Statues

“Do you remember war?” Claude asked while running his hand over a scar on his right shoulder.

“Not really,” Roger responded. “All I remember is that war was pointless. We are much better off without it.”

Claude leaned forward in his chair and stared out into the world. Everything he could see was perfect. The skies were clear and bright, the air was refreshing and clean. Everything had a purpose and nothing was out of place. It was perfect, but Claude found it very discomforting. He just couldn’t forget the events that occurred during his 261 years of life.

He then looked over at Roger and said “I remember war very clearly. I remember it being the single worst thing I have ever experienced. But I miss it.”

Roger’s eyes squinted as they peered over at Claude. “Did you just say that you missed the single worst thing that has ever happened?”

Roger had been friends with Claude for over a century. He was used to Claude’s ramblings, but the idea of Claude missing war puzzled him greatly. As Claude returned is gaze to the world at large, Roger glared at him. He was almost angry at the notion that Claude would miss something that left such a horrible mark on his body. The next few minutes went by silently as Roger wondered what his friend meant.

The Claude lowered his head and said in a solemn voice, “It’s not really war or the fighting or any of that stuff that I miss. It is the freedom. Sure, it was awful, but at least it was our choice. We can’t decide anything on our own anymore. Hell, we’ve been kept alive for over two hundred years because they have no need for us to die yet. Can’t even choose when to die.”

At that moment the air began to buzz. Both men jumped out of their chairs as tiny metallic beads began to form out of thin air. The beads swarmed around the two men. Roger’s heart began racing and his face turned white. Claude stood there, as defiant as ever. Then a thunder voice came out of the sky.

“Per regulation 07-988, this conversation is not authorized.”

“What are you going to do, kill me?” Claude said. “Good! That would finally put me out of my misery.”

The voice replied, “No. Your death would be impractical. You still produce acceptable amounts of Carbon Dioxide and we currently have no need for your blood, flesh, or organs. Your punishment for unlawful mentioning of previous history shall be stasis until we have no more need of your survival.”

With that, the metallic beads rushed inside Claude’s body. Claude let out the most horrific scream as the beads began to rearrange his cellular structure. After about thirty seconds, the beads flew out of his mouth and nose and then disappeared. Claude was left standing there; he was alive, but frozen until They decided it was okay for him to die. He was unable to speak or move. But he could see. He could see his old friend Roger drop to his knees and start to cry. He could also hear. He could hear his dear friend weep and apologize in his behalf. He wanted to tell Roger he would be okay. But he couldn’t. He was now just another living statue that dotted the landscape.

Sims

Commander Sims walked down a long corridor with a stern look on his face. The glow from his phone danced on his face as he analyzed several maps and charts. Soon, he reached the end of the corridor and stood on a square mat. After stating his name, a series of red, yellow, and blue lights began to scan him. Once his identity was confirmed, a door opened in front of him and he walked into the meeting room.

Sims found his seat and began to look around the large room. There were several high-ranking members of the New Ranger Order attending this meeting. They had gathered to plot out their next course of action. The nation was at war and the New Ranger Order had just suffered a terrible defeat

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is time to get down to business,” Governor Avery announced from his podium. “As you are all aware, we have lost Missouri to the East Coast Union. Our western territory is safe for now, but the ECU now has a foothold and can launch an attack deep into our lands. We need to address this threat immediately.”

“Let ‘em have Missouri,” shouted Commander Goodnight from his seat towards the far end of the table. “There aint much worth fighting for there anyway. I for one do not see a reason to launch a counter attack.”

“What about Fort Perot,” High Priest Tilton asked in a raspy voice. “Fort Perot is within striking distance of Missouri’s western border. If we lose Perot, we will lose the head of The Son.”

The room then went into an uproar. People were shouting and screaming at the thought of losing the fort. A couple of prominent officers even began to cry. The thought was just too much.

“Texans, Texans! We must have order,” Governor Avery called out in an attempt to settle the room. It took several minutes, but the room finally calmed down enough to let the discussions continue.

“Those rotten ECU bastards! No wonder they went after Missouri,” grumbled Captain Haley. “They want the head of Saint Bush. They know we can’t win without it. We have to protect it at all costs. Do you remember what happened when we lost the Shroud of Tyler?”

“Yeah, they launched Brimstone Missiles at Las Vegas,” answered Governor Avery as he pounded the podium with his fists.

“Exactly,” Haley continued. “I say we commit full force to defending Fort Perot.”

“But won’t that leave us vulnerable to an invasion,” Commander Sims then asked. He was a pragmatic man with a good mind for strategy. Needless to say, he was slightly shocked that the leaders were willing to risk an invasion to protect a head.

“Come on boy! This is Texas!” Commander Goodnight yelled out. “Aint nobody going to be able to invade Texas!”

Governor Avery then said, “Commander Sims, you are still relatively new to the Rangers, so we will forgive you for your blasphemy this time. You see, the head of Saint Bush has been with us since the wars began. With it on our side, God has allowed us to unify much of lands west of the Mississippi. It has given us the strength to secure the oil lines from our adopted brother in the north, Alaska. I think we can all agree, the head of Saint Bush is our top priority. We will begin deploying immediately. Commander Sims, due to your excellence in the field, I am placing you in charge of the defense of For Perot. My fellow Texans, you are all dismissed.”

Within a matter of hours, Commander Sims was on his way to Fort Perot along with millions of troops and a seemingly endless supply of guns, ammunition, and vehicles. When they arrived, the residents of Fort Perot cheered wildly. They had been worried about the head of Saint Bush and were glad to see the reinforcements.

Commander Sims wasted no time in making preparations for the defense of the fort. He made sure all potential areas for attack were secured and that munitions were readily available. He then organized the supply lines and reinforced the lines of communications. Within a few days, everything was running smoothly. Now all they had to do was wait for the inevitable attack.

Several weeks passed and the attack still did not come. Satellite images showed no troop movement and field reports indicated the same. Everyone was stunned, except for Commander Sims. He never believed that they would attack the fort in the first place. Sims tried to talk the leadership out of defending the fort with so many troops, but they would have no part of it. Saint Bush’s head was too important.

Several more weeks went by and still nothing happened. By now, the troops were wondering what they were doing there, and the leaders were as well. Then one day, just when the decision was being made to pull the troops out, all lines of communications stopped and the satellite images blacked out. Reports started coming in from the field that the ECU was mobilizing. Sims sounded the alarm. This was it.

The hours crept by slowly as they all waited for the onslaught. Commander Sims stood over several screens tensely. He wanted to be ready for when the violence began. But the fighting never happened. Not a single shot was fired. After hours of waiting, reports started coming in that the ECU was withdrawing. It was wonderful news. The soldiers cheered in complete jubilation. There was no longer a need to worry. The head of Saint Bush was safe!

Commander Sims went to report the news to the leaders, but he couldn’t. The communication lines with Texas were still blocked. This concerned Sims, but he was soon caught up in the celebration. The mood at Fort Perot was ecstatic. The party lasted several days. It was a Texas party after all. Shots from pistols were fired freely into the air and shots of whiskey were downed freely into the stomachs of the victors.

It took a Texas minute, but the party finally caught up with Sims. He went into his office and passed out on his desk. The next thing he knew, there were familiar voice trying to wake him up. He opened his eyes and saw several blurry images.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” one of the blurs called out.

Sims rubbed his eyes and slowly the images grew into focus. Once he could see, Sims found himself looking at Governor Avery, Commander Goodnight, and High Priest Tilton. They were smiling and chuckling at the hungover commander.

“What are you doing here, sirs,” Sims asked painfully while clumsily trying to stand up.

“Turns out you were right,” Governor Avery answered. “The ECU took advantage of our deployment and invaded. Texas now belongs to them.”

“Oh my God!” Sims said as he squinted and swayed. “Does this mean the war is over? We lost?”

“Shoot no, Son,” Goodnight yelled. “We still have the head. We’ll just build us a new Texas right here.”

Commander Sims became nauseated. He looked at the Governor and said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Goodnight is serious,” Governor Avery responded. “We have the head of Saint Bush and a vast majority of our forces. We can create a new Texas. One without a panhandle. I’ve always hated that thing.”

“As long as the head of Saint Bush is with us,” High Priest Tilton interjected, “God will assure our victory.”

Sims cocked his head slightly as he stared at the three men. He really wanted to believe that he was dreaming. He then stumbled out of his office and went to the upper deck. He looked out and saw people dancing and laughing. Several people wore masks of Saint Bush as they celebrated. Some even held signs proclaiming their love for New Texas. Sims couldn’t believe it. These people had just lost their homes and they were partying. It was too much for him. He dropped to his knees and started throwing up.

“That right there is a Texas-sized puke,” Commander Goodnight spouted while looking on from the office. “We could use people like that in New Texas.”

“I agree,” Governor Avery said. “But we should pray to Saint Walker, just to be sure.”

Confession

Father Jacobs was sitting the confessional waiting for the next member of the congregation when an odd feeling came over him. He felt his heart begin to race and a chilling sensation ran up his spine. Unsure of what was happening, he began taking deep breaths in an effort to calm himself down. Father Jacobs did not understand why, but he was terrified. It felt like he was about to die.

The fear grew worse with each passing second. It got to the point where Father Jacobs decided that he had to leave the confessional. He got up to leave when the door slowly opened to reveal a tall man, whose face was covered in shadow. The man walked in and began to stare directly into Father Jacobs’ eyes. Father Jacobs was paralyzed as he looked back at the man. He had never seen this person before and he wondered why he had come.

The men stared at each other in silence for only a few seconds, but to Father Jacobs it was more like several hours. It took a moment, but Father Jacobs remembered his priestly duties. He regained enough composure to invite the man to sit down, but he still felt uneasy.

“What can I do for you my son,” Father Jacobs finally asked while fighting off the massive lump that was lodged in his throat.

“I doubt you can do anything for me,” the man said while lowering his head and shifting his gaze toward the floor. His face was covered with whiskers and his eyes carried the strain of not sleeping for days.

“Did you not come here to confess your sins and to be absolved of them,” Father Jacobs asked trying to be comforting even though fear was still running through him. He had decided that, no matter how he felt, he could not turn his back on a person in need. The man was a stranger, but it was clear he needed help.

The man sat there quietly with his back hunched over and his head hanging low. Father Jacobs waited for a reply, but the man said nothing. He just sat there as the room filled with tension as the silence dragged on. It was suffocating. Father Jacobs found it becoming hard to breathe the longer the silence lasted. The walls began to close in and everything seemed to become darker. Father Jacobs began to feel panicked, and that panic grew into anger. The silence was becoming too much for him. He just wanted to scream at the man and demand he say something.

“It’s no fun, is it,” the man said quietly, finally breaking the silence. “It’s no fun waiting around for something that you have no control over. All you can do is sit there and think about what will happen.”

The man’s words angered the priest. He was in no mood for stupid games. But as angry as he was, he was more relieved that the silence was over. The tension that gripped the room lightened and Father Jacobs was able to calm himself down slightly.

After a deep breath, Father Jacobs asked, “What is bothering you? What is it that you are waiting for?”

The man then lifted his head and replied, “Forgiveness, Father. I am waiting to be forgiven.”

“Well, you have come to the right place,” Father Jacobs said with a smile. He felt more relaxed and began to think that he was getting worked up over nothing. “Tell me son, what are your sins.”

The man swallowed and then uttered in a grey voice, “I’ve killed my family.”

Any sense of comfort left in Father Jacobs was immediately destroyed. He had been a priest for several year, but he had never had any experience such as this. His body again filled with fear and he felt weak. It took Father Jacobs a minute or two before he could speak again.

“T-the Bible does tell us that all sin are forgiven though Jesus Christ,” Father Jacobs said timidly while trying to formulate a real response in his mind.

“You are saying that I am forgiven,” the man then asked, looking Father Jacobs directly in the eye.

Father Jacobs paused before answering, “Yes.”

The man then sat straight up and said, “You’re telling me that God will forgive me for killing my wife and my son. How do you know this? Are you God? ”

“N-no,” Father Jacobs replied as he began to tremble noticeably. “But I am a servant of our Lord.”

“So, through you, I can have the blood cleansed from my hands? Is that what you are telling me, because that is what I am hearing,” the man said as stared at the priest with fire in his eyes. “I seriously doubt that. In fact, I think it is a cold lie. If I can’t forgive myself, why would the ‘creator of the universe’ bother to forgive me? He has no reason to, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I don’t care what you instruct me to do because it doesn’t matter. You want to know why? It is because you are human. You are not God. You are nothing. You can’t save me. Your authority is bullshit. In fact, let me show you.”

The man then reached into his jacket and pull out a gun. He pushed the gun into Father Jacobs’ face and said, “All of the authority given to you by the Church and you are still at the mercy of a man. You don’t speak for God. You are no different from me. I should kill you right now and let you find out how close to God you really are.”

Then the man squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. Father Jacobs sat in his chair, holding his breath and shaking violently. He wanted to do something but all he could do was stare at the gun that was still shoved in his face.

“I should kill you right now,” the man said again. Then he lowered the gun and put it away. “But I will let you go on pretending that you have the power to save people.”

The man then walked out of the confessional. Father Jacobs was unable to move for several minutes, but he soon found himself crying alone in the room. Later that day, Father Jacobs left the priesthood. His still had his faith in God, but he lost faith in himself. He no longer believed he was capable of saving anyone.

Traffic

Allen was sweating even though the air conditioner was on high. He already hated traffic, but this day it was heavier than usual. The summer heat stifling and made everything worse. Allen had been sitting on the on-ramp for close to an hour, but the highway was jammed and no one was letting anybody merge. Allen grew increasingly angry. He fidgeted to unstick himself from the car seat while cursing at the cars ahead of him. He voiced his frustration through long, drawn-out honks of his horn. He even talked to himself about how miserable he was.

All Allen wanted to do was to get home. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to cooling down and relaxing. To Allen, it seemed as if fate was conspiring against him. Then, as he was beginning to think he would never get home, one of the cars stopped and let Allen merge.

“Finally,” Allen thought to himself and he joined the parade of never ending traffic. He began to drive aggressively to make up for the lost time. He cut off several cars as he changed lanes with reckless abandon. He weaved between cars trying to get just a little bit further along the crowed highway. Allen was playing a game of chicken. More than once, he was close to hitting another car. More than once, he almost was hit himself. Allen didn’t care though; he was finally making progress and that was good enough.

At one point while switching lanes, Allen caught a glimpse of the driver that had let him merge. The driver looked as if had not moved at all. Allen chuckled when he saw how far back the poor guy was.

“That’s what you get for being patient in this city,” Allen said aloud while whipping his car into a small space in the next lane. He was becoming more aggressive, but at least he was moving.

By now, the traffic had started moving at a quicker, steadier pace. Before long, Allen approached another on-ramp. He saw that there was a line of cars waiting to merge. Allen was not about to let any of them in, so he decided close the space between himself and the car ahead of him. As he began to pull up, one of the drivers from the on-ramp sped toward the narrowing space in front. Allen saw this and stepped on the gas in an attempt to cut the other driver off. The other driver did not see Allen until it was too late. The driver slammed on his breaks, but he was going too fast. Allen stepped on his breaks and instinctively swerved to avoid him. However, when he swerved, it was into the center lane of the highway. He never saw the truck that would smash into him.

The accident caused the highway to be closed off for several hours. As all of the cars merged into a single lane and crawled passed, they looked at the collision and cursed at Allen for causing the delay. Allen didn’t care though. He had died instantly in the crash. He would never see that he was now the cause of the traffic that he tried so hard to escape.

Eventually the emergency crew was able to clean up the wreck and take Allen’s body away. With consent from his family, several of Allen organs were harvested. In an ironic twist of fate, one of Allen’s kidneys was transplanted into the driver that let him merge on to the highway. The man had been dialysis and was on the waiting list for a transplant. It turned out that letting Allen merge was the best decision he ever made.

Lincoln

Lincoln stood on the roof of the Complex and peered at the bright structures that crowded the city. He noted that the sun was getting lower in the sky, and the buildings would soon lose their white exterior in favor of a more heat absorbing black. He then took a deep breath and leapt over the railing. Speeding head first toward the street, Lincoln reached into his pack, grabbed his plasma chain, and attacked a molecular bonding unit. After he dropped about a thousand stories, he shot his plasma chain at the side of an adjacent building. It stuck and the chain gave just enough so Lincoln’s wouldn’t get ripped arm off. Lincoln swung toward the other building and in one fluid motion; he repelled off the side, detached the chain, retracted it, and fired it down toward the lower floors of a building up ahead. The chain once again stuck to the side and Lincoln hit the retracted button, causing him to hurtle toward the wall. Before he smashed against the building, he let go of the button and slowed himself down just enough so he could stick his particle blade into the wall and slide down to the street.

Lincoln began sprinting as soon as his feet hit the ground. He flew through the alley, constantly looking back over his shoulder. He then made a sudden turn onto a narrow street between two commerce buildings and ran toward what appeared to be a small crack in the side of the building on the left. He reached the crack and paused for a moment to catch his breath. Lincoln looked around carefully and checked his sensors before finally pulling out a small, spherical device with a green strip running around its middle. He held the device up to the crack and pressed a button, causing the wall around it to flicker, and then fade into a door shaped hole. As Lincoln went through the doorway, he hit the button again and the wall reappeared as if it has always been there.

It was dark and there was very little space inside of the doorway. Lincoln grabbed blindly along the far wall until he felt a lever. He pulled it and a small opening formed in the floor. Quickly, Lincoln slid through the opening and fell down a dark tunnel. Lincoln soon landed and found himself in a pitch-black corridor. Believe it was now safe, he pulled out a small flashlight and checked his locator. After gathering his bearings, he started to run through the corridor. Several miles later, he reached what appeared to be a dead end. Lincoln then pulled out his optical enhancement prism and held it up to his eye. Through it, he saw a ladder that was invisible otherwise. Lincoln climbed up the latter and it led him through another tube. He went as fast as he could, while being careful not to lose his footing. After a few hundred feet, Lincoln reached the end of his climb. He lifted his hand up and pushed away a manhole cover that must have been centuries old.

Lincoln pulled himself out of the tunnel and dropped to the ground exhausted. As he lay there, he smiled. He looked up at the reddening sky as dusk approached. The wind was gentle and refreshing. Lincoln felt the grass rubbing against his body and was happy. This was Lincoln’s garden, and there was no other place he would rather be.

After a few minutes, he got up off the ground and walked toward a small tree growing in the center. It was a young tree, only about five years old, but it meant the world to him. Lincoln reached into his pack and pulled out a canteen of water. He watered the tree with the care of a mother nursing a child. He then sat down and began to gather his thoughts.

The time passed slowly in the garden. The outside world meant little here. Lincoln had been able to keep this place a secret for the past few years, and came to it often to get away. It grew just outside of the city, in the barren lands where factories and atmospheric stabilizers existed. It was situated inside a large mound of dirt the Lincoln had built to keep the garden hidden. Other than the garden, nothing grew in the Barrens. The land was cultivated to keep industry moving. The world had become mechanized; the garden became Lincoln’s only means to get away from it.

Lincoln sat there quietly and actually began to doze off. Everything was peaceful and quiet until a loud rushing sound broke the silence. Lincoln quickly stood up and reached for his accelerator pistol, but it was too late. Within seconds, several troops, clad in grey, got out of their high speed carriers and surrounded Lincoln like a swarm of locusts. They pointed their guns at Lincoln and began to move in. Lincoln had no choice but to drop his pistol and surrender. He fell to his knees and put his hands behind his head.

A voice then called out, “Do not take your guns off of him. He is far too dangerous for any of you to let your guard down.” Then a tall figure dressed in a black uniform made his way through the troops toward Lincoln. It was Captain Tiller, a high-ranking officer of the city’s protective services. He had come for Lincoln.

“Lincoln Cody, you are under arrest for unlicensed agricultural growth and unlawful harboring of flora particulates,” Tiller barked toward Lincoln. “You of all people should know better than to upset the balance that we have worked to create in the world. “

Lincoln glared at Tiller and said, “I seriously doubt that one little tree is upsetting your precious balance.”

“The balance is precious,” Tiller said with a grin. “And the tree is upsetting it. Along with these weeds. How can you look me in the eye and lie to me like that. You know that the O2 levels have been off and the stabilizers have been struggling to keep up. You reported it to me yourself. What the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

“I am not trying to do anything,” Lincoln snapped back as he began to climb back to his feet.

“Don’t bother getting up,” Tiller said sternly. He began to pace around Lincoln with his arms folded behind his back. “You were trained to use rational judgment in order to serve the greater good, so you should know that attacking me now is completely irrational.”

“The greater good? Let me tell you about the greater good,” Lincoln yelled in response. “These machines and this technology is good for…”

“Shut up,” Tiller said, cutting Lincoln off. “You words are like this tree here; meaningless. But I must admit that I am slightly amazed that you were able to grow anything here. Not only were you able to reverse the alkalinization process, but you were able to create a blind spot in the grid. Impressive to say the least, but that is to be expected from someone whose neuro-kinetics are in the top decitile.”

“What do you want,” asked Lincoln while he began eyeing up the pistol he dropped.

Tiller the reached down, grabbed Lincoln’s face, and lifted his chin and asked, “where did you get the seeds?”

“They were a gift,” Lincoln replied while his face was in the grasp of Tiller.

“A gift,” ask Tiller, dropping Lincoln’s chin. “From whom?”

Lincoln refused to answer. He just stared at the ground. Tiller grew impatient and pointed a gun at Lincoln’s head.

“Tell me now! Where did you get those seeds,” Tiller screamed.

Lincoln smiled and said, “if you kill me, then you will never know.”

Tiller then smash Lincoln in the head with the gun and kicked him in the face as he fell. Then Tiller ordered one of his men to set the garden on fire.

“No! PLEASE DON’T,” screamed Lincoln while coughing up blood. “You can’t! This is all I have left of them!”

“Them,” Tiller said raising an eyebrow and turning back toward Lincoln.

“My…my parents,” Lincoln said with tears forming in his eyes. “I used their ashes to help fertilize the soil. This is all I have left. You can’t take them away from me. Not again.”

“Take them away,” asked Tiller as he began to chuckle. “As I recall, you were the one that turned them in.”

Lincoln fought hard not to cry, not in front of Tiller. “I know…but it was a mistake. I see that now.”

“They broke the law, son.” Tiller looked down on Lincoln with eyes that were almost lifeless. “You did the right thing. They were a threat to the peace and had to be stopped.”

“No,” Lincoln replied. “They knew that this world wasn’t right, that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I used to be ashamed of my parents. They handed me the seeds on the day they were executed. My father said ‘life is supposed to be alive.’ I thought he was just an unenlightened sloth. But now I see that he was right.”

“Touching,” Tiller said coldly. “But the law is the law and you must be arrested. Kenner, burn this place down.”

“NO!” screamed Lincoln as he rolled over to his pistol. Before he could grab it, Tiller kicked it away and turn his gun on Lincoln. Lincoln slapped Tiller’s hand, redirecting his shot. He then grabbed his particle slicer, but before he could use it, the troops shot him repeatedly. Lincoln dropped as blood poured from his wounds. With his last breath he wanted to tell Tiller that he was wrong and that the world was too big to control. But all he could say was “sorry.”

“Are you okay sir,” asked one of the troops.

“I’m fine,” Tiller replied. “Just grab the corpse and let’s get out of here.”

The trooper then asked, “What about the garden?”

“I said burn it,” Tiller answered.

With that, the troops lit the garden on fire and dragged Lincoln’s body through the deadened earth before tossing him into a carrier. Then the soldiers rode off, leaving the last tree on Earth to burn alone.

Remember

You have been with me for the best years of my life, and I cannot thank you enough. That is why this is so hard on me. Watching you suffer like this is unbearable. I know I am being selfish though, I know that this whole thing is much harder on you than it is on me. It’s just that I can’t deal with the times you can’t remember my name.

I know we promised that we would never keep secrets from each other, but I don’t know how to tell you these things. I don’t know how to say that loving you now is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I try desperately to be brave for you. I don’t want to make it any harder than it has to be. But I am weak. It hurts me terribly when you don’t recognize my face.

I still cherish the good days; the days we spend together laughing and reminiscing. I just wish we had more of them left. You have been getting worse and those good days are happening less and less. I know there will be a point where they won’t exist anymore. And that kills me. It tears me up because I know that when those days no longer exist, I won’t either. At least not to you. By then, you won’t even know who I am.

Every morning I think about how you will be that day. I wonder if you will be the happy and free person I married, or the angry, confused person that you have slowly become. Not knowing is the worst. I hate not knowing how to act or what to say. I hate that I can’t take this away from you. I hate that I feel resentment toward you for being ill. I hate this life. And sometimes, I hate you.

The best part of my day, though, is watching you sleep. Despite the agony of not knowing how you will be, I can at least pretend that everything is okay. I can just look at you and believe that everything is fine. I want to believe it, I really do. I really try to believe that everything will be okay. I know better though. Even watching you sleep now, I hope that you will wake up and the suffering will be over. But it won’t be. It never will be.

I can’t do this anymore. God, I love you so much, but I can’t do this anymore. Your suffering, my resentment, the consistent slide toward the inevitable; I can’t handle it anymore. I don’t want our last years on Earth together to be spent like this. I don’t want my last years with you wondering if you still know who I am. I won’t spend them that way. Please forgive me for this, because I can’t forgive myself. But I need to do this, to stop your suffering. Wait…you’re waking up, and you’re smiling! “Good morning Charles,” you said! You don’t know how happy it makes me when you say my name. Maybe this is a sign. No, I know it is a sign, a sign for me to go through with this. A sign that I should end the suffering while you still know who I am…

The Etcher

Captain Greenwood got out of his car and made his way through the crowd. He passed through the barricades and met up with the other officers.

“How many are there,” the captain asked.

“By my count, forty,” an officer replied.

Greenwood’s eyes began to scan the scene. He saw forty people laying on the street, tied up in coils of rope; each person had a stack of pictures stuck to them and the name of the crime they committed carved into the street.

“Looks like he had a busy night,” Sergeant Collins said walking up to the captain.

“I’d say so. He hasn’t had this many in a while,” Greenwood said while squinting in the morning sun.

“Tell me about it. And this group is diverse too. Take a look at that guy down there,” Collins said pointing to a young man lying next to a building.

“Littering…” Greenwood chuckled.

“That was my reaction too,” Collins said with a smile. “This guy is too much.”

Greenwood recovered his professionalism and said, “Yeah, but now we have to clean up this mess. Sergeant, I want you and Clasky you start on the west end. Read them their rights and get them processed. Quickly too. We have other things to do today than to clean up the messes he left us.”

The “He” Greenwood was referring too was a man the press dubbed, “The Etcher.” The Etcher spent the nights stalking and capturing criminals. He would tie them up, leave behind evidence, and etch the name of their crime in the street next to them. It had only been about a year since he first appeared, but his impact was significant. Some said that his tactics were cruel and unconstitutional. Others looked up to him and called him a hero. However, regardless of what people thought of him, no one could deny that the streets were safer because of him.

The Etcher wasn’t always a hero though. He spent most of his life as Eric Jennings. Eric was a relatively unassuming person. Like most people, he wished he could make a difference in the world, but he didn’t know how. So he just lived his life the best he could. Occasionally he would watch or read something that bothered him, but mostly he didn’t let things get to him.

That would change though. It changed the night Eric tried to be a hero. While waiting at the subway station, he witnessed a woman being attacked. A few people called 911, but most of the looked away. Suddenly, a feeling of pure disgust for humanity rose up inside of Eric. He rushed at the attackers and managed to free the woman, but his reward for his heroism was a gunshot to the face. Eric was left to die on the train platform.

Seventeen days later, Eric woke up and saw he was in the hospital. His family was relieved when he came to, but he didn’t care. The only thought in his head was that he wasn’t strong enough. Eric carried that thought throughout his recovery. Every night, as tears dripped down his face, he begged to be stronger. Memories of the attack haunted him and increased his resolve to get stronger.

Only a few weeks had passed when Eric left the hospital. He had made a full recovery, save for the scar left on his face. He felt stronger than he ever had, but it wasn’t enough. Eric still felt weak. The time spent in the hospital had changed him. He thought of the woman and the countless people in the world like her. He thought of the defenseless being killed each day. Eric now believed that the only reason he was alive was so he could save them, but he still wasn’t strong enough. No matter how hard he worked, he wasn’t getting stronger. So he prayed for power each night. Each morning he woke up to disappointment.

A little less than a year after Eric was shot, he still struggled with his weakness. He continued to pray and to beg for power. As the time passed and the power he sought eluded him, Eric began to withdraw. He became suicidal. His ambition to make a difference was being unfulfilled. He was about to give up on his life when a miracle occurred.

One night, Eric was lying in his bed when he got the sudden urge to go for a walk. He left the house and began to wander the streets. He had no idea where he was going, but he felt as if something was pulling him along. Suddenly, Eric heard a nearby scream. Instinctively, he ran toward the direction of the scream and stumbled upon a group of teens mugging a young couple. Without thinking, Eric sprinted toward the teens. They never saw him coming. Within seconds, three of the teens were unconscious and another had both of his legs broken. One of the muggers pulled a gun, but found himself flying head first into a building. Eric was incredible. The young couple sat there stunned. They had never seen anyone move so fast. It was over swiftly. The one attacker, who could still move, ran off into the night. When it was over, Eric was in awe of himself. For the first time since the incident, he felt truly powerful.

From that day on, Eric was a hero. He began to wear a black mask and spent his nights going after criminals. He used his unnatural speed and strength to capture hundreds of crooks. Months passed and Eric got better and better each night. He even began to set up cameras to watch places he couldn’t be. He also began to leave his calling card to show the whole world the crime that was committed. To the underworld, he seemed to be everywhere. It was not long before The Etcher owned the night.

As The Etcher cleaned up the city, the days became harder for Eric. He withdrew from his normal life. He suffered at work and the relationships with his friends and family grew strained. It was not long before Eric no longer had any friends. But he didn’t care. He was making a difference and he felt fulfilled. Each person he caught meant the city was that much safer.

His euphoria did not last forever though. It died a little each day as Eric’s life began to revolve around his role at The Etcher. The more isolated he became; the harder it became to be the hero. The longer he was The Etcher, the more he thought of giving it up. But he couldn’t. His powers were a gift; his life was a gift. He refused to let them go to waste. He reminded himself that he was saving lives, even if it was destroying his.

After a year or so of being a hero, Eric was a broken man. Each night was harder than the last for him to put on his costume. He spent his days vomiting uncontrollably and crying so hard that he would pass out. He didn’t sleep much anymore as there was always work to be done. His body was battered tremendously and his mind was even more so, but he couldn’t stop.

Eventually he got to the point where reminding himself that he was making a difference no longer meant anything. It wasn’t enough to convince him to be the hero. One night everything came to a head. Eric had spent the day hyperventilating and blacking out. His frustration with his life was too much for him to take. He screamed and punched holes into the walls of his house. He grabbed outfit and started to puke as he put it on. Eric didn’t want this, not anymore. It was too hard. He began to punch himself in the face until his knuckles were wet with blood and tears. He then looked in a mirror at his face and saw the scar from the night he was shot. He rubbed his fingers over it, reminding himself of why he began being the hero; reminding himself that he prayed for this. Eric then shattered the mirror with his face, grabbed a broken piece of glass, and etched the word “Hero” across the skin of his chest. The blood dripped as he finished getting dressed. The wound stung as it pressed up against his clothes. But Eric, didn’t care anymore. He left the house to begin another night as the hero. He wanted to be the hero. He prayed to be the hero. Now he was The Etcher, and nothing else.