Loner
11:54. The red digits of the clock shone bright in the almost complete darkness, illuminating the face and the laughter lines of my dear wife. According to her recent REM phase, she must have reached deep sleep by now. From the outside, heavy rain was knocking on the windowpanes and the branches of the huge beech tree in front of the house were rustling in the wind. A stormy November night when most people wouldn’t feel the inclination to leave a warm, cosy home. 11:55, five minutes left before I had to go, four hours and five minutes until I would be back.
Silently, I closed the bedroom door and went through the hallway where our precious family memories, unaware of the late time, were smiling at me. My parents-in-law, my wife, my kids, moments full of joy that made me think about my own childhood. As I had grown up, my mum had always told me that everything in life, especially if you had a good or a bad time, was determined by habits and rituals and that it was essential to keep those rituals alive. So, when I had started school, my days had followed a strict pattern: getting up, a fast breakfast, school, lunch, homework, time for and with friends, dinner, bed time and then the next day began with an exact to the minute plan. The only exception had been weekends when school had been replaced by family issues like visiting my aunt and uncle or going to the zoo. But in order not to change too much of the everyday rituals, I had never ever been allowed to sleep late.
When I was 10, my mother died in a tragic car crash when someone who hadn’t known his drinking limit took her right of way. Family and friends had been utterly shocked and after so many years I could still remember my first thought when they had told me: “But, mum, this doesn’t belong to the ritual!” I had been so totally angry with her and her huge breach of the ritual that the first time I had felt sadness and even loss had been long after her burial.
In the end, it remained my part to keep the daily rituals going because my dad couldn’t. Nowadays, I know that the day my mother had died, I’d lost him too; he never became the same man again. But I had had no choice but to accept it when those tiny pink pills became his new friends because he then stopped to disturb my rituals. I had even accepted to be replaced by the bright blue pills which seemed to be a better family for him. One day, even they hadn’t been enough anymore and he had started to take the white ones. Those apparently hadn’t been too friendly: He died when I was 21.
11:58 and a still on-going storm outside but it didn’t matter. I was looking at our wedding photograph and was wondering why she never had noticed that we had sex every second Friday per month. The reason why was so simple: I knew that she’d be fast asleep afterwards and now and then a soft snore coming from the bedroom confirmed it.
In the garage I used to have a second pair of shoes and a rain coat, originally dedicated to gardening on rainy days. Now, they helped to conceal my absence. My “every second Friday per month ritual” could only exist because our kids were allowed to sleep late on Saturdays and this made it easier for me to still get some sleep when I returned. But I could never be absolutely sure that no one would get up in the middle of the night so I’d taken some extra precautions. On those nights, I always left my mobile phone on the kitchen table where an open message said “Emergency!” Someone who would miss me would automatically conclude that I had to be at the clinic trying my best to help one of those poor severely-addicted drug users who always looked for the final shot, the final pill, the final whatever. This left behind message would also be the perfect excuse for any cuts and bruises that I might get since it happened rather frequently that I literally had to fight to gain control.
12:06 and I already was on my walk to the train station where my train would leave in exactly nine minutes. In additional 24 minutes I would be in the next city where it was more than unlikely to meet my boss. Another precaution so I wouldn’t lose my reputation.
While the old train which most certainly shouldn’t be in use anymore was rattling slowly through my city and then the dark landscape, I was observing the other ones who were using this last connection. There was an aged man who always fell asleep until his chin touched his breast, then his head suddenly shot up and he blinked as if trying to discern where he was. When he finally recognised his surroundings, he fell asleep again. Since it became somehow hypnotising to watch him after a short while, I looked away and straight into the bright green eyes of a woman in her 30s. She was really attractive, slim and with a well-fitting skirt and blouse. I didn’t exactly know why she took this train but I assumed that she had to work late and that this old rattling thing would carry her home. She was there every time I was and she always looked at me in return, this time with an interested curiosity. The concept of politeness had always been something I highly appreciated and so I smiled at her when she did. Maybe she thought I was flirting with her, I was not. And as a matter of fact, I didn’t care.
When the terminal stop was announced, I was getting ready to leave. But before I was able to walk away from the lonely, dimly lit train station I heard something that startled me. “Hey, pretty lady” by a slightly drunk raspy male voice. I possibly wouldn’t have reacted at all if I hadn’t heard a somehow panic reply of a woman: “What do you-?!”
Without a second thought, I strode to the old man and punched him hard in the face. Instantly, my knuckles began to hurt but right then it didn’t bother me. The man had definitely got what he deserved. With a high-pitched scream the woman had run away and the dirty old man stared at me in shock and disbelief, his hands clasped over his probably broken nose. He mumbled something that sounded like “bastard” and spat blood at me. I never used to be someone who looked more daunting than others, some even called me too handsome to be strict and said that I even had mild eyes. In this moment, however, the blue became cold as ice and my expression stony. Apparently, this seemed to be enough to discourage the drunkard who muttered another curse and turned away.
I waited for another five minutes until I was certain he wouldn’t return. Except for some falling leaves from the nearby trees the wind carried through the cold air the train station was now completely deserted. A sigh of relief left my lungs and I noticed that I still had my fists clenched. Looking at my knuckles, I saw some minor bruises but they didn’t really hurt.
12:55 and I was standing on the bridge above the tracks. Usually, I stood there to watch my train disappear in the far distance as if it said goodbye. Today, that silly man had destroyed this ritual of mine but nevertheless, I allowed myself to stay there for a little while, looking along the now unused tracks, taking deep breaths, trying to suck in the stormy night: This loneliness, this almost complete silence that couldn’t be interrupted by any human being. Just those left tracks, the sounds of rain, wind, rustling leaves, a distant croak of a crow … and me.
Suicide had never been an option for me but I was able to understand and feel the possessive melancholy of this place and of this view nevertheless. But I simply couldn’t grasp the idea or any reason why I should try to end my life. It was remarkably perfect: I had a wife whom I loved very passionately and together we had two wonderful children; my job was well-paid and it was my pleasure to help those poor souls who couldn’t stop taking those damn drugs; every 33 days I met my best friends and had a great time with them. I couldn’t imagine a better life.
Vigorously I shook my head: Enough of that! I remembered that man from earlier. It wasn’t always that easy to find such an opportunity for spreading justice on my nightly strolls. Sometimes I had to do without it but tonight I was full of joy and my swollen knuckles were the perfect proof for a good deed. What still remained was the destruction part…
And while I was standing there following my darker thoughts, I heard a strange rumbling that soon became louder and louder. This irritated me and my plan so utterly that I started to sweat under my rain coat. My first shocked thought was that I’d probably stood there for two and a half hours and that it was already time to go home. But as soon as I saw the dark rusty brown of a goods wagon illuminated in the train station I sighed full of relief.
I glanced at my watch: 01:32, definitely enough musing for today. Rapidly quickening my pace, I went to the city, straight to the district that was famous for its prostitutes and drug dealers who were always up to no good. I hadn’t even noticed that it had stopped raining for a short while but now, suddenly, I felt the patter of rain on my hood and small drops were trickling down my cheeks like tears; or at least I suspected this should be how tears felt like. Never before had I cried, not even when my mum or my dad had died. On the other hand, I hadn’t ever cried out of joy either. I remember being totally stoked when my first son had been born but there hadn’t been any tears, never. Why should I actually cry?
Turning around the next corner, I perceived a peroxide blonde under a small refuge who looked at me with a provocative grin while shaking her enormous breasts in a red bra that revealed more than it concealed. Black leather boots with very high heels and shorts that could have been mere underpants eliminated the last doubt about her profession. Still smiling somehow maliciously, she seemed to await any kind of positive response. I looked into her eyes, “You’re disgusting, you really are”. She looked at me as if I were an exotic plant she’d never seen before, then her mouth opened for a counterattack but I simply turned away and went on.
Destruction? No, certainly not. She would be happy with the next guy who came along, dropped his trousers and paid her.
I went on to the drug dealers, my actual destination. They were easy to find since I knew very well where they used to be and especially what to do to gain their trust. This being another city meant that they would never care to come to the clinic so I was easily disguised. We who work there call those “the lost ones” because they’d never accept any help. So, it was my task to see to it that those got another kind of “help” and this was the reason why all of them knew me by a fictional name and believed that I belonged to their drug-addicted family. Why else should I regularly buy all those pills?
All of those mostly young men, some even still teenagers, seemed to be stoned 24/7 and so they were never able to notice when one of them vanished forever as soon as I showed up. What a funny coincidence! But in a world where drugs and death ruled something as trivial as a coincidence simply didn’t exist at all...
This time I chose the one with the tousled brown hair and the blue cap who always tried to look more intelligent than he really was. How much of a brain could be left after so many drugs? And since drugs were the only thing someone like him had in mind, I went straight to him with the most inviting smile I could accomplish. My index and my middle finger formed the peace sign which indicated that I didn’t want the usual stuff but wanted something special instead. He led me around the corner but before he could say one word I told him that I wanted to go farther away just in case the others would try to eavesdrop. This time I took the lead.
As soon as I thought it to be the right distance, I turned around too suddenly for a man whose brain was blurred by years of drug abuse. My left knee hit his crutch and with a loud moan he collapsed. “Hey, do you even feel this?” With watery brown eyes he looked at me, trying to grasp any reason for my sudden rage. I responded to his unuttered question, “You’re slimy filth which destroys other people’s life without any second thoughts or even remorse! This is why!” I spat every word at him and with a well-directed kick I broke the man’s ribs. He began to whimper like a puppy but it still didn’t trigger any mercy in me. I helped him up just to look into his eyes very deeply. Behind the veil the drugs had woven, I was still able to see a clear-minded young adult yet it didn’t convince me. It was too late: He had ruined so many lives already, his own too, and he would never stop. With a quick movement I had internalised on many occasions before I broke his neck and let him fall to the ground. Waste. Destruction. And somehow even justice. My goal had been achieved, my ritual was over.
With slow steps, fighting against strong gusts of wind, and with the certainty that the police would never really investigate the death of a drug dealer who would be missed by no one, I went back to the train station where the first train of the day was already waiting. I took a quick look-around but the man from two hours ago was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anybody else.
Feeling a sudden exhaustion, I wanted nothing else but to come home. It was 03:21 by now and the train was leaving with me as the sole passenger. Although the soft rocking was making me feel even drowsier I didn’t allow myself to fall asleep. My mind was totally empty, no thoughts left, and the fresh, cool air after the rain welcomed me at my station. I put up my collar and went home rather fast where I entered through the garage so that nobody would hear me.
The red digits said 04:00 and I was back in bed beside my beloved wife. The sheets were more crumpled now but apart from that she was still fast asleep.
It would be quite easy to conceal my bruised knuckles and my kids would wake me up in five to six hours as usual. Everything had happened as planned. Until the next time I would leave my home nobody would suspect that the caring and loving father of a family had a secret side, a ritual to free the world from at least a tiny bit of scum.
Justice and destruction. The life of a loner.
02/02/2012