What do you see in me? Something good? Something evil? Something you can mold, or something you must punish?
I am a human and you are a machine. You can see clearly, while I am full of bias. I can’t do anything as neatly and routinely as you.
But other men created you. They designed your programs, established the parameters by which you make your decisions. This is how you see the world, and it is colored by their biases. The human stain is ineradicable.
So what you see in me is what they taught you was important. You can’t think outside your parameters. But I can, and that gives me far greater freedom that what you have. I can change perspectives, I can be anyone or anything that I want to be, and you need someone to make you the way that you are.
Still, your assessment is of interest to me. What do you make of me?
You are strong, yet you are weak. You can work and work when you believe in what you do, but when you’re alone and unobserved, you can do nothing. You sit and flicker through your phone, looking for something to make you feel something. You are like a puppet; you need someone to pull your strings.
We retired here 15 years ago, thinking that we were dwindled down and our golden years, and that we would get calmer and more peaceful and settle into life.
We didn’t. This town is so boring. It’s killing me.
My husband and I are retired federal marshals. We didn’t expect for everyone from the office to just forget about us after I retired, and he retired, but that was a long time ago. We still remember everything. The old skills come back.
The line between cop and criminal disappears after awhile. What you’re left with, after everyone forgets you, and you get so old that no one even looks at you anymore, is a lifetime of experience and nothing to do with it.
I know exactly how to steal. You can see where the cameras point when you go in the store, and go up to the counter. Wherever the blind spots are, the merchandise is free. I can stuff a lot of costume jewelry and liquor into my old lady bag. I don’t even do anything with it. I just dump it in my closet, behind the cleaning supplies.
Then I started setting fires. Just small ones, outdoor trash cans. It takes the edge off. I bring around my big purse. It has lighter fluid and three lighters, and a book matches. When people aren’t paying attention to me, I like to go to a trashcan, spray it with lighter fluid, and drop in a match. It gets attention real quick.
When I got done with the the petty theft and the fires, I started planning bigger. What would it take to kill someone? No one I know, of course. That’s how they track you.
My husband would never notice. He doesn’t put in his hearing aids. He doesn’t talk to me or look at me. I try talking to him about the good old days, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.
So I started making my way up and down the street every day, looking for targets. I couldn’t do it to a kid, or a mother. I’m not that cold hearted. But these young guys, the loudmouth obnoxious punks… I wouldn’t have a problem with it.
There’s a busy intersection near the bus stop where a lot of the local hooligans gather. I watched them from the bench down the street, and when they came my way, I approached them with my walker. It’s the one walking closest to the street I tripped with front of my walker, and he fell right into traffic. There were horns and a crush of glass and metal, followed by screams and shouting. I kept making my way down the street, chuckling to myself.
I pulled this off three or four more times before I got caught. I came home to flashing red and blue sirens in my driveway. My husband put the pieces together. Still a cop, after all these years.
I’m pretty excited for the trial. I have all my answers planned out already. This will be my turn in the spotlight.
“Oh my God, you’re the Crusader?” “I am.” “How long have you been lying to me?” “I thought I was protecting you.” “But now they’re coming to kill us.” “I never wanted this to happen.” “How did it happen?” “They matched my body movements to footage of me from when I was in the military… it was AI analysis that identified me.” “How is it that no one figured it out till now?” “It’s one of my powers, obfuscation. It’s like magic, but it turns out it doesn’t work on computers.” “Is that why I didn’t recognize you when I saw you on television in costume?” “Yeah, my mighty mental powers.” “I can’t believe this.” “Aren’t you impressed? Aren’t you proud of me?” “Of what? You saved some people and you’ve gotten your whole family killed. That’s not what a man does, Glen.” “Come on, Mary.” “No, seriously. We’re just supposed to run for the rest of our lives? Can’t you magic your way out of this, or get some other super hero to keep us safe?” “It’s information; once it’s out there, I can’t do anything about it.” “Why do they want to kill you?” “I broke up a counterfeiting ring last year. The boss put a bounty on my head, someone put the info into the computer… and here we are.” “How did the Feds find out?” “They have an informer; that’s why we have time to get away. They’re waiting in the car; we have to leave right now.” “What about my mother? What about my job?” “The longer we stay, the greater the danger for all of them.” Mary began to cry. “What else have you been hiding from me? You have a whole other life that I’m not part of!” “Look, I found the amulet in a cave, and the wizard appeared … I thought I was doing the right thing.” “Going around, stopping muggings? How could you be so stupid?!?” “I’m sorry.” “I’m leaving you.” “You can’t.” “I can and I am.” “No, they’ll torture and kill you just to hurt me.” “You took away my choices. I’m already dead.” “Just come on. We have to leave right now.” “I’m not leaving. You can go off to the desert or wherever and start over. I’m staying here.” “No, you’re not.” “You can’t make me.” “I can.” Sleep came over her, and she collapsed into Glen’s arms. He picked her up and carried her to the car with the agent outside their home. The agent nodded as he got into the backseat with her. “She understood?” “She will … I have to use my powers to change her mind.” The agent drove the car out of their neighborhood. “Doesn’t that go against, you know, the Crusader’s Code of Ethics? Using your mental powers to brainwash your wife?” “Come on, man, that’s kid’s stuff. I’m saving her life here. What kind of superhero would I be if I couldn’t protect my own wife?” They drove on in silence.
She had her nose in everything. A little busybody, she couldn’t stop herself from gossiping and intruding into other people’s lives. Even when she angered people, ruined relationships, and upset people to no end, she wouldn’t stop. It was as if she was compelled by a blindly optimistic force that could only cause destruction. Then, the worst happened. She was indicted and sentenced to twenty years in prison for financial crimes. She’d never believed it was possible. Good things happen to good people. She was shattered. Family members came into her life to offer condolences, and their well meaning advice. She was told to seek solace in her faith, to start a hobby, to reflect on her life, maybe write a book. It burned her up inside, hearing these words, almost as much as her impeding sentence. Where did they get off, telling her what to do and how to feel? They had no concept of what she was going through, how humiliated she was, and what she now had to sacrifice. They could tell her to look on the bright side, to think about how she could inspire other people, and to be grateful that she had her health. But they didn’t have to go to prison. They would still be sleeping in their own beds next month. They hadn’t destroyed everything they’d built in their lives. She stopped talking to them. She wanted only to focus on what was in front of her, instead of what she had already lost. Going into prison, she shrank herself. She had her hair cut short, walked hunched over, said nothing, looked at no one. She didn’t want to know anyone or hear anyone’s opinions or advice. She only wanted each day to go as quickly as possible, to pass, so that she could reach oblivion sooner. Sadness and failure wrapped her, shadowed her, enveloped her; she felt it as physical pain, a cage around her, limiting every breath she took. She hardly remembered her life before prison; her memories seemed like they belonged to another person. It might have ended like this for her, had it not been for the prison library. She started reading fiction, whatever trash novels were available, devouring paperbacks every day. The other women watched her, and a large woman approached her. “Could you tell me what that book is about? I really love the cover.” Her words came out softly, as she wasn’t in the habit of speaking. She introduced the characters, giving them her own personal touch. She told stories of their lives, beyond what the authors had written, ending things the way she thought was right. Embellishing details came naturally for her, and she began to enjoy the persona she was crafting. Soon she had crowds of woman listening to her storytelling. Even women who were literate and read on their own flocked to her. Her passion came out in these tellings, her performances. She felt fulfilled for the first time in her life. She found that she had a gift, and she didn’t need to live other people’s lives for them.
There are things that happen that you think you could never endure, that you couldn’t handle without dying or killing yourself or going insane. All of that has happened.
We sleep on the street. We don’t work. Sometimes we find warmth and food. Some nights we go hungry. I know I’m going to die soon. My wife knows too. I can’t live much longer. But it’s OK. I fall apart, piece by piece. I spend more time dreaming, asleep, immune to everything.
When you live on the street, everything gets a piece of you. The insects, the bees and hornets are everywhere. Bees like to buzz around garbage cans in the summer, where there’s sugar and syrup and everything sticky and gross. I live in the trash. I get stung all the time. I roll over and there’s bees there. I get stung, it hurts, I scramble away and thrash, but there’s nothing I can do. My face swells up, my skin blisters and I have to just deal with it.
Waking up in the night, it always gets colder. My wife is here with me, we huddle for warmth. I have a few items with me from our old life, some of the kids’ toys. I miss the children, and all that the joy they used to bring our lives. They’re gone, placed by child and family services with new families. We have no contact with them; we’re not allowed to. Not after what happened.
My wife fought in the past. We don’t anymore. We don’t talk much, we just look for food, move from place to place. I can’t protect her anymore. She forgives me for it. After I tried the first few times, she told me to stop, and just to let her handle it. I don’t even notice when it happens. I just keep sleeping, waiting for it to be over.
I hated my life. I stared into the screen of my phone hundreds of times a day, looking for a response, for confirmation of my existence. I am very real. Everything hurts and nothing hurts. Our stories are ending, and so will we end. Once I thought about killing myself to make the pain go away. But not anymore. Maybe I’m already dead, and this body is just a shell, going through the motions.
Sometimes you think you’ve fallen enough, you’ve hurt enough, you seen enough, but there’s more, there’s always some new degradation, some new way they can hurt you. Well, not me. By everything I’ve been through, I’m invulnerable. There’s nothing that they can take from me.
I have a shell of dirt on me, of grime, filth, and crust. It protects me. Others don’t come too close to me. Whatever I have isn’t what they want. I have wounds on me that won’t heal. My ankle is swollen and has a sore on it that oozes, that never heals. I think I can see the bone through the wound. I can’t open my right hand, it’s always cramped, like it’s stuck. I hurt, therefore I am. Every throb, every pinch and burn, every bee sting tells me how alive I am. I will never be any freer than I am at this moment.
I’ve started seeing it more and more every day. Things are ending. Everyone is getting cruder and more violent. The world is ending. Violence is befouling the streets. I swear, it’s a devolution. Whatever used to inspire higher feelings and aspiration in men is gone. We’ve become beasts. Worse than beasts; any regard for the sanctity of family, friendship, prtection of the weak and lowly, is gone. All that’s left is cruelty, hunger, and greed. Humans have been abandoned by their god, and now the earth, hell is consuming us, slowly, with great vengeance and furious violence.
I watch them from my balcony. I don’t know how long I have before they crash through the security doors of my complex and drag me out into the streets with them. It’s horrifying to watch this degradation every day, but I can’t look away. It’s worse to lie in my bed, with the windows shut, picturing everything that was going on. When I’m watching it, at least I can see what’s happening.
Their faces are what haunt me the most. Their animal ferocity, their wicked depravity, the cold dead eyes, with which I cannot identify. They’re setting fires now. It won’t be long now.
Day 15
The stench of decaying flesh fills the air, every pour, befouling my home, my nose, my entire being. I’ve taken to wearing a bandana around my nose and mouth soaked in perfume to keep it out, which makes me dizzy and ill, but it’s a stopgap measure. The fighting has died down now, like most of the people of this city, I think. There aren’t any television or radio broadcasts anymore.
Animals, scavengers, are barking and yelping everywhere. Vultures fly past my window and screech at me. Carrion is everywhere, a feast for them.
My food will run out in ten days if I eat only the minimum needed to maintain myself. My appetite isn’t a problem. The slow death of starvation would be welcome to me compared with whatever the mob has in store.
The fires still rage throughout the city’s skyline. They don’t seem to be getting closer to me. When the walls of smoke pass through my windows and balcony, it almost cleanses the dirty odor of decay that permeates everything.
Day 20
I hear vehicles in the streets for the first time since the fighting started. I run outside to the balcony to see tanks rolling through the streets, soldiers marching in formation, what seems like thousands past my building. Is order returning? Have I been saved?
I switch on my television to see the awful truth. There is a beast on the screen, something dead and uncanny, leering at me, commanding me. I grow nauseous and retch, even amid the smell of death, there is something awful here, a cruel abomination that should not exist.
Returning to my balcony, I watch the soldiers marching. When I look into their faces, I don’t see human feeling. I don’t see emotions, I don’t see sympathy. Their expression is identical to the horde from before, the mutilating rapists, the cannibals devouring each other in the streets. Now they were subdued, transfixed, but they had lost whateever quality of personhood or life once existed.
Day 30
The face on the screen is all I see. There is nothing but him, it, and there is nothing that I can do. The descent into madness is coming. All I can do is write these words as my humanity slips from me. I stare into the mirror, and recognize the animal, the beast in me, is me, that’s all I am now.
I let go, I give in. Abaddon. I hear his name in my ears, in my dreams. I am nothing anymore. The streets are deserted.
This will be my last entry in this notebook. I will leave my aparment for this first time since the crisis began thirty days ago. I will descend the stairs to the street, and I will go to where he is.
Abaddon. The death, the evil that walks. I am him and he is me. It’s over. This world is over, my life is over, everything is only him, the abomination of desolation.
I ascended from my body into the astral plane. I watched her, me, down there in the material world. She slept fitfully, and I wondered what dreams trouble that shell now that I’m gone. Who is she without me, her consciousness?
I shook my head and rose further, above the roof, into the sky. I felt less and less connected to her. What was her name, Becky? We used to be so close, but now she seemed impossibly distant. She seemed a dead weight, a burden, not an anchor.
I began to see lights coalescing into people, forms communicating to me beyond words, instilling me with wisdom and deep comfort. The light began to give way to darkness, to stars, as I was beyond the atmosphere. I began to accelerate beyond the earth, into the galaxy.
I became one with the universe. I was there for the big bang, the expansion of the universe, the orbits of the planets established. I felt in my being the eons of growth and development of the cosmos; then, as the totality of infinity reached some impossible maximum, a contraction started, and everything began to slowly crunch in together. The sun turned a deep red, expanded to encompass the earth and solar system. The universe collapsed into a singularity, a black hole. Millions upon millions of years passed, and then another big bang, another explosion, and the process began again.
I traveled at incredible, mind bending speeds through this recreated universe, surveying landmarks, planets that had been there in the previous creation. It was all there, again. How many times had the universe been born, grown to fruition, and died? The scale of time mystified me. I felt that I had always been one, myself, through a million rounds of existence, through death, rebirth, and lives without any boundary or ending.
Then I began to slow, and I felt myself being drawn backward, like my ankle was tethered; I was yanked down rudely through the atomosphere, through the sky, through the roof, into her.
Her eyes were blinking as I crashed back into her body, and she sat up. We were one again, and I felt myself reidentifying with her, this Becky. I stretched out my arms and looked at the clock, jumping out of bed and rushing to the bathroom.
While I brushed my teeth, the memories of my heavenward ascent faded from my mind. I told myself to write down my dreams, just like I had a thousand times, but I forget to, just like I forget all my dreams.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a whole different person in my dreams, and if I could just remember them, that there would be a whole cosmic realm of existence that I could experience, incredible insights that could change my life and the world forever.
I looked in the mirror and regarded the lovely Becky staring back at me. Time for work, I said to myself. Dreams will have to wait for another day.
He was going to be happy. This was going to be his time. No one could take that away from him. Johnny walked into the bank with a gun. He told the teller, “everything in the bag.” She screamed but complied. He walked out, casual as anything, and sat on the curb, waiting for the police. Johnny had done this before, a million times. The cops swarmed him, shouting for him to drop the gun, and he did. He stood and put his hands over his head. He was cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cop car, staring at his shoses, adjusting himself on the plastic seat. He was booked, taken to a holding cell, and locked in with a bunch of guys. He sat down on a bench while guys mocked and shouted at him, saying nothing. When the time came for his phone call, he took it. His attorney told him the same thing as last time, he agreed, and was released later that day. Something was supposed to be different this time. There was something that he had to remember, some reason why he was doing this. He went back to his apartment and paced, waiting for inspiration. Johnny called up Jennifer, again, and shouted at her: “why am I doing is? Why do I keep robbing banks and why do they keep letting me go? What’s the point?” Jennifer laughed, made little jokes. “My father used to rob banks. They asked him why. He said, ‘that’s where the money is.'” She hung up, telling him she loved him and not to ever change. The buzzer in Johnny’s apartment rang, and he went downstairs to sign for the package. A gun, again, complete with bullets and holster. He sighed and started to clean, load, and assemble the revolver. “Nothing changes, nothing changes,” he muttered to himself. Johnny slept fretfully that night, the gun under his pillow, figuring in his dreams, a terrible bedfellow. He kept it with him like a talisman, protection against an intruder that would never come. An intruder might be a relief against this endless tension, this endless repetition. He was a bank robber who never got away with any money. He was a criminal who couldn’t stay in jail. He was obeying orders and serving a purpose he didn’t understand. He’d been doing this for years, every day he got arrested, every day he got released, and set up for the next days. He sat up in the middle of the night and regarded the gun next to him. The solution to any problem, the get out of jail free card. He shook his head, wondering how many times he had fired one of them into himself, and then found himself waking the next day, intact and ready for another bank. He showered and dressed, tying his tie and holstering his weapon, which fit neatly beneath his sport coat. He caught the bus to downtown and entered the bank. Brandishing his pistol, he demanded the money. But this time, something had changed. The teller was weeping, but so were the customers. Slowly they crowded around him. He told them to stay back, that he was serious, and he fired at a man who was closest to him. The man didn’t fall; there was no wound. He took the gun from Johnny’s trembling hand and said “blanks.” The crowd embraced him, and it was his turn to sob. The teller came to him and said, “Johnny, you’re home now. It’s over. You’ve spent your time in purgatory, and now heaven is yours.” He saw light filling the bank as he felt himself lighter. He was finally free.
Herman’s Hermitage 