week eleven: god and the noose*

“You look into my eyes and you see a man. You see a man with bags under his eyes because he can't sleep anymore. You see a man who doesn't shave unless he feels like it. You see a man covered in tattoos and scars from God-knows-where. You see a man locked away and dressed in orange. You see a prisoner trapped in a damp and lonely cell and you feel no sympathy for him. He must not have a soul because of what he did and he deserves what he's getting. That's what you see when you look into my eyes. You see my tears and you assume things about them. You assume they're tears of fear for my fate yet to come.

“But you are so wrong.

“I look into my eyes and I don't see a man. I see a boy. This boy misses the days when he could be outside to play free and do what he wants. He never got the chance to really grow up. A long time ago, he made a mistake, a terrible mistake and now he has to pay for it with his life. He's there right now, looking in the mirror into his own eyes. He sees something that may be worth saving. But why don't they see it? Why can't they see that I'm a human being? I'm sorry for what I did! I'm not a monster, just a man who screwed up.”

Father Heller straightened his glasses and drew in a deep breath before he replied, “I don't see you as a monster; I see you as someone who needs help from God. Take His hand, Arthur, and offer repentance, and he will stay his judgment. You have a chance now.”

“There is no god, father.”

“But of course there is. He made me and He made you.”

“He made me? Ha, I don't think a pure god like the one you talk about would make a psychopath like me.”

“God knows you made a mistake, child, but He is willing to forgive you. I have made mistakes, too I-”

“What, you and the alter boys, then?”

Father Heller rolled his eyes, “No, not like that, my child. I think you know what I mean.”

“Look, I'm not doing it, I'm not saying any prayer or nothing. It's a lost cause, so don't bother.”

Father Heller looked at his watch and realized how much time he had, “Would you prefer to talk about something else?”

“Like what, how the food sucks here?”

“If you would rather, we could discuss the weather.”

“Pfft, is that all you priests talk about? God and the weather?”

“Sometimes we talk about sports.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You don't seem frightened at all.”

“And why should I be afraid? I've been afraid my whole life. That's why I think I did it; because I was afraid. After I did, that's when my life was over. It's not ending today, it's just... I don't know.”

“I think you are afraid, Arthur, you're just too afraid to admit it.”

“In a place like this, it takes a lot more than rope to scare me.”

“But it's so much more than rope, Arth-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's eternal damnation and hellfire and-”

“That's not really what I meant,” Father Heller chuckled. “I meant that there will be witnesses, including myself. I'll be there to pray for you.”

“Save your breath.”

“Since it is your belief not to pray, then don't. It is, however, my belief to pray and I will. I would hope that you have sense to respect that.”

“Whatever.”

“You're a difficult one.”

“Yeah? You think you know me? What else do you know about me?”

“I know that you're intelligent. I know that you're stubborn. And I know that you need guidance.”

“And you're going to give it to me?”

“I also know that you're afraid.”

“Ugh, you and that 'afraid' thing. For the last time, I'm not afraid of dying.”

“Maybe not; maybe you're afraid of something else. If you weren't afraid, then why are you shaking?”

“You would be too if you were headed straight to the gallows.”

“If it's not fear, then what is it?”

“God, I don't know. I don't know anything at all.”

Father Heller stands up and places his hand on the inmate, “If you won't seek comfort from God, then might I offer my own comfort?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I wish it wasn't the case, but your death is near. It will be quick and it will be over soon. If you're right about your beliefs, then misery will be over soon for you.”

The guards open the cell and pick up the inmate by the arms, “Come on, it's time,” they say.

“Oh, God, oh God, oh God! No, no, no! I don't want it!”

Father Heller follows them and says, “There is still time, Arthur, God loves you!”

“If God loved me, he would save my life now!”

“And he will! He waits for you in His Kingdom.”

“His Kingdom is as much of a lie as this life!”

“If this life is a lie, then why do you fear for it?”

“I don't know! Oh, God! Oh! No, no!” They cover his head and put his neck in the noose. “No!”

Father Heller closes his eyes and recites the 23rd Psalm. “The Lord is My shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen”

When he finishes, the warden asks of the damned, “Are there any last words from the accused?”

There is a silence. Nothing happens. Everyone shares an uneasy glance. But suddenly, it's shattered by the inmate's muffled cries, “Father, forgive me for I have sinned! Hallowed be Thy name! Let Thy Kingdom come and take my soul into Your hands!” The executioner pulls the lever and down the condemned goes. His neck snaps as he throbs and kicks furiously. It stops and his body hangs, but his soul is departed.

Father Heller feels remorse, but also a glimmer of joy, for he believes that the inmate rests forever in heaven. The prison warden asks of Father Heller, “Looks like you really got to that one, eh, Father?”

“No,” Heller says, “He got to me.”

**A second-draft remake will be posted as some point in the following weeks!

week eight: comatose

As always, spending a night on the town with his girl induced unique joy in the heart of Jim Heller. The crisp, cool early Autumn air fed into their romantic frolicking. Dinner at a local Italian restaurant proved itself quite successful, as Jim even managed to avoid the marinara sauce staining his thoroughly white shirt. The food, however, lost luster in comparison to the fine companionship found in the woman he loved. Penelope McCormick: strikingly beautiful with hair like the leaves of fall, and eyes like those of spring. Everything that Jim could hope for in a woman was found in Penelope.

Throughout their schooling, Jim fascinated himself with Penelope. While he hid in the background, she drew the attention of so many others. Long did he consider it hopeless that the perfect girl, who possessed the rarely-found gift of choice, could ever love a nobody like Jim Heller. In a quizzical blend of courage and aloofness, Jim found himself telling Penelope of his feelings for her. To his surprise, she returned the interest and their relationship began. And soon, this bond of romantic friendship blossomed into love.

They held hands as they walked through the bustling activity and brightly festive downtown. The town lights brilliantly advertised products of every liking and delicacy. Times Square, 1966: a place of expanding promise, capitalist temptation, and carefree enjoyment. Jim and Penelope together found it oddly romantic and nothing short of the perfect place to enjoy their time together. They found a bench and she put herself against him as his arm went around her shoulder. Closing their eyes, the world became whole in their hearts. To put this moment in the most bromidic of manners: nothing else mattered, nothing but their love and each other.

After working up a considerable amount of courage, this time the wisest and truest of all courage, Jim released his lover and stood from the bench. In confusion, Penelope pondered to herself why her lover stood. The moment was one that even those most deaf to emotion knew not to break with silence and to Penelope, emotion blared, so she remained quiet. Her answer came to her in the best of ways as Jim took a knee and a heartfelt, but subtle smile. Penelope's hand reached her gaping mouth in surprise. Carefully, she listened as Jim asked of her, “Penelope, I love you so, so much. I want all of this, the love, the time together to never end. You are so beautiful and I'd be a fool to pass you up. Penelope McCormick, will you marry me?”

Words escaped her. One simple word needed to come. Penelope stood to her feet and with a tear of a joy, she exclaimed, “Yes! Yes!” Jim helped to put the diamond ring on her finger and then he stood. Their eyes shared a moment of connection and at last, they pressed their lips together. Many things are lost in the abyss of time and memory, but not this kiss; it stands forever. When they finished, celebration was in order. A wine perhaps? It mattered not. The pressing need to just go somewhere filled the air. Again, their hands joined and they were off.

They were so carefree that they went to the street caring not for whatever might oppose them. First to realize this mistake, Jim looked to his left and saw the headlights. His first, and only thought was to Penelope. He pushed her out of the way. The two lights and the blaring horn signaled the impact as the car slammed through his body. Jim flew through the air and rolled on the pavement. The world faded away as he saw Penelope over him crying, “Jim! Jim!”

Existence disappeared.

He awoke to the presence of literally everyone he knew. They stood around his bed in a darkened room, looking upon him with remorseful expressions. Jim knew not where he lay, but instantly he knew he did not like it. At the center stood Penelope and his mother. None seemed to be phased by the fact that he had survived his car crash. Something from within kept Jim from speaking. It could then only be assumed that the same thing stopped all around him from doing the same. Fear and confusion flooded his mind, which struggled to ascertain time or place.

When Jim closed his eyes, the people vanished and suddenly, no longer did he lie. The surreal grew to a point of absolution, with the only reality being the man before him. A nondescript man sat before him in an equally nondescript chair. No room provided occupancy, only an empty void. Overwhelmed, Jim fell back and landed in a chair like the plain man, who told him, “Relax.”

Jim replied with nothing but a look of confusion and to an extent, despair.

“Relax, there is nothing you can do but relax now,” the man poured him a glass of water. “Drink.”

Jim took the glass and drank. His composure stitched itself together and at last he asked, “Am I dead?”

“If you were dead, would we be talking?”

“Then where am I?”

“You're nowhere. This place isn't real.”

“Not real?”

“That's right,” the man answered. “This is the only place you can be right now. You've lost your connection with the world and now you're reconciling by making them in your mind.”

“I don't understand.”

“Give it time and you might, but you might not. Either way is fine, because neither way really matters.”

Jim shook his head and took another sip, “Who are you?”

“I am just like this place. I'm not real, therefore, I'm no one. You needn't worry about who I am.”

Taking him at his advice, Jim tried then to pick up the pieces. He saw flashes of the night before. Penelope smiled at him from across the table and then again said yes at the bench. Then the headlights blinded him before he flew through the air. Last he saw her panicking face before he knew to ask, “What about Penelope?”

“She's fine, but she's broken up about you. You mean the world to her.”

“She means the world to me.”

“I know.”

Jim drank some more, “Where is she?”

“She's with you now.”

Jim looked around, “No, she isn't.”

“Yes, she is, you just don't know it.”

“How can I not know it?”

“The car crash didn't kill you, Jim, but your mind has been severed from your body. The world, time, place, none of it matters now.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's okay.”

Jim sat back in his chair and sighed, “But who are you?”

“I'm the closest thing you have to a link to the outside world. I am, for a lack of a better word, your subconscious. I can hear everything that goes on and I keep you breathing, but I am passive.”

“So you can hear Penelope? What is she saying?”

“She's reading your favorite book to you, Catcher in the Rye, she's about halfway through.”

Jim smiled.

“She's been coming in for weeks now, talking to you.”

“But I can't say anything back?”

“No, I'm afraid you can't. Your mind has only just started letting you actually think more than just the subconscious, much less move any of your body.”

“Oh,” Jim stopped smiling. “I'll be out of this soon then.”

“No one can say when you'll awaken, for now, all you have is this.”

“This?”

“We're in your mind.”

“I'm dreaming?”

“So to speak, yes, you are, but this is the only reality that you have right now. Embrace it.”

Jim found no understanding as he tried to wrap himself around all of it. He found it exerting.

“Your mind is tired, Jim. It's time for you to rest.”

Jim nodded and the closed his eyes. He had many more questions, but exhaustion overtook him.

When he awoke again, Jim found himself in the same place with the same man. Nothing seemed to have changed and everything stood in timelessness. He had hoped that after this rest, he and Penelope would reunite. Instead, he returned to this strange place. Jim asked, “What's happened? Outside, I mean.”

“I can't say how long it's been, but Penelope finished Catcher in the Rye and then she read through The Things They Carried, now she's reading Heart of Darkness and she's about a fourth of the way through.”

Jim laughed, “She should put that away, she hates that book!”

“She hasn't missed a single day in visiting you.”

“It must have been months then that she's been coming. What has she talked about?”

The man's face was saddened, “She talks of how she misses you and how she'll never leave you. She loves you much. Sometimes she gets on the bed and just lays with you. I wish you could feel how she holds your hand. There is so much hope in her voice. People tell her that she should move on, but she is faithful.”

This made Jim smile and a tear came to his eye, “I want to be with her.”

“You are.”

The tear dropped, “But not like this. Not like this.”

“I know, but one day you'll be free. One can only hope.”

“I need to be out of here.”

“You are lucky to be alive, Jim, and healing takes time. Let it run its course.”

Jim nodded and then closed his eyes again. Periodically, he would open them again and the man would still be there. They talked of many things, mostly things stored in his mind. He entertained himself to pass time, which was still lost. Mostly, however, they talked of Penelope, who never stopped visiting day by day. Jim was glad at this, up until a certain point.

“She needs to move on,” Jim told the man.

“Why? She still loves you and you love her.”

“It's been years now,” Jim started to cry again. “It must have been years. She's read so many books now that I've lost count. I appreciate it, but she can't love a man who can't love her back.”

“You do love her.”

“I can't show it to her, I can't give back!”

“Perhaps just being there for her to talk to is enough.”

“It isn't! It can't be! I don't want that for her! I want her to find someone and to be happy with him because I can't make her happy any more. All I have left is false hope and sorrow,” Jim sobbed. “She needs to move on. She needs to go on without me.”

“She doesn't want to, Jim.”

“I don't want to be here, but that's just how it is. She doesn't want to move on, but that's the best thing for her. She's so beautiful, she can't waste it on a vegetable that can't appreciate it.”

The subconscious said nothing as Jim went back to into his sleep. He slept for a long time, longer than ever before.

When he awoke again, he was surrounded by utter darkness. The man no longer sat before him because there was nothing. Jim panicked and then felt that he was in his own body again. He grinned before realizing his situation. He lay straight and then when he tried to sit up, he head met a soft roof less than six inches above him. Trapped! A box? No, a coffin. Jim squirmed and fought as he knew he could not be dead! He yelled and screamed, tossed and turned, and breathed hard. As the air escaped him and thought he had found his dying breath, the coffin opened. Jim squinted for it was bright.

When he opened them again, he found himself in a strange room. It did not take him long to realize that he was lying in a hospital bed. Everything was different, it was almost as if he was aboard a spaceship. The equipment in the room seemed so different, but so advanced. How long had it been? Jim looked around him and saw that the room was empty. Sunlight crept through the window, indicating it must have been around midday, at least at Jim's estimation. For a few minutes, he said nothing and didn't try to call a nurse. Instead, he just tried to understand it all. He knew he had been in a coma, but had it really been so long?

A woman dressed in white suddenly entered the room. She saw Jim's wakened eyes and jumped in shock. He was awake! She instantly called, “Doctor! I think you better come in here!”

“Where am I?” Jim asked.

“You're in a hospital, Jim, you've been out for a long time.”

“How long?”

The nurse looked down at the floor.

“Well?” a pause. “How long?”

“It's been thirty-eight years.”

“Thirty-eight years?” Jim's eyes went wide. He just couldn't grasp it. Thirty-eight years? Last he remembered, he had proposed to Penelope at age twenty-three, so he must be fifty-one. Fifty-one. “Oh, God!”

An older man wearing a lab coat stepped through the door and asked the nurse, “What did you tell him?”

“Just how long it's been and where he is.”

He nodded to her and she left. The doctor turned to Jim and told him, “Listen, you need to stay calm. Your mind is in a state of reboot right now and-”

“Reboot?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the doctor realized that 'reboot' probably didn't mean anything to someone who couldn't quite grasp that he no longer lived in the 60's. He snapped his finger and traded his words, “Your mind isn't used to working very hard right now. You need to give it time to get back up to speed. Don't try to think too hard.”

“How can I not th-?” it hit him, “Penelope? Where is she?”

“She comes by once every two weeks now,” the doctor told him. “Listen, I'm afraid I can't tell you too much, I could risk knocking you right back out. I'm going to have the nurse get you some food and then we can work from there.”

The doctor walked out of the room as Jim sat up. No ease came to him as he came up, but the effort proved worthwhile. He looked around the room and saw the things around him. Jim could honestly say that he recognized very little of the medical equipment. Too much, too much to take in all at once. Thirty-eight years tried to come to him in an instant.

“I have to see her,” Jim stood to his feet but quickly fell to the ground as he lost his balance. He hadn't walked in thirty-eight years. Somehow, his legs just couldn't do it.

The nurse burst in carrying a tray of food and exclaimed, “Oh, no!” She helped him back onto his bed and then fed him without saying much at all. The food was standard hospital fare, nothing special. One would think that a man gone for thirty-eight years would have cravings, but 1966 is Jim Heller's yesterday. The real and true yesterday never existed for Jim. There were a lot of forgotten yesterdays; too many to count.

The doctor came back in later in the day. Very carefully and very slowly, he tried to recount the last near-forty years to Jim. Lifetimes passed and there could be no assurance as to who lived and who had died. The internet, the end of the Cold War, the destruction of the World Trade Center towers, globalization, and so many other things eluded his understanding. He felt like a time traveler who had gone into the future to get a glimpse of where life would go, but turning back could never happen. Time and its ramifications eluded him. Despite the doctor's best efforts to keep the history as objective as possible, Jim's questions always shifted back to his dear Penelope. But the doctor refused to let her come in. He told him to take things one step at a time. Time. Time was all he needed. That isn't how Jim saw it though. He saw that he had lost enough time already. Time he didn't know was there in the first place.

Fortunately, the next day brought better tidings. The doctor informed Jim that he had gotten in touch with Penelope and that she would be on her way. Worst of all was the wait, not the eery feeling that she wouldn't be who she was when he had proposed. Jim had gotten the chance to see himself in the mirror. It was haunting. His hair had grayed, his face had wrinkled, and he had gained weight. Jim Heller wasn't there, it was someone else. He had changed but it just didn't feel that way. The same man stared back at him through the mirror, but he was a twisted version of what should be.

When Penelope walked through the door, Jim saw that he was right. He didn't recognize her. Her hair had darkened and was highlighted with silver streaks, her face had wrinkled, and her once excellent figure was elderly and sagging. She wore a beaming smile on her face as she approached the bed. Jim returned it with a tear in his eye. He was both overjoyed and disappointed, not that she was ugly, bu that he had missed the chance to grow old and ugly with her. He had every intention of doing just that.

“Jim!” She sat at the chair beside him. “Oh, God, I can't believe it! It's been so long!”

Jim shook his head, “It's not even been a day to me.”

“I know,” she sighed, “This must seem so strange to you.”

“That doesn't even begin to describe it, Penny.”

Penelope reached over and held his hand. She bore a slight smile as a tear rolled down her cheek, “Oh, Jim, I waited for you for years. I waited so long. I came by every day to see you. I read you your favorite books.”

“I know.”

“You do? You heard?”

“I don't remember much,” he sighed. “It's like a dream, or a long gone memory but I have bits and pieces.”

“Jim,” she sobbed, “I could only wait so long. I'm married now.”

Those words pierced his heart like a sword through the thinnest fabric, or a nail through bread. His world shattered into the tiniest of pieces. All that he cared for and all that he wanted belonged to someone else. The friendships that he had spent the years of life cultivating would be long gone. There was nothing left in this world for Jim Heller. At very first thought, it was a feeling of betrayal. Jim tried his hardest to understand, but it felt as if she had cheated on him and run away after a night. But there she was, old and gone. At that moment, Jim wished he were dead.

Jim Heller never found true happiness in his life. He found a dead-end nine-to-five job somewhere and tried his best to scratch a living. It was hard for him because so many concepts taken for granted were alien to Jim. Eventually, however, he found himself in a unique position in that he could remember the 1960's as if they had just passed. The comatose was an asset to the nostalgic and the historians. Purpose was granted to him, but not happiness. Sometimes Jim would visit Penelope and her family, but these visits served only to remind him of the gaping hole in his heart. That tragic night, Jim Heller survived, but the Penelope he knew had died to him.

She remained faithful to him in a way that could never be what Jim wanted. Penelope was his rehabilitation. With delicacy and care, she helped him understand the world in which they lived. There was barely a snippet of what he remembered in the world. Jim couldn't understand the world and he had no friends left. Common ground was scarcely found for Jim, yet Jim Heller lives on today somewhere, still cobbling together a meager existence. He is admirable in that despite life running from him, he tries to catch up with every nth of effort. Despair and anguish attack him; giving up seems to be the most profitable alternative at times, but Jim lives on. And that's about all that can be done: live on. Live on despite the atrocities.

Live on.

week seven: the shadow

1992

Agent, double-agent. Intelligence, counter-intelligence. Eyes-only, ears-only. Strike, counterstrike. Blind, double-blind. Just a couple of things in the business they throw out to make us learn. All it really does is confuse us; I never paid much attention to the jargon. But at the same time, it's important. The more we study it, learn it, and love it, then more the enemy has to learn about us to fully understand us. The problem with that is that it makes understanding ourselves even more of a challenge than understanding them. Keeping track of both is tiring work, especially considering just how many enemies we've been stacking up over the years.

When the Soviet Union fell, there was a lot of money in being in the intelligence business. Unfortunately, all of this work was dirty money, very dirty money. The agency wound up giving me the job of playing clean-up man. I was to get in, play dirty, and take out our own agents who were playing the field. It isn't an easy job playing the field you're trying to burn.

Most of the best money was in tracking the movement of the massive weapons stockpiles that went missing when the Soviet Union fell. A lot of it went to arms dealers, but the best open stockpiles were kept in secret locations. The people who knew where to find these stockpiles, were the now unemployed KGB agents. A few of our own agents figured out the potential for profit here and decided to make a move.

The first bust was simple enough, it was just a regular stash of AK's, Makarov pistols, and a few RPG-7's. A KGB informant hired one of our agents to act as a letterbox between himself and an Irish arms dealer. My job wasn't to care about the weapons and where they went, it was just to kill our guy. If I took him out before the deal could be made, great, but that was secondary. The funny thing about dirty agents is if they're dirty in one way, they're dirty in another. I managed to lure him out in the open using a honey pot, or basically I paid a woman to get close to him. It was as simple as that: sex.

Sex sells, sex kills.

I never got to find out if the sale wound up going through or not. Doesn't matter though, I got the job done. Detaching yourself is critical if you wanna do my job. You start getting attached, then you start losing your ability to pull the trigger. You can't pull the trigger, then the other guy does it first and you're dead.

I got a lot of jobs after that. I had to do a lot of things to get my targets. The easiest way was to play dirty. I made myself look like I was just as bad as they were and then I could be trusted. The were a lot of lies and it was confusing work, but it paid off. I was good at what I did.

My newest target is a guy who goes by Shadow. Not a very creative name by any stretch of the imagination, but it fits the bill. Actually, if Croatia's OBS is to believed, Shadow is just their code word for the guy. All I really have is their word, which is the source for our intel, the Russian's intel, and so forth. He got himself quite the reputation as the dirtiest man in the books. I used everything I had to try to flush this guy out. Decoys, honey pots... everything. None of it worked. That was when I decided I would hit the source of the intelligence: Croatia.

Instead of playing this one in the dark, I decided to play this one naked, or without any cover. The Croatians knew who I was the whole time. I didn't like having my cards down like that, but there was no other way. They tell me they've captured one of Shadow's associates and arrange for me to interrogate the guy. It's a pretty lucky break for me that the Croatians have it out for this guy too. Apparently the Shadow's been taking stuff from them just like everyone else. A lot of people want this guy dead.

The first guy I'm supposed to meet is a man whose name is Boris, nothing else. It's obviously a cover, but that doesn't really matter. Pretty quirky guy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I meet him outside an abandoned trainyard and I remember exactly how he greeted, “You're the guy, yes?”

He was supposed to ask me for a password, but I figured he was dispensing with all that, “Yeah, I'm 'the guy'.”

“Don't bullshit me, American, you need the password.”

“You didn't ask for it.”

“Password or I walk.”

“The red mirror reflects blue.”

Boris laughs at that, “I wonder how they think of these passwords...”

“You got me,” I answer with a sigh.

“Silence. You speak when I ask you to speak.”

“But-” I cut myself off realizing that this might be some protocol I'm not familiar with. The Croatians are ex-Soviet, so I figure their way of doing things must be different.

“Come, prisoner is inside,” Boris says as he walks to the nearest building. It was old and rusted, exactly like you might see in a movie. The air was pretty musty and I can't imagine what kind of molds and diseases grew around me. Inside was just one guard with an SKS and a guy with the crap beaten out of him tied to a chair. Part of me felt for him, but the part I act on didn't care. Boris yelled at the prisoner, “Hey! Wake up, we've got a guest. You're going to tell the American all you know about Shadow.”

The man doesn't even look up, “I told you,” he spat blood, “all I know.”

“Look at the American when you speak!” Boris ordered.

The man looked up at me and then squinted, “Oh, God.”

“What?” I ask.

He starts to laugh, “Oh, my God, this is too funny. Sucks for you though.”

I shot my eyebrow up as high as it went.

The prisoner just keeps laughing as he explains, “I get it now! There is no 'Shadow'! That's why nobody can find him!”

Boris punched the guy, “Talk!”

“If you'd stop hitting me, I was getting there, Boris,” the prisoner said in the most condescending way I could imagine. He cleared his throat, “You are the Shadow.”

“What?” I didn't understand. That's not possible, my job is to find and kill the Shadow.

“In all the confusion of war intelligence, your dozens of covers started to cross over and eventually they formed just one master identity: The Shadow. So, little did you know,” he laughed again, “you set out to kill yourself!”

Boris opened up a file, where he must have had a picture of the one suspected to be the Shadow, and then looked at me. His eyes went wide.

“Spy games sure suck, don't they?”

I see Boris reaching inside his jacket for his pistol. I could reach for mine, but what would the point of that be? I could beg for my life, but that wouldn't do anything, would it? I was free for the killing. I'm a deniable asset; the Croatians can kill me without any diplomatic ramifications. This is the end.

Boris' pistol is out and he takes aim. Before he fires, he asks, “How does it feel? To atone for all of your murders and lies?”

“It's a relief, to be honest,” are my last words. In a split second, there's a boom followed by a sharp pain in my forehead. There's nothing after that. I'm dead and that's that. Spy games sure suck, don't they?

week five: documentary of the drawing man

After some opening credits, it cuts to some establishing shots of a regular city park. Everyone is busy going to work, coming home, or whatever it is they do. It's not important. Everything's in a pretty faded color, likely symbolizing the dried-out nature of everyday life. City sounds are audible, but it's just background noise.

Then a black teenager shows up on the screen and he's talking like he's being interviewed, “Look, man, I don't even know how to describe him. It's just this dude who sits right over there,” it cuts to a bench and then back to the black man, “and just draws. He's there every day just drawing his little pictures.”

A middle-aged woman is next, “He's kind of thin, but not very tall. He's got this really scraggly beard and, what is that hair he's got? Like Tarzan or a Jamaican or-” She's cut off in mid-sentence.

The next person is a younger businessman who seems to be in a hurry, “Dreadlocks. He's got blond dreadlocks. I don't know what to say about him, to be honest,” he finishes with an embarrassed smile and then a glance at his watch.

The woman comes back, “And he's always got hippie clothes on. You know, like tie-dye and cargo shorts. But I've only ever seen him from a distance. One day I had hoped to see what he draws but-”

“Oh, I clean the sidewalks,” an elderly Asian gentleman answers. “I don't really notice him. I prefer to watch the birds or the squirrels,” he laughs as the sidewalks and some leaves are shown, “Or the leaves I'm supposed to be cleaning!”

“You know, I don't really know what that dude draws,” the teenager said, “but he's always acting real careful like. It's like this is the most important thing in the world for him. I think he's high.”
The cleaner came back, “I try to peak at what he draws one time, but I could not really see.”

“Yeah, I see the drawing guy on my way to work every day. I walk through here,” the business man tells us as he points. The angle changes to show where he comes from. “He's there on my lunch break too, but when I walk to the subway to get home, he's gone.”

“I wonder where he goes...” the woman thought aloud. “Does he have a home?” She asks the camera as if the man behind it knows.

“Man, I bet he be drawing whatever pops in his head, like he's on acid or something, you know?”
the teenager laughed. “Hallucinations and...” his last word is censored.

The camera goes back to the bench.

The middle-aged woman talks, “I don't think anyone ever sits on the bench except for him. It's like it's his bench.”

The Asian man sits down on the bench and smiles as he tells the world, “I make sure to keep this bench extra-clean! I don't want the drawing-man to sit in bird poop or something.”

A young, very attractive lady is next, “He's kind of cute, I guess, and I'm definitely into the whole artistic thing, but I kind of get the feeling he doesn't shower. Ew.”

“Come to think of it,” the teenager bears a quizzical expression, “I don't know where he goes when he's done. I mean, I just sort of hang around here and he's just always there and then he'll just be gone,” the camera shows a few streets and alleys before cutting back, “I don't know. I guess he's just part of the scenery.”

“It's a bit like he got himself... engraved in the culture around here,” the businessman said as he seemed to start getting into it. He bit his lower lip as he continued, “Everyone just seems so used to seeing him around.”

The woman spoke a bit more, “I've always thought about talking to him, but I just never did. I
guess I just assumed he'd always be around.”

In a somewhat blurry and even more colorless shot, the empty bench is showed.
“Yeah, I don't know what happened to him,” the business man said. “One day I just noticed he wasn't there.”

“He ain't come back for a while,” the black teenager said. “I guess I kind of miss him, you know?”

“What? He's gone?” the attractive lady looked around with a puzzled expression.

The businessman scratched his head as he continued, “You know, it's kind of sad. I don't really know how long he's been coming here and I don't know how long he's been gone. I don't even know what he used to draw.”

“I keep the bench clean because one day, I hope he is going to come back,” the Asian said hopefully. “I want this place to be ready for him because he is special. He never hurt nobody and
he always here.”

“My God, that makes sense,” the woman remarked as she looked at a piece of paper.

“What? That's me!” the teenager exclaimed as he looked at a different sheet.

“I understand it all now!” the woman exclaimed.

“That's... incredible!” the businessman looked at the paper with a barely contained jaw, he then changed his expression to one of questioning, “But wait, how did you get this?”

The camera changes angles to a shots of the papers. They are drawings of the people who have been interviewed. The businessman is eating his lunch, the teenager is talking with his friends, the janitor is sweeping the sidewalk, the attractive woman is flirting, and the middle-aged woman is looking down the road.

“He draw a picture of me? Why he do that?” The Asian man wore a baffled look.

“So, he drew a picture of all us and here we are figuratively drawing picture of him...” the
business man pondered aloud.

It cut back to the Asian and he asks, “He never showed nobody his pictures, how you get them?”

The camera shows the puzzled businessman and suddenly it moves. As it swivels, we get dizzy but then we see a neatly-dressed and trimmed blond man. He smiles into the camera and says, “I drew it.”

week three: the monarch

In a place like this, there isn't much to do. It's the morning and the sun has just come up. I'm looking out my window and I see that Spring has come and is full. Nature is busy flourishing. The trees are at their greenest and the flowers have blossomed in every color I know. The grass is growing on the hills and sometimes I'll see a rabbit frolicking in the new-found beauty. I love the Springtime. It's quiet in my room though. They built it so I can't hear much from outside, but if I listen closely, I can hear the birds singing. Their songs are beautiful. I wonder what they sing about. And then beautiful butterfly landed outside my window. I know this kind. It's a Monarch butterfly. It's wings are orange and black, with just a touch of white. It is splendid. I put my hand on the window because I want to touch it. But I can't, because I'm not like the Monarch. I'm not like the Monarch because I'm not free.

They put me in my room when they want to and they let me out when they want to. I do what they want and not what I want. Sometimes it seems that they think I don't know the difference, but I do. I know what it means to be free. To be free is to be like the butterfly. The butterfly doesn't have to wait on breakfast time to leave his room in the morning. Someone knocked on my door and then it opened. It was the man in white. He told me to come with him. Yeah, it was breakfast time.

When I walked down to breakfast, I saw other people like me. They were coming out of their rooms too. Just like me, they weren't free either, but not like me, they don't care. I sit down at a table and I eat the eggs and the bacon and the hash browns. It tastes fine, but I don't really care. Then the man in white brings me my pills. They look like candy, but candy is fun. Pills are not fun. I tried to figure out what they do. I worked hard, but after I took them I didn't care about what they were. That's when I figured it out. Just like this place is a prison for my body, the pills are a cage for my mind. They trap me into thinking about what they want me to think about.

I don't want to take them, but the man in white is big and he scares me. So I put them in my mouth and I use my chocolate milk to make them go down my throat. Chocolate milk is my favorite thing they give me. It comes in cartons, I hate the cartons, but it's what's inside that matters. It's like this prison. The prison doesn't matter, it's who is locked up in here. And that's me. I matter, right?

Then they take me to the other tables. The mind-prison works by now. I don't think about freedom, about the ghosts, or about the monsters in my mind. No, they say I think like a normal person. Normal, normal, normal, just like everyone else. I don't want to be like everyone else, but here I am. I'm drawing dogs with crayons, making macaroni pictures, or playing Connect Four with Doris. I always win Connect Four. Doris is more broken than me. She doesn't know her lefts and rights and she can't even talk straight. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be like her. I can't be though. I'm just crazy, she's crazy and stupid.

The tricks they pull at this place are pretty good, but they don't fool me. We aren't free, but they want us to think we are. You can see outside, but the windows won't open. Even if you broke them, there are still the bars. Sometimes they tell me lies like how they make us safe. I told them that I don't want to be safe, that I want to be free. All I got was their assurance that I am free, but that's just not right. They're wrong. One day I'll be free like the Monarch and I'll show them what it means to be free.

The best part of the day is when I get to be with Robin. She's my therapist, but I like to think that she's my friend. We talk about things, sometimes happy things, sometimes sad things, sometimes angry things. She's like the birds. Robin is beautiful and she sings nice too. I asked her to sing to me once and she did, but then she wouldn't do it again. That made me sad, but I didn't tell her. She talks to me like I matter. Robin talks to me and makes me feel good. Part of me wants to love her, but another part of me tells me there's something wrong.

When they put me back in my room, I got in bed. I laid there and I thought about things. I thought about the San Diego Padres, I thought about the Queen of England, I thought about Star Trek, and then I thought about the Monarch butterfly. I want to be like the butterfly. That's when I thought of my plan.

When breakfast came and they gave me my pills, I didn't take them. I pretended to but I didn't swallow them. My mind was free, like the Monarch. Instead of drawing dogs with crayons, I drew monsters and shadows. I didn't play Connect Four with Doris, instead I read books. I didn't know how much I liked reading better than Connect Four until my mind was free. I read about a lot things. Everything seemed different, everything was scarier and I didn't feel as safe, but I knew I was free at last.

When it was time to talk to Robin, I told her about how I was feeling. I tried to not tell her about not taking the pills, but she figured it out. That's also when I figured Robin out. She wasn't trying to help me, she was just another part of the prison. She tried to do something I read about called manipulation. She made things seem one way, but they really went a different one. I was betrayed. The men in white came and they made me take my pills and then they put me in bed early to punish me. The sun was still up. It's not right!

When I woke up again, I looked out and I saw the butterfly again. It looked so happy. I felt happy for it because it was not like me. It was free. Everything outside is free and I'm stuck here on a hard bed doing everything I don't want to do. I hate it. I hate it so much. I watched the butterfly some more and then something bad happened. A bird came and the bird saw the Monarch. It flew in and then it ate the Monarch butterfly. I was angry at the bird. The bird took away the Monarch's freedom. I thought about that and I knew that Robin was more like the birds than I thought before. They were pretty and they could sing, but they took freedom from the butterflies like me.

Remember when I said that yesterday I read about things? One thing that I read was about the Monarch butterfly. I learned a lot about them. I learned how they live in North America and migrate every year. I saw lots of cool pictures of them and I think they're my favorite now. But the best thing I learned is that if you take their freedom, you'll regret it. The bird that ate the Monarch is going to die because the Monarch is poisonous.

I am the Monarch. Like the Monarch, I've been eaten. They ate my mind and my freedom so that I'm not what I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be flying free, but instead I'm stuck inside this dark place. People always told me that life had a meaning and that we have a purpose. There is something for all of us to do. I know what I'm supposed to do now. I am the Monarch and I have to do what Monarchs do: I have to kill the bird that takes away my freedom.