My Murderer

I know who did it, who murdered me. Though, does it really matter? According to the “Stipulations,” to seek vengeance means an endless Hell. Reparation doesn’t seem to satisfy my unforeseen interim either, given that I’d still be gone. This sort of dilemma is exactly why I avoided dependency in human interaction in the first place. Nonetheless, it seems my attempts to live my life solely about my own ambitions, keeping my business my own, was in vain.

Names Conrad by the way. I know you can’t hear or see me sir, though it’d be nice if you were one of those seeing ghost types. It’s just that, you seem to have good ears to borrow and nowhere to go. Not because you’re old, and not because you have abnormally large ears. I just thought given the sweat perforating through your shirt, the rather sadly wrapped food in your lunch box, and your swollen feet bursting the straps of your sandals, you plan on staying a while. I must admit, not a bad place to be, though in my living years I used to think parks were a waste of time. Not to mention my hatred for children. I suppose death does change you a bit. Or perhaps it's the lack of urgency to my timeline. The pressure I felt to excel, and stay busy is now gone. No more living an ambitious and vigorous life of endless study and work just to spite my Father.

“These leftovers serve a better purpose than your worthless existence,” He’d say just before throwing a tup-aware of cold meatloaf right at my head. The irony is how often he’d tumble in a drunken clumsiness just after scorning me.

What’s that? Is he alive? No, he did that himself. When he finally took it too far with my sweet mother, forcing me no other choice but to smash a vase over his head. I was coming home to see her on spring break. Coming up to the house, I heard him shouting. Lot’s of things were breaking, and shattering. He was on top of her-hitting her with great force.

But I digress.

Back to my dilemma. One I’ve been dealing with for a week or so now. As you could imagine, seeking out my murderer seems a bit futile. And still this moral quandary has led me here, to you, and to where I suspect I finally come face to face with him, or so I've been told by those they call “The Great Grim Reaper.”

I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I'm sure it was him. I won’t forget his voice-though deeper from when we were kids. And the gun. The gun that we played with, stolen from his dads closet. He gave me just enough time to gaze up the barrel before he pulled the trigger.

His name is Blake Basher. My only childhood friend. And a deranged friendship we had. We only connected on a more intimate level because of our mutual disdain for our Fathers. Well in his case step father, but I’ll get to that. you with me old man? Seems you’re drifting away a bit. Oh just resting your eyes. What you got there in your pocket? A sobriety chip! I knew I liked you for some reason.

So, Blake and I, we didn’t like each other much at first. His Dad would bring him over to the house so that he could drink with mine. When they drank together they often got wild ideas, like making us wrestle, or taping our legs and arms together and throwing us in the pool to see who came up first. Somewhere along the way we became friends. Call it trauma bonding. We spent most of our time out in the field behind our houses-trapping rabbits, stealing his dads gun when he passed out from night shifts, and finding new targets to shoot.

One day, a simple argument about who got to shoot the glock first escalated into personal attacks. Blake started saying things about my mentally ill mom I didn’t like so I snapped back. I socked him right in the nose and stormed off. Later, I was still bothered by the things he’d said. It may have also had something to do with Dad making me pick cigarettes out of glass beer bottles so he can properly recycle them. Anyways, in my rage I wrote the letter. Not too long before the fight I had heard my Dad and his talking. In a drunken stooper they shared stupid secrets about their lives. I found out that Blake’s “Dad” wasn’t his actual Dad, but his mom wanted him growing up thinking he was. I guess his real Father didn’t have his shit together or something. He must have been real bad for the fall guy to be Mr. Sir Basher, as I was told to call him.

I revealed all this in, I guess you can say, a real scathing way. He brought the letter up to his parents. I could here lots of fighting going on inside their house. Eventually his mom and him split. Mr. Sir Basher came around for a little while. Seemed to drink a lot more than usual. He openly hated me-let me know it real good. My Dad just laughed it off. Then he stopped showing up.

Last thing he ever said to me was, “You’ll learn to keep outta others business.” I figured he was just a grumpy drunk, looking to be angry at someone for his own shitty ways.

I didn’t get to see Blake since the letter, but I know it killed him to find out the way he did. I never imagined after so many years, him coming back and taking his revenge. But now that I’m here talking to you and watching the sun fall behind those trees, I can understand. I guess death also makes you sappy.

You're getting bored of me I can tell. So let’s just jump to the good part. The way it happened was such a cliche. A cold dark night, rain begging to be let in at the window pane. While studying medical charts, I had Bob Segar going on a new record player I’d just bought. The heater rumbled on in a cranky gesture of old age. The neighbors gate swung loose in the wind and repeatedly clapped against the broken latch. Thunder rolled along the rooftop. It seems everything was angry at me that night.

Now what you got in your pocket? I’m spilling my heart out to you here. Ah a piece of paper. Something about you intrigues me oldman. Not going to show me what’s on it?

Okay fine, back to the murder scene. Even among all the noise, I heard the gun cock as clear as a crisp whisper. It’s just one of those sounds your soul has a keen ear for. I turned slowly, hoping my mind was playing tricks on me. There he was-a shadow in the corner, backed by an entourage of brawling thunder and lightning. He wore a mask. He raised his hand up slowly and I saw the gun. The one we used to play with. It was a swamp brown color. Three notches on each side of the barrel, like teeth. His voice was too familiar to forget, only deeper. It was more in the way he spoke-his cadence, and the tendency to exaggerate sharp letters like “K” or “T.”

“I finally found you. You ruined everything,” The masked voice said.

I stood Frozen.

“I’ve been wanting to kill you for a long time. My life has been torn apart since you got into my business.”

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“Got nothing to say now? It’s too late.”

After the bang, there was blackness. Now I’m here. And I’m starting to see the enjoyment in simple things. I admire you Oldman. Though you seem lonely, your clothes are a bit disheveled, and your eating habits seem a bit poor, I’m beginning to understand you. You have a longing to live. I see it in the way you look out into that open blue sky. Until now, I never considered being still as a part of living. Something troubles you, I see that. But you also seem somewhat hopeful for the future-the way you embrace your restlessness in the bench, getting comfortable in your reflection. I’ve avoided my own voice, created a new one-sabotaged anything good in my life. And look where its gotten me.

I suppose you’re right my friend, maybe my guilt did drive me here. I just want to get a look at him-get a chance to peer into his eyes and see if my rage subsides. Maybe if I see him, I’ll see the same suffering in him we once shared as kids. And maybe in doing so, I can forgive him. You think that’s possible? Forgiving the person who murdered you? A part of me just needs to know if reparation is greater than my wrath, A wrath that has steered me most of my life. Can reparations from our agony truly set us free? Perhaps that’s also why I’m here, hope. It’s a foreign feeling to me so I think that’s why I’m confused.

“Gael Salvador?”

Where’d that come from? That voice.

“Dad is that you?”

It’s that voice again!

“Blake? Oh Blake!”

Wait Blake? It's him! What is this? You two? No. How?

“Your mom knows you came to see me?”

“Yes, not that she had a choice anyway. I needed to meet you. I needed to know.”

“Know what”

“If I’d throw you in front of a car, or hug you until lost years are redeemed.”

“How bout we start with some questions?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I will, who wrote you this letter?”

“Someone I grew up with. Don’t judge to harshly, we both went through a lot back then. I hope he made it out okay.”

“Why show it to me?”

“It’s what inspired me to find you.”

Well Oldman. Didn’t know I’d say this. But I’m glad it wasn’t him.