eulogy

Some pretty heavy language here, just to warn you. This is a story I've had on backburner for a while. I've been working on novel material lately and I've needed to get a break for it. I kind of had this idea in my head, but didn't have the time to turn it into anything. Finally, I did and here it is. It's a very experimental story told in first person. In typical WA Ross fashion, it's a heavy-handed story dealing with loss.

My mother died on Tuesday. Natural causes, but she could have lived longer if she hadn't drank and ate herself to death. Fat and drunk. That's my mom.

Love her to death though.

Loved.

And ha. To death.

I call her fat and drunk, but I can't mean it as an insult.

I'm just as bad.

Tried to quit a couple of times.

But y'know. Shit just happens, y'know?

I didn't find her body. Susan did. Susan's my sister. Susan said mom was laying there on the couch taking a nap and she wouldn't get up. She was dead. Susan called and I cussed her out. “Fuck you,” I said. Hung up on her. I hate Susan. She's the only member of our sorry excuse of a family to make anything of herself. I hate her and mom hated her, but mom would never say it. Susan loves to flaunt around her money and her husband and even her sobriety. I mean, what the hell, right?

Susan calls me back and I believe her. I didn't see mom's body. I didn't have to and I didn't want to either. It's just mom but she can't talk back. It's okay, I guess. I don't have to hear how much her government checks ain't cuttin' it. Mom could be a real bitch sometimes. She drove crazy.

I loved her though.

She was my mother.

Found myself at a bar for the next couple of nights. I don't remember what all I drink. It's all cheap stuff that makes you drunk fast. That's all I wanted.

I wanted to forget.

I wanted to forget my shitty little life.

I wanted to forget all the nasty stuff Susan said about me.

I wanted to forget all the crap mom said about me.

I wanted to forget trying to find that dickhead of a father I apparently had. Let us when I was four, Susan was like six.

I wanted to forget I had to keep living.

I wanted to forget mom ever even existed.

I couldn't though. I'd wake up the next morning hungover, my head shooting guns, and the memories and pain still there. It hurt, but it wasn't like getting punched. I got punched of times. It wasn't like getting stabbed. I got shivved before. It's not the same. You can not care about those things, but this? I've got no choice but give a fuck.

It was Thursday morning when I took a beer bottle and smashed it against my hand. It was a Heineken bottle. I remember because it was green. But yeah, I was hungover as hell and everything hurt like hell. I just wanted it to stop. I wasn't thinking and I just smacked it down. Damn bottle was still half full. Bits of the glass stuck into my skin, blood was everywhere and it was mixing with the alcohol. It hurt like all hell. I didn't care about my mom anymore though, at least not for a few minutes.

I had to call Susan to take me to the hospital. She got out of work to take me and yelled at me the whole way in the car. I don't remember what about. Not like I cared though.

We got into the ER and the doctors had to put in twenty-nine stitches and yank out the glass.

Everyone asked how it happened, but I wouldn't tell.

They didn't need to know.

And I didn't want my sister knowing I was hurting. She couldn't see that. You've got to understand, I couldn't give her another reason to think she's better than I am. Just because you're a professor or whatever doesn't make you better. It just makes you a proud bitch no one wants to be around.

When we left the hospital, I asked Susan for some money.

She said no.

Proud bitch.

The funeral was on Friday. I didn't really want to go.

Susan made me do it though. Apparently mom left a last will and testament. She had nothing to give except for a couple of worthless family heirlooms.

A quilt.

A dress.

A couple of ties my granddad wore.

Some other crap I don't remember.

But it said something else. It's like she had this vengeance scheme all built up when she wrote it. It said that she wanted me to give a eulogy. I mean, seriously? Me? And who the hell's gonna come to my mother's funeral? Nobody, that's who. And she wants me to eulogize to nobody. I'm not good at speaking, not at all.

Not even a little bit.

But she wants me to-

Dammit.

I got drunk again that night. Didn't smash anything on my hand though. I learned that lesson good. I tried my best to tie a noose that night though. I couldn't do it though. It's not because I had some kinda emotional breakthrough where I realized life was worth living or anything stupid like that. No, I just couldn't tie the knot. Not matter what, it wouldn't happen. I felt so damn worthless. Then I must have fallen asleep because I just don't remember giving up.

Can't even kill myself right.

The funeral was at ten in the morning. I got there at ten-fifteen, my head throbbing like a jackhammer on steroids and a bottle of cheap whiskey in my hand. Susan saw me and she was furious.

“Where have you been?” She shouted at me. Maybe she wasn't shouting and she just sounded loud. I don't know.

“Sorry,” I shrugged.

“This is your own mother-”

“I said I'm sorry. Nothing I can do about it.”

“And what's this?” She took the bottle right outta my hands. “You can't bring-”

I nabbed it back, “Yeah, I can. It's mine. Don't touch it.”

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, okay, whatever. You put something together for mom?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“You didn't, did you?”

“Look, I said don't worry about, so don't worry about it. I've got this.”

“Okay, fine,” she threw up her hands like it meant something. “The preacher's going to say something and then you're up. Don't screw this up.”

“I said don't worry about it.”

She should worry about it.

She should so worry about it.

I took a massive gulp of my whiskey before going into the church room. The preacher was in there saying some God stuff that I don't care about. He just went on an on. And when I knew he was about done....

I bolted.

I ran.

I couldn't do it.

I got the shakes real bad and I just ran.

It's not cause I don't love mom. I just got scared. Real scared and I can't explain it. What's there to explain? I pushed open the front door to the church and immediately slipped on the steps leading down the street.

It hurt, but whatever. I didn't care. I just lay there. I think I was crying. I don't know. I don't remember.

Susan came to my side soon and she asked, “Hey, what are you doing? Are you alright?”

I pulled myself up to where I was sitting and looking at her and I said, “I can't do it.”

“Oh, come on! All your life, you've-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Susan! I'm not a failure, I'm not.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you were going to do.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Just as good.”

She spat, “Stop it! Just stop it!”

“I can't do it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I- I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't, alright?” I shook my head. “I didn't write her the speech. I got drunk last night.”

“I know.”

I scoffed, “Yeah, I'm sure. You think you're so much better, then why don't you give the speech?”

“Will you stop with that?” Susan looked pissed off. “I don't think I'm better than you. I'm not giving the eulogy because mom didn't ask me to. Mom wanted you to do it.”

“Funny how she gets back at us, right?”

She shook her head, “Do you know what the will actually said? It said for you to give the eulogy because she loves you. She gave me some crap on there, but she said she loved you twice. There wasn't- there wasn't anything like that for me. Mom loves you. Not me. She just wants you to say some nice things about her. You love mom too, don't you?”

“Yeah,” I looked down at my bottle. “Yeah, I love mom. She was a good lady.”

“Yeah,” a tear came down Susan's cheek. “But she loved you more. I've got a lot of things you don't have. I've got a job, money, a house, and- but you've got the one thing I'd burn all of it to have. Mom loved you. She never loved me. As soon as I got ahead, she hated me.”

“She didn't hate you.”

“Sure she did.”

“She didn't hate you,” I put my hand on my sister's shoulder. “She just didn't know what to do with you. Mom always thought you were better than us. You are better than us. Mom just didn't wanna- I don't know. Look, I'll go in there and say stuff about her.”

I got up and started to walk inside. Susan grabbed my arm though and said, “Hey. Look, I know it's rough, but, look, no matter what, we're family and I love you.”

I put my arms around her in a hug and she hugged me back. By that point I knew I was crying. I wasn't just crying, I was sobbing, I was bawling. “I love you too,” I choked.

I let her go and we looked into each other's eyes. We both had mom's eyes. It was weird seeing her again like that. But she was there. I looked down at the bottle in my hand and I gave it to Susan. I told her to hold onto it. She didn't though.

The bitch threw it.

It flew right across the street and shattered onto the curb.

The amber juice splattered as the clear glass shattered.

It made me mad at first, but not for long.

I took a deep breath and told Susan, “Thank you.”

“Go,” she nudged me to the door.

I went in there and I stumbled through a story of two about mom doing nice things. I told everyone about how she used to go to the old people home and help them out. I told them about this time mom destroyed the clutch in our first stick shift. Twice. I lied about how great she was, but it felt good. It's like I was convincing myself how bad things weren't. Maybe they ain't that bad. Maybe.

But Susan found my afterward and hugged me again. I told her I was sorry for my shitty excuse for a eulogy. She said it was good and mom would be proud. I didn't believe her. Didn't matter though. Nothing felt better than having my proud old sister telling me I did good. We went out to lunch together.

She paid.

I didn't get drunk that night. I stayed at my sister's place. I told her I wanted to get clean.

I don't know if I really meant it, but Susan's reaction told me one thing. She smiled and encouraged me to find help. That told me one thing. It told me that when said she loved me, she meant it.

And that means everything in the world.

I love you.

the black king

Note: this is not a story for the squeamish. There's violence, language, and disturbing content. If you don't like those things, then this isn't for you at all. This story definitely falls into my horror stories. It, like a few others, is a story set in an insane asylum. I think you'll like the unique twists.

1991

My blood boils when I think of the white pieces. They've got us all in check, they've got us all pinned, they've got us all one bad move away from agony. They've got me stuck. And they stick me with fluids I can't name. They make me swallow poisons I don't know. I'm out of moves, I'm out of plays. That's how it was before. That's when it was all just a game. Just a damn, stupid game. We played and I was the only one who couldn't see the pieces. But I played. When I spoke, we moved. It was a losing game.

The only way I could win is with a miracle. In games, miracles don't happen. That's what I thought. One day, the white pieces were just gone. Just like that. There were no more.

I woke up thinking it was a normal day. I woke up at the regular time expecting one of the White Pawns to come to my door and lead me off to breakfast. I was hungry that morning. Some bread would have been nice, but not the black, stale scraps they give us. I sat there for two hours thinking that anything would be nice. There came a time where I thought that even stale milk would have been just a little nice. But then the miracle happened.

My door opened. It's not a like a normal door. It's an electronic door. They had to make the switch. See, a two months before the miracle, I learned how to get through the lock on a regular door. I used parts from a pen and managed to trick the lock into thinking I had a key. When they found me roaming at night, they took me to the happy house and beat the shit out of me. We call it the happy house because it's not happy. We want to think it is. We want to think a lot of things. But it's not happy. Nothing is happy.

At first I just sat on my bed. If I get up too soon, then the White Pawn will hammer me with his stupid stick. We call it a stupid stick because it's what hits us if we do stupid stuff. I didn't want that to happen. After the night in the happy house, I was afraid of the stupid sticks. I remember how much they hurt. They slam into you and make you bruise, make you bleed, and then make you scream. I screamed. Nobody heard me. Or maybe they did. Maybe they did and they just didn't care. I don't think I would care either. That's the worst part.

But soon I got up and went to the door. I poked my head out and saw that every door was open and I was the last to go outside. Not everyone is smart enough to be afraid of the stupid sticks. In fact, just about all of us are dumb as fish. Most just swim with the current. I couldn't do that. I can't stand the current, especially when the current destroys me and my mind. Everything was fuzzy before them, but it was dark and fuzzy when I came to this place. That night when I went into the happy house, everything cleared up again. It was still a little dark and still a little hazy, but I could see something. I could see that I had to play, that I had to beat these people at their own game. I'm crazy, but after that night, you'd have to be crazy to pick on me.

Down the hall was a dead end. The other way had the door leading to the other areas of the board. It was a perfect board too. The place was lined with tiles white and green, laid down like a playing board. It helped keep me focused. It helped me remember to think, to stay ahead. One of the important parts to any game is to know the pieces. They let me have a pencil and some paper because why the hell not. I started making a list of who is who. Most of the men and women, the nurses, I called the pawns. They're more important than you might think. I called the “doctors” the rooks, knights, and bishops. The queen was a the head doctor. Lastly, the man in charge was the White King. He was the one who ordered my beating. He's the one I had to kill.

The door to the common areas was wide open like my room. Good thing, I guess, but then again, I don't think I cared. I didn't really feel anything. When they give me the poisons, I stop feeling anything. I guess the poisons from the night before were still having an effect because I didn't even feel angry. After the happy house night, anger is all I ever felt. I'd spend some nights forgetting about it because of the poison. Other nights, they wouldn't give me the poison and there was nothing but anger. It took me a while before I came up with my plan. I focused and soon, even when I wasn't angry, I still had my purpose. I had to kill the White King.

The others, my Black Pawns, looked to me for what to do. I was their leader. When I walked through the door to the common rooms, they followed. They wouldn't do it without me. They have to be led. If I'm not leading them, then the White Pawns are. There were no White Pawns around, so I had them. Becoming their leader was easy. I just had to figure out what they wanted. There was one of them who liked painting, but they wouldn't give him paints. I got a pen and took all the ink out and put it in a pillbox. It was just like paint except it was only black. It made the guy happy and he promised to do whatever I wanted him to do. I did things like this for every single one of the others. Pretty soon, I had a lot of Black Pawns.

I knew where I wanted to go as soon as I was out of the sleeping places. I wanted to go to the kitchen because that's where they keep the knives. I wanted to find a big and sharp one. I wanted to find something better than my old weapons. When we started making our moves, we used whatever we could find. We managed to steal a razor once and used that to slit two the White Pawns' throats. They bled so much that they never got the tiles cleaned. There was another time that we stole a screwdriver and we drove that one through the one of the White Rook's bellies. We twisted up her insides; let her guts see the outside world. Every time we did it, someone different would kill. I never had to kill anyone, I got a Black Pawn to do it. By the time the miracle happened, we had killed fifteen of them.

All along as we moved, I suspected that this was some kind of trick so they could win the game. It happens a lot in games. It's a called a ruse. I did it a lot. I tried to convince the White King that the killing was random, that we weren't playing, just killing. And that there was no we, there just individuals with no organization. But he didn't fall for that for long. He started putting my Black Pawns in the happy house to make them talk. Six of them died from the torture. It just made us madder. But soon enough, one of them cracked. The White King knew everything. He put me in the happy house and had me tortured, but I fought back. After two days of on and off beatings, I figured out I was being stupid. I gave in. Or I acted like I did. But like I said, it was a ruse.

The kitchen door was open. I had never been in there. It was boring and I still didn't care about anything. I told all my Black Pawns behind me to find food though. If the Whites wouldn't give it to them, I would. I'm a good King. As they tore the place up in their angry madness, I found my knife. It was a long knife for cutting meat. It was a bit rusted and bent a little, but it could still cut. It was better for it to be a kind of dull. That way, it would hurt more when I gutted the White King. I looked down at my weapon and saw me, my reflection. I looked different than how I remembered.

Did you know I had hair? They took it.

Did you know I had a beard? They took it.

Did you know I had a house? They took it.

Did you know I had a job, money, a life? They took it.

Did you know I had a family? They- no. I took that part. When I said I've never killed before... I lied.

I went back to the common rooms. Everything was a mess. There were papers and poisons thrown all about the place. My Black Pawns stayed behind. That's where I wanted them. I wanted to do this alone. Before I was in this place, I was a champion. I was the greatest chess player in all of Russia. I won every tournament I competed in. I never lost. And then one day, it was a kid. He was still in the university when he came and took my crown. When my king fell, so did I.

The best of the miracle was finding the White King. He was sitting in front of the window, just looking out the snow-covered hills. Of him I demanded, “Why are you just sitting there? And what the hell is going on?”

“It's all over.”

“What's over?”

“Everything,” the White King scoffed. “The Soviet Union is no more. All of the doctors, all of the nurses, all the people you call pawns, bishops, what have you, none of them came to work. I came in today to empty halls. This place is my life. You, my patients, are everything to me. My wife – she left because I poured so much of myself into running this place. I saw all of you, the worst cases of insanity in all of Russia. You were mine to heal. I love you all.”

“Love? You beat us. You killed us. We hate you.”

“Don't you see? I did it for your own good. I would go to any lengths to fix you, to clear your minds, to make you sane again. Don't you want that?”

“I see clear.”

“No, you don't! I can fix you. I can make you whole again.”

“I don't want to be whole.”

He finally looked me in the eye, “You're so far broken that you can't imagine being fixed. You're afraid of it.”

“I'm not afraid.”

“Then kill me.”

“I want to understand.”

“What is there to understand? You've won. Checkmate.”

“You broke us to fix us?” I asked.

“I never meant to- I never wanted to- I wanted to help you.”

“But you destroyed us,” I squeezed my fist around the knife. “People died because of you.”

“I know.”

“Aren't you going to beg for your life?”

“No,” he whispered as he turned back to the Russian landscape. “I deserve to die. There's a new world coming about and I don't deserve to live in it.”

“No, no you don't.”

“So kill me.”

“I killed too.”

“It's not your fault. You're insane.”

I looked down at my knife and then back to him. “So are you.”

He looked to me and only nodded.

“We both die,” I said as I took the rusted knife and slid it down my wrist. It hurt like all hell, but it felt good. It's as if the hole released my demons along with my blood. I found solace in that it would soon be all over.

“Now me.”

“Yes,” I said weakly as he took the knife and in one stroke, plunged it into his chest. His eyes went wide in pain, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say, even if he could say it. The White King died. Checkmate.

I sat down on the floor as I bled out. I watched as the crimson ruined the gameboard tiles. Life began to fade away. I looked up to see all of my Black Pawns watching me die. They did nothing but stare. In my last seconds, I knew that they were just as glad to be free of me as they were of the White King. With both of us dead, they were no longer Pawns. They were free. Perhaps in their insanity, they could even find happiness. There is no King that could ever give them that.

week fifty-one: omega

Word of caution: this week's story contains strong language and violence.

Charlie, his son, could not come because he was dead. His wife, Claire, was sick and the journey would tax far too much out of her. That left only person: his college-bound granddaughter, Omega, who had been given her strange name as a result of an overly-artistic mother and father. The trip was to Vietnam to tour some of the battle sights. These sights are places Tim should have been. When drafting began for the war, he answered the call by fleeing to Canada. This is his greatest regret. Decades later, the guilt finally overcame him and Tim at last answered the call to Vietnam.

The first day was nothing but museums and overpriced tourist spots. Where Tim was cathartic and saddened by it all, Omega seemed bored. Was she feigning interest? She asked questions and kept conversation, but Tim knew the truth. Or at he least his supposed truth. He could not know for sure, but this was his impression.

The most memorable museum piece was a dedication to the many prisoners of war. There was a mock-up of a Vietcong prison, the conditions of which appeared absolutely excruciating. When Tim walked inside the small cell, he felt this strange sense of belonging. Tim imagined, in his mind, the poor soldier being stripped naked and shoved into the cell. The cramped conditions were mind-numbing. Tim belonged in there. It should have been him and not the thousands who actually endured these trials. Then again, no one should have to endure such cruelties of the human heart.

Omega was always a smart one. She was given the trip as a graduation present. Tim wished he had just given her money instead. She tried to convince him that she was enjoying spending time with him, but Tim remained unconvinced.

The second day was far more important. After a tiring bus ride, Tim and Omega found themselves in the Vietnamese jungle. They were taken to this spot because it was where a standoff had taken place. Tim pictured it in vivid detail. The Vietcong militia forces holed themselves up in the foliage just before a large, brushy clearing. The United States soldiers crossing the brush suddenly found themselves being gunned down. The Americans had minimal cover and no support. Their lieutenant was first to die. Cut off the head of the snake....

Tim bent over and picked up the shiny thing he saw in the grass. It was a brass shell casing. The markings identified it as 5.56 NATO, meaning that it had come from an American M16 assault rifle. Omega quietly uttered, “You fired that shot.”

After a beat of thought, Tim replied, “I should have fired this shot. It should have been me out here dying.”

“If you had died, where would I be?” Omega asked.

Tim reckoned that her point was valid although flawed. Tim remained convinced that he had done the wrong thing.

His ruminations resumed. The American soldiers reflexively dove to the ground. They shouted, but Tim could not understand them over the gunfire. He could pick out a few expletives, but nothing concrete; no complete sentences or thoughts. Tim knelt in the grass. He wanted to know the experience. And he did... he felt the Vietnamese heat and humidity, smelled the burning of the gunpowder, heard the shouting and booming... his vision was as both a memory and a nightmare.

Suddenly the blasts and screams ceased. One of the dead American soldiers pulled himself up to his feet. He was a young man, no more than twenty. There were two bloody bullet holes on his fatigues and he held an M16 in each hand. The young soldier approached the now-standing Tim and told him, “We could use some supporting fire.”

“I should have been here,” Tim said to the soldier. Omega kept quiet.

“You are here,” the young soldier held out an M16 for Tim to take. “Help us.”

“You're a fiction,” Tim replied. “I can't help you.”

“Why are you here?” Omega asked her grandfather.

“Because this is where I was supposed to be. I ran from here. I ran from duty; from my country. But I'm here. I'm here and I'm sorry. I want to atone.”

“Then atone,” the young soldier insisted. “Atone and take the rifle.”

“I can't,” Tim argued. “If I could back and change things, don't you think I would?”

“The men are dying.”

“The men are dead.”

“Can't you save them?”

“I can't fix the past.”

“So why are you here?” Omega asked.

“Because I have to be,” Tim answered slowly, not quite understanding his own words.

“You're here to do nothing,” the soldier said bluntly. “Some trip.”

“I don't understand it,” Omega added. “Do you, papa?”

“No, I guess I don't.”

“If you can't understand why you're here, then why do you have to understand that you must take this rifle and fight?”

“You- you're right,” Tim stammered as he took the M16. “This is atonement.”

“No, this is duty,” Omega corrected.

Tim nodded as he took aim. It seemed natural to him; as if he had been trained. But he paused; he hesitated.

“Well?” Omega asked impatiently. “Aren't you going to shoot, papa? Aren't you going to kill?”

“It... doesn't feel right.”

“Why?”

“I don't- I don't think I should be doing this.”

The soldier said, “Tim, this is war. You shoot people. Pull the trigger.”

“It's not right.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, I never shot a gun. I never pulled the trigger. And I never- I never killed.”

“But you regret not doing these things. Do them now; it's your chance.”

Tim lowered his rifle, “No!”

“No? So it's just like before,” Omega scoffed. “Still a coward.”

“I'm no coward!” Anger welled inside. “I don't want to do this. I didn't want to do it then, and I don't want to do it now. So... fuck off!”

“Why the language?” Omega asked innocently. “You told me-”

“Fuck what I said!” Fuck everything I do! It's meaningless! Worthless! I'm a coward; a nothing!”

“Give me back the rifle,” the soldier kept calm. “You don't need it.”

“No,” Tim clenched his teeth.

“If you won't shoot, you don't need a rifle,” the soldier held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“I said no.”

The bloody soldier reached for the rifle and grabbed the barrel. Tim jerked it away and trained it right at the young man's chest, “You'll shoot me?”

“Stay away!” Tim stepped back.

“Either shoot me or shoot them!”

“No!”

“Do it, coward!” Omega snarled.

“NO!”

“You're worthless, you-”

Tim opened fire; the soldier's gut burst open in glorious gore. Just as he seemed to want to speak, blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The look in his eye was either approval or horrible acceptance. Tim did not know which.

“So that's what you came for?” Omega asked, unfazed by what had just happened.

Tim dropped the rifle, “He's right. I'm worthless. I'm a worthless cowardly traitor. I'm terrible.”

“What happened to atonement?”

“There's no atonement for me-”

“No,” the soldier grunted as he pulled himself back up to his feet. His wounds, and the blood on his mouth, remained, “there's not. There is no atonement. There is no absolution. There is no amnesty. There is no forgiveness The only thing left is punishment; justice.”

“Justice?”

“You ran and then shot your own man,” the soldier hammered his words. “This can't be just forgiven. Someone must pay. It's you.”

“No, I- this isn't real.”

“Yes, it is,” Omega argued. “This is reality. Think, papa. Think.”

“Think?”

“What is real?”

Suddenly, images flashed in Tim's mind. He was in the jungle. Night had long fallen, but it was bright. Muzzle flares, explosions, and whizzing bullets illuminated the death-tainted scene. The brave fell, but the cowards remained. The true gave their lives, the false hid away. Tim hid behind a great tree, clutching his rifle. Next to him was Billy Conklin, one of his friends. There was an untold number of Vietcong just a few dozen yards away. Conklin popped in and out of cover, taking shots at his enemies. But Tim hid.

Tim sweat and panicked. He gripped his rifle tightly with wide-open eyes. He shook; mortified of the sudden death all around. He did not shoot or fight. He hid.

“Hey, Tim, the hell are you doing?” Conklin asked. “You gotta shoot, man!”

Tim froze.

“Tim,” Conklin shook him. “Man! We could use some support fire! We're in a war here! Help us out!”

Tim looked square into Billy Conklin's eyes. He swallowed, sweat, and trembled. A blast shook the earth beneath him. That was enough. Tim pushed Billy Conklin away and then bolted into the jungle. He just ran. Where? Fuck where.

Tim ran until he could take no more, until the horror was far away; until the flashing lights faded to the heart of darkness. He panted and struggled to keep his footing. When the fatigue subsided, Tim felt suddenly so alone. But he was safe. He found a large rock and sat down upon it. The blasts and death were both far off; no more than a distant whisper. Tim did not yet feel guilt.

Over him was the starry Vietnamese sky. It had been far too long since he had just... looked to the stars. There is no beauty in war. Tim wanted to believe that he had left the war. War... what war? Nevermind the uniform, nevermind the rifle. Damn the rifle lest it damn you.

Billy Conklin suddenly limped out from the jungle. Tim stood. Conklin was bloody, two bullet holes in his fatigues. Tim dropped his rifle and ran over to his friend, “Oh, God, Billy, what happened?”

“The hell do you mean, 'what happened'? You happened, you bastard! You bastard you pushed me out of cover and right into enemy! You bastard! You fucking bastard!”

“I'm sorry! I don't- I don't know what I was think-”

Conklin picked up Tim's rifle and held it out, “Take your rifle and let's go support our platoon!”

Tim laughed uneasily, “You- you think I'm going back there? Hell no.”

“Tim, you can still atone. If you go back, I won't say nothin' to the sarge. Come on!”

“Atone?”

“You ran.”

“I'm not going back there,” Tim took the rifle. “Stay with me, man.”

“No, Tim, I'm gonna do my duty. You should too.”

“No way.”

“If you don't come,” Conklin winced in pain. “I will report you.”

Tim trained his rifle on Conklin, “I can't let you do that! They'll kill me.”

“Come with me.”

“No!”

“So, what, you're gonna shoot me? No, you won't,” Conklin shook his head. The sun slowly crept over the horizon. “You won't shoot me. I'm going. Come with me or don't. Make up your-”

Tim opened fire. The soldier's gut suddenly burst open in glorious gore. Without saying a word, Conklin dropped to his knees. Just as he seemed to want to speak, blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The look in his eye was neither approval nor horrible acceptance, but of betrayal. Tim knew instantly what he had one.

He stumbled back to the rock and sat. He the sun continued its rise, Tim realized his regret; his crime. Omega came from behind him and walked over to where the murder had happened. She scanned the grass and retrieved the shell casing. Tim only watched she approached and said quietly, “You fired this shot.”

“It should have been me. I should be the one dying.”

She sat beside him and put her hand on his, “You will, papa. You will die.”

“It's what I deserve.”

“There's nothing left to be done. Nothing left but to accept. Accept what you deserve, accept what will happen.”

“Yeah,” Tim sighed. “I never grew old, did I?”

“No, papa,” Omega answered remorsefully. “Your life ended early.”

“So, you,” Tim swallowed, “aren't real?”

“What is real?”

“I never had a granddaughter.”

“No, you never had a granddaughter. You never married. You've never even seen Canada,” Omega let go of his hand. “Stand up.”

Tim did as he was told, “What happens now?”

She pulled his hands behind his back and started to bind them together, “Close your eyes.”

“Talk to me! What happens now?” Tim trembled as his eyes watered. He squinted them shut. “Talk to me!”

The knot tightened. Tim suddenly found his arms to be wrapped around a wooden pole. Omega gently touched his arm, “It's time.”

“No, wait,” Tim opened his eyes to find only darkness. Something covered his face. “I'll take the rifle! I'll fight! I'll do my duty!”

“Present... arms!”

Omega whispered into his ear, “Papa, this is nothing for you to do but accept. Don't resist. Accept.”

“I'm sorry- I'll go back! I'll kill!”

“Take aim!”

Omega whispered, “Hush, papa. Make peace. Hush and die quietly. This is the end.”

Tim pleaded, “No! Stop! I'm sorry-”

“FIRE!”

The rifles raged, spitting deathly lead. Tim felt his chest pierced, his bones shattered. Blood trickled down his chest. He winced in horrific pain and his body fell limp.

The black veil was pulled over his head. He saw Omega once again. She put her hand on his cheek and quietly said, “Rest in peace, papa. It's over. It's all over.”

Time looked into her eyes, “I could have had you. I could have had a son and then a granddaughter- I-...”

“Hush,” she whispered. “Say goodbye. Don't wish for more, don't hope for better. This is the end.”

“You- you're an angel, aren't you?”

“Goodbye, papa,” Omega removed her hand and turned away. Tim watched as she walked away, leaving him behind.

“Please! Don't go!”

She stopped and turned around, “I must leave. It is time.”

“Just-” he coughed. “Just tell me what you are.”

Omega returned and whispered, “I am that which haunts your every nightmare. I am the common thread which binds every man, woman, and child. I am the shadowed specter of every end and the inevitable result of every mean. I am the darkness which ends all tragedy. I am the final act. I am Romeo's poison and Juliet's dagger. I am the setting sun; the darkening of stars. I am the assassin's gift. I am life's antithesis. I am Omega.”

As Omega stood and walked away once again, Tim finally understood. She was death. He watched as she faded away into the distance of eternity. Tim took his last breath. It was not laborious or painful. In fact, there was nothing to it whatsoever. Sensation, particularly pain, had long subsided. Feeling, however, remained, but not in the physical sense. Tim felt two things: peace and acceptance. It was the same as reaching the end of a novel. All of the chapters are over; there is nothing left but to turn the page.

And so he did....

week thirty-six: bluebird (special post)

It's the holiday season and I've been incredibly busy. That's my excuse. My head's been in a lot of other places and I needed to take the week off. So, there will not be a new story this week. However, I wouldn't be satisfied with leaving a gap in the weeks, so I looked for a compromise and managed to find something I think we can all appreciate.

Over these last thirty-five weeks, I've been pouring myself out to you by showing what goes on in my dark, twisted, yet sometimes delightful mind. You've probably learned more about the real WA Ross through reading my material than you would actually meeting me. There have been some low points on Story a Week, but there's also been some highlights that I will keep, treasure, and be proud of forever. The thing I most pride myself in is you; the people who come here and set aside their time to read what I've written. I treasure you. I'm proud that you think my work is worth your time. And I hope that you'll keep reading as long as I keep writing. It means a lot to me. It really does.

I've shown you the original things I've written, but I've barely shared the writings that inspire me. I haven't showed you the things that have brought me to where I am. I could never show you everything, but I can give you a glimpse.

One of my favorite poets is a man named Charles Bukowski; I wouldn't be surprised if you've heard of him. He wrote a poem called "Bluebird" and it changed me forever. I don't have quite the colored history that Bukowksi has, but, like him, everyone has a 'bluebird' in their heart. Ever since reading this poem, I've been determined to let mine out. Story a Week is a huge part of that. You'll understand what I mean when you read the poem.

Charles Bukowski
"Bluebird"

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Here is a YouTube video with a recording of "Bluebird." This clip is actually how I came across the poem. It's a great reading and I highly recommend it.

week thirty-three: time and hope

The following story is written as a companion piece for the very first Story a Week story, "Time and Regret." It is recommended that you read "Time and Regret" first, but "Time and Hope" stands on its own.

Hard times befall even the very best of humanity, and such was the case was for Hope's family. She was born into a destitute family where successes were few and far in between. Despite the coming and going of victories, tragedy always followed. Such was the case for the birth of Hope, for as she was born, her mother passed on. It would be so easy to accept despair in these times. Hope's father had nothing left but a mortgage, unemployment, and a child to raise on his own. Any more wavering man would surrender, but her father was truly indomitable. On a simple piece of paper, he wrote to his daughter on the day she was born:

“Hope, you're everything to me now. Your mother would have loved you very much and I'm sure if she can see you, she still does. We had decided early on to name you Catherine, but when she passed away, I decided your middle name was better. Your name is Hope because that's all I can have now. I don't want you or me to ever forget that. Times are tough, but there will always be hope. You're my Hope and I promise you right now that I'm going to fulfill everything you could hope for. I love you and you're going to have it better than your mother and I ever did. I promise.”

He fulfilled his promises. Working tirelessly at two jobs and caring for a young daughter, Hope's father overcame the insurmountable woes of depression and poverty. He never remarried because his focus was solely on his one true love: his daughter. Her dark hair and cerulean eyes reminded him so much of his befallen wife. That was all he really needed to move them out of their one-room apartment and into a three-bedroom house. All was against them, but the tables turned with the greatest outlook: hope.

With her experiences and a great father, she became her namesake. Hope was an indefatigable optimist and saw the best in everyone. She could never look back and believe in failure; she could only look ahead to the rising of the sun in the next day. Hope could empower others with her unwaveringly rosy reverie. She had the gift of encouragement because she could see the beauty in life that all others were blind to. Hope inspired and attracted many, but she waited until she found truest and purest love.

And she would find such love in Nick. What she saw in a Nick was her complete opposite. He was pessimistic and often cynical, but there was something about him that made him never look back. Nick proved as idealistic as Hope, except he saw the problems to be fixed rather than the strengths to be built upon. Their pairing was a beautiful one and they found their individual faults and qualities complemented the other with perfection. There was something strange about Nick, but Hope could never place it.

As autumn dawned, as they strolled through the most gorgeous of parks, and as their hands embraced, Nick took a knee. Hope knew what he would say. These four words are some of the most important a girl will ever hear. They are as follows, “Will you marry me?” But those aren't the words Nick told her there. In truest and purest love, he took the ring from his pocket and opened the case before her.

And before he could say anything, before she even saw the ring, she exclaimed with all impulse, love, sincerity, and hope, “Yes!” So they kissed.

They found themselves at the altar. Instead of listening to the old priest read the marriage vows, they lost themselves in each other's eyes. Both knew what they were going to say. And when they said those two words, when their matrimony was complete, the universe was suddenly made whole. Hope could not have been happier.

Hope's father felt his purpose fulfilled. He had given Hope all the love he could give and it was time for her to move on; time for her to share that love. His tears fell as she embraced him after the wedding. These weren't tears of pain, or tears of sorrow, these were tears of true joy. When a man puts his entire life into a singular goal, and that goal is fulfilled, then he is completed. Hope's father was completed.

They spent the next four years living together in harmony. Of course, there were the occasional mishaps and fights here and there; these are human things to do. And their true love would not be complete without fault. To live with perfection is to live devoid of humanity, devoid of purpose. To truly love is to love despite all fault. Love lives on despite all blunder and imperfection, but accounts for all quality and novelty. Love is a passing feeling, but a lasting choice.

While love has no limits, humanity does. Love cannot be broken, but the humanity behind it can be. It was after those four years that Nick screwed up. Hope had no choice but to leave him. This is not a choice she can be faulted with and she made it. Despair and depression overcame Nick to the point that she could only see him as crazy.

Hope moved away. After a month had passed, Nick came to her doorstep and begged her to come back to him. She listened to every one of his desperate pleas and she felt for him; she truly did. In her heart, she still loved him truly and deeply. But Nick had become a madman. Just as she was to take him back, he babbled on about a power to go in back time. He explained that regret gave him the fuel to do this and that she took it away because she gave him hope. Somehow it made sense. Somehow, what Nick said appeared as truth should appear. Nevertheless, the power to wind back time is incredulous. She couldn't believe him. And who would?

Nick told the truth. All of his life up until he asked her out, he been rewinding time and fixing his mistakes. He told no one; this power is impossible to demonstrate and even more so to believe. But he professed the truth to her. If he had not told her about his power, if she did not hear the truth, then she would have taken him back. Hope could only watch as Nick tore his life to shreds. He put himself in support groups and took medications of all kinds, but there was no helping him. Her lover faced despair. And it was all because of her.

Nick was suicidal; she knew this. And if he did it, if he committed the unforgivable sin, how could she live with herself? It might as well have been Hope who had killed him. But everyone around her told Hope to stay away.

She could not listen. She went to his home, completely unaware of her intentions. Maybe she would just check on him, maybe she could just see his face, maybe she could cure him. Hope always believed in the best in people. Nick was a great man, but he was a broken one. Broken men can be lovers, but there is a line too far. Sometimes people break into insanity. And that was how everyone saw Nick. But Hope still loved him.

Hope sat in her car and turned off the engine. His home was before her. She could go inside, she could fix this, maybe they could be together one last time. But no. No. He's insane. The man inside is broken beyond repair. Hope had to see him. She threw open her car door and resigned herself to just looking into his window. She hoped to see him and know how he was. She had to see the insanity, the cracking, the breaking for herself.

Hope surprised herself by what she saw. Nick sat in there on his couch with a weary smile, but a hopeful one. There was just something about that smile that told her all she needed to hear. Hope believed then that everything would be alright, that they could move on. Life could change. Perhaps Nick would mend and he could live without her, just as she was doing. Hope had learned to live a better life. Or she thought.

The next day brought tragedy. Hope's father passed away. He had been fighting heart disease for a very long time and finally, it overtook him. Hope couldn't be there for him, she couldn't hold his hand as he died. He was at work, sitting in his office, when the attack came. He fought and fought, but lost the battle. His doctors would later tell Hope that his dying words for her. As Hope's father fought for his last moments, he cried out her name. His battle was hopeless and he died with his daughter, his one true love, in agony over her lost husband. But her father lost his grip on life. He fell into the abyss of death.

As Hope drove to the funeral home, she answered a phone call from a disgruntled Nick, “I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I love you.” And at that he hung up. Those were his lasts words.

When she arrived at the funeral, there were so many people. They all smiled, but all sorrowed over this lost man. Hope's father was a great man. A man giving a eulogy made note of his triumph over poverty and despair. He told them all about how he brought hope to everyone he met. There was something about this man; something about his very being that drove people, that inspired people. That both literally and figuratively, the man lying in that casket had brought Hope into the world. She kissed his aged forehead before they closed the casket. They came to the disturbed dirt at the hallowed ground and echoed their goodbyes from before.

In her shaking fingers dangled a folded page.

“What's that?” the man to her left asked.

“Oh, this? Nothing,” Hope answered politely. The man lost interest and that was her chance. Just as the casket hit newly-broken earth, Hope threw the paper into the dirt. This was just something that she had to do. It was that one last deed for her faltered father. It was a useless gesture. Dead men need no gestures; the living around them must give gestures to the dead because men need conclusion. They must do the last deeds so that all ends are met. All there knew that the only end left was Hope. She was alone. Her husband was a psycho and her dad was dead. The people there offered Hope comfort and encouragement, but these words are hollow. Hope doesn't need any of that. She needed her love back.

But duty came first. She drove to her father's house to go through his belongings. In this she found so many cherished memories; even some she had long stored in her heart, but lost in her mind. There was everything, from her impoverished yet jovial childhood to her father's eventual success. Even her wedding with Nick was well-documented in all of it. She put the things to keep in boxes and the rest she left as it were. These things were to be sold; gone forever. Like her father.

There was a trunk in her father's bedroom which Hope had never opened because her father had forbid it. All of her life she wondered what could be inside. Hope almost left it shut and would move the trunk to storage, but she had to know. What would her father keep from her? The mystery's answer was not quite as stellar as her childlike imagination had led her to believe. Inside were scraps, memories, and pieces... of Hope's mother. There were pictures, random trinkets, letters, poems, and more; all things only valued by those who cherished them.

But there was also a box; a black box. Hope snapped it open and inside she found a revolver. It was small, silver, and loaded. Somehow as she held it in her hands, she felt cold. And afraid. In her mind, she heard whispers. They were in a strange voice, but audible nonetheless. They said, “Take me.”

Without resistance, she slid the pistol into her purse.

That evening, when darkness of night stood fullest, her phone rang. Somehow, Hope knew she was about to hear some horrible, horrible news. And, of course, she was right. The call came from the police department, who called simply to inform her that Nick had put a bullet through his brain and was dead. No. She saw him. He had been fine the other day. No, no, no. This could not be. But it was. And hope knew that this was all her doing.

If she hadn't left him, he might still live.

If she had believed him about his power, he might still live.

If she walked through his door to be with again, he might still live.

If she had never met him, he might still live.

Despair took hold of her being. Hope lost all of her namesake. She heard the revolver's calling once more, “Use me.”

“Use me.”

“Use. Me.”

But Hope resisted. She could go on; she would have to. At the end of every night, there is day, is there not? There is an end to every madness, is there not? Every road, no matter how long, how dark, had to turn at some place. Hope would wait for this sunrise; she would find the turn in the road. Her father had done the same, so she must have it in her.

Doubt is a slow, silent predator. For days, doubt crept through her mind, feeding her despair. She looked in all places to find her her namesake, but doubt and despair choked her being. There was no one and nowhere she could turn to. Because of doubt, she had walked so far down the path of darkness that she could see nothing. She could see nothing except for one small light in the distance. She knew what it was.

“Use me.”

This road was death.

“Use me.”

Hope crept towards death. She went to her end slowly, only toying with the idea as she held the gun in her fingers. Of course, she told herself in her mind that this was something she could never do. Her thumb pressed against the hammer. Only crazy people like Nick actually do it. Click, whispered the hammer. Ha ha, this is all a just a joke or merely a dream. The cold steel pressed against her temple.

Far off down in her father's grave rest the paper Hope had buried with him. On it was written, “Hope, you're everything to me now. Your mother would have loved you very much and I'm sure if she can see you, she still does. We had decided early on to name you Catherine, but when she passed away, I decided your middle name was better. Your name is Hope because that's all I can have now. I don't want you or me to ever forget that. Times are tough, but there will always be hope. You're my Hope and I promise you right now that I'm going to fulfill everything you could hope for. I love you and you're going to have it better than your mother and I ever did. I promise.”

Why did it have to come to this? How had it come to this? What went wrong?

No. She could never again bear to think through it ever again. The trigger pulled, the hammer fell, the powder lit, the bullet spun through the rifling and into her skull. Her limp, lifeless body fell to the floor.

week thirty-two: ccu

The Year 2249 (Approximated)

At something about twelve-forty in the morning, Officer Terrence Vicar sat in the passenger seat of the Cadillac and looked forward to the end of his beat. He and his new partner, Mick Janus, had barely spoken the entire day. It wasn't because they disliked one another, it was because there was little left to talk about. And both were so tired. Their shifts had begun at two in the afternoon and lasted until two in the morning. And, unfortunately, very little actually happened during their beats. Often speaking, they would be following leads, but other days, such as these, there was nothing.

The streets were mostly empty, except for the occasional hoodlum or crazy person. In this part of East London, you would have to be crazy to be out at this hour. The alleyways ran rampant with the desperate and the greedy. Vicar always hoped that he would run into (and bust) some crime or another, maybe a mugging, but criminals had gotten smart and knew even when an undercover unit such as Vicar's was around. Even so, common crime was not his job. No, Vicar's job was to put down cyborgs.

In the year 2198, the first fully-autonomous and technically intelligent computer system came online. The system eventually created software which rendered all computer technology it could access under its control. By this point, most of the world was dependent upon robotic and cybernetic technology. A war broke out between human beings and the automatons. After forty years of long, bloody war, humanity won out. The technology to create intelligent artificial beings was completely destroyed and severe legal limitations were placed on what technology could be created. Some of the robotic forces, however, survived. Since the technology to create more autonomous cybernetic beings was lost, the remnants needed to seek new hardware. It was quickly discovered that the only remaining hardware capable of supporting intelligent life was the human body.

The computer systems found ways to adapt the human brain and its body to cybernetic technology. The earliest cyborgs disguised themselves as humans and then kidnapped human beings in order to install the necessary hardware. These humans were taken over by robotic consciousnesses; possessing little to nothing of their former personalities. Cyborg human beings are faster, smarter, stronger, and generally better than organic human beings. To the common observer, cyborgs are completely indistinguishable from normal humans. There were ticks here and there but, generally speaking, converts could blend into the background very well.

When searching for a new person to convert, cyborgs would generally search for an able-bodied someone with minimal connection to other humans. Since much of person would be lost, family members or friends would pick up on the fact that they were dealing with a cyborg. If little human contact remained, there was a smaller chance of the cyborg being discovered. Many believed that since the brain was mostly left intact, that the human inside remained. Officials shrug this off as wishful thinking. There is no known technique for converting someone back from being a cyborg. It has never formally been confirmed or denied whether it is possible or not.

“Need some joe?” Janus asked as he gently turned the steering wheel. He kept his eyes on the road. The drunks tend to come out around this hour. It never became uncommon for them to be the cause of motor accidents.

Vicar replied, “I could use something, yeah.” He had actually just been thinking about how a shot of caffeine would help him get through the night. Janus turned the car in the direction of a gas station.

Of course, the biggest question asked about the cyborgs is why. Why do they kidnap and convert humans? The answer is simple and most easily answered in the form of another question: why does any species try and reproduce? The only way for the cybernetic race to multiply is to assimilate organic life. Just as natural as the human sex drive is the cybernetic need to convert humans. The other “why” question about cyborgs is why there is no attempt to coexist with them. The answer is very simple: fear; both a logical and an illogical one. Logically speaking, if the cyborgs were to gain sufficient number, they could attempt another uprising. Humanity may not be quite as lucky in a second war. Illogically, it was simple fear, and even, as some might put it, racism. Of course, the overwhelming majority stood unsympathetic to the cybernetic cause.

Janus pulled into a 7-11 and stopped at a gas pump, “Grab me a coffee, black.” He shut down the engine. “I'll tank us up.”

Vicar got out of the car just as Janus did. He asked, “Anything to eat?”

“No, I'm good,” Janus put his credit card into the machine.

“I'll get you a donut,” Vicar told him as he turned to head into the convenience store.

“I said I don't want anything, boss,” Janus argued.

“Trust me, kid, you'll get hungry as soon as you see me eating,” Vicar didn't turn to face his partner as he said these words. To him, this was fact and whatever argument Janus gave wouldn't matter.

Janus had no retort; he knew it was best not to argue with his partner, who was a good twenty years his senior. Instead, he pumped his gas and minded his own business.

Vicar pushed open the glass doors to the convenience store. The interior was run down and disorganized. A few products were on the floor, the paint was peeling, and the floor dirty. Vicar had even noted graffiti sprawled on the outside windows. This truly was a bad part of town. The clerk behind the counter reclined in a chair and read a newspaper as he stroked his thick, bushy, black beard. He gave Vicar almost no heed whatsoever.

There were four other people in the room. The first three were a group of youths standing around the beer section. They talked to themselves and laughed loudly at their crappy inside jokes. Each of them had a piercing somewhere on their face and their unsleeved arms were tattooed like mad. Vicar could only assume that they were in some kind of gang. He reasoned that he could arrest them for loitering if he really wanted, but that would be about it. And that was just idle, stupid fantasy. Vicar had no desire to arrest anyone whatsoever and just wanted this calm, dreary night to end.

He grabbed a pair of stout cups and started filling them with the lukewarm coffee from the machine. As soon as they were filled, he realized that there was only one lid. He turned to the attendant and said, “Hey! There's only one lid.”

No answer.

“Hey!” Vicar exclaimed. “There's only one lid over here! I need another.”

The clerk replied, “We are out.”

“You don't have any in the back?” Vicar cocked his eyebrow.

“No, sir,” the clerk shifted his newspaper.

Vicar rolled his eyes. He very briefly fantasized about whipping out his badge and gun to force another lid out of him. But that was just another idle, stupid dream.

The fourth person in the room was a lean, blond woman who read a copy of The Weekly Girl. She was only barely attractive; striking maybe, but beautiful was simply out of the question. And it was clear that she knew this; the cleavage on her top said it all. She looked up to Vicar and said, “He's always like that.”

“Is he?” Vicar snapped the lid onto the first cup and then decided he didn't want coffee anymore. Instead, he walked over to the refrigerators and pulled out a Coke. The teenaged gangsters paid him no heed.

“Yeah, I don't usually come at night cuz of him,” she said as she twirled her hair in between her fingertips. She put the magazine back in its spot and approached Vicar. He immediately reasoned that she was a hooker. “What brings you out here? Never seen you around.”

“Work,” Vicar opened up the glass case containing the donuts. He grabbed a pair of the regular glazed variety and put them in a box. He would later realize that he should have gotten a half dozen; more bang for your buck. “My partner's out pumping the gas.”

“Oh, so you're a...”

“Cop,” that's when Vicar started getting suspicious. In his mind, he went through his mental checks when trying to spot a cyborg. She fit the usual bill: athletic, doesn't stand out too much, lonely. “Sometimes we get hungry.”

She smiled and suddenly lost interest in him, “That's nice.”

Vicar stepped over to the counter, only to realize that the teenagers were finally buying a case of beer a piece. He stood there in line and watched the young lady became more and more nervous. So, Vicar decided to test her, “You from around here?”

“Oh, yeah, I live real close,” she replied with a quiver in her voice. She avoided eye contact, which was natural. Cyborg eyes had a strange tendency to continuously expand and contract. It's a subtle tell, but a damning one. They did this because their hardware had them constantly analyzing visual information at almost every level of detail.

“Know any good restaurants?” Vicar realized then that both of his hands were full. If he needed his weapon, he was doomed.

She bit her lip as she made for the door, “Look, mister, I gotta run.”

“Oh, yeah, where do you have to be in such a hurry?” Vicar figured then that he could stall her at least until he could set his things down on the counter. The first gang member had paid, the second was paying, and the third waited.

“I just,” she stammered. “I just have to go.”

The second finished as Vicar asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” she pressed her body against the glass door and it opened. She looked right into his eyes. There it was: her irises flicked like a camera lens. There could be no doubt.

Vicar debated pursuing her at all. Perhaps he could just call it a night. No, there's a job to do. He dropped the coffee and donuts, then reached to his back where his holster rested. Just as he felt his fingers touch the wood, the woman broke in a straight sprint. As the refreshments hit the floor, Vicar's Smith & Wesson Magnetic Police Special swung out in his hands. He took aim at the young woman and fired a shot. Because of the high kick of a magnetically accelerated bullet, he only got the one shot. The glass in the door shattered before blood splattered from her arm as she stumbled forward, but ultimately kept running. He took aim to fire again, but realized that he was at a gas station; a major incident could happen if he hit a pump. He slid the pistol back into his holster and bolted after her.

Janus only watched with wide eyes she ran by. Vicar shouted after him, “Don't just stand there, get her!” Janus shook his head and then snapped back into readiness. The cybernetic woman had already gotten herself down the road a decent ways. “Take the side road, try and cut her off! I'll keep after her!”

“Yeah, right,” Janus replied as he took off. He eventually left Vicar's sight as he ran into the adjacent road.

Vicar knew to keep her in his sights. A cyborg would be far too fast for him to actually catch on foot; not to mention the incredible endurance they typically possessed. Every cyborg is different; they usually don't have the exact same upgrades, but it could always be assumed that they were physically superior to humans. She ran, pushing her way through the few people who hung around, clutching her bleeding arm. Vicar considered drawing his pistol and shooting again, but she was too far to guarantee a shot. Plus, there were innocents standing around. Hitting them would guarantee a suspension... and a headache.

Vicar's plan then became to rely on Janus coming through. Janus had only been with Vicar for a week and so he doubted whether or not he could trust the kid. Janus had never killed a cyborg before and he was fresh out of training for the Cybernetic Contingency Unit. Vicar seriously doubted that they would get this woman, but failing is a vital part of learning. It took Vicar seven months before he logged his first kill. Twenty-seven years later, his scratch record is up to ninety-three.

Vicar once felt remorse for his killing, but eventually overcame this guilt. They were just machines, after all; dangerous ones at that. Vicar never subscribed to the McCarthianistic kill-all philosophy that most in his unit shared. In fact, he no longer shared much enthusiasm. Being in the CCU was a job and really not a thing more. Vicar was in his fifties; far too late to find another profession. There was a time when he had a desk job at the CCU academy, but he found that even worse than cyborg hunting.

Suddenly, the woman turned into an alleyway. Vicar followed her in to find her standing there frozen. On the other side of the woman was Janus, who trained his very modern Colt MatchMag Semi on their target. He just stood there, shaking. Vicar whipped out his own pistol and shouted, “Janus, do it!”

There was no answer. The woman looked back to Vicar, frozen in terror.

“Janus!” Vicar pulled back his hammer. “Come on, shoot her!”
The youthful of the two shook; nothing coming from his pistol or his mouth.

Vicar rolled his eyes and then pulled his trigger. He watched as the round slammed center mass into the woman. She lost her balance and fell to the floor, only to pick herself back up again and run at Janus, who still did nothing. Vicar fired again, this time piercing her shoulder. The woman still charged, this time grabbing the boy. He tried his best to shake her off. He cried out in fear.

Vicar took careful aim and then fired his fourth and final round. The back of her blond head exploded in a cloud of blood. She finally fell limp; dead.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” Vicar put his pistol away and ran over to the dead woman. He checked to make sure of two things. One, that she was actually dead. Two, that she was actually a cyborg. Both, fortunately, were true.

Janus holstered his pistol and took two steps back.

“Hey, kid, what the hell happened?” Vicar stood and wiped sweat from his brow.

“You hit me,” Janus suddenly noticed the pain. He clutched his arm.

“Well, you should have taken the shot when you had the chance! You had a clear shot, why didn't you take it?!” Vicar growled.

“I just couldn't!”

Vicar grabbed Janus by the shoulders, “Pull yourself together, man!”

“Boss, sorry,” he looked at his wound. “I don't know what happened back there.”

Vicar looked into his partner's eyes, “Alright, look, don't let that happen again. I won't mention you froze; I'll just say you got caught in my crossfire. How bad is it?”

Wait. Was that...? No, it couldn't be.

“It's just a graze; I'm okay,” Janus said as he bent down to the body. “Looks like you got her good, boss.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Vicar looked at Janus's wound and squinted to confirm what he saw. He saw the glistening of metal inside his partner's arm. And before, he had seen his the dance of his irises. But... how? Why?

“Looks like cleanup's got quite the job ahead of them,” Janus laughed. “Should I phone 'em in?”

With the utmost secrecy, Vicar drew his pistol and said, “No, I'll take care of it.” He pointed the pistol down at his partner's head.

Janus looked up to see down the barrel of Vicar's Smith & Wesson. His breathing snapped to a sprint and formed his lips for his last words. But Vicar denied him these last words. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. Once, twice. Blood sprayed all over; Janus' head was left in pieces all over the alleyway.

Vicar wiped the blood from his gun onto his jacket. He popped open the chamber and loaded six fresh rounds as he stood over his dead partner and target. Vicar looked down to see the metal components attached to Janus's brain; there was no doubt that the kid was a cyborg. For just a few moments, Vicar wondered what the hell a cyborg would be doing in the Cybernetic Contingency Unit. He suddenly understood why Janus had failed to take the shot. Somehow, it was much more difficult to kill a fellow. Vicar knew that he would have a problem killing another person.

But that's when he realized that assessment was wrong. Vicar had seen Janus as a person; a pure human being. Only perception changed when he realized that his partner was what they were trained to hunt; trained to kill. The person inside Janus was still the same. It hit Vicar then and there. The person inside. Despite the truth of having killed just another cyborg, Vicar had, in his mind, killed a human being.

Understand, however, that these thoughts lasted very briefly. It wasn't long before he pushed them back into the bowels of his mind and went back into duty mode. He phoned in to the department to get them down for cleanup. Until they arrived, Vicar was stuck there. He sat down against the wall and lost himself to thought. No, it wasn't philosophical thought about the measure of a man, the cost of murder, or the value of life. It wasn't even ramification or guilt. Vicar's thoughts were back to the convenience store. Vicar wondered if the donuts would still be there.