Steel placards tile into the sky, upon every one of them the names of all who I have caused to suffer. Each one, etched by my own hand. Cold to the touch. Frostbite tore at my skin as I traced the names with my fingers. The walls stretched on for eternity in every direction.
Iāve counted them all. Ran over their stories, one by one, repeating them over and over until they burned into my memories like a brand sears against the skin, every sin encasing what remains of my wretched core in char and soot. As I once cast judgment on humanityā¦ so, too, do I cast judgment on myself. My crimes were numerous. It was only fair. It was only just.
Even so itā¦ it wasnāt enough. It wasnāt enough. A pound of feathers. The scales still tipped. I felt in my heart, even after doing this so many times, that I was missing something. The final piece that made me finally understand the gravity of all Iāve done, that would bring justice to all those whose lives I have touched. Do I have to count them again?
Iā¦ I canāt. Iām so tired. I canāt look anymore. I canātā¦ I canāt look at it anymoreā¦
Steel placards tile into the sky. An unending quilt of guilt, magnetized together, every atom laid before me like winding city streets. Cars scuttling along like beetles in wood; the names shone. LEDs off rain-covered streets.
Why can I still read them? My eyes...
A flash of light as Don leapt from the bed startled me awake. He twitched and jerked like a man possessed, looking around frantically at the walls.
āDon! What the hell are you doing?ā
Don jumped in place, whirling back around to face me like a deer in headlights: a look of complete incomprehension as it gazes upon the end, the twitch as it tries to jump away too late.
āIā¦ thought I heard something.ā
āI-I donāt know. Chanting?ā
āChanting? I heard nothing of the sort.ā
Wellā¦ actually, on second thought, that might have been me. Counting could be heard as chanting, no? I have a nasty habit of talking in my sleep, if only when I have particularly vivid dreams. Too late to mention that, nowā¦ maybe once we settle down after this.
I shook my head, turning away to look at the clock. 6amā¦ too late to go back to bed. May as well check on the little one.
Plucking the monitor from my nightstand, I clicked a few buttons to look at the feed. Beeble rustled a little in his sleep, but he was always a wiggly baby. Don used to affectionately call him āwormā. Still does, but only when he thinks no one is listening. I humor him.
Stillā¦ couldnāt hurt to make sure the little one didnāt wake up.
āI canāt tell if Beeble is awake or not. Could you check on him?ā
āGive him a little kiss on the forehead for me, he looks so adorableā¦ā
As the door closed behind Don, I sat back in the bed, watching the monitor. That dreamā¦ well, it was hardly a dream. Dreams donāt usually have youā¦ blinding yourselfā¦ but I hesitate to call it a nightmare.
Why did it feel so real? Why was I so fixated on those names? I doubt Iāve met even a fraction of them in my lifetime. Yet there they were, clear as day; and how some so easily came back to me, so soon after the dream. Gave me a headache just thinking about them...
Movement on the monitor drew me from my thoughts. Looking back, all I caught was a glimpse of Don bolting out of the room. For a moment, I worried something was wrong with Beebleā¦ but upon second glance, the baby was still in his crib. Wide awake and staring directly at the camera, but still in his crib.
Ugh, that child was too observant for his own good. Probably got it from me.
I felt the wall shake as the front door was slammed shut. Damn it, Don! I told you to stop doing that weeks ago. I know the oaf listens, he just chooses not to heed it. Not that I careā¦ he can repair the damn thing when he inevitably breaks it. Again.
Brushing aside the curtain above the bed, I looked to the driveway to see what the hell the man was doing. Maybe taking out the trash. Come to think of it, I did conveniently forget to take out the bin in Beebleās room earlier. Also forgot to put away his toys. Erā¦ āforgotā.
Instead of running to the trash bins, I watched as Don jumped in his truck, flicking on the lights and speeding off down the street. Something Iāve also told him to stop doingā¦
But something told me that something was happening. Something was wrong. That he needed me.
A memory flickered across my gaze like an old film projected against the wall, holes burned in the shivering frames. Hands drifted from my face, electricity crackling between elegant fingers. Gleaming walls of marble, etched with names. I canāt look, yet I stare in awe. I canāt ever hope to count them all.
The names of all whom Iāve ever saved.
And Iāll be damned if that oaf wasnāt on that list...
