There’s an unexplainable truth to the simple fact that life transforms from an eternity of days into a flash of a mere blink, that can not be avoided, can not be denied. I couldn’t neglect this fact when I saw the eyes of the man who I knew so well, yet seemed like a legend from the days of old. His appearance although like that of a beggar, invoked no pity, but revolt in which I knew I’d join in a heartbeat, if he’d ask me. But I also knew, he’d never do so. His tall posture had shrunk in the two years that I had not seen him, his clothes were dusty, his hair gray with dust, too, and his hands steady, but grainy with dirt. He had become thinner and I could see his jawline had become finer, his lips smaller, his cheeks had sunken, and his eyes seemed to have lost their almond shape, as the rest of his features had become more prominent, leaving his eyes somewhere else. The bright green that I remembered, was almost missing in some kind of a misty, almost foggy gray. When he spoke, his voice felt like a faraway thunder of a storm that brew in a distant landscape. I saw the flash and felt almost transported in every corner that he had been during this time.
“I’m almost done.” He said as he held a glass of water that the waiter brought for him.
I looked at him and didn’t speak. The whole truth lay bare before me and there was nothing I could ask.
He had been away, when the unrest had started in the city. His wife and daughter were home alone and were attacked by a band of criminals who wounded his wife and kidnapped his daughter. I was the doctor on call that night and I took care of his wife. His daughter was found dead a week later in a stream, on the path to the mountain. When she was brought for examination, the medical examiner found she had been raped by twelve men. She was only sixteen years old. Same age as my daughter. I was enraged, furious – not with justice, but with a big “why” that I didn’t ask because I wanted an answer, but because it should not have been there in the first place. That “why” should have never existed. When he came to pick up his child, I knew well that he would do what I would do. He wouldn’t seek justice, or revenge. No. Things are simpler when one loses a child. One goes mad with grief, and that grief becomes the only purpose of life. He disappeared in that goal, and I only heard rumors of where he’d been. One time I heard he was in the north, another in the south, another out of the country – and all this time, I knew, he was pursuing his grief.
He drank the water. We stood on high stools near the bar and looked at the men who were playing pool. Then, he got a pen out of a pocket of his jacket, gave it to me, and smiled. “Here. Keep this to write prescriptions.” He then shook my hand and I saw him walk out. I felt like I knew, but often we don’t believe what we know. Knowledge is too unbelievable, and we choose to believe what we don’t know.
I played for another hour and went home. I was twirling the pen in my hand and felt as if I was playing with something holy. I looked at it as I walked and realized it was a simple BIC pen, with very little ink left. “I guess I’ll write two or three prescriptions with this.” I thought and then felt as if my words choked my brain. There was the second “why” that I knew should not have existed, but the rage was gone, and the fury was but a soft sigh that had gotten used to the time that had passed by. When I got home, my daughter told me I had to go to the hospital. She was white with what seemed both joy and fear.
“Do you know what has happened?” I asked.
“I think the man whose daughter was raped, was found dead.” She said almost stuttering for words. I could sense she wanted to say more, but I left.
There was his life flashing before me, yet again. The knowledge of what I didn’t want to believe was now impossible to neglect. I rushed to the hospital and when I got there the police were also talking with the M.E. about time of death. In the span of over an hour they had found twelve bodies – and one suicide.
I put my hands in my pockets and felt the pen again. I knew, I was his note.
Aida Bode is a poet and writer, whose works have been published in a variety of online and print magazines including, The Drabble, Silver Birch Press, Neuro Logical Magazine, Prelude, 34th Parallel, Transcendent Zero Press, West Texas Literary Review, Three Line Poetry, The Raven’s Perch, Clay Literary, Necro Magazine.
She’s authored/translated the novel David and Bathsheba, two poetry volumes, Rated and True Cheese, and a quotes collection, A Commuter’s Eye View. Aida holds a MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University.
Aida is a Pushcart Nominee.