It’s a quiet town in the winter. If you listen carefully, the wind whistles through branches, shaking leaves like a hand strumming a guitar. You can hear the ocean waves crash and dive into the sand, only to slide right back as the tide does its magic. Perhaps only disrupted by a thundering train at an egregious hour of the night, nature seems to be the loudest voice around here.
Walking around here is both eerie and peaceful, seemingly calming and anxiety filled at the same time. Quiet can be interpreted in so many ways depending on what you’re looking for. Maybe you need the escape from the hassle of the day, or maybe you are lonely and seeking the attention. Quiet can be either your biggest support or your worst enemy.
They say every person has their breaking point. That moment where no matter their values or good intentions, they are pushed over the edge. Most people don’t seek to find conflict, however conflict is a vicious creature with no regard for who it chooses. Conflict is an invisible foe that can disguise itself among thoughts and actions, waiting to strike unsuspecting victims who just were looking for peace or a way to better themselves.
He’s not proud of it. He never will be. The guilt has robbed him of any last remaining piece of his true self. It slowly rusts him away as though he is iron left in the rain. He wishes he could go back in time and grab his former self and say, “Stop! This is not worth it! You don’t see what’s coming!”
Life was simpler for him just 2 years prior. He enjoyed his friendships. He enjoyed his free time. But unfortunately, he also enjoyed his ego. He was the bigshot who wouldn’t take shit from anyone else. No one would get in his way, and one who did would be brought down before him. He loved the nightlife. The women, the booze, and the loud music that would blast through the night. But that was 2 years ago, tonight is much quieter.
Funny enough, it was a night like this. An ocean town left nearly abandoned in the winter rendered to a low volume. Minimal traffic, minimal people, but still some businesses around sticking out the off season relative to the busy summer. He didn’t care, though. Open bars meant beer and women he could talk to. Remember, this is Mr. All-that. He made that excited walk just like any other night he had before. Tonight’s walk, however, was far from any jubilance.
He entered the bar that evening and ordered his usually vodka soda, lime gripping the top of the glass as always. There was nothing to be seen out of the ordinary. Why would it? He had done it so many times before. One drink became two, and two became a number too much alcohol could count. A fun night of partying that seemingly would go uninterrupted. A typical young soul hating every passing second wishing the night would never end. While the night remained fun filled, he couldn’t escape the commotion coming from the other end of the bar shortly before midnight. A couple, seemingly his age, began arguing and he watched as the woman walked passed him and out the establishment. She didn’t hesitate to flash a jealousy and rage fueling smile at him, seemingly to make the man she left behind angry. His eyes followed her like a magnet as she left. Tonight, though, he wishes he never looked. He wishes he buried his head down for the rest of night.
“She’s not yours, man. Watch yourself.”
“Doesn’t look like she’s yours anymore either, bud.”
“I’ll be fine, she doesn’t want pricks like you.”
“Oh yea? Let’s find out.”
14 steps was all it took to proceed out the bar. 14 steps he regrets taking, and a few more steps for his new-found foe who hastily followed behind.
He scanned the parking lot for her, but it appeared she had fled faster than anticipated. He walked at a faster pace through the parking lot, feet working extra hard to keep his drunken self stable. His heartbeat faster and faster as he could hear the footsteps of the man chasing him. He bypassed the end of the parking lot and halted in the middle of the road, toes rested on the yellow median. He looked left down the street: no sign of her. He looked right down the street: no sign of her.
He did find, however, a flailing fist to his cheek when he turned around. The man had caught up to him, and did not exactly want to kiss and make up. He tried to stand up to defend his honor, but was struck again in the gut with a ferocious kick. As he desperately tried to roll across the pavement to give himself time to stand up, the man inched closer. Looking to deliver the third and final blow, he lunged forward but his tackle was dodged and this time it was his turn to fall.
In that brief moment, the always quiet town was not so quiet. A typical, dark night was illuminated by a sudden appearance of bright light and the blast of a horn. His attacker no longer stood a battle against him, rather a battle against machine now. While dodging his final tackle, the man had fallen onto the train tracks that paralleled the street. In that brief moment, you could no longer hear wind whistle through branches, shaking leaves like a hand strumming a guitar. You could no longer hear the ocean waves crash and dive into the sand, only to slide right back as the tide does its magic. When disrupted by a thundering train at an egregious hour of the night, nature no longer seems to be the loudest voice in that brief moment.
“In local news,” the TV bellowed, “A drunken man killed himself two nights ago after a fight with his girlfriend. The man was last seen leaving the bar to find her before he jumped in front of a train that was speeding by just 100 yards from the entrance. Bartender Jim Angeloni says the couple argued and she left him before he left the bar to serve a table. He is likely the last person to see the man before his death around 12:07am. Police suspect no foul play, rather a tragic, heartbreak related accident.”
He clicked the remote and shut of his television in the home he had no left since that night. His terrified soul of the police knocking on his door had burned him for days, wondering if they would figure out who he was and if they would ask him questions. But, he felt he had hit an incredible stroke of luck. No one saw him around the man, no one else was in the street that night, and the train engineer claimed he only saw one person as well. It was a miracle to him at the time, but walking alone tonight made him realize it was no miracle. It was a burden that weighed on his conscience and shoulders like Atlas struggling to hold the weight of the world.
But at that time, that miracle was matched with accusation and relief. He started the fight right? He attacked me in the street, I was just protecting myself. Maybe if he backed off, he would still be here. It kept life normal for him at first glance, his drunken stupor that evening had pretty much kept any emotional attachment out of the situation. It was hard to remember it all, for it to even feel really real.
He returned to work soon thereafter, claiming he had been out sick. In a small town, big news hangs in the air like a bad smell, distracting people from their focus until it somehow goes away. He avoided conversation about it beyond the basic, “Yea that crazy” or a simple “Poor guy” He was fine, but better to play it safe, right?
One day, while returning from working and removing himself from his car, he heard a dreadful sound. It was not new, he had lived here for awhile now, but something in his body shivered. A train horn blasted in the distance, warning any person, vehicle, or animal that may be on its unstoppable path that it was coming. The sound ripped a new kind of pain through his head and down into this chest and all over his body. No one had touched him, no one spoke to him, he just internally crumbled.
The coming weeks would bring more thoughts and less sleep. “Maybe it was my fault. Did I need to call the man out like that in the bar? No I’m good, I’m fine.” But oftentimes in the night, he’d hear that horn wail into the sky and that aching pain would surge through his body like lightning. He could find the distraction and keep the sensation away in the daytime, but once alone with his thoughts he became a powerless victim to his own mind.
He even tried to drown his own thoughts once again in the night life, even returning to the same bar he was at that fateful night. One evening, another couple sat gut wrenchingly close to where “they” had been. They seemed much happier to him, however. At one point in the night, the woman stood up as if to leave and his pain returned on the spot. “Please don’t go!” he cried out to the woman across the bar in a guilt driven shriek. “…to the bathroom?” the woman replied. “What’s your deal, man?” her boyfriend replied. “I’m sorry guys I’m so sorry” he said back before leaving a 20 on the bar and shuffling out the door.
Nothing he tried could separate himself from the events that occurred that night. His night dreams become nightmares of the fight and subsequent death of the man, replaying over and over again like a highlight on sportscenter. He was trapped, alone with his own thoughts. Any mention of the story would just incriminate himself to the police once the real occurrences of that night came to light. Jail time would only take his life away, and ruin any remaining hope he had of moving on and returning to normal.
Prison seemed too scary for him. God knows how long he could be sentenced, especially now that he had been hiding the story for quite some time. What would his family think of him? His friends? Does the family of the dead man deserve to know the truth? The idea of a punishment behind bars ate away at him day in and day out. The train horn continued to rip through his mind and body like a razor blade, there daily to remind him of the life he costs over a meaningless argument he got involved in.
Perhaps this was his prison, trapped not behind bars, but in his own thoughts and guilt that took away his freedom as much as any pair of handcuffs and the smack of the judges gavel down ever could. What’s a life spent haunted by a bad mistake or unfortunate decision if it only prevents the joy and euphoria life can offer? What is a night spent with friends physically if your mind is wondering away to another night from a younger point in time? A bed can only comfort the body, not a mind tormented by guilty nightmares. Life had taken a dark turn onto a road that appeared to be a one-way street. 2 years removed from the incident, there would be no handcuffs. There would be no police arriving to take him away with flashing blue lights and no news reports. There would be no trial in front of a jury of his peers, and no judge to tell him what he had coming. But 2 years from the night, he would face his punishment the only way he felt he could.
