Where are you, Marcus Aurelius?

He thought it would be glorious—an audition of his courage, patriotism and strength. For isn’t this what every man desires—to test one’s might or resolve through the crucible to struggle? To prove he is capable and resilient enough to endure life’s hardships? To not cower in the face of danger, but to meet it head-on, and eventually triumph in spite of all odds? To sacrifice his life and limbs, yet emerge triumphant for the noble cause of King and Country?

He could still feel it, the shiver that went up his spine when he saw that image of Lord Kitchener. It was as if the general was pointing directly at him, singling him out with call to defend the homeland from the barbarians who wished to decimate it. It was as if for the first time in his short life, he felt needed. He would no longer just be a working-class boy from the north, but a savior of a people, called to arms when the enemy stood at the gates. The course of history had finally presented him with a purpose, something worth fighting for and enduring all suffering. How could he let such an opportunity pass him by, a chance to prove his worth to his friends, family, and all those naysayers who saw him as nothing more than the son of mere coal miner.

But as his frail body endured the agony of the night air, stiff and throbbing as it was harassed by the winter breeze, the young Britton could not help but question his decision. That nationalistic fever which had once so splendidly infected his entire being, had now morphed into an anguished longing for nothing more than mere survival.

He was told it would be a short war, intense, yet quick and decisive. And like all other of the nation’s conflicts, it would serve as a reaffirmation of the steadfast determination and rigor of the British people. But here he still was. It had been well over a year, yet they were still where they had started. It was as if they were trapped in some filth ridden purgatory, enhanced by the scent of bodily waste and rotting corpses.

The young Britton could not remember the last time he’d had a shower. His uniform was ragged, it’s olive coloring now polluted with dried mud and blood, both of which gave his outfit a harsh, bristling feel. His hands were filthy and rugged, his fingernails entrenched with thick, dry dirt parcels. His face did not fare much better, as it was actually grubbier than his father’s was when he’d return from the mines.

He hadn’t had a warm meal in months, and he forced to subsist off the meager, rancid rations of a foot solider. Even the tea was putrid, which tasted like water infested with the crumbs of decayed leaves. He was exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in years. The last time the young man had actually felt the smoothness of a mattress was just before he was shipped off to France.

But here he was, a mere pawn thrust into a dystopian nightmare, a place of indescribable horrors, a region where the chimes of nature were drowned out  by the concussive and earth-shattering blasts of artillery, not to mention the numerous friends he’d lost, witnessing them cutdown like weeds by machine gun fire or fulminated by explosions, their fragmented remains decorating the battlefield like butchered ornaments. And for those lucky enough to escape such fortuity, they were often greeted with the affliction of illnesses that spread across the trenches like ink through a glass of water.

And amongst all this discomfort and anguish, his only current source of joy was the cigarette nestled between his lips, it’s spark being one of the few objects discernable within his vicinity. The young solider could feel the smoke rise into the air, offering his forehead only a temporary relief from the frost, as it gently curled up against the brim of his steel helmet.

He sat, leaning back into the wood and dirt embankment of the trench, his rifle close by his side as if he was a small child and it was his comfort toy. And as the young Britton remained perched there, wary yet vigilant, he thought back to all the things in life he had not experienced that he wished to accomplish.

There was a time, he remembered, when he believed himself invincible, impervious to the dangers that plagued weaker men. But after seeing his comrades ravished and maimed before his very eyes, many of whom were his age or younger, he knew now with certainty that death did not play favorites. Everyone in these trenches, friend and foe alike, were all the Grim Reaper’s potential prey. For he was a malicious presence which stalked these youths, as this war offered him the prime occasion to gratify his unquenchable appetite.

And so he sat, the young warrior, a boy who existed on this Earth only nineteen years, whose chances of departing this world too soon grew substantially greater with each passing second. For he knew now that every breath he took could very well be his last; and with that final gasp, all his hopes and ambitions would dissipate into oblivion.

            For there was so much he desired: to move out of Manchester, to earn a decent living, to purchase a home rather than being forced to rent a rundown apartment. He wanted to explore, to grow old, experience all the fruits this world had to offer. Moreover, he wished to achieve some notoriety, to be recognized for some great achievement. But most of all, he wanted to settle down, to find someone special and to start a family. Yet, here was, nothing more than a raw and unexperienced lad, unremarkable and unaccomplished in terms of career, distinction, love and self-fulfillment. Fighting a man’s war, yet ironically still a child. But would he ever live to full maturity? Would he survive long enough to reach life’s milestones: to move out, to achieve professional success, to lose his virginity, to get married?

            And as he contemplated this, sadness overcame him, because he knew this was his fate and there was nothing he could do about it, except to hope and pray. It was a harsh realization, one that viciously besieged his morale and faith. And as continued to puff on his cigarette, a tear stealthily descended down his cheek, dragging along the small tracts of muck as it did.

            And as he moved his head to wipe the tear away, he saw it. It was lying there, slightly hidden by a cover of dried mud. The young Brit picked it up and dusted away the grime. The book had a dark maroon leather cover, which felt rough as he slid his fingers down its jacket. He picked up his lamp and placed it near the manuscript. Meditations by Marcus Aurelias, the faded gold lettering read.

            The soldier opened the book, dusty residue escaping it as he did. The pages were an off-white color, old and tarnished. Yet, its words were still decipherable. And as he held the lamp on his knee with one hand, he began to read. In what felt like a mere instance, the young man was immersed, digesting each and every word, pausing to fully assimilate the text’s themes and messages.

            It was like nothing he’d ever read. He was never a big reader growing up, only reading a few books when forced to by his teachers, which he never enjoyed. But this was different. It was as if it was written for him, as if an author, a man had who existed two-thousand years earlier, was somehow conversing directly with him through the confines of space and time.

            For as he as scanned the text, the young Brit could imagine it: the grizzled Emperor, sitting at his at his desk penning his thoughts, all the while trapped by the cruel, cold confines of a Northern European military camp. Here was a sickly, fatigued military officer, cloaked in the armor and imperial garb of the princeps, contemplating his life, his mind always focused on his inevitable demise. It may have been a different time, different people, a different war, yet so much about them were alike. It was as if they had been fighting the same conflict, only centuries removed.

            This is how he imagined the great Marcus. A man, who like him, was fighting hordes of enemies from the Germanic frontier, at a time when many of the nations now embroiled in this war were under the united rule of one governing order. The young Brit pictured the battles he engaged in, the turmoil he suffered, the chaos he endured. And though things had changed since that time, the solider realized that man’s nature had not. For though technology had developed, the human mind was still just as prone to the sins and animalistic behavior of its ancestors.

            And so he continued his journey, reading day and night, whenever he had the chance. His stiff, frost ridden fingers jostling through the tatty pages, absorbing each word with swift and efficient deliberation. It became more than just a distraction for him, it was a way to put himself at ease, to find comfort in the most horrible of circumstances.

 His fear of death, of never knowing what else life had to offer, began to dissipate. For the young Britton came to accept that death was not the end, but as Marcus put it, the changing of matter from one form to another. Although we die, we are transformed into something else: the earth, the soil, the grass. And though the young Brit knew his fate may be sealed early, he adopted the view that all life is short. We are but a mere speck in time, our lifespans existing only for a quick instant. In the grand scheme of life, the universe’s perception of our existence was significantly less than what we perceive the lifespan of a housefly is.

And so he realized that with one’s demise came something else—freedom, liberation from impulse, pain, and sensation. For when one ceased to exist, so would the memories, along with urges, that control us like they’re puppeteers. Thereupon all would become a blank slate, our bodies no longer in existence, yet our matter forever whole and undamaged. And regardless of who we were in life, our class, career, fame, monetary status, we would all eventually suffer the same outcome. For death played the role of the great equalizer, it’s inevitable visit a consistent reminder that no organism standards of a god; that no man, no matter their status or self-aggrandizement, ever truly stands above his peers. 

            And though the young man wished to achieve much, to gain praise and acclaim, he realized that such things were trivial. As the sagacious Emperor told him, fame is only temporary. For, like the sands that constantly drift over other sand, so too does prominence over time. Though you may be remembered for a moment, others will appear; and no matter how renown you may become, all will eventually enter obscurity. For if all of humanity were to be exterminated in this war, the memory of everyone would be extinguished, and there would be no minds left to reminisce. Even the great empires of their days, The Roman, the German, the French, the British; if humanity ceased, so too would the chronicles of their rise and glorious achievements.

            And just when the young Brit finished the work, the order was given. The generals had ordered a new assault. They were going to try once again to break through the lines, to cross “No Man’s Land” and shatter the enemy defenses. Such attacks had failed so many times before, resulting in such needless carnage. Yet, it had become all too routine. For this was the reality of The Great War. If disease or malnourishment didn’t finish you off, then surely bombs, bullets, or bayonets would.

            Despite this awful truth, the soldier was ready. He was still scared, yet something about him had changed. For in consuming the philosopher’s work, he was now ready to accept his fate, no matter what it may be. And as he remained crouched near the ladder, the ground rumbling beneath as the shells blasted off, accompanied by the sound of the bullets as they zipped through the smoke infested air, he remained poised, ready to go over the top and charge straight towards the hostile barrage. For he now felt something he hadn’t experienced in a while—calmness. The young Britton was at peace, fully prepared to accept the whatever fait awaited him. And when the whistle finally blew, he flung himself up the ladder, as if it was the last thing he’d ever do.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton

Edelweiss for Emily

“Kill that little bitch!” an older gentleman screamed with unhinged fury. “Slaughter that evil little whore! Make her pay for what she has done! Make her pay!”

His deranged cries melded into the flurry of other shouts and roars from hundreds of others congregated with signs, whose depictions were rife with insults and derogatory slogans undignified of a civilized people, yet worshipped with cultish zeal by the horde. And as with all mobs, its avidity was infectious, spreading through each participate until their individual virtues of logic and reason had been subsumed by the vicious lusts of the body politic.

And all the while, within the eye of this monsoon of yells and ire, was an inconspicuous brick building. It was old, slightly rundown, and four stories high. It possessed no noteworthy attributes other than what it served. It was the home of a forum, a bastion of the rule of law, a symbol of civilization and justice, all aspects which distinguished humanity from all other living things. It represented the species’ abandonment of its animalistic nature for institutions and mechanics designed to uphold order, and thus quell the savage impulses of our ancestors.

            But as the screams and banging of the tribal masses were hurled at it, the building’s worn foundations began to tremble. Shaking could even be felt at the top floor where a seven-year-old girl sat. She was petite, with long, smooth, brown hair and slight lips. She possessed wide green eyes and a nose, while tiny, was well proportioned to the rest of her face. She was clad in a white dress decorated with animated characters from a popular children’s show, as well as shiny, miniature, black shoes. Her name was Emily; and though she appeared like any other little girl, she was the reason for the mob’s existence—the target of its animosity.

            She stood on the flimsy wooden chair, her legs crossed, fingers interlocked, as she swayed uneasily back and forth. Emily heard footsteps approaching down the dimly lit corridor and frantically turned to see who was there. Her apprehension immediately subsided when she made out the figure of Winston Disraeli, her father’s friend and attorney.

 He was in his late thirties, tall and gangly, with narrow shoulders. He had a thin face, which sported narrow, circular glasses. Winston always appeared to be disheveled and tonight was no exception. He was wearing a weathered, wrinkly, black suit, with a sportscoat that seemed like it was several sizes too big, along with a shoddy black tie and a blue dress shirt. His hair was dark and of medium length, curly and unkempt.

Winston sat down on the chair beside Emily. He lifted his old, haggard, brown briefcase on his lap and opened in. He reached in and pulled out a spectacular white flower. Winston handed it to Emily, who gleefully took it.

“It’s an edelweiss.” Winston said. “My sister grows them in her garden. Your dad told me they’re your favorite.”

Emily gazed at Winston and smiled before sniffing the flower.

“Thank you.” She coyly remarked.

They sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the ominous brown door in front of them. Winston looked over at Emily and noticed several tears rolling down her cheeks.

He softly placed his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Emily.”

She sniffed while wiping away her tears.

“I don’t understand,” she uttered in a broken voice, “why does everyone hate me? What did I do to make everyone hate me?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

She turned to face Winston.

“Then why do they hate me?”

He paused for a moment, contemplating how best to explain this to the young girl.

“Emily, have you ever heard of reincarnation?”

She shook her head.

“A long time ago some people believed in this thing called reincarnation. They believed that when people died, their souls would pass on to new bodies and they would live new lives, while having no memory of their old lives. So, though your body dies, your spirit continues on living a new life as a different person. Well, several years before you were born, scientists discovered that this is what happens. That when we die, our souls or our energy, transfer over to a new life, so that we are born into a new body. Not only that, it was discovered that there was a way to track our souls and learn about our past lives.”

Emily continued gazing up at Winston, her eyes unmoving. Winston closed his brief case and placed it by his feet before continuing.

“But you see, Emily, sometimes our past lives belonged to people who were not very good. This is common for many, as lots of us have lived multiple past lives. But unfortunately, Emily, a past life you lived was of a very, very, very bad man.”

Emily looked away from him and at the floor.

“So, I’m a bad person?”

Winston placed his hand on her back.

“No, Emily, you’re not a bad person. You’re a wonderful human being. The problem is you share the soul of someone who was a bad person. But that bad person isn’t you. It was someone else, someone from a different time who did things that you have no recollection of and that I firmly believe you can’t be held responsible for. And that’s why I’m here tonight, to explain that you’re not that person—that you’re a good person.”

Emily remained with her head facing the floor.

“I promise it will all be okay.” Winston reassured her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The door swung open. An old, short, plump, woman with glasses and thinning hair came halfway into the room.

“He will see you now.”

Winston picked up his briefcase with one hand and took Emily’s with the other. She tightly clenched his and they slowly made their way through the door, past the secretary’s desk and into a dark office. It had a massive oak desk, with a big wood and leather chair behind it. Two more smaller chairs were located along the other side of the desk, along with one in the far corner of the room, adjacent to the door.

Winston motioned to the corner chair. Emily complied and trotted over to it, then perched herself upon it. She sat silently, nervously twirling the white flower’s stem in her hands. An older gentleman then entered from a small, obscure, door beside a large book case. His hair was gray and receding. He possessed thick glasses and wore a long black robe. He stumbled over to the large chair and was about to sit down until he saw Winston.

“Where the hell is he?” Judge Marcus Mill demanded.

“I have no idea. We were just waiting out in the hall. I never saw him.”

The judge peered over at Emily, squinting.

“Aw, so this is the girl in question,” he said.

“Yes, your honor.” Winston answered. “That is her.”

Just then, the office door violently swung open and a man charged in.  He was in his early forties, tall, with dark eyes and a thin face. He was dressed in an ornate charcoal suit, a white dress shirt, and a dazzling red tie, along with a gold watch and offensively expensive black shoes, so well-polished that they shined, despite the room’s dull luminesce. His brown hair was slicked back, decorated with various shades of gray, some strands he purposefully dyed as he believed the frost would reward him with higher credibility. His posture was immaculate, emanating a strong presence—an arrogant allure made all the more prevalent by his derisive charisma.  Jeff O’Rourke placed his briefcase on the desk and straightened his tie. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said in a contemptuously apologetic tune.

“Mr. O’Rourke,” Judge Mill, pronounced, “I have a full docket. I don’t have time to wait around. Next time, be here on time or don’t bother showing up. Understood?”

Though clearly slighted, Jeff responded in the affirmative. The Judge took a seat.

 “Alright, let’s get started,” he said, as he opened a vanilla folder and began reading. “I hereby open this closed-door session of this tribunal for the Citizen’s Republic of California, Monterey Division, case number 1692, on the date of February 19, 2075.”

The judge gazed up at the men and leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his belly, fingers interlocked.

“Mr. O’Rourke. You are the prosecutor bringing this case, so you may begin.”

Mr. O’Rourke took several steps forward, cleared his throat, and began.

“Your honor, I’m here today not for my own benefit or that of any other interest other than that of justice. For a society to function, for its people to continue to have faith in its institutions and procedures, it is important that we insure all people are held accountable for their actions. This is true for anyone, no matter who they are, how wealthy they are, what they do for a living, etc. When someone commits a heinous act, that person must receive his just desserts.  But for this to be true, punishment can’t just be reserved for actions committed in this life, but past actions as well. Now, some may argue that it’s unfair to impute the bad deeds of one onto another. However, crimes of the past can’t just go unanswerable, especially when we know who the culprits are.”

Jeff turned and aggressively pointed to Emily.

“She may seem like a sweet, innocent, little girl,” he said in a tone of tranquil ferocity, “but inside her lingers the soul of one the most evil men to have ever walked this earth. A monster whose crimes tarnish our species’ history, spitting directly in the face of morality and humanity. For, sitting there, on that bench, is none other than the devil himself, the butcher of so many, the slaughterer of millions through war and genocide— Adolf Hitler.”

The room went silent. The judge twiddled his thumbs, contemplating the attorney’s words for a bit, before turning to Winston.

“Mr. Disraeli, your response.”

Winston stepped forward. He turned to Jeff, took note of the obnoxious smirk which oozed from his lips, and began.

“Your honor, there have been many moments throughout mankind’s history where people were judged and punished based on actions which they had taken no part in, which occurred generations, often centuries, before they even existed. Blood libel, ancestral sin, intersectionality, these were all ascriptions of collective guilt onto specific groups or segments of society without regard to the nature, circumstance or character of an individual. In essence, because of circumstances beyond their control, certain persons were imprinted with a sort of original sin, like a large, conspicuous birthmark. They were blemished with certain attributes and characteristics based on notions of group identity, regardless of the often obscure and subjective nature of such groups. Thus, numerous innocent people were tarnished by former deeds which some believed, rightly or wrongfully, were perpetrated by their ancestors.

            Disraeli paused for a moment, then continued.

            “Today, the days of holding those answerable for ancestral sins are long behind us, mostly because we now know that many lived a variety of different lives throughout our souls’ existence. Yet, the ugly pervasion that we must assign guilt to someone in order to atone for some forgone incidents, to rectify some earlier depravity in order to scapegoat, ease resentments, or offer comfort via displays of one’s moral superiority, continue to pollute the human psyche.

Your honor, I’m not here today to defend Adolf Hitler. Far from it. But the child you see sitting there is not Adolf Hitler. Does she share the same soul? Yes. But she is not him. Emily and Hitler have lived completely different lives during completely different eras. Their personalities and upbringings are nothing alike. Moreover, Emily has no memory of these incidents. For her, World War II and the Holocaust are just as much historical occurrences as they are for everyone else living today. The idea that we can pass judgment on someone based on prior lives, which they have zero recollection of or connection to, is preposterous and unmerited. I therefore ask the tribunal to dismiss this action against my client.”

            O’Rourke snickered.

            “You can’t be serious?” he scoffed, with a sardonic smile. “You’re really trying to equate things like the blood libel and original sin to this instance? Look, let’s get something straight here. That little girl is not on trial because she’s a descendant of Hitler or his henchmen. She’s on trial because she literally is Hitler. The soul of that wicked man manifests throughout the entire essence of her being. How can that not be any clearer?”

            “So, you believe we should judge people based on lives they don’t remember?” Winston fired back.

            “Yes. I mean, it’s the same soul after all. And there is precedent for it. We’ve been holding these trials since we first learned about reincarnation and how to track souls. We tried and punished Angelia Wong when we discovered she possessed the soul of Nathan Bedford Forrest. We did the same with Judy Stein when we concluded that she was the reincarnation of our current defendant’s right-hand man, Joseph Goebbels.”

            Jeff O’Rourke, infused with certainty that he’d deflected his rival’s lackluster argument, haughtily turned to him. But the feeling quickly dissipated, when he made out a subtle, confident smile on his opponent’s face.

            “But you’ve made exceptions, haven’t you?”

            Jeff mockingly raised an eyebrow.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I’m talking about soul amalgamation. Does the name Trent Baker ring a bell?

            A look of rage permeated the prosecutor’s face.

            “Those were completely different circumstance and you know it!”

            “What the hell is he talking about, Mr. O’Rourke,” the Judge demanded.

            Jeff signed with annoyance.

            “Trent Baker was a man who several years ago we discovered possessed the soul of the serial killer Ted Bundy. We were going to bring a case against him, but there were other facts which came to light.”

            Jeff paused.

            “Like what?” the judge asked, impatiently.

            “That he was the product of soul amalgamation. You see, souls are a strange thing. Even though we can track them, there is still much we don’t understand about them. One thing souls sometimes do is merge, meaning that two or more souls of deceased persons will merge, becoming a single soul and occupying a single individual.  In the case of Trent Baker, it came to our attention that his soul was an amalgamation between Ted Bundy and Martin Luther King, Jr. Because of these unusual circumstances, we decided not to prosecute. Dr. King was a great man and a hero, after all.”

            The judge meticulously rubbed his chin before responding.

            “But yet, Mr. Baker was still technically the reincarnation of Ted Bundy, was he not?”

            “Yes, your honor. There is no doubt about that. But he was also the reincarnation of Dr. King as well. To be honest, I have no idea what this has to do with this proceeding. Only one soul dwells within this girl and it’s Hitler’s.”

            “The point I’m trying to make,” Winston retorted, “is that you let someone off the hook despite the fact he shared the soul with a mass murderer. It may not have been his only soul, but it was part of it. Thus, the question becomes how does one weigh the evil deeds of Ted Bundy with the good deeds of Dr. King? What if Ted Bundy’s soul had merged with someone of an undistinguished past who lived a morally average life? What would you have done then? Would Ted Bundy’s deeds have completely usurped the other soul’s and thus would you have sought punishment?”

            Jeff began to comment, but his opponent interrupted.

            “And let’s not forget, the souls of Bundy and King lived other lives as well. One of Bundy’s past lives, for instance, was of St. Francis, while it’s been recently uncovered that King was one of the reincarnations of Atilla the Hun.”

            “One of the reincarnations?” a puzzled Judge Mill remarked.

            “Yes, your honor.” Winston responded. “Which brings me to my next point. The issue of soul splinter. Would you care to explain that, Mr. O’ Rourke?”

            Jeff shot his rival a brief, poisonous glance, then gave his explanation.

            “Soul splinter is another aspect of what can happen to a soul post-mortem. For reasons unknown, sometimes a soul can split into two or multiple souls, occupying more than one individual.”

            “Which brings me to the next point,” Winston added. “Several years ago, it was uncovered that Abraham Lincoln’s soul had split following his assassination. There are three current inhabitants of his soul. The first is a man named Robert Lindgren, the current chancellor of the city-state of Scottsdale. The second is Royce Franks, an electrician from Tahoe. The third is…”

            Winston paused for a moment before revealing.

            “The third is Barney Neel.”

            The judge’s eyes widened.

            “You mean,” Judge Mill said, “that Barney Neel, the man who drugged and raped a dozen women, was…”

            Winston turned to Jeff, who uttered a painfully unambiguous, “Yes.”

            “Which is why,” Winston continued, “he was given the light sentence of one year’s jail time, plus probation and community service.”

            The judge’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the prosecutor.  

            “Is this true, Mr. O’Rourke? Though I was not involved in this case, I’m surprised to hear he got such a cushy deal.”

            “You honor,” Jeff responded in a tone of reposeful uneasiness, “my office has always been dedicated to upholding the highest senses of justice and fairness. But we felt that such a harsh sentence was unwarranted due to the fact that this man was a reincarnation of the one the greatest people to have ever lived; of a man who ended slavery on this continent and kept the former United States together during such turbulent times.”

            The judge stared at Jeff for a while, his expression ominously unreadable. He then looked at Winston.

“Any further comments regarding this matter?

            “No, your honor.”

            “What about you, Mr. O’Rourke.”

            “Same.”

            Judge Marcus Mill rose from his chair, grabbing the vanilla folder as he did.

            “Gentlemen, I have much to think about. I thank you both for your time.”

            The judge turned towards the side door and exited.

            Without glancing at Jeff, Winston swung around towards his client. She was still huddled in the corner, visibly shaken by the ordeal. As he approached her, the two locked eyes, as Winston shot her a quick smile. She beamed back, hesitantly, but with an unmistakable warmness. She took his hand while her other clutched the flower, and they exited the room.

            Later that night, Winston sat at the bar of his favorite local joint, sipping a beer as he tried to unwind from the tense ordeal. He thought he had done well, but his mind couldn’t help wondering about the fate of Emily. Even if she was found innocent, it wouldn’t be the end of it. The mobs would still clamor for her blood, all for something she couldn’t even understand—for something which he couldn’t even understand

            Winston placed the glass to his lips, when he felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder.

            “I’ll have what he’s having,” said the familiar voice.

            The man sat beside him and without looking at Winston, Jeff said, “Good job, today. Honestly, I’m quite impressed. It appears the Sandra Day O’ Connor College of Law produces more talented attorneys than I thought.”

            Winston, ignoring the backhanded praise, took a quick drink.

            “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment coming from a Harvard man.”

            O’ Rourke chuckled.

           

            “Well, I guess no one’s ever as truly smart as they think they are, least of all us Ivy Leaguers.” He said, with an air of pompous humility.

            The bartender handed Jeff a glass and the two drank together in silence for what felt like ages. Finally, Winston turned to Jeff.

            “Look, I have to ask. Between you and me, lawyer to lawyer, why are doing this? You’ve seen that little girl. How can you possibly want to bring such charges against her? And don’t give me this bullshit about how you’re ‘committed to the interest of justice’. We both know that’s not true.”

            Jeff took a drink, contemplating for a moment how to respond.

            “Winston, look our society today. I mean, really look it. We’re living at the pinnacle of human achievement. Yet, we’re more unhappy and discontent than ever. We have everything we ever need, yet something is missing. And let me tell you, I know what that is—it’s purpose. People today lack a sense of purpose, something to standup and fight for. People need that. In fact, they crave it like an irresistible narcotic.”

            He took another drink then swung his head to face Winston.

            “As for me, I have purpose. I know what I want in life. What I want is to be something. To be a person whom the masses can look up to and who can provide with the sense of purpose that they’re searching for. And to do that, I need to rally them around something—some kind of cause that can feed their appetite for righteousness; that can provide them with a sense that their lives have meaning, that we’re not just pointless specks who are briefly and aimlessly passing through a fruitless existence. So I give them a cause, and they reward me for showing them the way.”

            “So, this is all about personal ambition for you?” Winston accused. “You further your career by pointing out those who are sinners and saints for no other reason than to further your own career?”

            “You make it sound so devious,” Jeff said, “but think about it, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m fulfilling the masses’ need for a cause while helping myself in the process, and, by achieving higher office, I can help them further. I guess I’m killing three birds with one stone.”

            “The way you speak though, it sounds almost religious.”

            “Of course it’s religious, Winston. A man’s heart needs to be filled by something, and if not spiritual, then it needs to be something else. Otherwise, what are we living for? What are we working towards?”

            The two lawyers sat silently for a moment before Jeff began again.

            “I know it’s not ideal, Winston, but think of it this way. In ancient times, certain individuals were sacrificed in order to appease the gods and ensure that civilization continued to exist and prosper. That’s all I’m doing here. I’m sacrificing a few to ensure that the people have something worth fighting for; worth living for.”

            Jeff finished his drink and stood up. He started to walk away, before turning back to Winston.

            “You really did do a good today. I mean that.”

            With that, Jeff departed the bar leaving Winston sitting there drinking, alone.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton

           

But Why Him?

Tarquin Hathorne. Journal Entry: October 15, 2016

            Have you ever loved someone so much that you’re willing to not only engage in hollow activities, but sacrifice your own tastes and enjoyments just so you can please him or her? I can’t even count how many shopping ventures I’ve gone on, errands I’ve run, trite chick flicks I’ve watched for no other reason than to be near to her and thus acknowledge my importance in her life.

            And last night, it seemed as if all my hard work had finally paid off. We were in her apartment, sitting together on her couch, watching a movie and eating popcorn. It was a film I’d never seen before, Mean Girls. It’s apparently gospel for millennial women. I personally had never gotten around to seeing it, but Amelia insisted I watch it with her.

            “Trust me, you’ll love it!” She said with a beautiful, beaming smile.

            How could I possibly resist? It may be a dull and shoddy expression of entertainment, but how often do I get the chance to spend alone time with her?

Interestingly enough, it wasn’t half bad. Sure, it’s full of clichés and obnoxious teenage-girlisms, but the overall message of the film, its deeper meaning, was quite intriguing. A young girl, Cady Heron, innocent, sweet and sheltered, becomes acquainted with the domineering, narcistic, ill-natured Regina George. After being wronged by her, Cady and her friends concoct a plan to destroy her. What starts out for Cady as simple high school drama quickly morphs into an obsession. She hates Regina, wants her decimated, yet is still weirdly infatuated with her to the point where she actually starts to become her.

It’s a strange commentary on human nature, I guess—the notion that we are secretly attracted to what we hate; that the more and more we try to fixate on the object of our aversion, the more we start to become it. Maybe chick flicks have a deeper meaning than I thought. Or perhaps, I’m just reading too much into it.

Whatever the case, it was difficult to focus, because, as I was trying to digest the movie’s more substantive aspects, my mind kept wandering to her. For every fleeting moment I had, my eyes would peer over to her, her knees pulled up to her chest while her toes gently clutching the sofa’s edge. And then there were her thighs, so voluptuous and exposed beneath those pajama shorts, while her breasts swelled under her tight, white tee-shirt, which was partially covered by her long, golden hair.

Finally, the movie ended. She turned and stared at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. I felt my body begin to tremble, knowing that this may finally be it. I had imagined it playing out like this a thousand times over. She would look at me and, in an epiphany, would realize that I was more than a friend to her. After all this time, she would understand that I had so much to offer her. Then she would stare deep into my eyes and lean over. This is where our love story would begin, the point where at long last, she would be mine.

“Did you like it?” Amelia asked.

“I actually enjoyed it,” I replied.

A smile crept on her face.

“See, I told you that you would like it,” she gloated.

We looked at each other, not saying a thing. She then reached over, placing her soft hand upon mine. The hairs on my arm stood up and my heart began to race. She then leaned in. This was it. It was about to happen. After all this time, I would finally taste those succulent lips.

“Thank you for being such a good friend,” she remarked. “You’ve always been there for me. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

And then, she said those fatal words that every lovesick male dreads.

“You’re like a brother to me.”

And with that one sentence, my heart sank. A pain struck my chest, as if a knife had pierced it.  It’s amazing. It only took few words for all my hopes and aspirations to suddenly be demolished.

“Thank you. I feel the same way about you,” I replied, listlessly.

I can’t think of another moment when I have spoken such hollow words. I tried to form a smile in a desperate attempt to mask my sorrow. If only she knew the suffering she had just inflicted upon me with those seemingly harmless words. I wish I could bring myself to tell her. If only I could make her understand that we’re a perfect match, that I’m the one who could provide and care for her like no one else could. How is it that someone so intelligent cannot see that what she needs is right in front of her?

Her phone then chimed. She picked it up.  

“Barron’s coming by,” she announced, with a smile.

Ugh, Barron McCloud. If a laboratory were to construct the perfect asshole, a man with every negative quality, it would be Barron. He’s a rich, womanizing, wannabe alpha-male, tool whose only accomplishments are due to his family’s connections and daddy’s money. He always dresses in over-the-top, expensive, conspicuous attire, made all the more douchey by that ugly combover, which makes him look like the stereotypical blonde villain from an 80’s teen movie.

It wasn’t long before there was a loud knock on the door accompanied by an obnoxious whine.

“Yo, Amelia! It’s Barron! Open up!”

Amelia pranced over to the door and opened it. Barron stumbled in, obviously tipsy.

“Sup, girl,” he sputtered like some braindead Neanderthal.

They embraced; and as he stood there holding her, he noticed me. He released her.

“Hey, man,” he said, trying to focus on me. “You’re, ugh…wait, don’t tell me…”

I’ve met this idiot about five fucking times.

“It’s Tarquin,” I finally remarked. “Tarquin Hathorne.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, bro. I’m super bad with names, ya’ know?”

I don’t know how such a shithead functions in our society or why Amelia wastes her time hanging out with him. Seriously, how does a girl who graduated near the top of her class at a prestigious university become friends with an alcoholic frat boy who barely graduated from college and who could only find a job at his father’s firm?

They both sat down, Amelia at one end of the couch with Barron between us. He smelled like a shitty Scottsdale bar at 2 am. He placed his arm around her, and, as usual, began his typical bragging monologue. What I would give to see him get struck by a bus. He’s such a worthless waste of space.

It got late. Amelia said she needed to get some sleep. Barron, being the gentlemen he was, offered to stay and help “put her to bed.” She declined. I guess she is not as naive as I imagined.

Barron and I left, and walked out together. I did not offer him a ride, as the thought of doing something helpful for that ass-clown made me physically ill. Instead, I hustled to my car and drove off, hoping that he would find his way into some deep, desolate ditch. I could only be so lucky.

Journal Entry: October 31, 2016.

I’ve never understood Halloween, a holiday rooted in strange rituals and occult themes. A night when children pester their neighbors for junk food, teenagers wreak havoc, and the sluts and deviants indulge in their salacious sides, all the while the repugnant gain attention through offensive “shock” costumes.  And that’s not even mentioning the Halloween parties, pathetic spectacles consisting of disguised drunkards decimating what little brain functions they have left.

I hate this holiday so much. But tonight, I put all that aside because she invited me out. She actually called me and told me that she wanted me to go with her. How could I refuse? Just being with near her is a treat.

I met her at her place at around eight. I drove because I don’t really drink and I had no intention to tonight. I walked up to the door and knocked. I heard her tell me to come in. I entered her small apartment and walked over to the sofa, the place we had sat together just weeks earlier. I sat down on the couch and waited.

Amelia eventually came out of her room, and my God, was she stunning! Sure, her costume wasn’t what I would term ‘inventive’. But she wore it so well: the grey dress, the pointed crown, the yellow torch. She was so mesmerizing. I felt like how immigrant must have felt when they first viewed the real Statue of Liberty upon sailing into Ellis Island. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."

If only I could have her right now, nestled in my arms, every fear and anxiety I have or ever will have would melt away, like the famine and oppressiveness of far off lands did for millions of migrants when they laid their eyes upon the Colossus’s majesty.

I, on the other hand, did not even compare. I’m not a big costume person. I bought some plastic fangs at a gas station and tied a black cloak around my back. It wouldn’t win me the award for best costume, but it did the trick.

We arrived at the party a little after 9:00. The party was what I expected—loud, smelly, insufferable. But at least I was with her. I can always count on Amelia to lighten even the worst experience. Yet, as much as I tried to stay close, Amelia did what Amelia does best— such a lively and social creature does not stay idle.

She was soon making her rounds, traversing from person to person like a bride greeting guests on her wedding day. I attempted to remain near, but not even I could keep up with her. Eventually, I fell by the wayside and wandered over to a corner where I wouldn’t be disturbed.

I stood there, miserable, wondering how and why I talked myself into attending this awful gathering. I looked over at her as she chatted with several guys and could not help but feel abandoned. Here I am, the man who took her to this thing, and I’m just shoved into a vacant corner. I get it, she’s outgoing, but I came to this stupid party solely because of her. Can’t she see that? Doesn’t that mean anything to her?

But things only got worse when he arrived. Dressed in a tacky Andrew Jackson getup, I watched as Barron crept his way towards Amelia. And as she turned to look at him, I saw it—her unmistakable gaze of attraction. They began to chat. She moved close to him, and every so often would lightly press her hand against his arm or chest.

I was angry, horrified. How could this be happening? How could she find him attractive?  This wasn’t possible. This was not the girl I knew. I could not sit by and watch this. I had to leave.

I approached them, and without even acknowledging Barron, told her I was leaving. She asked me to stay, but I declined, giving some excuse about how I needed to get up early in the morning. She gave me a hug, and then I walked off. I turned around to give her a final glance. She had already forgotten about me as she was looking up at Barron, smiling, staring deep into his eyes.

I don’t know what has gotten into her, how a girl who is so sweet and intelligent could possibly find anything of value in such a massive dumb-fuck? Maybe it’s just a temporary thing— a momentary weakness in judgement. I’ve known Amelia for years, and though she’s had flings with assholes, she eventually comes to her senses. Plus, she’s older now, wiser and more mature. She is at the age where she is looking to settle down. She knows there is no future with such a distasteful man.

She might not know it yet, but she wants an intelligent man, one who will be loyal to her, who will be loving, who will care and provide for her. I’m that man, and I know that deep inside she knows it as well. One day she will see it, I just know it.

Journal Entry: November 8, 2016

This is un-fucking believable! How can this be happening?! How the fuck is this possible!? This can’t be real! It’s like I’m living a fucking nightmare right now!  How could she do this?! What in God’s name is she thinking?!

All the hours I spent with her, and all the things I’ve done her for. Always by her side, always there for her— whether it was something she needed done or a just shoulder to cry on after some man-boy broke her heart. I cared for her, gave her the respect and admiration that no one else would or could ever give her. And how does she repay me?  She chooses him, a bombastic, awful, loathsome prick from the ‘One Percent’!

What is wrong with her? Why can’t she see it? Doesn’t she know what will happen? Doesn’t she know that he doesn’t really care about her, that she is just another notch in his belt? All he is going to do it hurt her. He will have his fun with her, then cast her off like she is some used child’s toy.  And then she has the audacity to call and tell me.

“He’s actually really sweet.” She exclaimed. “I know he acts like a dick sometimes, but it’s mostly an act. Deep down inside, he is a really good guy.”

“A really good guy?” Is this the same guy who cheated on his last two girlfriends? Whose Twitter feed is just an endless array of derogatory slogans and vulgar observations? Whose nickname in college was the ‘Poon Poacher’?

And yet, she speaks of him as if he possesses some hidden redeeming qualities. It’s like she sees herself as Belle and he is her Beast, and it’s her mission to break the witch’s spell, thereby freeing the inner, handsome prince. But there is no Prince Charming in this tale, for there exists no inner good inside this cretin. He is a predator, a monster, a narcissistic deviant who uses sexual promiscuity as a means to further inflate his already swollen ego. 

I’m the one she should be with, the one who is supposed to be with her, not that wretched, deplorable creep. I’m the one who would be loyal to her, who would emotionally support her, who would give her the life she deserves. She just can’t see it yet because she’s been blinded by the spell of lust.

No, no, no, this can’t happen. I won’t let it happen. I need to stop this, not for me, but for her. Because I know what he will do to her if this continues. It’s my job to protect her, to save her. I know what’s good for her. I know what she needs, and it’s not him. I must destroy this union at every juncture or she will suffer. I’m her only hope.

Journal Entry: November 16, 2016

Tonight Amelia and I met for a drink. I had not seen or spoken to her since last week, when she told me the awful news about how she had a new boyfriend, the insufferable Barron McCloud.

We met at a bar near her apartment. As I approached the entrance, I saw her through the window, sitting alone a table near the corner. She had just gotten off work. She was dressed in a fine, black, dress suit. Her silky blonde hair was tied neatly in a bun. She looked so proficient, sitting there with that perfect upright posture, glimmering with an aura of grace so pronounced that even a blind man could sense her magnificence.

She saw me as I walked in and shot me a smile, that heavenly beam which could make even the most hardened person’s heart melt. She stood up and we hugged.

Things went well, at least at first. We caught up a bit. I asked her about work and she asked about how I’d been. It was pleasant, things always are with her. There is no person on this Earth who can make me feel the way I do when I’m with her. However, I brought up Barron and things quickly turned south.

I told her my concerns about her new man. I reminded her about his past as well as the things he’s done and said. I stated that I didn’t believe he really liked her, that he just viewed her as another one of his conquests. I expressed how much I cared about her and how the last thing I wanted was to see her get hurt.

Amelia listened, diligently, never once breaking eye contact. I knew she saw the concern on my face and thus knew full well that it was legitimate. When I finished, she looked down for a second, opened her mouth, then peered up at me as she began to speak.

“Tarquin, I really do appreciate your concern. You’re a really good friend, you always have been. But I think you have the wrong impression about Barron. You just…you don’t know him like I do. I know he comes off a little crass sometimes, but he really is a good guy.”

“A ‘good guy’?” I replied. “A ‘good guy’?” This is the guy who only six months ago posted a side-by-side picture of an ex-girlfriend of his with an ostrich with the caption ‘Separated at birth?’ How can you actually believe that he is a ‘good guy’?”

“I know he has made mistakes in the past, but haven’t we all? He’s really matured…”

“Matured?!” I interrupted. “Only after six months?! Are you even listening to yourself!? Seriously, if you could hear yourself you would realize how moronic you sound!”

Her face quickly soured.

“You don’t have to be mean or call me names. I was hoping that as my friend you would at least be supportive. Maybe if you just got to know him you would see that he is not all that bad.”

“’Get to know him?’ Why would I want to get to know him? Jesus, I can’t believe I’m fucking hearing this. You have really have lost it.”

Amelia grabbed her leather purse and stuffed her phone in it.

“I have to get up early tomorrow,” she abruptly remarked. “I’m going to go pay. It was good seeing you, Tarquin.”

She stood up, gracefully, pushed in her chair, and stormed off without even looking back at me.  I don’t understand this. Has she been brainwashed? Why is she so naïve? Why can’t I just get through to her? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I can’t let this happen, I just can’t. I need to end this. Someway, somehow, I must end this.

Journal Entry: November 24, 2016

If only I could find something to show Amelia how big of a scumbag Barron really is. There has to be something. I mean, no family becomes this rich and powerful without having at least a dozen or so skeletons in their closet, right? A commercial real estate company which engages in business ventures the world over, there must be some shady shit going on there: bribes to government officials, backhanded deals with building inspectors, connections to organized crime figures, something along those lines. Yet, despite hours of research, I found nothing substantive.

Sure, I’ve heard rumors. There’s been talk for years now about how his father was involved in corrupt deals with foreign government officials, such as Russian oligarchs, Saudi princes, and Chinese bureaucrats. But this may be just conjecture. Not to say that it’s not true. In fact, I believe it is. A family like the McClouds surely rubs shoulders with the many nefarious figures. I mean, I know Barron. How could a man like that not? But without hard proof, I can’t convince Amelia.

So, I decided that I needed to up the ante a bit. I’ve begun tracking and following Barron on my free time. This has proved to be a rather simple task, considering he works in one of Phoenix’s most accessible buildings. Moreover, because he is always posting pictures on his Instagram story, it’s easy to know where he is.

However, he’s been spending an exorbitant amount of time with Amelia. This is unfortunate, not only because he’s further sinking his teeth into her, but because it’s hindering my investigation. How am I supposed to dig up dirt on this douchebag if he’s constantly spending time with her? He’s not going to behave in his usual nefarious way around her. I need to catch him in the act, like cheating or ripping someone off. I must find something concrete, something that will prove to Amelia beyond any doubt that he is no good for her.

What is it that you’re hiding, Barron McCloud? I know there is some secret you don’t want the world to know, that you don’t want Amelia to discover. Whatever it is, I promise you I will find out what it is and expose you.

Journal Entry: December 5, 2016

It’s strange the things you’re willing to do for a person you adore. You think you know yourself, know what you’re capable of, then you fall in love with someone and see that person is in peril. Suddenly, you’re engaging in acts that you never thought you would, committing actions you’ve told yourself you’d never do.

What is it about love which brings this about? Has love changed my character or has it only unleashed a darkness which always lurked deep inside without me even knowing it?

I know Barron is an evil man, but proving it to Amelia has been more difficult than I imagined. I’ve texted and called her countless times, pleaded with her to see him for who he really is, but to no avail. It’s gotten to the point where she is now screening my communications. How did it come to this, my best friend not even willing to talk to me?

So, I decided on a different approach. During times of war, it’s often necessary for leaders to take actions which, from an outside perspective, may appear immoral and possibly illegal. This includes deception, the quashing of freedoms, the ordering of executions, etc. This has been true for leaders like Lincoln, F. D. R. and Winston Churchill. Yet, despite these seemingly heinous acts, these men hold a place of reverence in our psyches.

I can’t prove that Barron has done anything illicit with regards to his work, family, or his relationship with Amelia. But I know that he is a despicable brute, and eventually he will hurt her. It is thus necessary to stretch the truth a bit, to perpetrate misinformation in order to save Amelia.

This might appear objectionable; but it’s for her own good. Because just like Churchill when he used dishonesty and trickery to save democracy, I must do the same to protect her. What other option do I have? It’s not like I’m being completely dishonest. Sure, I may not be factually correct, but I’m morally right. Amelia’s future well-being demands that I take drastic measures. The end justifies the means.

I’ve set up several fake social media accounts. I’ve messaged her from these anonymous sources, telling her that I have seen Barron with other women. I’ve told her that I witnessed him using drugs during his boy’s nights out and that he has been saying grotesque things about her behind her back. I even texted her things from a burner phone I picked up at a drug store.

Regrettably, none of these tactics seem to have worked. She has never responded to any message and is still with him.  Does she know that I’m the one behind them? No, she can’t know. How could she? Barron must have his fair share of enemies. How could a man like that not?

I can’t give up though. Sitting back and letting her be emotionally destroyed is not an option. I love her, and I will not stop until that fucking prick is permanently out of her life.

Journal Entry: December 25, 2016

It’s been a tradition every Christmas to call Amelia. I’ve been doing it since we first became friends. She spends the holiday season with her family in Monterey, which usually is quite a burden for her, since her family is rather dysfunctional, to say the least.

We’ll usually talk for well over an hour, discussing the various mishaps which accompanies the holidays. However, when I called, there was no answer. I tried once more an hour later, but still, no answer.  I decided instead to text her.

“Merry Christmas!!! Call me when you get the chance. Would love to talk to you. Hope all is well!”

About an hour later, I received a response.

“Thx. You too.”

That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? You don’t even return my fucking call?! You just message back three fucking words!

This is his doing. Barron has obviously turned her against me. It’s like the more I try to push him away, the closer to her he gets.  How is this possible? Why can she still not see him for the sick, wanton asshole he really is?  Merry Christmas to me, I guess.

Journal Entry: January 1, 2017

My grandpa once told me that New Year’s Eve was “amateur hour.”

“It’s when every dipshit in America who doesn’t know how to drink comes out and wreaks havoc for a night,” he once said.

I tend to agree with him. I have never been a big New Year’s Eve fan, but this one was particularly egregious.  As I was home last night, alone, I scrolled through Instagram. I saw that Amelia posted a picture. It was of her and Barron kissing with the caption, “Here’s to a new year with new friends, including this cute bozo!”

My heart sank. Seeing someone you care about so deeply not just kissing something else, but being so infatuated with them, is one of the most severe pains you can suffer. That should be me in that photo. I should be the one kissing her when the clock strikes midnight, not him.

Here’s to another awful year.

Journal Entry: January 20, 2017

You have got to be fucking kidding me?! They are moving in together?! No, this is not fucking possible! It has not even been six months and she is willingly moving in with that obscene jackass?!

After everything I have done, the warnings I’ve given her, the information and rumors I’ve spread, they are going to be living together?! First, Barron steals her from me, then turns her against me, and now he plans to permanently shield her from me in his two-bit, white stucco mansion.

I hate this man. I loathe him more than anyone I have or ever will encounter. I can’t even begin to properly express my detest for him. I would love nothing more than to beat him with a crowbar, gauge his eyes out, and set his lifeless body aflame. I want him to suffer, I want him to feel pain. He deserves nothing less than an excruciating death.

And as for Amelia, how could she do this me? She just up and moves in with this guy? She doesn’t even bother to tell me. I have to find out through a fucking Facebook post. The more I think about it, the more I realize that, although I still love her, I resent her. I resent her for the suffering she has inflicted upon me, for picking this man over me. How could she be so stupid and insensitive? How could anybody, for that matter?

And after everything I’ve done for her; after how devoted I was to her. All the time she spent dating idiots and sociopaths, I stood back, patiently waiting for the day when she would see me as more than just a friend. And how does she acknowledge me? She chooses the biggest asshole on the planet over me, a man she knows could never care for her the same way I could.

The thought that she is now going to be with him 24/7—that every night he is going to be lying next her, holding her as they drift into slumber while I’m cast aside like a worn-out piece of clothing, is so infuriating that I can’t even comprehend it. This rage, this hate, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I can feel the venom stir within me every time I think about them, every time I imagine their together, whether its out on a date or at home, snuggling, watching some trite Netflix program, I feel the compulsion to unleash a wave of violence upon the world. 

I can’t let this go on anymore. I won’t allow this happen. I’m the one she is supposed to be with, and if not me, certainly not that scumbag. I don’t care how long it takes or what seemingly unsavory acts I have to commit, I will not stop until Barron is gone.  

Journal Entry: March 23, 2017

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even focus. The only thing on my mind is Barron and how much I despise him. Every second of every day, I think of ways how best to drive him and Amelia apart, even of ways to hurt him. It consumes me like nothing else ever has.

I’ve tried everything—I’ve sent her anonymous texts and social media messages, as well as leaving unmarked letters in her mailbox with information about his past misdeeds, both true and fabrications. Yet, nothing seems to work. I still can’t get through to her.

Every weekend she is out with him. I know that because I see it. They will go out to these fancy dinners, then leave to go meet up with their friends, aka Barron’s cadre of deplorables. I’ll stay back and watch as they joke with each other at dinner, laugh with their friends, appear jovial on their nights out. But I know the truth. Appearances are always deceiving. He doesn’t love or deserve her, no matter what act he tries to pull over on her.

I need to up the ante. I need to find a way to make her realize the mistake she is making.

Journal Entry: May 30, 2017.

I haven’t written in this for a while. I’ve been distracted by other personal matters. Barron and Amelia are still together, and it’s ruining my fucking life.

A few months ago, I waited for her outside of her work to confront her. I was done playing games. No more lurking in the shadows while she coddled with that awful man. This was the first time I had seen her up close in a while. She looked weathered, with deep bags under her eyes. She was thin, almost sickly looking, like she had stopped eating.

As she walked, her head angled down, I could not help but notice a distinct sadness in her expression. Maybe it was finally working. Maybe she had finally come to see Barron for who he really was.

We came within feet of each other. Her eyes glanced up and she saw me, but unlike previous times, there was no warm expression or cheerful greeting.

She stopped.

“What are you doing here, Tarquin?”

“Hey, Amelia! I…um…was just around and wanted to see how things have been. You know, because we haven’t talked in a while.”

“You need to leave me alone,” she replied as she hurried past me.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she answered as she kept moving.

“Amelia, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just…”

She then violently swung around, glaring into my eyes, inches from my face.

“You think I don’t know that it’s you who’s been doing this?! All the messages, the anonymous letters, I know it’s you, Tarquin! You think I’m some kind of idiot?! It’s like all you do now is try to harass me and break me up with Barron! I seriously can’t go a fucking day without you pestering me!”

I tried to get in a word in, but she angerly interrupted.

“I don’t want to hear it! I’m sick of this shit! Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone, leave us alone?! Stop harassing us and stop following us around! Yes, I have seen you following us, and Barron knows you spend almost all your time prowling round his office, asking his coworkers to give up dirt on him! Leave us alone, Tarquin! I don’t want to see you anymore!”

With that, she stormed off.

I was left there, saddened, hurt, humiliated. I don’t understand it. Why can’t she just see that I’m trying to help her, to protect her. I’m not the one she should be attacking, it should be him. This is his doing. She’s obviously unhappy with him, but she’s been so taken-in by Barron that she is unleashing her bent up frustration on me. She just needs to realize it…I have to make her realize it.

Journal Entry: June 14, 2017  

Today was Barron’s birthday. It’s really quite fascinating when you think about how the two types of people you learn and know the most about are the people you love and those you hate. I know almost everything about Barron at this point: where he was born, where he grew up, what schools he attended, how many siblings he has, etc.

That being said, I assumed Amelia would do something for his birthday. It was difficult to find out, as she has now blocked me on every social media and communications platform; but I have my ways. I learned from a mutual friend that they were having a dinner at a fancy bistro in North Scottsdale.

I arrived there a little after seven. I parked across the street so I could have a clear view. There they were, sitting beside the large window—Amelia clad in a stunning red dress while Barron was sporting a typical, ostentatious, Italian crafted suit. Could he honestly be any more of a douchebag?

They were sitting on opposite ends of a small table, beaming at each other. Then something happened, something terrible. I peered over at Barron, saw that smug smile swell on his lips. That’s when it happened. It took ahold of me. I felt it flow through me like a powerful electric current. It permeated to every inch of my body, from my toes, to my fingers, to my crown. It was rage. I could feel it burn the inside, like it was a coal oven of an old ship.

I couldn’t control it any longer. I hate that mother fucker so much. I can’t just let him get away with this. No, he needed to pay, to suffer for what he has done to me, for what he has done to her.

I jumped out of car and marched into the restaurant. I was infused with so much anger it was like I no longer had control, like I was an airplane pilot, watching from the cockpit as the plane flew on autopilot.

I flung open the door, stormed over, and slammed my hands against the table. Barron and Amelia were startled, looking up at me in shock.

It took a few moments before Amelia could produce words.

“Tarquin, what…what are you doing here?”

I ignored her. I was not there for her. I was there for him.

I turned to Barron.

“You and me, mother fucker, outside, now!”

Barron peered up at me, his mouth slightly open.

“Bro, you need to calm down, alright?”

“I told you to get your ass outside, or are you too big of a fucking pussy?!”

Barron stood up.

“Listen dude, I…”

But he didn’t finish, for just then the rage completely took over. I hit him, striking him with every ounce of fury I had. And as my knuckles connected with his ill-shaped jaw, I felt the months-long indignation and hate release onto that conceited little face of his.

He plummeted to the ground; and as he lay there, I continued to flail on him with every bit of malice in me. My final vestiges of control had dissipated. I wanted to kill him, I needed to end him. I would have kept going, too, but then I heard a loud scream.

“Tarquin, stop! Please, stop it!”

And like that, I stopped. I felt as if I had been knocked out of a trance. For that voice, that voice which always used to sooth me, to hear in distress and pain, was unbearable.

I turned to her. Tears were rolling down her face. I had never seen her before with such a look of pain and distress. The way she was looking at me, eyes wide and saturated, it was like nothing I’d ever beheld. It was as if she saw me no longer as a friend or even a person, for that matter, but as a vicious creature.

People in the restaurant were standing up, gaping at me like I’d performed some terrible act of sorcery. I rushed out of the establishment and jumped into my car. I sat there for a moment, still bewildered by what had just transpired.

I turned on the ignition and sped off.

Journal Entry: June 20, 2017

For the last several days, I’ve awaited in fear for that knock at my door— to see cops standing there with a warrant for my arrest. Yet, nothing. Not even a phone call from the police inquiring about the incident.

It’s weird, you know. I have never physically attacked anyone before. In many ways, it still feels like I haven’t. I know I did it, yet it all feels like a dream. Maybe I took things too far. Maybe I was too blinded by passion to understand what I was doing.

Whatever the case, I do feel remorse. I just wish I could express that to her somehow. Maybe I’ll get the chance, but who knows.

Journal Entry: July 4, 2017

What have I done? Why did I…I don’t know. It didn’t have to be this way. Why couldn’t she have just have seen the truth? It wasn’t that hard, it was staring her right in the face. She knew he was bad for her, that he was a nefarious slime-ball, yet she did nothing except coddle him, giving into his dark ambitions. And now it’s come to this, to a place I never imagined it would.

It was her birthday. Ever since I met her, we always did something special on this day. Her girlfriends would throw her a shindig, I would show up with a present, maybe flowers and wine, and she would greet me with such warmth and affection that it made me feel like the luckiest man alive.

This year was different, though. I had not spoken or seen her since the incident at the restaurant. I knew I had hurt her, maybe even beyond repair. But I couldn’t stand idly by as she suffered. I needed to make amends.

And that’s how it happened. I arrived at her and Barron’s place and began pounding on the door. I knew she was home, as I could make out her shadow through a second story window. As I knocked, I screamed that I was sorry. I begged for her to let me in so I could apologize to her directly.

Just when I was about to give up, the door creaked open. There she was, my Amelia, pale and sad, gazing upon me with a mixed look of contempt and pity.  

She stepped back and let me in. We entered the living room, a large and luxurious chamber cluttered with all sorts of expensive items and decorations.

“You have five minutes,” she said, with her arms folded. “Then I want you out of here and out of my life for good.”

I put my head down, took a deep breath and apologized. I told that everything I did was done to protect her.

“I was afraid he would hurt you,” I uttered. “I never thought I would be the one to that to you though.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Then I finally asked the question.

“But why him?”

Amelia sighed.

“Because I love him.”

She then unfolded her arms; and that’s when I saw it. It was large and shiny, enclosed in a fine platinum lining. Amelia must have seen that I had noticed, because she raised her left hand until it was almost level with my eyes. It dazzled under lights, smugly glaring at me, mocking me with its glimmer. It was a diamond worth most men’s yearly salaries.

And I as a stared it, I felt it rise again. I could almost see Barron’s reflection grinning back at me on the smooth cuts of the stone. The rage consumed me once more. In that moment, I loathed her. I reviled her for everything: for underappreciating me, for never giving me a chance, for choosing that ingrate mother fucker over me. I couldn’t control it anymore. I couldn’t hold it back.

 I scowled at her. She stepped back, a fearful look emanating from her.

Before I even knew what happened, I had grabbed her by the hair, and then tossed her to the floor. I then seized a nearby metal lamp, ripping its cord out of a socket. She lay on the ground, staring at me in panic, pleading for me to stop. But I couldn’t. I flung the blunt object down with all my might, striking her. Blood seeped from her forehead, but I did not care. I just kept hitting her, as if every bit of resentment and anger I felt for her and Barron was being unleashed upon her in a wave of animalistic furry.

Eventually, my arms became tired and I stopped. And as I gazed down at what was left of her, it hit me. That once elegant face, the one which I had become so infatuated with, was now a bloody heap, ornamented with loose teeth and bone. It looked like her skull had been crushed by a trash compactor, as innards oozed out of the fissure now present where her cranium used to be.

 I couldn’t believe what I had just done.

“This isn’t real,” I told myself. “It’s just a nightmare, you’ll wake up soon and none of this will have ever happened. She will still be alive, you will still be friends. Don’t worry, just wake up.”

But I never did, and now here I stand, the blood of the woman I loved splattered across my clothes like I’m a butcher. How could his happen? What brought it to this point?

I adored her. I treasured her. How could I ever bring myself to hurt her like this?

All this time, when I thought I was shielding her from a menace, really, I was the one destroying her. I ate away at her lifeforce like some flesh-eating virus. And I never realized it, because I allowed myself to be blinded by hate for Barron. It was an animosity so powerful that it consumed every aspect of my life. Maybe I never really loved her at all. Maybe I just loved the idea of her, loved what I thought she was, what I wanted her to become.

            But it doesn’t matter anymore. There is no going back now. Like Robespierre, I became a worse leviathan than the man I attempted to unseat. I killed the person I cared for most in this world. She was my light, my goddess, my Shining City on a Hill; yet I destroyed her by deluding myself into believing that I was protecting her. I guess I did accomplish my goal after all. Barron and Amelia are no longer together and they never will be again, for there is no Amelia left to be had. I succeeded, but the damage will never be undone— for no one got a happy ending in this story— not me, not Barron, and especially not Amelia.

This is my final entry. Pray that I’ll be forgiven.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton