Chapter 2 - Origins

I know it's taken awhile but here is the next chapter of Consequences. I don't think it totally sucks.

Chapter 2

The walk from the wharf to my old chevy is introspective, frequently I find myself in a state of reflection after I work. It seems like there was never a time when I didn’t know who I was or what I was meant to do. As a child I heard parents, relatives, even friends say “When you do something wrong you have to face Consequences”. I just assumed that they were referring to me. My full name is Consequences Ryan McLaughlin, and I’ve always known I was different.

When I was 12 years old I could bench press 200 pounds, I was shaving everyday by the time I turned 13, and the first time I killed a man I was 14 years old. As I mentioned before I don’t seek people out, they come to me. I don’t run ads in the local paper or list myself in the yellow pages. Often times when people find me they’re not even sure what brought them, but they know that I am who they were looking for. This is how it has always been, and it began on the night of my fourteenth birthday.

It was a cool fall evening and my parents had taken me out for a birthday dinner. After the obligatory cake and presents I walked to a friend’s house and spent the night playing video games and talking about girls, normal fourteen year old behavior. I started home around 9:30, a good-faith effort to make my 10 o’clock curfew. I was probably half way there when the woman stumbled from the bushes. She was wearing a black cocktail dress and expensive looking jewelry, she was beautiful even looking past the unkempt hair, and tear streaked face. She almost ran into me, and when she stopped I asked if she needed help. She shook her head no looking nervously behind her, then up and down the street. I told her we weren’t far from my house and that she should come with me and use our phone to call for a ride and maybe clean up a little. While I spoke she locked eyes with me and when I finished she seemed to stop shaking and mumbled “okay”. I took her arm and led her down the street to my parent’s house, after I let her in I watched my father frown at the black eye and swelled lip that I hadn't seen out in the dark street. My parents told me to go to my room and brought the woman into the living room. My mother got her a facecloth and some ice, my father asked who hurt her. I listened to the whole story from the top of stairs just outside my room.

Her boyfriend had been drinking and sometimes he could lose his temper. It usually wasn’t as bad as this, but when he threatened to get his gun she ran from the house and had only gone a block through backyards and bushes before she found me. I heard her ask my parents how old I was and when they said I had just turned 14 she didn't believe them. She said I was so calm and when I told her to come with me. I seemed so confident that she nearly felt safe again, though she knew her boyfriend probably wasn’t far behind her. When she finished talking my father said he was going to call the police, she begged him not to, and that’s when he said it.

“What your boyfriend did is wrong, he has to be punished, he has to face Consequences.”

As the words left his mouth the glass from one of our front windows exploded into the house. I ran down the stairs as a man presumably the woman’s boyfriend stepped through the broken window. He didn’t look the way I had pictured him. He wasn’t a dirty, toothless drunk in blue jeans and a stained t-shirt. He was wearing dress slacks and an oxford shirt; his face was red and glistened with sweat. He was taller than me and from my angle a little taller than my father as well. He couldn’t see me in the shadows on the stairs as he walked towards our living room yelling for the woman.

“Stacy! Honey, it’s time to go!”

I heard my father tell my mother to get the woman out the back door and run to the neighbors to call the police. My mother hesitated but only for a minute, and as I heard the slider open, the man quickened his pace and yelled something I couldn’t make out, but probably wouldn’t repeat anyway. I crept down the last three stairs and slowly made my way to the living room. When I reached the door I saw my father standing between the man and the back slider. I could see into the yard, my mother and “Stacy” had vanished. I hoped they were already on the phone with the police. The man was yelling and my father was yelling right back. The man took a step towards the door, and my father took two steps forward and pushed him back towards the wall. He steadied himself and his hand went to the waistband of his slacks. It wasn’t until then that I noticed the gun. He drew it and brought it level with my father’s chest. At that moment I hit him hard in the legs from behind, the blast of the gun was louder than any sound I had heard in my fourteen years. My ears ringing and adrenaline pumping I didn’t know that the bullet had gone wide and only grazed my father’s shoulder. My hit had knocked both of us to the ground, his right hand still held the gun so that’s where I focused my attention. I climbed over his back pushing him down as I went. When I was close enough I brought one knee down on his elbow and grabbed the gun hand with both of mine. I pulled toward the ceiling with all of my strength, I heard him scream when his arm broke, and the gun came free into my hand.

I felt its weight, noticing that it was heavier than I had imagined when I saw people using them on TV and in movies. I scrambled towards my father in a slow sideways motion keeping the gun on the man now clutching his arm and writhing in pain. When I reached my father and found that he wasn’t mortally wounded a wave of relief washed over me. I looked back at the man spitting and swearing at me, promising that I’d regret what I’d just done. In his eyes I saw what I’ve seen many times since, coldness, a dark void, and I could sense the evil inside of him. I already knew what I was going to do when he started to pick himself up off the floor. We rose at the same pace, reaching his full height he moved towards me his broken arm hanging awkwardly. I stared into his empty eyes and shot him twice in the chest. He looked surprised… they always look surprised, and I’m never sure why.

Time to read the "writing"

Well I realize it's taken me awhile to actually post my first bit of writing, but I wanted to post something I didn't completely hate and something that not many people have read yet. The piece you'll see below is just something I started last August when I was in Houston for work. It was a 103 degrees there, and ironically this piece starts out on a raw winter day in a seaside New England town. Wishful thinking from a guy who's too hot in the middle of January, let alone in August in Houston. Anyway I'm not sure what the inspiration was here, but while it's not the deepest or most philosophical thing I've ever written, I do think it could be a fun read and it might be a decent first piece to try out on the blog. On the other hand some of you might read it and decide that you'll never look at this blog again. However I think the only people that are reading this are my family a couple good friends and my girlfriend, so honestly you have to humor me or I'll know how you really feel and that will make the time we spend together awkward and really no one wants that...do they? Okay no more rambling (read: stalling) starting with what I post below I hope you enjoy this story that I've tentatively titled (that's alliteration, I know that because I have an English degree...): Consequences.

Chapter 1

My footprints were the only blemishes on the white blanket that spread out across the town. The snow had been falling steadily since about 3 am, I knew because I was awake when it started. Now at nearly 6 with almost 4 inches on the ground, my old work boots made no sound as I walked slowly to the wharf. I passed the shops and restaurants that would teem with tourists in the summertime, empty for now with frosted windows and snow drifting against doors bearing the standard "closed for the season" signs. Reaching the wharf and turning towards the water and into the wind I pulled my scally cap low on my head and turned up the collar of my old leather jacket. My bare hands red and aching, I flexed my fingers against the cold and shoved them deep into the jacket pockets feeling the warm pair of black leather gloves that I always carry. I was conscious of them before my hands were in my pockets, but I knew what it meant when I put them on so I held off as long as I could. Squinting into the snow mixed with the salty spray of the ocean the single empty bench began to take shape. When I reached the end of the wharf I brushed the snow from the old wooden slats and sat. Feeling the cold and damp as it cut through my jeans I looked back to the town through the wispy clouds of my own breath.

It was hard to make him out through the swirling snow and mist. He was hunched against the cold and walking quickly. I pulled my gloves from my pocket and bowed my head to say a short prayer before he arrived. I always pray before I work, while my cause is righteous the labor itself is rarely pious. When I raised my head and pulled the gloves over my hands he had cut the distance in half. I could see him better now; he walked clumsily, hurrying without knowing why. Sitting back against the bench I exhaled deeply sending my own white fog into the gale. I unzipped my jacket and slipped two snapshots from the inside pocket. Seconds later he reached me, he looked exactly as he did in the picture I held in my hand. My client thought he might have changed his appearance. I knew he would not have, men of his ilk are too arrogant to be cautious. He stood in front of me breathing heavily, his face red and raw, brown hair plastered to his forehead.

"Do you know why you're here?" I asked him. I always ask this question, I think deep down they all know.

"I got a message saying you have something I need." he answered gruffly and punctuated it by spitting on the ground in front of me. I made eye contact with him now for the first time.

"I do have something you need." I said rising from the bench and holding out the second snapshot. He turned the picture over and I watched, as his eyes grew wide. I recognized the look of realization spreading across his face, it's the look they all get when they know why they are seeing me.

"What's happening here?" he said still looking down at the picture. I didn't answer him but waited until he looked up. His expression changed as he met my eyes, first surprise and then pain as the first bullet hit him in the chest. His eyes were blank when the second bullet put him on the ground and sent him from this earth to whatever fate awaits men like him.

"May God have mercy on you, where I could not." I said as I knelt down and picked up the photo that lay beside him. I placed the snapshot on his chest and looked at the woman and small boy smiling up from the photo; the wife and son that that he had killed two years ago on this day.

For two years that man lived without remorse, never for a moment pausing to think of the terrible thing he had done. I did not seek him out; rather he was brought to me like all the others. I am not a hitman there are no fees for what I do. I am not a superhero; I don't wear a cape or a mask. I merely ensure that evil deeds do not go unpunished. I am vengeance, I am justice, I am the face of atonement. My name is Consequences and those who do not fear God should live in fear of me.

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Well thats all for this post hope you enjoyed that, there'll be more coming soon. Be good!

No one leaves comments in my notebook

I have started more; short stories, novels, novellas, vignettes, narratives, allegories, and parables, then I care to admit. While the topics have been varied, the styles diverse and ever changing, and the genres have ranged from epics to buddy comedies; there has been one consistent element throughout all of my writing: none of it is finished! Inevitably I lose motivation or become disgusted with what I've written, or in many cases both, which leads to me laying down my pencil, closing my notebook and deciding that "I'll pick it back up when the muse returns". The problem here is that when it does return it is with a completely different idea that in no way resembles my original effort.

I have decided that part of the reason I never finish a story is that in many instances I am the only one who reads my work. This is a problem because I decided long ago that my writing sucks. This means that when I do re-read my work I come to the conclusion that not only is the specific piece terrible, but by writing it I have added to the decay of society, and should be punished for such trite and poorly formulated attempts at fiction. Now there have been occasions when I have allowed my family or my girlfriend to read my work, and while they have always given me positive and encouraging feedback I remain convinced that they are horrified by my lack of talent. And so in an attempt to garner some neutral feedback I've started this blog. My initial plan of leaving my notebook open in public places has resulted in zero comments, a surprising number of lifetime bans from various stores and restaurants, and one invitation to participate in a medical study for dyslexics (I am not dyslexic).

Thanks for reading this far! Now that I've got the initial "here's why I'm blogging post" out of the way I can start posting some actual writing. My plan is to eventually have posted a whole novel on here in pieces, and I'm hoping that people will comment freely and make suggestions for what they'd like to see in my writing. Thanks again for reading at all, and stay tuned for my next post where I promise to begin a story that will eventually end!