The Arrow.

Photo by Sharan Pagadala on Unsplash.

I am selfish to a fault.

I say this with an air of resignation, not with any senseless ode to repentance. How do I know this, you ask? Well, read my story below.

There are many doctrines in this world that are partial, so I live by a doctrine partial to myself. I am sure no man would judge me, so I make no effort to judge anyone on earth.

Now, what is crazy to me, is how this foolery of a man, Jaja Bacons - such stupidity of a name I must say - felt he could come to the front of my porch, on a hot Sunday afternoon, after I had just come back from what a horrendous service it was, talking about remembering the poor and forgotten.

What arrant nonsense?

The poor remain poor and the forgotten remain forgotten because they choose to be that way. Why make it my problem, Father Ambrose? Why walk directly to my favourite aisle in the church to preach this gospel?

He even stared directly into my eyes, the annoying short balding priest. Maybe if he took that same time to talk to his hair, it would not have run to the back of his skull.

Anyway, on this hot Sunday afternoon, when my throat was parched and the sun was beating on my neck’s behind, there Jaja Bacons stood in front of my porch spouting nonsense.

Now, I have no knowledge of who this man is, or wherever the hell he came from, for I have never once met him in my life.

I only placed a foot on my porch when he came out of nowhere and argued that I owed him. Me, owe him? With all the money I have for free dispensation, who can I ever owe on this God’s made earth?

I looked him up and down, he resembled a tiny thin shrivelled man, who had suffered a million years before realizing human perseverance, and was now on his enduring path.

This lifeless-looking old man stood there, neck stooped a bit, waiting for my reply to his utterance.

The rage that burned within me purged like a sea of volcanic ash. Naturally, I upheld good manners in an outworldly way, but at that moment, I could not hold my tongue.

I cursed, “Sir, please sir,“ I said, “I am not in the gingerest of mood to listen to your jest, so if you cannot explain yourself, then I advise you take your form away before I desecrate your name.”

He, with a silence, and without response, walked up to me and stretched forth a hand to touch my lips.

I, with a countenance of disgust, slapped his palms away with intrepid might.

He asked: “Why does your tongue sully you?”

I looked him stern in the eye, with a ghastly rage that this broken forgotten thin parcel of a man, decided to walk with nearness into my space, and with damning audacity, attempted to touch my lips.

I shouted: “What do you mean by this? What do you mean by all of this? You walk to my porch on a hot Sunday and ask me for a fee I know nothing about, which you have hesitated to explain further the truth of your statement, and now you dare touch my face? It is not my tongue that sullys me, but your impudence that is baffling.”

I picked up my pitchfork, designated for raking my lawns. I wielded it like a spear, and dared him, “If you come any closer, I would run through you like Vlad the impaler, and be no less gory than the Turks, known to blemish a thousand souls.”

He paused, shocked by my reaction, then he burst into a croaky throaty laughter.

I watched this thin shrivelled man, hold his belly and convulse irrepressibly to his apparent jest.

I, in my mind, did not have time for this drama. I only wished to rest my pious head.

He then stopped, as if instructed by the wind which was now blowing, whistling past our faces, with the sky now darkening, with black clouds now blocking the sun that had earlier parched my throat.

He looked me dead in the eye and spoke:

“Richard, you were not always like this. Do you remember when you changed?”

I swear, this statement burnt me.

“Who are you to know me?” I shouted, “What gives you the guts to comment on my behaviour?”

Now, I was no longer in the mood for jest or aimless time passing, so I resolved there and then to poke with impassable force the ends of my pitchfork into this thin man’s throat.

No sooner had I released this thought that the rain started falling, lunging at the earth with dramatic force. Lightning flashed excessively, running rampant on the lawns, the trees, the very dome of my home, thrashing as if the Heavens had come to reside on Earth.

Of course, this did not tarnish my advancement, I still moved intending to stab my pitchfork through.

I watched Jaja Bacons step back, and with a wave of his hand, I found my body unable to shift any further.

This struck me as a dream. It made sense to me now the pointless back and forth, and I sought in myself, in that still, unmovable position, to gear my body back to waking up from sleep.

But I did not wake up. Jaja Bacons walked to me and touched the temple of my head.

I did not wake up, but at once, I descended into a rushing trance, tracking back to all the moments I spent living on earth, but it came to a stop, on the very night I lost my mum.

I was a young poor peasant then. My father had died of a mysterious illness eight years prior to that, and my mum was now succumbing to her final throes.

I had run up and down, begging Nobles, Uncles, lenders, Magistrates, for a small fee that would save my world - my sweet mother - that would keep her forever in my arms, hale and hearty.

But they all shied from my gaze, they all watched me, they all gave me no help, and when my mother finally passed, I swore, with all the hate in my heart, to get my revenge, to aim for the top, to purge with all the necessary force, the weakness of my means.

It was then I became selfish, I’m sure of it. And I cried for loss, for remembered loss, and I cried for loss, for a saddened life.

The pitchfork fell from my hand, and Jaja Bacons neared my ear with a whisper. He said:

“What you owe me is your life, and I, death, have come to take what is mine.”