Arik’s hands shook with anticipation. For three weeks he’d been stranded
without support, trapped on a ridge overlooking a small encampment below.
The world’s harsh climate had claimed many things in the past twenty-one
days, including Arik’s targeter, whose name he could no longer remember, his
rifle’s sensitive auto correction scope, and his sanity.
Throughout his training as a scout sniper, Arik had only two ideals forced
into his young and impressionable mind. The first was the superiority and
purity of Rulerism, knowing that every bullet would martyr another being
whose purpose it was to further the cause. Rulerist snipers needed only one
thing; devotion. It was in no way like being a foot soldier. You did not
have a platoon to count on. All you had was another soldier, with whom the
bond was unbreakable, with whom you shared the desire to see the ‘pink
mist’. That was the second. Envisioning the perfect shot. Making the perfect
shot your only goal. In training, they called it the JFK shot. It was the
pink mist, that single most gratifying moment. It also drove the marksmen
mad more often than not.
The already dense foliage was heavily dampened with constant rainfall.
Thick shrubs and their insectoid inhabitants were the most congenial company
Arik had left. His sanity had far abandoned him, and the single factor
keeping him alive was cold and bitter determination.
“Day 22.” he said to himself, chattering and twitching like a madman. He
lay face down in the mud for the sixth consecutive day, his rifle fixated to
the spot. His rations rotted in their packs, but the taste had far from left
his tongue. Light had been hidden behind an impenetrable wall of storm cloud
and torrential rain for nearly four months, as the spongy soil and moss
absorbed the foul liquid as it fell. Jabiim had only two seasons. The wet
season and the more wet season. It had been the peak of the more wet season,
which occupied the better part of a year. Arik’s startling blue eyes peered
down the barrel of a high powered rifle, nearly as tall as a man. One
thousand meters below, a small hamlet of stark white structures rose from
the tropical jungle canopy. Lean, blue skinned creatures patrolled along the
edges of catwalks surrounding the structures, as a twenty foot wall kept
intruders at bay. These blue skinned creatures were not Arik’s target. They
were faceless, soulless drones, carvings that only served as distraction.
His target had a face, a soul, neither of which could be put out of his
mind.
The rain was bitter and cold, but the stagnant mud beneath Arik’s breast
was warm and contoured comfortably against his faded uniform, the salty,
doused greys and blues hidden beneath a thick layer of filth and grime. His
bronzed face was veiled with a shroud of muck, his bald head shaved ruggedly
with a knife not meant for the purpose. Scars and red wounds still seeped
pus and slowly became infectious. His arm muscles contorted in spasms at
unpredictable intervals from lethargy. His legs had gone numb some days
before, but the pain remained, which only served to sharpen his focus. He
had never viewed life through a more clear lens, through a more honed
vantage.
“C’mon c’mon c’mon.” he whispered to himself, his eye twitching and his
shoulder rotating of it’s own accord. “Come out to play.” he strained at
holding back laughter. “Stay focused, focused.” he said quickly. “Come out.”
His finger slid up and down the trigger with a caress more fit for a lover
than warrior, but the distinction had lost it’s contrast. Night was only
minutes away, which only meant intensified rainstorms, more putrid thunder
that would dull the senses, and more flashes of sickening sulfur that would
clog the throat. As his breathing quickened, Arik quickly honed in on
another blue skinned creature that came out onto the platform. Shock and
disappointment nearly swallowed him whole as he deduced it was merely
another carving, a gargoyle sent to disturb his purpose. He left the
crosshairs to drift up and down it’s body, imagining how good it would feel
to finally depress the trigger, that kick sending a shockwave through his
body more satisfying than any activity known to man. Bang. He thought aloud,
his words drowned by the stone-like hail from above. Just Bang. He mouthed
the word a dozen more times before his eyes began to drift closed, his raw
skinned cheek resting upon the stock of his rifle, which began to squeal
quietly as he leaned up against it. It was too late. Four days without any
form of sleep had overcome him, and he drifted into the black abyss of dream
and nightmare to the sound of falling drops.
***
“Bejn, wake up.” his mother said, as he arose from a blissful coma. His
room was quiet, and the wind blowing through his window only served to relax
the atmosphere even further.
“Mom?” he said, his young voice chirping pleasantly. “It’s early still.”
The clock hanging on his baby blue wall read five in the morning. His
mother, who had tousled short brown-black hair was sitting on the edge of
his bed, smiling gently. Her glasses hung slightly down on her nose, as she
viewed her son carefully.
“I know, honey. You remember what today is?” she said, leaning closer to
her black haired son. She smiled, unsure if he would actually remember. Bejn
thought for a moment, his mind still unsharpened from a lack of sleep. His
eyes lit up with excitement as he nearly leapt off the small mattress, his
loose fitting pajamas inflating and deflating.
“The fair’s today!” he shouted.
“You’ll wake your sisters, shh.” his mother uttered, grounding him with her
chopstick fingers wrapped about his midsection. Bejn squirmed mildly, taking
a discomfort to being held aloft.
“Yes, today’s the fair. If you want to get there first for the rides, you’d
best hurry and get dressed.” Bejn froze. His birthday was four days ago, he
could finally go on the what he considered the ‘big kid’ rides, the ones
that had loops and tight turns. For too long, he had been used to the mild
rides, the gentle curves and slants. For Bejn, it was plenty. He had never
craved adventure like the other little human boys and girls. He was quiet,
never wanting to push the envelope for any reason. Finally, though, he was
eight years old, and he could go and experience the thrill of maturity.
“Ok, mom.” he said, with a lack of exuberance. His mother’s face contorted
worriedly, her spectacles slipping further off her nose. She slanted her
head.
“Is something wrong, Bejn?” she asked with her hands tucked into her lap.
“I thought you were excited to go on the rides.” Bejn merely hugged his
mother, his short black hair pushing into her olive colored khaki pant leg.
“Yeah, I am.” Bejn said, faking enthusiasm. Deciding he was just a little
nervous, his mother ignored it. She ruffled his hair with both hands until
it stood up on end.
“Alright. Come on, you need to get ready. The traffic is going to be
murder.” She said, quickly leaving the room, turning to wave once more
before closing the door on her way into the hallway beyond. Bejn sighed
heartily as he began to dress. Sheila, Bejn’s mother, was secretly concerned
for her child. He was reclusive for most eight year olds, but that would
pass, she thought to herself. Crossing a hallway mirror in the cramped and
scattered apartment, she stopped and straightened her tight fitting black t
shirt, thinking, “For the mother of three children, I look good.” Letting
her air out, she proceeded to the small kitchen, with space for no more than
two adults. She removed her scarf from the hook that protruded from the
oaken post that connected the counter and the overhang behind the cutting
board, where the remnants of a diced pepper still lay. She wrapped the piece
of cloth around her neck and inhaled deeply, her chest popping pleasantly.
Placing her hands upon her hips indecisively, she stood tapping her bare
foot against the polished woodgrain floorboards. Without intending to, she
began to examine her toenails, which were unusually bare and unornamented.
Letting out a cynical, “hmm!” she heard the traipse of feet across the
floor.
“I’m ready!” Bejn said, storming into the kitchen in his sandals and white
button down shirt that clung neatly to his thin frame.
“Alright! Let’s go.” Sheila said to her son, leading him to the front door.
“Your uncle will be here to take care of your sisters.” she said, smiling.
“Like you care, huh?” she gave a funny face and Bejn feigned a chuckle,
which was more convincing than he had intended.
“Ok.” he said, as they went into the door lined hall beyond.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” Sheila said, as she closed the door quietly
behind her.
It was midday, the sun settling on the tree lined horizon in the distance.
The fair had been an exciting time for Bejn, who still had yet to enjoy the
larger, thrill seeking rides. Sheila hadn’t said anything. She figured he
would speak up when he was ready. The boy was only eight years old, there
was no need to push him, she thought.
“There’s the Ferris wheel!” She said, patting Bejn on the head. The wind
was blowing slightly, as the scarf calmly kicked into her face. She shooed
it away with a puff, and Bejn laughed. “Real funny.” Smirking sarcastically,
she ran toward the queue line. “Betcha can’t beat me there!” Bejn gave
chase. The two of them wove in between and around the occasional stranger.
“Oh yeah?” Bejn shouted back, running. Letting him win, Sheila arrived a
moment later, nearly knocking over the nikitak that swayed gleefully before
her.
“Pardon me, sir” she apologized. The nikitak turned, and with a disarming
smile, stated it was ‘no problem’ and turned back to his mate, who leaned
against his top most set of shoulders. “You beat me!” she said, still
playing along.
“Yeah, I did.” Bejn said, knowing full well she had let him win. If it put
her mind at ease, he would lie through his teeth as much as he needed. “The
line isn’t even that long.” he observed, the midday sun casting a shadow
over his nose. Lifting her hand to her brow, Sheila looked ahead, no more
than ten others waiting casually for their opportunity. “Yep, short wait.”
She leaned back, her elbows holding her against the orange and white rails
that caged the queue line. A few minutes passed in silence, the sparse
crowds barely rising above a gentle whisper in the distance.
“I wonder what Meir and Ellie are up to.” Bejn said. Snapping out of a mild
fantasy, Sheila shook her head and looked down at her son.
“I bet they’re probably at Friese’s house. They go every Saturday.” she
said. “You know how they get.”
“Yeah.” Bejn replied. An awkward silence took over, as the Ferris wheel came
to a stop. “Our turn.” he said flatly. They advanced forward, being the last
ones in the line to enter a small car which began to dangle as they sat. A
whirr of gears and machinery indicated the ride was to start. A creak and a
grind later, they began to rise into the air. A few minutes passed as they
sat beside one another. The ride groaned to a halt suddenly, jarring Sheila
forward. She strained to hold back a rather verbose string of curse words.
“I guess they’re having some problems, huh?” Bejn said, now standing on his
tip toes to see the ground below. The height did not scare him, to his
elation.
“Come sit down, Bejn. You don’t want to fall over the edge, do you?”
Heeding his mother’s advice, he came to sit beside her once again, wriggling
beneath her arm, now resting upon his opposite shoulder.
“Are we going to be here for a while?” Bejn asked.
“We might be.” Sheila said, sighing. “What a pretty sunset.” she noted, the
hazel, amber, and oranges absorbing through her lenses.
“Yeah.” Bejn noted with sincerity. “It is.” He felt oddly at peace staring
into the warm colored horizon. “Mom?”
“What?” Sheila asked in response.
“Can you sing me a song?” Bejn requested, remembering the songs she would
sing to him ever since he was a baby.
“Sure, kiddo.” She cleared her throat, starting to let forth a melodic
harmony. It was beautiful yet unrefined.
“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the
wrist, directs you where to go.” she began, the sunset and the moment
formulating a livid scene. “So make the best of this test and don’t ask why.
It’s not a question, but a lesson learned in time. It’s something
unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope you had the time of your
life.” Bejn leaned closer in towards his mother.
“I am.” he silently whispered. Sheila whistled a chorus without words,
which took only a few moments.
“So take the photographs and still frames in your mind. Hang them on a shelf
in good health and good time. Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial.
For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while.” She swallowed with
difficulty. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope
you had the time of your life.” Another chorus whistled through the red
stroked air, in between breaths and tears that began to gently well behind
her eyes. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right. I hope you
had the time of your life. It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is
right. I hope... y-you had the time of y-your,” she stumbled, almost in
tears. “L-life.” She bent her face into her palms, as the tears flowed
freely. The moment had overtaken her, her tears neither of joy nor sorrow.
She heaved, crying without shame or in bad taste.
Bejn understood. “Can you tell me the story of Arik the wolf?” he asked,
half asleep, his mother’s soothing song relaxing his every muscle. “Please?”
Removing her face from her hands and wiping her glasses clean of tears, she
began to settle, still puffing gently.
“Just a minute, kiddo. Just a minute.” She began to cry once more, a gentle
smile on her face. Her glasses hung from her fingertips precariously. They
slipped free, and clattered harmlessly to the metal platform at Bejn’s feet.
“Ok.” Bejn said, as his eyes slowly closed. On the back of his eyelids, he
saw himself standing atop the cab, looking out over the city beyond, like a
giant jungle, with towers rising from it’s surface like bulbous ivory
statues and meandering wooden carvings. He drifted towards blissful rest, to
the gentle sound of his mother’s tears spilling on steel, to the tempo of a
finely crafted bullet. Bang, the perfect shot.
Bang.
