|
|
|
God's Will |
| Written by Robert Black | |
| Friday, 11 January 2008 | |
|
Share it:      
Jack pointed the loaded revolver to his sweaty temple; finally, he was ready to pull the trigger. This time it would be different. This time he would have the courage to do it. Do it. Don’t be a ***** Jack. Pull the damn trigger. The sweat from his forehead trickled down his eyes, so that it made them itch. Jack’s trigger finger wiggled like a worm on a fishing hook; his hand, holding the gun, shook uncontrollably. He took a long breath. “Come on you coward,” he said out loud. “Come on, you yellow bastard, do it.”
He pulled the trigger - almost. The sound of metal hitting the wooden floor was the last thing he had heard before he fell down in a faint. Another failed suicide attempt to add to the long list of failed suicide attempts. For three years Jack tried to end his life, ever since he had caught Erica, his ex-wife, in bed with another man. And now his brain had a special treat for Jack: a recurring dream reserved by Jack’s unconscious mind for this type of situations: failed suicide attempts.
He dreamed, as always, that he was drifting, oar-less, on an old wooden boat across a wide desert river. The sun was burning orange in the red cloudless sky. The dry yellow trees swayed in the light breeze by the river bank. The currents were leading the boat to some unknown destination which he didn’t know where it would be. He didn’t care about the final destination; he only cared about the trip. Would it be calm and uneventful or rough and dangerous? If he could only see the end, but he never did.
Jack was now fully awake. He slowly got up and went over to his desk at the corner of the room and sat down on the chair behind it. He took a hard look around the studio apartment; it was overflowing with broken furniture and boxes. My whole life is in these boxes, he thought. He opened the first drawer of the desk and brought out a half burned photo of Erica. He remembered life with Erica. They were happy. They had been married for only two years before the incident. Two happy years filled with hopes, plans, and dreams. But, one day you return home early to find out that: the hope is raped, the plan is dead, and the dream is buried. He remembered that after he had caught his wife with another man he just left them without saying a word. He remembered how he just drove off. He stopped at a phone booth. He called his boss; told him that he quits. He called his parents; told them that he got divorced and he was moving out to Los Angeles; he didn’t bother with their questions. He called his lawyer; told him to make the required arrangements. He called Erica; she didn’t care. He remembered his first suicide attempt three years ago - trying to jump off an apartment-building roof. He didn’t want to remember any more.
Jack got up and went over to the kitchen. He made himself a nice cup of coffee, with out any sugar because he was out of sugar, but maybe if he was lucky he wouldn’t need any more sugar. After you finish your coffee Jack you will do it, this time for real, he thought. He went and sat down by the window overlooking the street below. One more cup of coffee, just like Dylan’s song. He watched out of his third floor window the human traffic below: the shoppers, the walkers, the students, the workers, the runners, the drug-dealers, the seekers, the drifters, the losers, and the winners.
Jack lit a cigarette. One more smoke of tobacco, just like… what? My song.
He watched out of the window a child pushing a Wal-Mart cart. It was filled with trash. The afternoon sun reflected off the cart and clouded Jack’s sight. The child was pushing the cart across the busy road. Jack could hear the sound of the rubber wheels on the concrete: trick-track-trick-track-trick-track. Hell! That’s not trash. It’s a man. Yes, that was a man the child had been pushing in the cart. He could see clearly now that the child crossed the street and was nearer to him. The man in the cart looked old; he had a sun-dried face and long oily hair hanging from his head like rat tails. His hands were holding on the sides of the cart while the child, his son maybe, pushed it. His clothes were dirty and torn. He sat like Buda. He had no legs. Oh! That’s why the kid is pushing him in the cart. The poor bastard has no legs, thought Jack. At that moment the old man was directly under Jack’s window; he looked up towards Jack and smiled. Look at that poor bastard smiling. What’s there to smile about? Jack finished his coffee and cigarette, and walked away from the window. He walked where the gun was resting on the floor. He picked it up. He was determined to go through with it this time; he spun the gun cylinder once and placed the gun just over his right ear, the barrel pointing towards his head. He was starting to sweat again. He was shaking. But, this time he knew that he could, and would, do it. He took in one last big breath and pulled the trigger- CLICK.
He stood there breathless. He brought the gun down slowly and with his left hand he examined the side of his head where a bullet wound was supposed to be. “What the ****!” he screamed. “I am supposed to be dead! ******* gun.”
He opened the swing-out cylinder of the revolver and examined the chambers. There were five loaded chambers and one empty. How could this have happened, he thought. He was sure he had fully loaded the gun the night before. He closed the gun cylinder and went and sat behind his desk. He placed the gun on the desk in front of him. The only time in three years that I could pull the damn trigger without fainting and I hit an empty ******* chamber. What are the chances of that? Six to one! I had spun the damn thing before I pulled the trigger. Even now I’m a ******* failure. A ******* loser. Jack picked up the gun from the desk and opened the cylinder: five bullets. Confidently, he spun it again. He pointed the gun to his face and pulled the trigger- CLICK.
What is this? God are you playing with me? Am I a puppet for your sick amusement? He opened his desk drawer and reached inside for the box of bullets. He picked one from the box and placed it in the empty chamber of the gun. He brought the fully loaded gun up to his head again, but then suddenly he brought the gun down and placed it in the desk drawer. What are the chances of hitting an empty chamber twice? “God, this wasn’t by chance,” he said out loud.
This was planned all along. I can see it now. I’ve been so ******* blind, but now I can see clearly. God wants me to live. He has a plan for me. The dreams mean something. Yes, the dreams mean something. The boat is your life Jack. You’re drifting along the river without an oar and that is life. But, the winds are guiding the boat. God is guiding the boat. God is guiding my life. To what? To greatness! Yes, I must live. But, Erica, that *****, she … No! **** her. To hell with Erica. I don’t care about her. God! I don’t care about her anymore. All along I thought I cared, but I don’t. God wants me to live and I will live. How do you know God wants you to live? Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t care what you do. Maybe… No! He does want you to live Jack. The dream; remember the dream? What about it? Oh, you crazy dreamer what about it? The dream. That’s a sign. And what about the gun? My God, do you know the chances? What are the chances of that? That’s a sign. God wants you to live. Don’t you see? Yes, God wants me to live. The gun was a sign. No! A miracle. I must live. I must change my life. Forget Erica. God has a plan for me. Thank you God. I must live. But are you sure? Yes I am. Look at all the signs Jack. Don’t be blind. The dream was a sign. The gun was a sign. What are the chances? Yes, I’m sure. The man in the cart smiled at me. The man without the legs. He smiled! Another sign. He smiled at me. God send him. God thank you. I can see now. You want me to live. You have a plan. Jack quickly got up from the chair and paced the room. He was filled with new energy and a will to live; to forget what has happened; to change his life; to change the world. He reached in his pockets for a cigarette, but the packet was empty. I need some smokes. He hastily put on his jacket, got his wallet from the desk, and stormed out the apartment. I’ll buy some smokes. And, I’ll buy some beers. A few beers never hurt anyone. Why not? I am celebrating. What? Life. I’m celebrating life. I’m celebrating God’s will. He ran down the stairs. On the second floor he stopped to examine the junkie shooting smack by the stairs. “What are you doing? You’re killing yourself. Don’t you want to live?” he asked.
“ **** you puto,” the junkie said.
“Hey man, am just trying to help. Don’t waste your life.”
“ **** you homez. Mind your own ******* business.”
“God wants me to live and so-“
“ **** off pendeho!” shouted the junkie and took something shiny out of his pocket: a gold-coated butterfly knife. He sat there with the knife in his hand, but making no move towards Jack.
“Put it back. You can’t kill me. I can’t kill myself and you think you can? My friend, God wants me to live. He has a plan,” said Jack. He didn’t stay for the junkie’s reply. Not that he was scared but he was in a hurry. Celebrate life; no time to waste; make a new beginning. He could help the junkie on his way back. He could help a lot of people if he wanted to. Why not? Maybe this was God’s plan: to help the desperate.
He went out of his apartment building and into the street. The lazy late-afternoon sun was pitching its last rays for the day. The cool breeze carried distant sounds, sirens, with it. A cop car?
Jack leisurely made his way through the human and mechanic traffic. He felt strangely that he was being pushed by the wind, as if he were a small boat drifting in a wide river. He crossed 53rd avenue and made his way towards Rosewater Street. Finally, at the corner of Providence and Samarra Street he stopped, just enough, to throw a few coins in a beggar’s pot. God, what is happening to this city? People lost the faith. Yes, that’s the problem: people no longer have faith. I must help them. I must make changes. I must show them the way. God wants me to live and help others. The wind suddenly got colder and Jack was pleased he had worn his jacket. The sirens got louder and Jack wondered again were they were coming from. It must be some kind of a cop-car chase, he concluded. He looked across the road and he saw Jim’s Liquor store, the neon sign was flickering red, orange, and yellow. He remembered the dream that now strangely made him thirsty for a cold beer. He began to cross the street. Half way through he stopped suddenly. ****! Did I bring my money with me?
There, in the middle of the road Jack searched desperately in his pockets. He finally located his wallet and opened it. He let out a sigh of relief, for he was in no mood to walk all the way back if he had forgotten his wallet. Thank God. He was about to continue crossing the road when he heard the sirens again. This time they were extremely loud. He could also hear screeching tires. What the hell? A black BMW suddenly jumped, squealing, from the curve like an attacking boar. A police car, with screaming sirens, just behind it. Jack had no time to react. The black BMW hit him hard. Jack flew over the windscreen and then over the hood of the BMW. He landed, on the cold road, just in front of the speeding police car which could not stop in time, and so ran over his bloody, torn body. Jack’s lifeless carcass was fused in the middle of Samarra Street; his dismembered head rolled silently down the road. A woman screamed; the wind raged on; the sirens sustained. More passersby gathered around the scene, but only for a while; after all, they had places to go to and things to do. Across the road the legless man, sitting in the Wal-Mart cart, was whispering gently: “… what was once, will be: world without end… or meaning.” Copyright 2008 Robert Black |
|
| Last Updated ( Friday, 18 January 2008 ) |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email
