The Mallard God Complex (8)

It's been a while! For those who haven't read chapters 1-7 they can be found in my collection The Mallard God Complex.

8. Trouble Will Find Me

            Searching the body doesn’t take that long. As seems to be the trend, Snake is right. In the Reverend’s robes we find a stack of cash so large that for a second I forget that we’ve just killed a man. That second doesn’t last long, as I am staring into the gaping hole in his head again. Everything around me is fuzzy Killing is wrong. The statement wanders inanely through my mind, serving no purpose other than to confirm what I already know. Five minutes and forty-two seconds ago I passed the point of no return.

            We’re out of the church before any of the people inside can manage to hoist their pitchforks. The truck seems hotter than it was before, more oppressive, reminding me that I deserve to sweat for what I’ve taken part in. If there is a hell, I’m going to it. I was moments from being saved, going on to live a life of quiet mediocrity and piety, but no longer. I am now what I can only presume to be a wanted man, fleeing a crime-scene in a white bronco with an unidentified white male.

            I had never thought to find myself in the same position as OJ, but life does funny things. Looking out the window only serves to make things worse. My stomach churns and I fear that I will vomit. “Don’t look so green kid. It really isn’t that bad.” Says Snake from the driver’s seat, shooting me a friendly grin.

            “How’s that?”

            “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish because we killed him.”

            “Is the idea really that preposterous to you?” He takes a minute to think on it.

            “Yes.” I want to punch him again.

            “Well it fucking isn’t!”

            “Oh?” He says, surprised by my outburst. To him killing someone is apparently akin to picking up a box of cereal at the super market. Oh, here’s your change sir, BLAM.

            “Well I’m sorry that you feel that way, but there’s really nothing to be all that upset about.”

            “Why not?!” I say impudently.

            He sighs heavily, as a frustrated teacher, teaching a troubled child arithmetic. “Look Michael. Every day is someone’s first day on earth. This is something that is usually celebrated in our culture, but the unmentioned implication is that this is also someone’s last day. It’s really not so different from the first. Someone comes into being out of presumably nothing, and the other fades into nothing, or whatever they believe that nothing to be.

            Some of us aren’t even lucky enough to have more than one or two days on this earth. For them, today will be their first and last day. Today was his last day on this earth, and with good reason. He mislead a group of people into wasting their precious few days on this earth, sitting in a hot wooden box, reading the same book over and over again, all in hope of attaining something other than nothing at the end. Those who lead others on such foolish pursuits for their own gain deserve nothing more than what he got.”

            “What so we should just go around plugging all the priests then?”

            “Oh come now, that’s hardly realistic. There’s a priest per twenty people in this region.”

            “I wasn’t seriously suggesting it.”

            “Then why say it? Don’t waste my precious minutes with sarcasm Michael, there are so many better things we could use them for instead. For instance, let’s talk about all of the money we recovered, and what the heck we’re going to do with all of it. That’s a more entertaining question than debating the ethics of murder.”

            “So it was murder then?”

`           “Oh Christ Michael, yes, it was murder, can you get off your damned soap box? Would it make you happier if I told you he was also a pedophile? Either way, I pulled the trigger, you didn’t. Things could have gone a lot worse for you had you stayed. Trust me, I just saved your life. That’s twice today! You should be thanking me.” His logic is an endless flow of nonsense, spinning around his point and his point alone. There is no arguing with a crazy person. I’m content to do it anyway.

            “I should be thanking you? For what? Plugging some random preacher in the middle of god-damned nowhere? You’re a real hero you are.”

            “I don’t need an ethics lecture from you. This goes way beyond you, and I can’t even begin to explain it. Now can we please switch the subject? We are going nowhere fast and time flies by every minute we sit here gabbing. Maybe you’ll understand at some point, but the world is a complex place and you seem to be of a very simple mind about it. You’ll never understand microbiology with a magnifying glass.”

            The statement is meant to be hurtful, and it is. In one blow he has insulted my intelligence, my worldview, and my ethics. It’s a funny feeling, being beat in an argument by a crazy person. The feeling is similar I imagine to biting into an apple and finding that it has spontaneously turned into an soured orange. For a minute I just sit there, mulling over his points in silence. Out the window willows bend and shake in the calm summer breeze. My mind is like the willows, each tendril reaching desperately for the ground, attempting to grab hold of something solid.

            Why am I here? I’ve asked the question too many times since I have started whatever this is. A man comes into your apartment, threatens you, and then you follow him. That part at least seems somewhat natural. If a man pointed a gun at someone and asked them to follow, they would. But if a man points a magic marker at them, and swears that he is going to blow their brains out if they don’t follow what then? I have learned never to underestimate the power of a magic marker.

            I followed him on threat of death. Not an explicit threat, no, but a threat nonetheless. There was the implication that if I didn’t something bad would happen. I mean for Christ’s sake, look at the flat! It’s gone. My possessions are gone to. What’s left of them has been cleaned up by the paramedics no doubt. I would have been scraped off of the pavement too if I had stayed. So, following him must’ve been a good choice then yeah?

            It all comes down to this. In my head I have rationalized my decision to blindly follow what I now know to be a killer as he moved me out of the way of a life-threatening event, and into the way of another. A similar scenario would have been if I had followed a man because he had pulled me out of the way of an oncoming train, only to throw me into a busy intersection. The logic is there, but the execution is flawed.  In the end it’s the point of no return that drives me. I have come too far to turn and run now.

            The road outside begins to blur. My mind wanders to a place familiar and safe. I am no longer in the car. I am sitting beneath a stone ledge looking out on a calming bayou. The only light is from a single lantern hanging on the edge of the rocks and fireflies drifting in the air. Bugs chirp and whistle their evening songs as the night sky turns above me. This is a place I come often when the world becomes too much. It’s the places of my youth combined into one peaceful image.

            The water below is murky, and in its depths moves a creature to large to calculate. It is not a frightening image; rather the long strokes of its tail are calming and rhythmic. Down in the depths there are many more of its like, gliding through the water like airplanes. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Why it is that for comfort I look to the realm of giant, fictional, aqueous lizard beasts is truly beyond me. I’m sure that if I was analyzed it would say something about how I have never moved past the fantasies of my childhood and that I really should move on and mature, but that’s clearly not in the cards.

            This swamp has gotten me through some of the hardest times. When my heart was broken, I would come and sit in the same spot. This spot never changed, never weathered, it just was. The stone is warm beneath my feet, absorbing the heat of the swamp, moving into my body, limbering me up. It allows me to look at my thoughts from an objective point of view. The swamp is calm, free of reckless emotions. From the distance comes the faded plucking of a worn nylon string guitar.

            Twang lies in the air, relaxing and mingling with the moisture. I stand from the rock and walk to the edge of the water. As I lean over the edge I find that I no longer recognize the face that is looking back. It has grown lines where previously there were none. The eyes are full of haze that had once been clear. The years have clearly taken their toll to the point where I am unrecognizable. It doesn’t bother me. In this place it is only a fact. I have gotten older and it has begun to show.

            Ripples break the surface of the water as a creature comes up from the deep. My face is obscured for a brief moment by dark green scales. What am I doing here? The question is always the same. It would have been the same no matter the events of the day. I have been floating through life waiting for it to take me by the hand and show me the way ever since I can remember. “The girl of your dreams will find you!” “Go with the flow.” The statements are spoken by group of perky, yellow flowers floating on the surface of the bog.

            Doubt and uncertainty are creeping into my mind. They manifest at the edges of the bog as rot and decay. The color changes from the muted green of moss and wood to a bright orange sunburst. The color does not belong here. It looks ugly, doesn’t fit with the other creatures, and doesn’t fit with anything for that matter. It bothers me, but I am content to sit under my overhang and try to ignore it. My life is often filled with such torments, but most often it is better just to ignore them.

            “Slowly.” A female voice echoes across the swamp. It is unfamiliar and certainly isn’t my own. Its presence is unnerving. The tone is soft and sweet, like the voice of a mother warning a child. “Slowly.” In the distance I can see a white figure, walking across the edge of the swamp. She is tall, flanked by locks of blond hair hanging down to her mid-section. I’m about to call out when the vision shifts and plummets back into reality.