The Calm After The Storm

A lonely, old man sits upon his tattered rocking chair atop a hill just out of earshot of any inkling of civilization. He liked it better that way. What did anyone ever do for him anyway? Nothing.

Creak.

Creak.

Every rock, back and forth.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

A hill, almost the size of a mountain, surrounded by a dense, dark forest and his tiny shack: too unimpressive to call a cabin, in danger of being swallowed up. Just a single room: a bed, a tiny fireplace to keep at least somewhat warm, and an oak table with seating for one. Outside: a small porch where his rocking chair sat, a cooler beside it. He reached into it with his shaking hand, pulled out what was now his fourth beer that day, pried open the bottle and kissed his chapped lips to its tip.

As the sun started to fade across the myriad colored sky, the forest became that much more ominous. It stared at the man and in turn, he stared back into it. Their staring contest waned as the bright, milky eye rose across the star-filled sky. The forest had won. Its shadows loomed over the man’s soul, hurdling him into a lapse of a life’s worth of trauma and regret; it spinning in his head like an old movie reel flashing across his feeble mind. This was not the first war he had had with himself and he feared it would not be his last.

The man slowly dusted off his ripped slacks before mustering up the strength to stand. His hand barely touched the one-hinged cabin door before it swung open and he walked inside. He paused in front of his duffel bag which was located at the foot of the bed. It was the same Marine Corps sea bag he used all those years ago, though now it held naught but a few changes of clothes, his tags, some miscellaneous toiletries, and a loaded .45 caliber gun. His hand reached out to his faded, white wool sweater that hung over the bottom bed post.

“Happy birthday darling,” she said as she handed him the gleaming white sweater, a gigantic crimson ribbon and bow wrapped around it. The warmth of her love shone bright. This image shattered. “Pathetic,” she knocked the beer can out of his hand as he stumbled to the ground, a slovenly drunken mess, “You need help!” This image faded quickly into the next. “I’m taking my daughter with me!” “She’s my daughter too, dammit!” he sobbed, falling to the floor as she ushered their young daughter out the front door of their once happy home, suitcase in hand.

His shaking hand withdrew from the sweater. Weary from all of the intense aerobics the recesses of his mind continued to play, he crawled into bed, rolling to his side, and pulled his eyes closed tightly, as if to dispel all the unpleasant thoughts through will and will alone. The faint sound of a barn owl in the distance pierced the sleeping man’s ears as rain began to beat down outside.

Screeeeeeeech.

A flash of light filled the sky.

Crash.

The sky thundered a boisterous roar that shook the Earth.

Missiles rained down on him and his infantry out in the field. Heavy fire. The shrill cries and screams of his brothers in arms, one by one, silenced. Blasts continued to surround him, narrowly missing him each time as he tried to save who he could and make it out alive. A failed effort. His blood-soaked hands— countless brothers’ blood staining his skin as he watched their lives fade time and time again. He was screaming. The violence that surrounded him drowning out his voice.

A gigantic silhouette of the owl shown through the window, its shadow illuminating the cabin.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

The man shot up from his bed, screaming. “Make it stop,” the desperate man cried. The mad man yelled into the night, “Why are you doing this to me?!”

Was it his time? Was this it? Was this all it ever was going to be? Just a sad, lonely man? All alone? No friends? No family? That can’t be right. Can it?

Fuck.

Goddamn.

There was so much more he wanted to do…

But there’s no escape. Nowhere else to go. He reached into his bag. Civilization had turned their back on him. There was only one last thing he could do. The screams in his head: too loud. “Shutupshutupshutup,” he muttered quickly under his breath. The voices all died down. The cold .45 rested on his now calm hands for a minute before...

Bang.

He heard it but didn’t feel it.

Such sweet release.