There He Was, Gone

“Ain’t no God in here, son.” Michael sees a soul to be saved. It is up to him to save it. “God is everywhere.” The man rolls his eyes and falls back onto his bed. “You don’t want to be having this conversation with me. You got to do your thing, you do it outside.” Michael protests, “I don’t think I’m bothering anyone here.” “You’re bothering me.” Michael makes an attempt at an appeal. “Would you like to join me?” The man suddenly sits up again, and this time he spits the words at Michael. “Outside, I said. God ain’t welcome in here.” Michael doesn’t argue further. It isn’t his practice to force his faith onto people, especially those with convictions so far in the other direction. He stuffs the beads into his pocket and leaves the dorm. Once outside, Michael takes a heavy, deep breath. He looks to the sky, where there are millions of stars. He begins his rosary again, the beads dangling from his hand. As he is walking, and muttering, and counting the blessed mysteries, a figure steps out from behind a building. Michael stops, and the two are at a standoff for a moment: Michael with his rosary beads but no gun, and the dark outline of a figure, with the dark outline of a gun. Slowly, Michael puts the rosary to his mouth and kisses it before hanging it around his neck, inside his shirt. He holds his hand up to the figure as if to say “Don’t shoot,” and the figure lunges at him. The two struggle, and once he is able to break free of the violent scuffle, Michael runs into a nearby door. The figure is close behind, and soon the two are fighting in what appears to be the darkened kitchen of an abandoned house. They punch, and shove, and scratch, and the dogfight is on. Michael’s face is sweaty with the effort, and his eyes show worry. He grabs a heavy book from the counter in the small kitchen and, with the spine side out, hits the man in the head. The man is stunned for a moment, but continues to pound mercilessly on Michael’s body, sometimes hitting him with his gun. When the dark figure is able to put enough distance between himself and Michael to point the gun at Michael’s head, the man screams. Michael stops, frozen. His eyes are wide and his breathing is violent. With a flash of movement, Michael shoves the gun away and swings the heavy book again. This time it slows the man, and Michael is able to get several more hits in before finally calming himself to relent. He grabs the gun from the man’s hand. He has no intention of using it, but prefers that he hold it instead of this assassin. A groan is audible as the man rises to his feet. Michael again holds up a cautionary hand, hoping it will calm him so they may call a truce. The man sees his gun and jumps at it. Michael swings it from him and, without thinking, jabs the man hard in the back. The game is on again, and Michael is unfailing in his fight. He jabs, belts, and hammers the man wherever there is opportunity. The man continues to struggle viciously, and Michael’s fight becomes manic. He grits his teeth as he continues to pound into the soft flesh. After a moment, he catches himself: the man is no longer fighting back. Michael is silent, listening for breathing, too afraid to touch him. There is a noise of a battle outside the building, and Michael is unable to hear anything but the pounding of the shells hitting the earth. He feels his heart against his chest and is aware, for a moment, that it isn’t bombing he’s hearing, but his own pulse. Beating. Beaten. Michael leans toward the man and wraps his hand around the man’s neck. There is nothing. It is too late. Michael has beaten him to death. Michael collapses and tears fill his eyes. “Forgive me.” He crosses himself, and from his neck he pulls the now-broken remnants of his rosary. Michael lays a hand on the man’s chest. “May God have mercy on your soul. Please forgive me. Rest in peace.” Michael lets the tears fall down his face. His mind is screaming. Why is God not exercising mercy on his soul? Why had God sent him to this place? Why had God forced his hand in taking a life? As though his crystallized mind has been shattered, questions fall in shards all around him, sharp and dangerous. He will spend a long time sweeping these broken pieces away, a long time before he will once again tread those places in his mind without accidentally standing on a piece and cutting himself open again. Michael pulls himself to his feet and goes outside, where a firefight has begun. He staggers in the direction of the barracks, and just as the sight of his colleagues is clear, the sharp sound of a bullet piercing skin is heard. He has been hit. He falls to his knees, shocked and angry. As he is kneeling, he decides to pray. He crosses himself, as he did at the side of his victim, and begins to recite: “I believe in God, the father almighty. Creator of heaven and earth.” He struggles to breathe, and when he looks at his body, it is clear that the bullet has gone through his heart. He looks up. Soldiers are running towards him with frantic looks on their faces. Michael looks to the sky again, and the stars there become blurry. The tracer bullets flying past begin to look as though they themselves are stars, hundreds of shooting stars. He feels himself fall and is aware of a faint taste of dirt in his mouth as he lies face-down on the ground. He breathes heavily and notes the smell of copper. He feels the thumping of boots as they get near.