Fatigue

                                                                                                Fatigue

             “Put the gun down, son” an old man requested. One eye closed, the boy lined up the sights of the gun, pushing down on the trigger, making imaginative booming sounds as he fired. The old man’s face crunched up, he detested being ignored which he so often was.

            “It’s not a toy” he grunted. He extended his hand slowly and feebly, his arm composed of wrinkles and stains of the past. The boy, with thick brown hair and dark light blue eyes, did indeed give him he gun and obeyed his soft demands. Not out of respect, but out of annoyance.

            Clearing a seat for himself as he pushed aside dirty clothes and discarding toys out of the way, the old man sat down on the love seat. He examined the guns, he eyes scanning the weapon. Old and warn out, much like himself, he played with it, innocence and all. A tool that he used once back in his day, a tool that had made the coldest of men freeze. Today, it was being twirled around by a mere child. The young boy sat in front of the television, eyes glued to the screen. Cartoon characters walked about the screen, moving and grooving, it was all very confusing.

            “What you watching Billy?” the old man snorted, his question genuine.

            “Why do you always call me Billy” not Billy responded, not looking at him as if he was just a mere distraction.

            “Well Billy when I got old I always pictured myself calling my grandson Billy, that make sense to you?” He laughed, slow and gasping, he thought it was funny.

            “No” not Billy responded, not even trying to pretend like he didn’t care. Feeling so small, so insignificant, his eyes hit the floor.

            Still twirling the gun, his fingers cramped and it dropped from his grip, landing on his lap. He cursed under his breath, Billy didn’t hear, he knew that for a fact for it was one way to get his attention. He clenched his fingers, rubbing them gently, he didn’t want them breaking on him. As he examined his wrinkled fingers, he noticed the familiar looking scar looking at him. It had been there for fifty years. Of course he knew why he got it, he punched a man in Boston, just to see how hard he would hit the ground.

Timidly he leaned against the bar; he liked having his back against something, made him feel safer for some reason. The air was thick and musky where he stood but maybe that was just him. Smoke sat atop of the ceiling like a dense cloud, looming over everyone in the bar. People mingled, leaving and entering the bar on their own accord, his scanned the room as he got caught in arithmetic trance. It was old world to some, a new world and a bold to him. He felt good.

            A voice went off from his right as someone tapped on his shoulder. “Rum and coke” his pale friend Ricky said as he handed him a glass, his smile wide, his confidence or drunkenness at a new high.

            “Judging by all the drinks you’re giving me I’d think you were interested in taking me home tonight?”

            He laughed as he leaned on his steady shoulders. “Nah Marshall, you’re more of practice girl and I got plenty of practice” he chuckled as he nudged him on the arm. “I’m feeding up your liquid courage.”

            “I’m better when I’m not drunk believe it or not” but still he drank the drink. They stood there for a while as Ricky tried convinced him to go over and talk a particular attractive girl in a red dress with long blonde hair. She stood out from the rest of her friends, the clear leader of the group. Her beauty made him falter. He made up an excuse, like he always does. Sometimes he says he’s too tired, too cold, too drunk because of the drinks Ricky feed him.

            “Not feelin’ it tonight” he mumbled.

            “Fine” Ricky said as he put his drink down and turned away from him, “She’s all my in that case.” Marshall stayed stagnate, leaning against bar, watching Ricky’s attempt, grinning and he would never admit this to him but, admiring his confidence.

            His eyes drifting again as he caught lost in the a trance and before he realized it, Ricky laid on the ground, a man stood over him. Not thinking, not examining the situation he ran over, tapped the man on the shoulder and nailed him in the face and watched him drop to the floor. He stood over the man, muscles bulging, fist clenched with such confidence and intimation he felt like a king among men. Bold, determined and strong he savored the feeling. He helped Ricky get up and with his new found confidence; he wasn’t imitated by the beauty of the blonde at all.

Rash, impulsive he thought to himself. He mind was slow but his body was quick. Many would tell you that his mind and body were both slow today but that wasn’t true. He watched “not Billy”, who watched the TV. His mother then stomped into the room, not glancing at Marshall or “not Billy”. “Shut the TV off” she demanded.

            The boy protested but it fell on death ears. “Why isn’t your homework finished?” They argued and argued, “not Billy” loss the argument of course and he began doing his homework on the coffee table. As his mother exited the room, Marshall got the sudden urge to speak. His mind told him not too but he did anyway.

            “I think it would have been reasonable to let the boy finish his television program.” His voice soft and trembling, he awaited her response. She glanced at him as if he were a forgotten item composed of emptiness, she left the room. His younger self would had stood up for what he believed in, his younger self would have made a stand. Then he began to wonder, what younger self was he speaking of?

            No he thought to himself, he was different, better than the rest, his goals stretched far above that of his fellow peers. He wasn’t going to settle for less. He was young, idealistic and confident. When he walked outside the world and saw that this world needed saving and liberating. His parents, their time was over, coming to an end and his time was only just beginning.

            “I’m not like the rest” Marshall stated, wear a black suit, feeling like a man of importance. He admired himself as he looked in the mirror, admired the man he had become.

            “The suit must have set you back a little bit” Ricky said as he poured himself a cup of coffee, “what type of lawyer are you again?”

            “Moral Entrepreneur” he stated as he tied the final knot in his tie. “This world is a dark place, before I leave I want to make it a little bit lighter.” He stared at his reflection in the mirror, adding a dime size amount of gel to his hair, changing and altering it.

            “Are you going to destroy the Death Star too” he smirked, “how much are you making?”

            He closed his eyes, unimpressed by his friend’s concerns in life. “Not the point” he explained as he grabbed his suit case, “money is just a bi-product of my work. As long as I can make things better for our children, the rest doesn’t matter.”

            He was wrong, blinded by pride, blinded youth, and arrogance. Within weeks he discovered the serve difficulties of such noble things. On paper it’s easy, it’s short, and it’s simple, it’s crystal clear. But reality blew the idealist thoughts out of the water. He was taught early on his educational career that crime is committed when the rewards of the crime outweigh the cost. But what happens when everything is flipped, reversed? Are the rewards of fighting against crime and corruption worth taking in the cost of said actions?

            Marshall staggered up the steps, more drunk than tired…but still drunk nonetheless. The dark lit hallway was all so typical. He knew the rooms for he had walked the halls dozen of times over. Typically, at this time at night his wife; Julia would be playing a soothing song on the guitar; some songs slow and melancholy, others lighter and upbeat, beautiful all the same. But not this time for he was granted with everlasting silence.

His walk was casual and careless but then he past threw into the door way and knees went weak. He lunged towards the wall but still he fell. Tears in his eyes as he felt the distance from her was ever growing. On the ground she laid, mouth slightly open, his eyes gazing empty at the ceiling. Her cellphone laid on the ground, mere feet from her outstretch hand. Blood drained from her waist. Unable to walk, he crawled on the ground. The wooden floor was clean, as if no one had truly walked there at all.

He looked down at her, her lips were turning blue. A kiss could not renew. The moonlight glimmered on her as the room stood still, the air stagnant.

“Wake up” he muttered softly, the way he so often spoke to her on sunny mourning’s. Why should he treat today any different. “Breath” he pleaded as her breast rested in place. His words were silence as he excepted his soft and gentle tone would be enough to awaken her from her peaceful slumber.

On his feet, he dragged her. They reached the bathroom and together they fell into the bath tub. “Don’t you die one me.” His words were louder now as his mind unraveled. Still blood drained from the bullet wound on her side, a blunder to her perfection. Her lifeless eyes reflected his imperfection. With a twist of a handle water poured down from above as he scream her name, “Julia!” But still she rested in place and he felt ever so helpless. “I can’t do this alone.”

As the water hit her pale face, it looked as if she was crying. He cried with her, a spineless cry for he was not a man. A man would have saved her; a man would have been stronger. He was meant to protect but instead they got to her. The water poured on her for a while as together, they laid there in the warm water. The warmth of her body felt good, her skin against his. Eyes closed in a warm embrace; it was a moment of pure delight. They laughed as they watched him cry, the lucky don’t care at all. 

            It was a fair weather day, on days like these you except the weather to reflect your mood. Funerals it rains, everyone would be dressed in black as water droplets poured all around their umbrellas which were black as well. But today the clouds forgave the sun, they were not the only ones. The sun shinned strangle, illumining the valleys in between mountains that sat in the distance. He could only watch as they put her into the ground, he could only watch as they took away his everything. He was becoming meaningless.

            Ricky glanced at him from across the grave, he was white ghost. He too found the answer that they dreaded to find. He was weeping know, he knew the war was lost. The ideas of youth were gone, reality had reared its undesirable head. It loomed over like a great shadow, casting him into a sea of doubt and shame. It grew inside of him for a while. He thought sooner or later the moment would be gone but the moment last for so long. Julia was the first but would she not be the last? Who would be next on the list?

            He had forgotten about the gun, it sat on his lap, wincing at him, reminding him of what he had done.  It was all in a bit fun. Combined that with some a lust for revenge and retribution and found himself falling away. Taking the revolver by the handle, his fingers trembled on the trigger. It was rusty and cold. He remembered when it was hip and new. The gun he stared at today was lost, faded away by the sands of time. But still the gun had memories and those memories defined who we are.

            He shifted the car into park and read the address. Confirming it, he exited the car. Rain poured down from above, he knew everything was undone. In his senior thesis, he could tell you every idea and concept of justice. He could explain why people did the things they did, why certain punishments fit certain kinds of crime. But when it all came down to it, he didn’t know how it felt to be wrong until now. He understood why people did things, but he was never there. No attempt of rationalization could help him now. His string had come undone because her soul lurked above. A man greeted him, a young man wearing a dark black suit gave his acquaintance. Marshall gave him the money and they went inside.

            A feeling of discomfort swept over him. The house was empty, barren and unnatural. It smelt of decay and wraith. He was simply out of place, he wanted to disappear and say he wasn’t here. But reality was all too bitter and present. His heart thumped against the revolver.

            “We understand if you’re having second thoughts?” the young man asked with surprising concern. Here it was, his window of opportunity, he was being offered a way out. He refused it.

            “I finish what I start” he replied.

            The two men stepped down a creaky staircase, a dim light bulb hung lowly in the middle of the room. The corners of the room remained hidden in shadow, in audience for the stage. Two men were at the bottom of the floor, one standing, hands red with blame. The other was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, a blanket over his head, he was sobbing to himself. With each step Marshall took, the crying of the man grew louder and more real. 

“Mr. Gould” the man standing said “I present to you Mr. Clark.” As he spoke he stepped forward and he removed the blanket that covered his face. Eyes blood shot, his left check bruised, he looked up at him, his eyes widened, a glimmer of unexpected hope in his eyes. It had to be extinguished.

“Marshall” the man gasped, his tripped over his tongue, staggering and babbling.  “You aren’t the man who would kill another. You’re against capital punishment, you won’t kill me.”

Marshall stepped before him and cast his gaze down at the pitiful scum of flesh. “Don’t presume you know me.”

“I do know you” he spoke back “I’ve read your polices, I’ve read your books, this isn’t you.”

Marshall gazed at the light bulb, watching the dust scattering around the orb. “Law is complex, it’s a social construct. It is in constant change and flux.” He tapped the light bulb and watched it move, shifting the light around the room. “But at the end of the day, law is black and white. Up until now that’s what I understood, its simple, it’s easy.” The bulb flickered and wavered, it was going out. “Because of you I see the world is different. I can’t always see things in black and white, more often than not I get gray.” He paused, and swallowed his pride. “I don’t know what to do with grey and that’s why my arguments are complex, the word of one man must be understood by many.” His voice trailed off, linger. “But you.” His heart rate slowed down as he become relaxed. “You’ve changed me, maybe you broke me. And I’ll prove it to you” That’s when he pulled the revolved out of his pocket, that’s when the man before him began to crumble.

His lips trembled and his face collapsed with fear. “It was just business, we all do what it takes to get by. We went after you, but found her and…things went downhill. I never meant to kill her.”

A rage built up inside Marshall, a rage that he knew was going to swiftly carry him from here on out. “Do you have any idea what’s it like to look into your wife’s dead eyes?” To see death he thought to himself, and its beating eyes.

The shadows in the room glared at the two men, some whispered and mumbled, he could feel their dark hands touching him. He placed the barrel of the gun to his forehead. “I set out to find and destroy evil like you, I just never thought it be with a bullet?” His finger held firmly against the trigger.

The man looked up at him, into the barrel of the gun. “If you keep looking for evil, evil is going to look right back at you.” Marshall paused and thought long and hard what that meant, he thought about for weeks after. But in the end, that didn’t stop him from putting a bullet between that man’s eyes.

The gun never fired after that. It was the first and only time that revolver had ever been fired and it was the last. He held the revolved again as he sat on the couch, his hand tremble as he do so. He dropped it and stood up, kicking the useless gun under the sofa. His back ached and moan, he needed to go for a walk He glanced over at his grandson, who stared relentless at the television.

“Hey boy” he grunted, “You wanna ice cream?”

He looked back at his grandfather, then around the room to see if there was anything more interesting and worthy of time. “Sure” he stated simply.

Together, Marshall and “not Billy” strolled casually along the sidewalk. Judging by the large puddle and moist grass, it had rain early in the day. But the sun was in bloom as of now.  As “not Billy” licked away at his ice cream, Marshall retrieved a free newspaper and began reading. The two of them sat down on a bench as cars and busses drove by. They caught brief moment’s peace in the pause of the traffic.

His eyes shifted towards the newspaper as a light breeze ruffled the paper. His grandson was still busy eating his ice cream like it was a skilled craft. He was careful not to lose a single drop of the chocolate ice cream. He grinned and looked back the paper.

Within minutes of reading the paper he realized something; he hated the paper. He hated how everything was about profit and sale. Headlines consisted of only the depressing things, only the things that make you hate the world, only the things that make life reconsidering sat in big bold worlds. The world was a dark place he thought to himself. And he was going to make it lighter before died. His window of time was becoming decreasingly small. He glanced back at his grandson, enjoying his innocence and blissful ignorance.

He flipped through the paper, but he couldn’t help but to keep on glancing back at his grandson. He was young, sometimes rude, other times thoughtful but always distracted. Much like himself when he young. No doubt when he gets older, he’ll get educated and then the world will have a go at him. He thought about the passing of the touch, from one generation to the next. Then he realized, as he looked down at the paper, then back at his memories that only brought him pain, he hadn’t added light to the world, he contributed to the dark.  He felt pain but not only for himself, but for the others that would take the keys to world and wonder who had control before they got there. If given the option, he would raise his hand, he would take the shame and the blame for he was in the wrong. And as he young grandson sat beside him, still concentrating on the ice cream, he knew too he would be consumed for no one can elude the world forever.

“Tell me Billy, I mean Henry” Marshall spoke “what do you wanna be when you grow up.” His ice creamed finished, Henry looked up at him and he shrugged his shoulders. “How about a firefighter, astronaut, maybe a doctor?”

“What did you do again?” he asked, surprising Marshall in the process, “Mom told me you made bad people go away.” If you mean defending corporations from the good will of the people, then yeah, Marshall did that. His days of being a moral entrepreneur did not last long.

“You wanna be a lawyer like your Grandpa” he answered, trying to act as shocked as he was. “Why’s that.” Why would anyone admire him?

“Mom said you put bad people in jail” he replied simply “I want to do that?”

He grinned on the outside but he cringed within.

“But Mom says I have to be really smart to be a lawyer.”

“That’s true but not a problem for you.”

Henry’s gaze struck the ground harshly. “I don’t like school, it’s too much work and I’m not good at it.” Marshall could have said what Henry’s parents would have wanted him to tell Henry to “study hard”, “buckle down” or “it’s worth it in the long run.” But he decided that for the first time in a long time, he was going to speak his mind.

“Henry” he sighed “don’t think of it too much, enjoy your age, have fun, explore, imagine.”

 What Henry said surprised him. “I’m not a little kid anymore.” He was wrong, he was nine years and in his book he was a child. He recoiled and leaned back on the bench, thinking of how detached he had become with the world. Kids today have cellphones and laptops, the global web at their fingertips, as a result, it spoiled there innocence. The world was quick to move in on the new prey, the next generation are not the first and will not be the last of the falling generations. Each generation attempts to rise to the occasion, answering the unsolved problems of those who had walked the Earth before, but they too come crashing down. When he was young the world saw within his grasp, but he blew it away. He didn’t look at Henry for a few minutes for he had looked at him a source of hope and youth that maybe his kind would be different, maybe he would be better than him and would not let the world take hold of him. Like many things, he was wrong.

His was awoken from his thoughtful state when the city bus stopped in front of him, the doors opened and passengers hurried out. They stood up and step onto the bus. Despite the large number of people that left the bus, it was still full. He glared into the faces of the worn out faces, none looked back at him, and all were too busy to notice or care. His eyes scanned the bus, looking for a seat, looking for a place to rest his aching legs but none was found. The doors of the bus closed as the vehicle began driving forward. Henry casually grasped the bar, not thinking twice of the situation. Marshall however gripped the steel bar with everything he had. His knees began to shake as the bus shifted his weight.

Pain shot from his legs, he closed his eyes and breathed rapidly, his legs began to cramp up, he needed a seat, a place to sit down. Again his eyes darted around the bus, hoping that a seat had cleared up but to no avail. He was going to fall; he didn’t have the strength in his arms to hold himself up, and down was his only option. Pathetic he thought to himself, pathetic that he didn’t have the physical strength to keep himself up and pathetic that didn’t have the ability to ask someone for their seat, some part of him wouldn’t allow it. And for that reason he was going to fall.

“Excuse me” a soft voice asked “could my Grandpa have your seat.” Marshall looked down at Henry who stood in front on a young woman who seemed to be caught off guard. She looked at Henry, and then at Grandpa Marshall, who stupidly stared back.

“Of course” she said. She quickly got up and grabbed hold of the bar. Henry took Marshall by the hand and guiding him towards the open seat. He sat down, his muscles relaxed at the relief. He looked at Henry and simply nodded, lost for worlds. He grinned back and then looked away; unaware of the relief he just gave his grandfather.

As the bus drove by the cold, relentless world Marshall knew he had it wrong. He knew this wouldn’t make the newspaper tomorrow, he knew he may be the only on the entire bus to still to be thinking of what just transpired. His mind faltered, he was before in chains but he now he was free. For the first time in a while he felt happy and secure. And for a moment, he held his thoughts up with no bitter remorse at all. The simple act of kindness rippled across his body and would stay within to his blood ran cold.