Sunday, September 14, 2008

Day of the Jekyll, Part 2

Only by being worthless can I be good. Say hello to the good guy. As long as I'm no good, my absence from Debby's life is a blessing. It's the only thing I have to offer her. And since I see no chance of my becoming a functional human being - and wasted many opportunities to do so - I'm assured I'm doing the right thing by cowardly cutting her off from me. But every fiber of my being yearns to join with her. When I think of living, I think of Debby. So I don't think of living. Such is my convoluted reasoning.

I cut her off and she thought me dead. I should have been safe. Why now after all this time?? How could she know I'm still alive?? How?? It doesn't make any sense! Where was the flaw in my plan? Too late now. It's not like I can ask one of the assassins. It's been several days since they first started trailing me. I had three narrow escapes on that Black Friday they first spotted me. I cannot tell you how disheartening it was to be hiding in bushes again after all these years. I remain a creature too despicable to be revealed. Sitting in that coffee shop seems a hundred years ago.

Society has its own assassins certainly. I read about them in the paper taking families' homes so other poor souls can join me in the horror of the streets. Sniper fire is increasing everywhere you look with layoffs, slave wages and other corporate cruelty. Being on the outside is a good thing then. But the two assassins sent after me are different - and therefore much harder to evade. Corporate assassins target those with assets and the assassinations are impersonal. My hunters have been informed who I am and know each of my crimes. This is a guy, they say, who has to be taken out at any cost and for whom no redemption is possible. It's more than business, it's personal.

The funny thing about being homeless is you still try to make your life into a real life with a home and a purpose and a direction - only in reality it's merely an absurd mockery. I should be able to detach myself from this area and go anywhere I want. But so ingrained is the sense for the need of having a real life, I cling to what little I know. Over time, the assassins will learn my terrain as well as I do. Like an onion, my defenses are slowly being peeled back. Time is ticking against me. But I just can't run anymore.

Sleep is no longer a place of refuge. I must be awake to rest. Nothing gives my hunters more power over me than closing my eyes. And when I do, dreams of doom are released and I wake with the same tight, cramped stomach I had that first day behind the column. Dear God, am I tired. But what can I do? The dream is always the same. The hunters corner me at last and they ask, "Do you have feelings for Debby Hanssen?" "Yes," I explain, knowing the hour of truth has arrived. Their reply is 200 rounds at close range from a pair of remorseless Uzis.

God, I hate this world. What's taking us so long to blow it up?

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