A story

Mark walks slowly towards the bridge. The spot is two kilometres out of town. Near his house, conveniently enough.  People rarely visit the bridge except to travel eastward or to die.

This is it. The moment is here at last.

He stops for a moment and straightens his uniform. He inspects himself. He is proud of his appearance, even at a time like this. His trousers and shirt look pressed, his shoes are polished, and his hair is brushed. If he is going to face death, he will do it whilst looking good, damn it.

It is customary in situations like this to dress well and be on time. Wilson would definitely do the same, and Mark would be damned if he was going to lose face by being late. Roberto, his second, was probably already there. Roberto often said, “Call me whatever you like, just don’t call me late for dinner.”

Mark wonders who Wilson’s second could possibly be. Wilson is the man who steals from anyone ,whenever he can. He is the man who treats young ladies so poorly. The cad.  Who would possibly agree to be Wilson’s second? Mark’s low opinion of Wilson is what lead to this whole business in the first place. Mark was relaxing at the Tavern and this cocky idiot, Wilson, was full of piss and vinegar. Wilson was being very rude and Mark told him what he thought of him. Mark hated being slapped in the face. It is customary to do so, to initiate the duel, but the act made him red with anger and embarrassment. Then, he was being asked to choose weapons and nominate a second. Pistols would be the weapons, obviously. We aren’t in the Middle Ages, after all. Roberto was his first choice for his second, and Roberto, good friend that he is, was happy to oblige.

Mark isn’t scared of Wilson as such, but he knows what he is capable of and he doesn’t really want to die. Naturally, he will face him standing tall and ready; but he sure as hell doesn’t want to go before his time. His grandfather went out in a blaze of glory, a duel, and if it was good enough for his father’s father, it was good enough for him. He hasn’t told his mother, she will understand. As for his sweetheart, Mark just thinks of her and sighs. Just another reason to win this thing.

Mark trudges on. There is honour to be won today! Wilson will pay for what he has done. He wants to kill me. We shall see about that.

Mark draws closer to the bridge. He sees Roberto and Wilson, standing about at a distance from one another. Roberto doesn’t like Wilson much either. He sees him as a contemptible boor, not fit to lick the boot of the town drunk.

           “Roberto.”

           “Mark.”

The pair greet while Wilson sneers. Roberto turns to Wilson.

           “No second, I see.”

Wilson winks at Mark then sneers at Roberto. He wordlessly reaches into his jacket and pulls out his pistol. Roberto gasps and looks over at Mark.

BANG!

Roberto looks visibly shocked as he falls to the ground. Mark rushes to his fallen friend.

           “Not so fast. Leave him for now.”

Mark can barely bring himself to even look at Wilson. He addresses him through gritted teeth.

           “You utter bastard.”

           “He will live. Now we can talk without that fool around. I have decided that pistols are unfitting for our duel. Swords will do.”

           “How DARE you? You challenge me to a duel. Then, you arrive here unaccompanied and SHOOT my second. Who in blazes do you think you are? How can you raise your head in polite society again?”

           “Hahahaha. This will be a contest for the ages.”

Wilson grandly extends his hand skywards.

           “See those storm clouds gathering over yonder? Truly a great omen. I have waited long for this moment. The slaying of my nemesis will be a grand occasion. What say you?”

           “You must be mad! How am I your nemesis? We almost never speak.”

           “Exactly! Your smugness! How it rouses me. You think you are better than me. Well, we shall see about that. Now, the swords.”

Wilson points his pistol at Mark, and then motions towards a long container a few metres away. Mark raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.

           “Pick up the swords or be shot.”

           “I don’t think so, Wilson. I demand that you explain yourself.”

           “Hahahahaha. It’s very simple. I have hated you, detested you, reviled you, for so long; and I wish to kill you in a duel with my sword. What don’t you understand? There are two swords in that box over there. Pick it up and let’s begin!”

           “I don’t pretend to understand what it is that you are talking about, but we are men of action. If it’s duel you want, it’s a duel you’ll have. I do this for Roberto.”

Mark strides confidently towards the box. He stoops down and picks it up. He walks back to Wilson and throws the box at his feet.

           “There you go, you villain.”

Wilson reaches down and opens the box. Two short swords lay there, side by side. He picks one up and throws it at Mark. Mark deftly catches it by the handle and swings it about menacingly, with flourishes.

           “Wilson, you bounder. Are you ready?”

           “Naturally,” Wilson smiles devilishly and looks Mark up and down.

In a flash, Wilson slashes at Mark in a downward arc. By way of parry, Mark bashes the blade aside and front-kicks his foe in the chest. Wilson staggers back and attempts to regain his composure. Mark presses his advantage and steps swiftly forward, thrusting his weapon at Wilson. Wilson steels his sword in between himself and Mark. The sword harmlessly glances away. Both men stand their ground and stare at one another.

           “You are no slouch with a sword, sir.”

           “Wilson , you bounder. What’s your game? Get on with it.”

           “This is how duels are fought, sir. Where is the sense of dramatic tension if you don’t stop to chat every few blows?”

           “I’ll say it again, you are very unbalanced. Stop calling me sir. You are by far the most ungentlemanly character I’ve ever come across and it offends me when you address me as an equal. I loathe you.”

           “Hahahahaha!”

           “Stop that, you cackling loon.”

           “Hahahaha!”

Wilson springs into action and Mark isn’t far behind. Swords clash with gusto and remain pressed together. The two men lock eyes. Mark stares fiercely at Wilson. The dislike emanating from his eyes is tangible. Wilson can feel the red-hot glow of Mark’s disdain, he revels in it.

           

           “Feeling alright, Mark?”

           “Shut up!”

           “Now, now, Mark. Manners! We can’t have you losing your temper, now can we?”

Mark attempts the same front kick as before. Wilson is ready for it this time, and he leans in to the blow. Wilson grabs Mark’s boot and tries to topple him over backwards. Mark unsuccessfully tries to swing his sword, but the very threat of being chopped in the side of the head is enough to make Wilson release his grasp and leap back. Mark steps wordlessly forward and presses the tip of his sword to Wilson’s throat. He gloats over him.

           

           “To the death, Mark?”

           “But of course, sir. It’s the way duels are fought.”

           “Very well.”

Mark looks as if to plunge the blade into Wilson’s neck. He deliberates for a moment too long and has his sword dashed away by Wilson’s. Mark’s jaw drops and he goes wide-eyed as Wilson shoves him in the middle of his chest. Mark falls. Wilson raises his sword high above Mark and prepares to swing. Then, from behind him, Roberto stands.

           

           “Drop the sword.”

           “No, no, no, no, no. You are supposed to be dead. You have to stay over there where I shot you.”

           “I had a bulletproof vest.”

           “They didn't have them in those days. You guys always cheat this isn’t fair.”

           “It’s one of those metal things around my torso. Like in Back To The Future Three, you know?”

           “No, no, NO!”

A voice sings out from across the bridge. It’s Wilson’s mother.

           

           “Come on Jeremy, time for tea!”

Wilson turns to the two boys.

           “I’m not coming back, you guys suck.”

Wilson walks off towards his mother’s voice.

           “Hey Mark, he’ll be back. He hasn’t got any other friends.”

           “Yeah.”

!

A father and son are walking side by side down a long white corridor. They are enjoying each other’s company, but the son has something on his mind. He breaks the silence to query the old man, gently probing his father for an answer.

“I’ve been wondering for years, Dad, when am I going back?”

The old man smiles warmly at his son and his hand moves to his chin, as if thinking carefully about his response. The son presses on.

“It’s been a long time, Dad, and I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.”

“I know Jay.” The father’s voice sounds deep and warm. “I know how you feel but the time is not quite right. It is all......”

Jay rolls his eyes and cuts in, “I know, I know, all part of your divine plan.”

The son almost expects his father to be annoyed by his interruption, but he knows he won’t be. The old man just looks at him with his wise face, full of understanding and Jay knows everything is fine.

“I love these people, Dad. Look at the way they have become, after everything I did for them. You would think that they would have learnt a thing or two. It makes me really disheartened.”

“Jay,” the father says after his son finishes speaking. “I know what I’m doing. There are so many people who know what you did and appreciate it. There are many that don’t as well, but we will get to that.”

Jay and his father do this all the time. The back and forth, the son asking questions while strolling down the alabaster hallway, his father smiling pleasantly. It is almost as if they do it every day. They don’t, but the conversation has the feeling of something they have repeated.

Jay never says it but he misses his old home sometimes. The place he grew up in, the place where all his old friends had lived and died. His father’s house is the best place on earth, so to speak; and his father is always good to hang out with but he often thinks back to when he was younger. He has the faint memory of going to a lake at some point. He knows he didn’t go swimming but his father made sure he had a wonderful time.

“They’re still wearing those things, Dad.”

The father’s expression turns to one of compassion and Jay continues.

“Do they think I want to see another one of those again? That was an awful experience. Of all the things that they could wear.....”

”I know, son, I’m sorry but you know why that had to happen.”

“Maybe if it was fish or something I could understand, you know?”

Jay extends his finger down to the palm of his hand to feel his scars. They are from a very long time ago but they still hurt occasionally. The scars are his personal reminder of everything that has happened. They remind him of what happened back then and why. Jay thinks to himself that things have gotten much worse.

“I know, son. I understand. You must know that you aren’t going back until the end.”

“The end?”

Jay and his father have a relationship of understanding. He wasn’t around much when Jay was growing up and Jay has always had a better relationship with his stepfather. As it turns out his father always knows best. It is frustrating to try to understand some of the old man’s decisions but he hasn’t failed him yet. The state of affairs in the world is a cause for concern but Jay knows that things will right themselves eventually. There is something about the way the old man speaks that makes you feel safe.

“Yes, the end. It isn’t far off now.”

“Really? How did you decide when that would happen?”

“I didn’t. They decided. The men think it is all up to them but it is all them. I don’t really make any of these decisions. I stepped in once and look what happened.”

Upon hearing this, the son just stares at his father. Jay looks at him quizzically and then returns his gentle look of understanding.

What do we do then?” J asks.

“Nothing, we don’t need to do anything. We just have to be there.”

“But the end- isn’t that, you know, your department?”

“Believe me; they already have that under control. We won’t even have to lift a finger. This has been in the making for a long time.”

“I see. Is that it?  So we just show up and offer them a choice?”

Jay is grateful to have an answer out of his father regarding his return to the land of men. Knowing that it would be the last time and the end of it all is a bit of a shock though. It was like his whole world is going to change. 

He knows that the old man has everyone’s best interests at heart but was amazed that the men would do themselves in. Have they learnt nothing? Hadn’t he taken steps to try and stop this kind of thing all those years ago? Jay wondered why things had to be this way. Is it because the old man says so or just the nature of men? He thinks to himself that it is probably a combination of the two.

“Is it the wars and stuff, Dad? Seems like that kind of contravenes what we are all about.”

“It is, partly. But it is so much more than that. It is the state of the world. Even people who claim to be on your team have done some awful stuff.”

“Men have killed each other for me. I don’t know where they got that idea from.”

The father nods grimly upon hearing this and is silent for a moment. After a while he speaks.

“Exactly right son, when it’s all finished they will have no one else to blame.”

“But not everyone is at fault, Dad. There are many who have been good and adhered to the correct principles.”

“At the end, everybody will get a choice. I give credit where credit is due.”

“I suppose they were all warned about this.”

“Exactly.  I wrote all this stuff down YEARS ago. People have no excuse for not being aware.”

“Fair enough ,Dad.”

“They had it good too. I used to be much more unforgiving. Before you came along I would punish people severely. I tell you, that was one way to get men to behave. People used to do what I told them to.”

“So what is the point of all this then?”

“Just to be, to exist and live correctly. Not many people understood what they were supposed to do.”

“Things could have been clearer dad. I mean most people didn’t know what they were doing was wrong. What if they haven’t had the chance to learn the difference and feel sorry for the things they have done? Is the final judgment really final? And what about when people say that it is your fault? You were supposed to be running the show.”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that. Do these people really reflect upon me? Maybe I could have done a better job but it is really my responsibility?”

“Some might argue that it is. They are all here because of you and they do owe everything to you.”

“When it is all said and done they have the choice to do as they please. It is all well and good to blame me but people are ultimately responsible for their own actions.”

“You think so?”

“They have free will. What else are they supposed to do? There have been rules set down since the beginning that clearly state the correct way to live.”

“I agree with you, Dad, but a lot of people might not see it that way. I can foresee issues.”

“So be it. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“It isn’t far off by the looks of things.”

Jay and his father reach the end of the corridor and walk onto a metal balcony to survey all of creation before them. It is a glorious sight to look upon, especially at sunset. Fluffy white clouds partially obscure a setting sun, and a golden glow arcs over the sky like a heavenly rainbow. Jay surveys the scene and his eyes fall upon a cloud of another kind. A colossal mushroom cloud envelops the upper hemisphere of the planet before them and shines ominously, threatening to swallow the entire globe. The father gazes at his kingdom undoing itself and his ancient eyes fill with tears. He wonders if it really is entirely his fault and if he could have prevented this. What is the purpose of creating the universe if you can’t protect it? It took seven days to make and has taken a thousand times that to unmake it. The old man feels weak for the first time ever and despite his infinite wisdom, he doesn’t know what comes next. The sky flashes red and black and he knows that the end has come.

“I think we’re needed now, Dad.”

bzzzz

The red numbers on his digital watch displayed 8:05 when Tom felt the familiar sensation in the pit of his stomach. The mix of electricity and butterflies that preceded an attack. It made him reel. He immediately thought of the little pink tablet he kept in his wallet, his “security blanket”.  He always kept it with him, just in case he couldn’t sleep or if he needed help fighting off his anxiety. It was like a big hug that switched off his feelings and fears. He took it when flying as well, but that was understandable. Going on planes was a scary experience at the best of times.

He could feel the heat in his face and his heart began to pound in his chest. Dr Cameron, his psychologist, had once told him that nobody had ever died from panicking. It was physically impossible, apparently, but during these irrational cascades of terror his words seemed less believable. Tom knew that it couldn’t happen but he feared the worst all the same.

The short, sharp breaths soon followed and Tom was certain that this would be a bad one. The panic was like having little insects crawling in his skull just behind the eyes and the Xanax in his pocket seemed to call out to him. He tried to avoid medication unless absolutely necessary because he felt that it only made things worse in the long run. Dr Cameron agreed.

Regret always came with the panic. Tom thought back to his drug using days and felt shame. Have I done this to myself? He knew that he could at least be more diligent with his exercises. Dr Cameron always seemed so disappointed when he said that he hadn’t been doing his breathing exercises as often as recommended. Admitting that made Tom feel terrible so he often lied about it. This thought led from shame and regret to guilt. It was the uneasy feeling that his problems were his own fault and that he has no-one to blame but himself. Two years of talking to the good doctor had taught him to take responsibility for his issues and stop shifting blame. It didn’t always help.

 The incendiary heat in Tom’s face assaulted him and his heart palpitated violently.  He put his hand to his breast and felt the rapid thud.  Can no-one hear that?  He peered around the packed morning tram but no-one was paying any attention to him. He hoped that the feeling passed before he got to work, he was tired enough as it is. Of course that doesn’t help at all. Fuck!  Dr Cameron urged him to adopt regular sleeping patterns.

“It all helps,” Dr Cameron would say. “Exercise everyday, do your breathing, sleep well, eat well. You will start to feel better.”

Sometimes you just don’t have the time for all that. But deep down Tom knew he was just lazy.  How hard is it to set aside an hour a day? Beats freaking out on this fucking tram. I need to get to work. Errrr.

The stomach pains and the shaking started almost simultaneously, as if on cue. His hands shook first, then the rest of his arms. What will people think? I’m shaking like a leaf here. Maybe Dr Cameron will be available. Should I call him? Fuck!  The stomach pain was the worst. Like a need to vomit but not from food. Just a sharp reminder that he couldn’t relax. It was a truly unique sensation; Tom felt like there was something inside him. There is! This anxiety monster, this sleeping cunt. Why? Fucking why?

Tom almost felt like crying. He hated feeling scared and powerless, at the mercy of his own shortcomings. What if it doesn’t stop? What then? Maybe just half a Xanoe then? Just to switch it off. Errrrrrrrrrr. I’ll give it five minutes. He glanced down at his watch. 8:08. Only three minutes had passed but it felt like three years. He tried to regulate his breathing, to slow it down, but that proved impossible. His attempt to force a smile was foiled by his lips shaking. He unballed his fists and focused on his knuckles, white from being clenched up.

Gotta focus on something. Just relax and do your breathing exercises. Tom closed his eyes and tried to relax. He began by thinking of his toes and making them relax. He moved his thoughts up to his thighs and focused on stopping them moving. His breath slowed a little as he moved his focus up to the groin area. He realized that he needed to piss badly and moved on to his belly. Getting there! Come on!  He felt a bit less hot now, maybe just really warm. The breathing technique was helping, relaxing Tom from the feet up. Next was the chest. The chest was always the toughest part. Focussing on the chest always made him aware of his violently throbbing heart. As he began to breathe he put his hand to his heart and felt it slow a little. A few deep breaths now. In, two, three. Out, two, three. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Yes that’s it!

Tom moved from his chest to his shoulders and then to his arms. Easy enough. When his focus came to his hands he checked the time. 8:10. Fuck! Surely not only two minutes! I should have been a better person, nicer to Mum. Maybe this is punishment. Tom shook off the feeling of disbelief and continued with the breathing. His hands settled a little but hadn’t stopped shaking entirely. Now pick something nice to focus on. He thought of Sally. They had been on a couple of dates and Tom was pretty sure that she liked him.  Yeah that feels good. Maybe she’ll stay over this weekend.

The pressure on his bladder got worse with those kinds of thoughts. Maybe that relaxing exercise isn’t all good. It’s ok, keep thinking nice thoughts. Nearly at work now. 8:12. Fuck the time goes slowly. Music. Yes!  Tom fumbled and clicked play on his iPOD shuffle and the Kings of Leon started playing. Errrrr. Not now. Fucking Kings of Leon. He pressed skip. What next?  Slayer. Nope. Click. Fuck yes. Beethoven. Kinda relaxing, I guess. The ninth was one of his favourites.  Time to go.

Tom stood up and walked to the tram door. He was standing up a stop earlier than usual. Still no-one looked at him. Fucking Melbourne. No-one gives a shit about anyone else. Fuck it. A walk will be nice.

The chilly air hit Tom and a little shudder escaped him. There was something comforting about being in the cold. It gave him something else to think about. He exhaled and a wisp of fog came out. Dr Cameron had taught him to use his breath as an anchor; it helps him choose where his focus would be directed. To be in control of how he felt!

Tom usually slacked off when he was tired or hungover. That was how the laziness started but now he couldn’t be bothered most of the time. When he told Dr. Cameron about this, he said that those are the times when you need to practice breathing techniques the most. Practicing when you are not feeling great gives you strength for other moments of weakness, apparently. At that point Tom resolved to be honest with himself and try harder. It has to help stop this kind of bullshit from happening. Maybe I’ll even start exercising more. Ha! Even exercising a little more would be a vast improvement. Tom lit a smoke and inhaled deeply. He loved smoking. It probably contributed to his recent aversion to physical exercise. He quickened his pace towards work and saw a homeless person sitting outside McDonald’s holding a sign.  Fucking idiot.....Actually, fuck it. He probably has more need than I do. Tom fished in his pocket and found a five dollar note. He handed it to the bum and kept walking without looking back. He smiled.