The Unwinnable Battle

“I need this taken care of now, John. Not as soon as possible, not when you feel like it, not anytime but right now,” Ralph Forrester hissed into the phone.

“I can't do it right this minute, Ralph,” John protested. “You know that someone might be onto me.”

“I know that you're a scumbag who's made up some story about how there's a risk he might be caught so he doesn't have to do the work and still gets paid. How naive do you think I am, John? I haven't come this far to be duped by a backstreet criminal.”

“It'll get taken care of, don't worry about it.” John's voice seemed almost lackadaisical, and Ralph gritted his teeth to stop himself from lashing out.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I need this taken care of the moment you have the chance, and if you somehow mess this up, I will find you, and I will—“

There was a faint rustling sound, and Ralph whirled around. He stepped forward to investigate, but there was nothing there. He sighed with relief. It had just been the wind.

“You still there?” Ralph turned his attention back to the phone, and, more importantly, to making sure that John was still paying attention.

“Yeah, I'm still here,” John grunted. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” Ralph snapped. “Just make sure you do your job, or I'll come and personally collect all my change.”

“For the last time, it'll be wrapped up soon.”

“I want it taken care of by tomorrow morning, or I'll send the police after you,” Ralph threatened.

“You wouldn't do that.” Despite his attempted casualness, John's voice wobbled a little, and Ralph could hear him swallow nervously.

“Try me. Done by tomorrow morning, or I'll set the bloodhounds on your trail with an anonymous tip-off. I don't think you'l get parole for identity fraud, John.” With that last threat hanging in the air, Ralph hung up the phone and again wiped his phone thoroughly to make sure there was no incriminating evidence anywhere.

He slipped his phone in his pocket and made his way back to his bedroom as quietly as he could. Before he went into his bedroom, he made sure that his search history was not only cleared, but clogged with innocent Google searches, his laptop camera was still securely covered, his curtains were drawn, and his computer was set up with as many security features as it would allow and they were all using up-to-date software.

He changed into loose-fitting sweatpants and pulled off his shirt before slipping underneath the covers to embark on his nightly adventure into the realm of sleep. Of course, before every good adventure, the hero had to defeat something, and in this case, he had to relax for long enough to stop his mind from fretting endlessly about the stresses of everyday life and all the loose ends that could convict him.

He lay there restlessly for several minutes, his mind still whirring with questions and concerns. He wouldn't trust John any further than he could throw him, but he had quite a reward at the end of this path. It shouldn't be too hard to find the social security number of the recently deceased Edward Wilkins, a bachelor who was no longer in contact with his family. In short, he had no one to take care of his social security number. At least after this was done he would be officially untraceable and wouldn't be forced to go to prison like his father.

The mere thought of his father filled him with rage, even after more than 20 years. His father had stolen his only chance of a normal childhood, and he had struggled through so much of adolescent and pubescent years the victim of constant bullying, all because he was that kid with a father who was permanently in jail, and nobody knew why.

But that was behind him now. He was a successful middle-class citizen now. He lived in a nice house, was surrounded with supportive friends, and had a steady job that was far from perfect, but still a steady source of income, and not nearly as unbearable as others occupations.

His past was the only thing that left him with an insatiable unhappiness. He longed more than anything to cover his past, to get rid of this gnawing fear that somebody, somewhere, would find out that he had done the unthinkable.

Not a day had gone by since then that he hadn't regretted what happened that night. It was still as clear in his memory as if it was yesterday, even though it had been almost 7 years ago on a rainy Friday night in April.

It had been in self-defense, but he was still petrified that he would receive a long jail sentence. He couldn't stand the thought of being cooped-up with so many dangerous criminals in such a tight space for so long. He would lose everything he had.

And now he was only one loose end to secure before he was completely safe. He had moved three times, legally changed his name from Robert Woods to Ralph Forrester,

He rolled over in his bed, vainly trying to relax. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if John failed or had tricked him in some way. It was a miracle he hadn't been back-stabbed yet, and this would be the most devastating time to betray him, when he was so close to living in peace after all these years.

After several more minutes of trying to relax his brain, he slipped into a light sleep plagued by nightmares that always ended with him killing someone he cared about, whether it be a family member or a friend or even a random stranger.

***

His alarm clock went off at 5:30 on the dot, and Ralph found himself coming to consciousness with a massive headache. It felt like he was hungover, even though he hadn't tasted any sort of alcohol since that night so long ago. He forced himself to climb out of bed and slip on a bathrobe, head throbbing.

He stumbled down to the kitchen and began toasting his bread while pouring himself some orange juice. The butter was already out on the counter, so Ralph was left to his thoughts as he waited for the toast to pop.

Why was he so tired? Ah, that's right. He had stayed awake long after he should have taking care of some business for work. He furrowed his brow. That couldn't be right. What had happened?

He groped in his pockets for his phone, but then remembered it was next to his bed. He fumbled upstairs, retrieved his phone, and checked for any new notifications on the glowing screen, squinting into the brightness.

He had missed three calls from John, all only minutes before. It was a miracle they hadn't woken him up, but then again, he had been so tired he probably could have slept through a small bomb.

Finally remembering why these messages were so important, he checked that his volume was just low enough for him to hear and pressed play on the first one.

“Hey there, boss. It's John. Guess you already knew that.” Ralph grimaced. Get to the point, idiot.

“Well, I was just calling to let you know that we're following several leads and we're about to get there. Just a little bit more to work on and we'll have it for you shortly. See ya, I guess. Figuratively speaking, o' course, less you wanna come visit sometime.” The message ended, and Ralph gritted his teeth. How dd I get stuck working with such an idiot?

He clicked on the next message, holding the phone up to his ear to hear clearly.

“Hey there, boss. It's me again. John, I mean. We're clear on a lead, and we're positive this is gonna lead us to the paycheck. Your paycheck. Not yet, but soon. Don't forget about my paycheck.”

Ralph rolled his eyes and played the third message.

“Uh, hi boss. It's done. We got the numbers. Or letters. Whatever it is that's in these secure societal numbers. Lemme know Call me back when you wake up and we'll arrange the payment. If you try and skip town on me, I'll call the cops, and I have all the evidence I need to have you locked up. Bye-bye.”

Ralph slumped against the wall, ignoring his freshly-popped toast in the toaster. He had done it. John had really followed through, and now there wasn't a chance in the world he would be caught. He was free, at last.

He went about his morning with a new skip in his step and a smile on his face with a good mood that couldn't be broken even by his tedious hours at the office. He was giddier than he had ever been before, but the thing he was most looking forward to was a night of restful sleep.

He hadn't been able to enjoy that for at least 7 years, and now he would finally be able to drift off immediately. And so, after he had taken care of all his usual security measures simply out of habit and changed into his loose sweatpants, he crawled into bed and tucked himself in.

But for some reason, he couldn't seem to drift off. He felt an unfamiliar lump in the back of his throat, and when he tried to tell himself that he had nothing to be afraid of, that seemed to make it worse. He shook off the feeling and buried it in the back of his mind, telling himself it would go away soon.

He woke up at the same time the next morning and went through his typical morning routine, but that knot in the back of his throat was still there, and he couldn't seem to shake it, no matter what he did. It was impossible to get rid of the feeling that something was haunting him. Instead of feeling like he might be caught, he felt that he had been caught, and it was enough to drive him mad.

He tried to get through the day like normal, but he still couldn't get rid of the feeling. He tried to shake the feeling, but he kept thinking that maybe he hadn't escaped after all, even though he was certain that there were no other people who could have possibly known about his crime. He was so far away there was nothing tying him to that crime.

It's just a phase, Ralph reminded himself. In a few days, I'll be back to normal. I'm sure of it.

Sleep was just as hard to find this night as it was last, and the few times he was able to drift in and out of sleep was plagued with fears haunting him and chasing him. It was a relief when his alarm clock blared at 5:30, even though he had another migraine and his eyes were burning from lack of sleep.

Even after almost a week had passed, he didn't feel any better. He had been to several doctors, who assured him it was just a bout of stress-induced insomnia, but he knew that wasn't it. He had been to several therapists, but their techniques hadn't helped him sleep. He was at the end of his leash when he saw an advertisement for a dream-reader who promised to bring relief to all of his problems.

So, in a last desperate attempt to understand why he couldn't seem to relax, he visited this dream-reader at her suspicious-looking tent outside.

The dream-reader was easily the oldest woman he had ever seen in his life. Her face was obscured by shadows, but it was easy to tell that she was frail and short. He hesitated outside the tent before stepping inside.

“I can't sleep, and I don't know why. I have the perfect life, a secure job, a loving family, a comfortable house, everything a man could ever want, and yet I can't seem to ever relax.”

“Hmmm,” was the only response.

Ralph tried again. “Why can't I sleep? What's wrong with me?”

“I sense that you have asked this question to doctors and therapists, and none of them could help you.”

“Yes,” Ralph admitted.

“And I also sense that you have been running for a long time from your past and have just started walking again.”

Ralph stayed silent.

“You think you have outrun your enemies, but your true enemy is yourself.” The dream-reader leaned forward. “I've seen your kind before, terrified of what might happen, and then when you feel that you have finally defeated it, you realize that the only person you had to fear was yourself.”

“What do I do?”

“Surrender. A war you fight with yourself is always a war you lose.” The dream-reader cleared her throat. “That'll be $30, please.”

Ralph paid without thinking, and he walked home in a daze, shaking off all his concerns. He convinced himself that he would conquer these feelings. After all, he had not done so much to lose now for no good reason.

But after another week of no sleep, he knew what had to be done. He walked around his apartment, breathing in the fresh air streaming in from an open window and feeling everything he would miss in prison. He looked around, trying to take a mental picture of the home that he would be returning to.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his local sheriff's office, tempted after every reverbating ring to hang up and to just go about his life. After six rings, the line connected, and Ralph heard a husky voice grunt a greeting into the phone.

“My name is Ralph Forrester. I'd like to report an act of involuntary manslaughter that occurred seven years ago in April of 2011. The suspect is at 218 North 23rd Street.”

“And how are you so sure of your facts?” the operator challenged.

“Because I am the perpetrator.”

“I see.” The operator paused. “So you're reporting yourself for a crime you committed?”

“That is correct.”

“Why?”

“Because a war you fight with yourself is never a war you win.”