Dystopia Chapter 5: I Did the Unthinkable

“She’s coming with me,” he demanded.

Emily broke away, stumbling to the ground in disarray, still pleading between sobs. Blood oozed from her lip.

Earl bent forwards squinting, focusing, cussing. Considering his options, still responding to the adrenaline flowing through his veins. A small crowd was now forming.

With him a step closer, I considered my future while watching Emily in my peripheral vision. Then, an unexpected memory of an exposed, beaten woman flashed in my thoughts. Almost six years ago, I saw my two daughters for the last time. I was delivering a tutoring session with an odious but affluent family, Mr. Eldridge. A local “power broker” with cattle ranches. I had promised to return home before sunset; I assured my family they would be safe. Instantaneously, these unwanted, unexpected images stabbed at my chest.

My throat tightened. Were they safe, happy, or, like Emily, abused by an indifferent world? No one ever identified the attackers. A flood of unanswered questions returned in a flash, still needing closure.

Shuffling from behind as spectators whispered. Now focused, I watched, hoping he would reconsider, that his anger would subside. Seconds ticked by. As if I could feel each one pounding in my chest.

He shifted his body; his hand twitched ever so slightly. I reacted. Raising his arm, he shot first, but in his condition missed, as the bullet hit the roof several feet in front of me. Spectators scattered. Committed, I took a second to aim center mass, fired, hit my target, a sound I will never forget, still focusing, a second later shot again. The slugs spun him back as he collapsed, crashing onto the rooftop. Would I pull the trigger knowing I would take a person’s life? Undeniably. Now I know the answer.

Emily on the ground pressed against the wall, wide-eyed, speechless, screaming. “You killed him.”

Shock set in. I turned, walked back toward the west entrance, looked out over the wall into darkness, doing my best to push the memories of my daughters away. Images of my wife. Feeling as if I had been physically and mentally battered. I felt sick.

I crept back to my space, scooted next to the chiminea, leaned against the wall, eyes closed, seeking sleep. Running from my past, the life I once had known, happier times. I felt completely drained, as if there was nothing left.

If only he had not missed, he could have ended my pain.

Emily, like every member of this tribe, was now on her own. I heard her voice. The only thing I said was, “Leave.”

The “mortician” and his team, always on notice, with too much to do, arrived to remove the body as everyone else moved on. Another day. Whispering.

My memories, compartmentalized as always. A skill I have perfected over the years… feelings stuffed away. I tried to find my daughters, and those that attacked my wife — to no avail.

In the morning, this tale would travel and inflate, as they always do. It’s always about the stories.

Ask anyone and everyone, and each will have their version, their take, hero or antihero, all deplorable. All the blame will fall on my shoulders.

I did the unthinkable.

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