hands in and found a thick wad of money. Professional experience had taught me that in a stack of such height the sum of all the hundred bills would amount to fifty thousand dollars.
There were both old and new issued notes in the wad of money. I always made it a point to keep track of certain serial numbers. It enables me to make certain estimations regarding the object or subject at hand. The wad of money was made from seven different uneven stacks. I could tell since each stack was tied by a different sheet of paper. It was evident that the money came from someone, and that someone got it from many other people, but yet in a limited timeframe. The wad of money implied the existence of an operation.
I looked at the owner of the wad of cash, wondering how he ended up here. If he was hired, I would need to know for what, and if it was done or not. His superiors could have terminated him as his job was done, or not. However, the situation was not that bleak. I had a lead. Now, I would have to trail the bed crumbs.
Hoping to find other clues, I dug around his coat some more. I could not come across any useful item that could act as a beacon. Then I remembered something. I was supposed to be looking for a GPS tracker. I ran my finger on the outside of the coat. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I then checked the collars. I finally found what I was looking for. It was a thin sheet of plastic: another prototype that I had come across before. It was small, subtle and unobtrusive. This prototype explained the erratic behavior of the chopper.
The tape track was more than your ordinary bug. It was designed for a professional hit man of a certain kind. It was easy to attach it to the intend kill. Easy to monitor and follow. However, it had one flaw. It was mobile. It could not have access to a permanent power supply. Therefore, it had a limited life span. Being small, light, transparent and transferring data within the higher bands of the electromagnetic spectrum it would not last long. However, the eccentric nature of the bug was the fact that the data sent from the bug was transmitted to a local receiver; be it a laptop or a phone as long as it had the compatible hardware and software.
The bug lasts for a period of 48 hours. Generally, the hit men would remove the bug from the corpses before the battery ran out. That is how good they should be. Since, the data is stored, it is possible for the hunter to back track the movement made by his subject and formulate a pattern or create a window of opportunity remotely.
It made sense that if the last known entry of the bug was somewhere on the road, before the battery ran out, that the chopper would be circling the skies. Given the time and terrain it was a matter of moments before they would send additional resources to pick up from where the last team had left. Unless new evidence was thrown in their direction only then would they act accordingly.
I now had to assume that the enemy was aware of my presence and influence. Yes the enemy. One should realize the power that terminology has over perception. Naturally, this would depend upon the definition that we ascribe to them. Here the word enemy would have more nuances with the word opponent or competitor. The only difference is that at the end of the day he would kill me if I gave him that opportunity. In addition, we wanted things to end differently.
I tried to recollect the events that had ensued since the diner. How much information had I given them about myself? How much information could they infer from my actions? Not to leave out my personal favorite, how much information could they misinterpret or be made to be misinterpreted? What would seem plausible in their eyes that I could morph myself into? Deception is not the key to victory, but that does not imply that it will not get me there.
In my line of work, I had to assume many roles in order for the mission at hand to be completed. It was only natural to nurture myself to adapt to suit the presence of others. Who could I be to appear intimidating for the people hunting down the artist? Who could I be to appear as no threat? Who would they fear? Respect? Listen? And obey?
This was definitely not the weapon that could end wars but it was a tool to tip the scale in our favor and breed leverage of a better understanding of the scenario. It was still too early to formulate a role for me to adopt. However, I was already given a role to play to begin with. I had become his guardian angel.
I took the lighter and burnt the thin sheet of plastic. One could never be so sure. Precautions had to be taken. I had to consider the possibility of moving the artist to another safe house. It would be risky. Riskier than what it was bringing him here in the first place.
I needed tools to operate with. A pack of cigarettes and my gun would not do much good. I asked the girl to take me to the reception. I followed her out of the room and into the sun. It was bright. There seemed to be a lack of clouds. Well at least this way. If they were bringing in another helicopter, I would see them coming. I would also need to place my eyes on the roads too.
Once we arrived to the reception I went behind the counter. The desk had not been changed since the last time I had seen it. If my memory served me right. Her father had a key hidden in the bottom drawer. I tried to open it. It was locked. Go figure. I asked her for the key. It took her a moment before she found the right key from her ring. She handed it to me. I opened the drawer. It was light. It was empty except for a key that was hidden under a false bottom.
Next stop: the cellar.
Part 3
15.
