Living Dead - Offer Reish (phonics books .TXT) 📗

half an hour or so despite the absence of streetlights and his blurred vision, but then came the bend to the left. The bend that he didn't notice on time and before which he refused to slow down as she urged him to do. The street, half-paved at this point, was still wet from the evening's downpour, which weakened the wheels' grip of the concrete; the alcohol particles, now thick in his blood stream, weakened his grip of reality. Perhaps he still could've made the bend and kept them safe, but then came the truck. A giant monster, rumbling down the narrow path, warning him with an earsplitting squeal that must've shaken the cliff all the way down to its base. He got a glimpse of the frantic driver, a local man with long smooth hair and a conspicuous small round nose: this was the man who'd thrown them off the road and brought them to the brink of death. That face would haunt the man's dreams for many nights after that, more as that of a ghost than that of the truck driver who'd caused the accident. But wait! The truck driver, the man with the long hair and the round nose, wasn't at fault. He'd stayed in his lane, kept to the right and even swerved farther away from their car to avoid impact. The fault for the terrible tragedy was imputable to one man only, though he was obstinately reluctant to acknowledge it: the man from the reflection in the window. It was because of his reckless driving (which was due to his compromised mental condition, which, in turn, was in large part due to his deceitfulness) that he dove with his fiancée off the cliff and crashed into the dark shore. Around them the sea was turbulent, but the shore was peaceful until they landed on it. They were dead first. Dead… How could anyone survive such a fall? Then they were alive, barely, but trapped inside the burning car. Then they were out on the sand, trying to escape the blood that followed them everywhere and advanced faster than their pitiful crawling. He also had to escape his self-abhorrence for what he'd done, which he managed to do quite facilely by blocking his memory of it. Then they were rescued with just enough sap of life in each of their bodies to sustain them; the man had nearly lost his right leg but would recover rather quickly, while his fiancée nearly lost a finger that would heal and an engagement ring that would never be found except by the fortunate creatures of the sea.

It was an uncanny night for the man, in which he'd nearly lost his life and brought about the death of the love of his life, but also in which he'd managed to fulfill his desires, defy fate and still come out nearly intact. He'd cheated on his fiancée with a beautiful, exotic woman, kept her undivided trust in him, drunk to his heart's content, driven off a cliff, and a couple of weeks later recovered almost completely both physically and emotionally. She, on the other hand, struggled for months with the injuries (though they were lighter than his), the trauma, and death. He'd accomplished the impossible, even the doctors said it, and became a better man. A man that could fulfill the unattainable aspirations and desires of the man he used to be.

That man is me. But he's not just me.

He's the man who got the promotion at work. Clancy Stuttworth, partner as of a few months ago.

He's the man who used heroin, feeding on his perceived imperviousness to things that might bring down ordinary men.

He's the man who killed his own brother because he thought it no longer appropriate for him to be ranked second best by his own parents.

He's the man who cheated on Lila with the luscious Paige.

He's the man who's staring back at me from the window, the one on whose vicious face there now spreads a smug smile that disparages my terrible dismay. That smug smile is mine, and I'm the perpetrator of all those terrible things.

It all makes sense now; a much clearer sense than before. It was the only way I could cope with the guilt. I needed someone to blame, and at the same time I didn't want to give up on the pleasures I'd derived from having unharnessed myself, so I unwittingly created another me. A bold, unbridled me who would get anything he wanted without facing the consequences. But it turns out that very seldom in this world can we commit an act whose consequences will not affect us. In a very twisted way, I've been facing the consequences of my actions all along, but only now do I come to realize it. I realize that I've been done no injustice. On the contrary; it is I who has inflicted injustice upon others, I who has incurred upon himself colossal tragedy. And so it appears that the brunt of my arguments in favor of committing suicide is invalid. It appears the misconception I've been operating under has gravely distorted my judgment and my viewpoint of the way things stand. But where does this lead me? Am I to return to the balcony; return to this life? My hands are too tired; I have perhaps a few seconds remaining in which to try and grab the railing and call for Lila's help. My dear, dear Lila. How I love her, and how in my tainted heart I've hated her! You may say what you wish and judge me as you see fit; it's all in vain, for no judgment or ill-will can compare to the hatred I have for myself. No man has ever hated as direly; I know this because hatred more intense than the one I feel now can't exist. The devil himself would cower at the hideous sight of me, I'm sure.

What is the remedy for my true ailment? For doing all the things I've done and bringing myself to the point where I must discover who I am while dangling from the 23rd floor balcony, on my way to my own willfully initiated death? It was all my doing; none of the fault lies with anyone else. Not with fate, not with karma or God. This man in the window with his evil smile and enormous power for destruction- I've created him.

There's no need to take revenge. No need to punish. No need to demand justice for my victimizers, for I have only one victimizer, and his name is Clancy. But do I not deserve justice against him? Against the heinous, miserable Clancy?

Justice is blind, and she can't distinguish one victimizer from another. Therefore I deserve to be punished. I cast one last hateful glance at the window and my hands slip from the smooth floor of the balcony.

I fall. I hit the concrete. I die.

Justice.

 

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Publication Date: 02-13-2014

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