Day 90 - 10,000 Salvation

 10,000 Salvation 

Matthew Ryan Fischer 

 

Sand, scratched against his forehead. An ocean, the taste of salt as his head dipped below water. Blood, dripping down, the knife-point piercing skin. The flame, flickering, burning. The beats repeated, the tune sounded the same, but time ticked by and the window-dressings were new.

Once upon a time he had hope. But that was a million lifetimes ago. He was now a victim of old patterns. He couldn’t help himself. Always expecting to feel what he felt. Always expecting this time to matter, to stick. If he could die, maybe it would. At least it would be absolute and he’d know. But until that day there were only question marks.

He could remember the river, the arrows in his legs and back, the sickness in his stomach and the raw taste in his mouth as he crawled towards the water’s edge. Muscles failing, slipping out of consciousness, his fingers touched flowing water. Reinvigorated, he felt a moment of hope, if only he could take a sip of water, then perhaps his body could heal. He pulled himself forward and dipped his head into the water and drank deep.

The scars on his body had faded from time, but the memory of the moment stayed frozen in his mind. The act began a long routine of seeking redemption through ritual purification.

He had watched empires and traveled through desolate lands. Faiths changed and rulers came and went. Worlds crumbled. He survived. A million times he survived and was redeemed. He was sure he would survive a million more as long as it took. He could grow old, but it would never be the end, not until the final act had finished.

Water had been plentiful. Water had been scarce. There were always other ways of preserving the act, with or without traditional sacrament. For every sin there had to be atonement. For every life lived, he needed redemption to have another. Ten thousand or more, and it would continue. He was afraid to find out what might happen if he failed in his patterns. Like the portrait that ate sin, once destroyed, Dorian found himself instant victim to all deeds done. He was sure if he too missed his rites then a million and one sins would all come flooding back to torture him forever.

How long could he live? How long would it last? Until the last drop of water was gone and the earth returned to dust? The thought of infinity was frightening and impossible to fathom. But at one time the thought of a thousand or two thousand had been just as intimidating.

The world would turn. He would last as long as he could. The loop, never-ending.

Day 89 - Baptism by Fire

Baptism by Fire

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The wind kicked up and sand pounded against his body. Crossing the dunes was always laborious, a brewing storm only added to it. The man had his face wrapped in a Keffiyeh scarf with goggles to protect his eyes. His goggles old and worn, and he could barely see out of them anymore. He had ruined any anti-fog capabilities long ago. Calvin wanted to take the goggles off to look and see where they were going, but knew it was a bad idea. There was no water to spare, no way to clean out any particles or irritants. It was better to travel nearly blind than fully.

His companions continued ahead. One had a rope tied around his waste that the other held onto to help direct him. Perhaps it would useful to stick together if a sand storm really did occur. Calvin couldn’t help but think that in a strong enough storm, rope or no rope, they’d all be tossed and turned and very little would protect them. Of course, with his sight so diminished, he did regret not participating in some method of connection. He could make out their shapes ahead of him. That was enough for now.

Calvin’s legs ached. His knees stiff and unbending. Each step seemed to sink further and further into the sand. His heart pounded, and he wondered how many more steps he could take before that struggle ended things before any storm could. His companions seemed undeterred. He took that to mean he couldn’t stop either.

The sun, hot and scorching. Dry. Cracked lips. Step after step the path continued. The sandy dunes gave way to the scorched earth.

They reached their destination. A pile of stones and the rotten husk of a tree stump from long ago. A desolate oasis. Years ago, there had been a beach and water for miles. Now, empty lifelessness in all directions.

Calvin removed his goggles. He undid his scarf. Beads of sweat ran down his face, the salt against his cracked lips reminded him there could be no respite. He felt as though his bare skin would blister and burn, so rarely exposed to direct sun.

One companion began to chant. The other took out a vial. A few drops of water. That’s all there was. It was all that could be afforded.

Calvin dropped to his knees. If he had been less dehydrated, he might have cried.

The one with the vial wetted his thumb and made a cross on Calvin’s forehead.

A drop fell to the cracked ground below. Just one drip, absorbed into the parched ground.

Calvin smiled, his cracked lips splitting. He tasted blood. It didn’t matter. He found happiness.  

Day 88 - The Last of Everything

 The Last of Everything

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The price of oranges had gone up again. A week ago, George had bought one Mandarin Orange. The clerk made a comment – they peeled easily, but that price! George nodded along and said that was why he was only buying one. This week though, he would pass. One orange was suddenly as expensive as a pound of meat had once been.

In a different era, he might had just blamed it on getting old. Prices will rise, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Yes, prices had risen since his childhood, but George knew it was more than that. Anything and everything seemed out of reach now. It wasn’t just getting old. It was getting old at the same time as getting poor. It was getting old while getting poor while jobs got worse.

George wondered if that was the last orange he would ever have. How could he justify the cost? It had been nearly a year since he had a peach or pear. At least three since he had pineapple.

One year it was the cost of shipping. Another year there were floods to blame. The next it might be drought. Then came famine or plague or pestilence. All those phrases from the books long ago, that people had forgotten might actually come true someday. Not that he saw any horsemen riding in with sickles raised, but one could never be quite sure when Revelations might come true.

In the parking lot George noticed a new dent and a few scratches on the passenger side door. He took a deep breath and told himself that it was okay. It was only a car. It was only a thing. One more thing he would never fix. One more thing he could never afford. The car was already decades old. It only needed to last him for as many more as possible.

He sat in the parking lot, feeling hopeless. It had been well over a decade since he had sat alone in his car and cried. That was because of a broken window and a stolen radio that were simultaneously worthless and irreplaceable.

Suddenly things were feeling like 2008 again. There was something in the air and people were talking about it in casual conversation. The woman going door-to-door trying to sell solar panels had opinions. So did the AAA tow truck driver who sold him a new car battery. Everything was bad again. Everyone was feeling it. Long overdue, the cycle had taken a few extra years to work out this time, but everyone knew it was coming. A matter of days or weeks or months, but soon. The collapse was on its way.

George thought about going back in the store and buying himself an orange. Why not? What was the point of scrimping and saving when it wouldn’t amount to anything anyway? Why not enjoy a moment or two and have some small reason to live?

He couldn’t justify the price. Sadly, he couldn’t justify the effort. It would take time and energy and that was as precious a commodity as some piece of paper in his pocket.

George sat a moment more, gritted his teeth and punched his leg and told himself to suck it up. Eventually he started the car. He chewed on his lip and wondered what he would do. He had no answers. No prospects. If things got really bad, he had very few options. He drove away, suppressing his anxiety attack, hoping the for a bit of sunshine that had yet to come.

Day 87 - Late Night Driving

 Late Night Driving

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The radio stopped working. What was he supposed to do about that? First the CD player, now, the radio. Everything was cheap and made to fall apart. There was already a hole in his sock. Vic had noticed it other day. A pair that was perhaps a year old. Maybe more. He couldn’t remember. Certainly not more than two. Either way too soon for holes to spontaneously appear.

Earlier there had been a movie on about two degenerate gamblers road-tripping their way south, stopping at every form of gambling establishment along the way. Race tracks, horses, card clubs, casinos, back-room poker games, bookies. On and on it went. They won some, but most lost. Money, friends, family. It was sad and depressing, until the final scene, when instead of killing themselves, they bet everything they had on the longest odds possible at roulette. And of course, won. Because people like happy endings. Never mind the hours of tragedy and ruined lives. Somehow there was supposed to be a positive lesson in there somewhere.

It was insulting.

Dreams and fiction and half-baked advice were all the same. People don’t like the truth. They get enough pain day-to-day. There’s no reason to read or watch or play more of it. They call that escapism.

Vic had had enough of escapism. He had had enough of realism as well. Both got tedious as monotony crept it. Maybe he had just had too many years under his belt. Seen too much. Got too jaded. But happy endings were annoying and tragic endings were too depressing.

Vic liked to drive around at night when there were fewer cars on the road. That was nice, not being stuck in traffic. He got to be by himself, roll the window down and feel the air on his face. He listened to the music of his youth. But not now. Now there was silence.

Too much silence and the loneliness crept in.

He could buy a new radio. He just didn’t want to. It was annoying. It was just one more thing that didn’t work right and was there to bug him.

A different week or month or year and it might not matter. He had been happy before. He had enjoyed his thoughts before. There had been other voices in the car before. Laughter and conversation and tears and singing along and everything in-between. But not now. Now he was left alone.

Vic sped up and let the wind really kick across his face. The sound of the wind on the freeway was almost enough to fill the void. Almost loud enough so he didn’t have to hear himself think. Almost, but not quite.

Day 86 - One

 One 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

It was a lonely existence, but it was the one he wanted. It was the one he felt he deserved. Alone in his cabin, late at night, he would think back across a life of carnage and destruction. He felt shame and misery, sorry for what he had done, but there was no one to apologize to or seek mercy from. He had worn uniforms and badges, been honored and reviled. His worst was done as a member of an organization dedicated to nothing but its own power. He was a survivor. He had done what he set out to do. He was still here, despite it all.

Years had come and gone, but he woke everyday sure someone would come to kill him. He knew too many secrets and worked for the unsavory and then there were always the friends and relatives of his victims. Someday someone would put the pieces together and they would come. It was easy to set traps and maintain security systems, but it was impossible to prevent the march of time. He woke with new aches and pains and everyday he was a little bit slower. Once upon a time he would have fought off anyone who came looking for trouble. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Everyday he looked in the mirror and hated what he saw. It was the age; it was his eyes. Miserable, lost, empty eyes. A sorrow he couldn’t fully describe. Eventually he took down the mirrors. His angst remained.

He carried a weapon at all times, never knowing when or where trouble might come from. He slept with a gun, a bullet at the ready.

Late at night, when sleep refused to come, he would think about all the pain he felt, all the pain he caused, all the pain he might cause again. He would think about that one bullet and how easy it would be to relieve that pain. One small act to make the world a better place. He could do it. It would be easy. If there was any kindness left in him, he might, rather than sit and indulged his self-centered pity. His shame made him torture himself. His arrogance wouldn’t allow him to heal or end things. It was masturbatory but he couldn’t help but be self-indulgent.

He found solace in his solitude. Alone, as he should be, as he deserved to be. As he preferred to be. A punishment wasn’t a punishment if you welcomed it. He couldn’t even bring himself to suffer any consequences, even the ones he had tried to prescribe to himself. His ego wouldn’t let him die.

He packed his things. The city awaited his return. He had learned nothing, changed nothing. He realized that if he wasn’t willing to try, then why bother. He might as well return to the life he left behind. Perhaps there he would be judged accordingly. Perhaps then, there would be some sort of justice. He didn’t think so. He loaded his weapons and told himself he would accept whatever came his way, but not without a fight. No sense in making things easy for them, or himself.

Day 85 - Attack of The Suit

 Attack of The Suit

 Matthew Ryan Fischer 

 

What was the suit made out of, The Kid wondered to himself. When he punched the jacket, the man in the suit acted like he didn’t feel a thing, and The Kid thought he just about broke his hand. Whatever the fabric was, it was dense and tough as nails. Once upon a time, The Cowboy had told him if he ever tussled with a Suit, that The Kid should aim for the head. The Cowboy wasn’t kidding, but The Kid was all out of ammo.

The Kid had tracked down The Tuxedos, and had followed them for days. He had heard there were four, but so far, he had only seen three. Perhaps the other was late. Perhaps their mission had changed. The Kid considered killing the ones he had found and worrying about their brother later. Three-fourths of a job well done was better than zero. The Cowboy had always said he was impatient and told him to do the job right. The Kid considered The Cowboy’s final words, and so he waited. The fourth would show up soon or later.

But then The Suit showed up first. The Kid had never learned what The Suit’s agenda was. He didn’t think they were Tuxedo co-conspirators, but allegiances were changing so rapidly these days, one could never be sure.

The Kid always fancied himself a top fighter, on par with anyone they had come up against. Tonight, he felt like an amateur. The Kid should have gotten help. He had been impatient. He wished The Swordsman was here. The Swordsman would cut this guy’s head clean off and it wouldn’t matter how strong the suit was.

The Kid struggled for his life and ended up pushing The Suit back against the window.

The glass cracked. Another strong push and it shattered. The Suit fell.

The Kid looked out, watched as The Suit hit the ground. A fall that would shatter any man’s bones. The Kid watched as The Suit slowly got up and shook himself off.

“What the fu---”

What is that suit made out of?

Run. A different voice in the back of his head instructed him. Run!

The Kid ran.

Day 84 - The Kid

 The Kid 

Matthew Ryan Fischer 

 

“You did good, kid…”

The Cowboy had gotten old. Aged in every way. Slower. Poor vision. Bad instincts. He lost his gut. Made mistakes. The Kid couldn’t remember the last time he saw The Cowboy take a shot. He relied on his grit and gruff and expected his name and reputation to precede him. That might be okay for intimidation, but it was shit in a fight.

The Cowboy got old. And then he took a bullet or two. The last ones he would ever take.

“You did good, kid…”

The last words The Cowboy ever said. The still rung true. They still hurt to think about. They still echoed in The Kid’s ears. He would have traded just about anything to have never heard it said.

The Cowboy thought he was saying it straight to The Kid. Little did he know, but he was saying it to his assassin. By the time The Kid got there, it was too late. The Cowboy was a breath away from death. He struggled to say something, but the Kid knew, he didn’t need to hear it. But he could imagine.

The Gunman and The Grifter and Lawman all swore up and down that The Cowboy would be avenged. The Kid knew them all well, had fought with them and others. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Avenge, revenge, justice, payback – they were all just words. Words men told each other so they could act tough and act like they weren’t afraid of death. The Kid had faced death and would do so again. He knew they would all die. He didn’t need words and he didn’t need to keep a cycle of death going. He lost his friend and words weren’t going to bring him back.

Someone had woken a sleeping giant. The Cowboy and The Kid had been on the trail. The trail was still there, a job to be done. The Kid didn’t have time to waste tracking Dom or Dom’s men. The Men in Suits were conspiring and their plans would proceed unimpeded. Unless someone did something about it. The Kid knew that was more important than chasing blood feuds. Dom’s brother had been a problem, but it wasted time to go after him and it got The Cowboy killed. The Kid would keep his focus. He would get the job done. He had last words to live up to.