Her body stayed behind; sprawled in a chair stained by two generations of drool, liquor, and sometimes urine. With shut eyes and arms hanging awkwardly, it sat motionless while a cigarette dangled precariously from two fingers, sending a smooth column of white up into the cloud that hovered on the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell, peacefully, for the entire afternoon, long after the spent cigarette butt had fallen to join two friends on the hardwood floor.

Cheryl didn’t hear the screech of the bus as it braked in front of the house. She didn’t hear the front door creek open, the small footsteps, or the two attempts to push the door shut. But she did hear the little voice that ended the silence.

She opened her eyes too quickly. Even the dim light was enough to pierce her skull and send sharp pains throughout her head. She quickly shut them and tried, but failed to grab her pounding temples because of her sluggish drunken movements. She kicked her feet and struggled for a moment to sit up and face the blurry little girl standing across the swaying room. She licked her chapped lips, took a deep breath, and in her own mind, greeted her daughter with the control and care of any loving mother. Then she reached for the bottle lying sideways on the coffee table and held it to her parched lips.

Empty.

With the flick of her wrist, she sent the little girl running for the garage to bring in the Captain’s reinforcements. She collapsed again into the chair, but this time far from heaven. This was the hell where her body ached, her head spun, and she wallowed in a murky swamp of horrible memories. Her father’s temper, the bruises, her mother’s swollen face. They were there, in the room again. She heard the screaming. She felt the terror of hiding in the closet, waiting for it to pass. She yelled, filling the house with her angry, urgent demand. What was taking her spoiled little daughter so long? Had she forgotten, stopped to play, make a sandwich? Stupid little irresponsible…

Then her uncle’s face, hovered above her. She felt his spittle on her face while his dirty hands held her mouth shut. She threw the empty bottle. Its flight across the room ended with a dull thud against the wall and it fell in one piece to the floor.

Then a cool bottle was in her hand. There you go mommy, you’ll be all better now.

With shaky hands, she wrestled with the lid until it fell to the floor. She raised the bottle and took two large draws. The burning down her throat meant her escape was moments away. She looked at her sweet child and reached out to pat her on the head but only managed to drag the back of her hand across her face which sent her running off into other parts of the house. At least my child has a good life, she thought, as the hint of a grin returned and Captain Morgan once again lifted her out of her misery.

He punched in several numbers into his calculator and scrawled another answer: “hydrophobic: the chemical was less soluble in water than in an organic solvent.” He looked at Mr. Jones, everyone called him Doc, sitting like a hunched statue behind his desk, glasses hanging from his nose like a rock climber seconds away from a fall. They were the only two left in the room, maybe even the school. Doc was probably thinking about how much he’d rather be flying down the sunny road in his vintage 68 Mustang.

Henry liked Doc and wanted to be the top student, but he wasn’t. He was smart enough for it but just not dedicated enough. Which is exactly why the flu bug so often struck on the day of an exam. It let him procrastinate one extra day, which he hated to do but what could the teachers do about it? Nothing. He’d get an extra study day and the knowledge the deadline was passed finally gave him the motivation to crack open his books. It was stupid. He hated it. But this time had been different. It was a tough chapter and he knew the material and was ready. And now Doc would think he had faked it for an extra study day. It wasn’t fair. Or worse, he might think he had hooked up with Sam to get a preview of the exam. But he hadn’t.

Doc grunted and said, “I’ll be right back,” and then vanished into the halls of Jackson High School.

Henry turned back to the exam and a queasy feeling rose from his stomach that had nothing to do with being sick. Behind him on the wall was the answer to every question on the test. Doc always posted the answers after the day of the exam and today would be no different. Henry hadn’t seen them, but he knew they were there. Taped to the wall where everyone could look and curse themselves for missing the rogue oxygen atom or forgotten compound acid. And now Henry was alone in the room with them.

Doc was away for at least fifteen minutes, Henry finished the exam with five minutes to spare and was sitting waiting for Doc on his return.

“Done already?” Doc said.

Henry nodded, defeated, stood, and dropped the test on the front desk. Maybe he should have purposely gotten an answer wrong. But he couldn’t. He knew every answer fair and square. He’d studied hard and wished he could have taken it with the rest of the class yesterday.

“I’ll have it back for you in the morning. Don’t feel bad though if you did poorly, the high was only 70%.” Doc said with a wink.

Now Henry was the frozen statue, not wanting to leave without offering an explanation. What words could explain and defuse the suspicions that would invade Docs mind once the test was graded? There were none. He nodded and left the room. Tomorrow Doc and the rest of the class would all see him as a cheater.

The story is fantasy, somewhat dark, and set in the original Diablo world (although knowledge of that game isn’t necessary). The blood, shadows, murder, and evil dripping from it’s pages make it a decent Halloween story. (The picture is stolen from the movie “Hostel,” which I haven’t seen and has no relation to the story other than the image kinda fits.)

Vengeance of the Tainted

The problem was the solution, or was it the other way around; Broan wasn’t sure. At least one filthy murdering bastard was waiting for Broan to show his face and therein was the problem. They knew him but he not them. And his only hope of getting justice was through this hazy, absurd connection. The innocent believed him dead and the guilty knew the truth. For a fortnight he’d stayed hidden trying to figure out how to solve this riddle but it had gotten him nowhere. It was a hopelessly impossible situation and he was tired of waiting.

From the hillside outside the sleeping town of Tristram, Broan sat huddled in a thick woolen blanket as the lanterns in the village succumbed to the late hour. The bright moon painted the valley a deep blue, making it easy to see but also, to be seen. He would wait until every household was dark and the only remaining flickering came from the watchman fires on the outskirts of town.

He opened his blanket enough to slip out an arm but not let the cool fall air steal his warmth. His blades glimmered in the moonlight. Long, shiny, and sharpened to perfection, they felt more like an extension of his arm than a tool. A generous gift from his father, they were a recognition of his unmatched skills and an investment in the family sheep farm. Witnesses described his shearing as a reckless fury but he’d never so much as even scratched one of his sheep. And any other man was lucky to shear one to his ten. People came from miles away just to watch. He was that good.

He laughed, quietly, because of both the irony and his fear of this night. He had no formal training for fighting. Knives, swords, or fists seemed like probable weapons, but he knew the shears. Someday a bard would sing a mocking tune about the foolish shepherd who perished on a pathetic path of vengeance armed only with a farmer’s tool, but so be it. These were his best chance. Or so he hoped.

No more lanterns. He stood and the blanket fell to the ground, the night chill would no longer be a problem. It had been years since he’d allowed his blood to run hot and let loose his temper, but now it was time. His rage served as a power that infused him with the strength of an ox but it also made him dangerous. After one of his first anger-laced tirades, Father had explained it like the fire in the stove. Controlled and in strict moderation, it warmed them and cooked their food. But if the fire was allowed to become fierce, it could destroy not only their house, but, ultimately, the entire town.

He obviously was not a full barbarian or managing it would have been impossible. But even a partial barbarian would have been run out of town if the villagers had known. Father had suspected it in his own lineage and with Broan, there was no question that the fire ran through his veins.

As a boy, Father helped him tame it. His young temper had destroyed countless sheep, farm tools, household items, and once, the entire barn. Had they lived closer to the village, the rage could never have been hidden. But in the solitude of the farm and under Father’s understanding, he survived the transformational years that destroy most young barbarians. But to actually tame it had taken much more than what Father could offer.

He turned and looked through the charred remains of the farmhouse, at the garden where she used to spend her afternoons. He could almost see her, waving and calling to him. Even her memory soothed the monster inside. He could almost feel her soft skin under his calloused hands, smell her lavender scented hair, and see the dark green eyes that so effortlessly calmed him.

Father said it was it her gypsy magic but Broan knew better. Rather than cower in fear at the monster inside him she had understood him, accepted him, and, somehow, loved him. How she saw past his evil and believed in a man tormented by chaos he would never understand. But her faith had put an end to his nightmare. She had turned him into a kind, loving husband and then, a father.

The impossible had occurred, a barbarian had transformed into an admired and reputable man. Of course, the town still didn’t know the truth. Even after knowing and trusting him they would never have risked one of his kind among them. A tear carved a path down his cheek and he closed his eyes. His life had been taken from him. First his mother, and now father, son…and her.

The memory of loss caused the heat inside to grow again, she wouldn’t want this. Perhaps as a spirit she would try and stop him from venturing into this night. He waited, giving her a chance, but felt nothing. She was truly gone. They all were. Tonight the beast inside would be set free to destroy a bigger monster. It was the right thing to do. He snapped the shears and the steel rang like music. Yes, it was time to act. He began a silent, hurried pace towards a large building in the middle of town.

Broan let enough heat surface to chase away the night chill, but stopped well short of rage. He needed to be able to think, reason, and plan…something a normal barbarian could not accomplish. He wouldn’t turn his anger loose because he knew didn’t want to punish the innocent. And just because a man was evil didn’t mean he was guilty. There were too many times in his youth he himself had been condemned for crimes of which he was innocent, yet he couldn’t blame the townsfolk for their accusations. As a somewhat troubled youth, he was often guilty, but not always.

But come morning if you find a hen mangled and eaten, you blame the wolf, right? Even though you didn’t see it happen, the nature of the wolf and the evidence are too overwhelming. He knew from personal experience, however, that it wasn’t always the wolf committing the crime. Sometimes there was a cunning fox that got the hen yet the wolf still paid for it. He knew the way of the wolf too well, and he also knew the odor of a fox. Hopefully tonight he would be able to tell the difference.

All logic pointed to a wolf: a large, ugly, brutal one known locally as the Butcher. And although his circumstantial evidence incriminated, it fell short of a death sentence. Broan wanted more proof before making the confrontation, but the nights were getting cold and he knew surviving his nomadic mountain life once snow began falling was impossible. He didn’t mind dying. In fact, he longed for death, but not until justice was served. Tonight it was all or nothing. If he was wrong about the Butcher, everything would be lost.

It was hard to imagine that the Butcher wasn’t involved. Ugly as an ogre and conniving as a troll, the Butcher had tormented his family from Broan’s earliest painful memories. It was no secret that both Father and the Butcher had courted Mother during their youth. Father said he was a mean son of a bitch even before Mother had made her choice, but then he became a living nightmare to the entire town. And after Mother had fallen ill and passed on, the Butcher became downright cruel. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was as good in his butchery as Broan was at shearing, the King certainly would have thrown him in the dungeons years ago. Everyone tolerated his arrogance and demeaning vulgarities because he could hack up a scavenger and make it taste like a prize winning steer.

If the Butcher was innocent of murder, he was guilty of enough other things that killing him would be a service to the entire kingdom. Although Father would never admit it and Broan was barely eight years old, Broan had always known why one night their wild boar hadn’t tasted quite right and why Deke, his pure bred Core Hound, didn’t return that night. Father never requested the services of the Butcher after that incident. Broan had wanted to go report it to King Leoric, a good fair man who was certain to punish the evil Butcher. But Father wouldn’t have it because the King has more pressing problems than petty disputes, he’d said.

But those early days were over shadowed by the past year. The Butcher had become furious that Father was trading with the gypsies. Most people didn’t like them, but the Butcher downright hated them. Had Father not stepped in to help last winter the whole lot of them probably would have starved and the Butcher knew it. It seemed to Broan that a man who would kill a boy’s dog and secretly sell it back to him as food for no better reason than just to be mean could likely kill an entire family for saving a group of gypsies.

It was enough to confront the Butcher but not yet enough to slaughter him. He would not kill an innocent man, even a cruel one. But setting the Butcher free, if innocent, meant the loss of his advantage in hunting the murderers. The Butcher would never keep his secret. Before sunrise, the whole town would know Broan lived. Everything hinged on how the Butcher received him; would he be shocked to see a dead man walking, or would he recognize a known vigilante? One way or another, tonight he would learn whether or not the Butcher was responsible.

*

Sticking to the shadows, he approached the dark butchery. The anger and confidence that had infused him on the hill wavered at the sight of the building that was the center of nearly every child’s nightmare. The massive structure loomed like a demon watching all who approached, ready to suck those venturing too close into a bloody room full of sharpened hooks, cleavers, and animal carnage.  Rumor had it that a man once journeyed past the blood stained counter into the forbidden area and was never seen again. And although it sounded like a story children would tell to scare one another, even the adults stayed away. If you had to deal with the Butcher you only walked in as far as absolutely required, and then you ran out without looking back.

Broan released a bit of rage, just enough to push him forward and creep to the front door. He pushed it open, not even locked. That’s how confident the Butcher was that nobody would dare bother him. The opening released a pungent smell of raw meat and his nostrils filled with stench. Although the dark part of him craved this smell, he was still human enough that he had to stop his stomach from convulsing what was left of dinner. Although it had been years since he’d been inside the butcher shop, before Deke vanished, he had never forgotten that smell of death and terror. It was almost enough to make him reconsider. After a slight hesitation, he slipped through the door.

Despite the cold night, the shop was warm and humid. Out of the bright moonlight, it took what seemed like an eternity for the counter to form from the shadows. As his eyes continued to adjust, the wide entrance into the forbidden area appeared on the other side. He climbed over the counter and quickly ducked behind it, as if the Butcher was right there waiting to split his skull with a cleaver. He waited through an extended dark silence. No Butcher, no cleaver.

Directly ahead was the open gateway to the forbidden area. The reality couldn’t be worse than the images of the Butcher that used to fill his nights: white smock streaked, spotted, and splashed crimson while the Butcher swung his cleaver and laughed hysterically. He had to remind himself those images were only his imagination. Staying low, he crept forward and crossed into the darkness.

The large room was windowless but a few cracks and holes let streaks of moonlight cut through the gloom, enough to silhouette several large hanging carcasses. Giant hooks and chains hung haphazardly at various heights and several large metal tables were unarranged throughout the room. A faint light in the back of the room seemed to beckon and he moved slow and cautious, shears in front.

The light came from a stairwell that dropped down to a door that was slightly ajar. Cool air from below touched his sweaty face and he gently began his decent, putting his weight slowly on each step. Halfway down, a muffled voice from beyond the door froze him, one leg caught midair. Moments later, a different voice responded. This voice sounded angry.

Two people? He should to go back up the stairs and walk away. His best chance would be to confront the Butcher, one-on-one. The Butcher alone was more than one man could handle; two would be a death sentence. Plus it complicated his analysis of the Butcher’s reaction to seeing him. He started to bring his foot back for a retreat when he wondered, who is the Butcher talking to? Nobody is allowed past the counter and no one he knew would even want to go past it. Kids didn’t even mock dare each other to try it. So who then was inside and what business did this person have with the Butcher?

The question had to be answered. He wouldn’t chance confronting two at once, but he would find out who was here. Just a few more steps and then he would slip away quietly to make a new plan based on solid information.

He waited to place each downward step amidst the mumbled chatter. He reached the door and carefully positioned his ear near the opening. A voice, not the Butchers but a strangely familiar one, spoke.

“You have no choice, understand? I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Until my son is found everything else waits.”

A loud crash made Broan jump and he brushed the door, it swung halfway open. Horrified, he jumped into what was left of the shadow as a solid stream of light shot up stairs. He readied his blades while his body pulsed with sharpened senses. If they rounded the corner, he would be ready for an attack. If they insisted on a fight, they would fight a barbarian.

“I don’t care who you are.” The throaty yell of the Butcher filled the stairwell as another crash sounded from inside the room. “Nobody tells me what to do!”

A faint green glow suddenly appeared and all fell silent. Broan breathed through his open mouth while his heart thumped almost loud enough to give him away. Then the mystery voice spoke again, calm and serene.

“Perhaps you have forgotten who you are dealing with? You will find the wayward shepherd after you find my son. And this time, I won’t tolerate failure.”

Broan’s mind flooded with thought, as energy pricked every hair on his body. There was no doubt now, these men knew. They were guilty and they would die. Not tonight, not against two of them, but soon, very soon. Only one question remained and he didn’t hesitate. He moved his head into the open doorway to identify the mystery voice.

His mind rejected the view in front of him. Impossible! King Leoric had his arms outstretched and green light danced from his fingertips surrounding the Butcher’s throat, apparently holding him in place. The fat man, so fearsome and brutal, looked helpless. His lips drooped on his face as he struggled for breath and tried to form words. Broan couldn’t move. He couldn’t process what he was seeing, what it meant, what was happening. He was completely dumbfounded and reacted without thought as fire ignited his soul.

He stood full height and shoved the door. It swung back on its hinge and shattered against the wall behind it. The King and the Butcher both turned and looked at him, the Butcher clutching madly at the green light surrounding his throat and the King looking calm and amused.

“A friend of yours?” the King asked the Butcher.

The Butchers face contorted into an angry bitter snarl, and the green light vanished.

The massive, towering man rose to his full height. He probably outweighed a horse with his rolls of fat drooping from his neck and arms. He turned and locked his beady red eyes with Broan’s.

“I’ve been looking for you, shepherd.”

The Butcher bent down and rose wielding a thick bloody cleaver so massive it nearly touched the ceiling. Three men, three large men, would be needed to hoist that much steel. Broan blinked, trying to comprehend. The Butcher laughed.

“This will be a lot more fun than fire,” the Butcher said, his purple lips curling upwards.

The Butcher swung his arm and the giant cleaver slashed down onto the large table between them, shattering it. Hundreds of wood shards showered around the room. No wonder he could cut up a full steer in just minutes, one chop with that cleaver could severe a horned demon in two.

“Stop!”

The King spoke an instant before Broan released his rage and both Broan and the Butcher stopped short of an attack, but neither backed away. Like battle hungry Hell Hounds, they stood ready to strike.

“Shepherd, where is my son?” The King sounded furious.

The question felt out of place, what was the King talking about? “Prince Albrecht?”

The King leaned closer, extending his fingers. “Tell me where he is and I promise you will die quickly. Otherwise, your death will be long and painful.”

“Your Majesty, I have no idea where your—”

The green light and pain were instant. Lights flashed and it felt as if the flames of hell surrounded him. It paralyzed him and hijacked his thoughts, sending the worst of memories through his mind like a parasite. Deke, the burning farmhouse, his crying son; his darkest moments twisted his soul like a tornado, churning his fury for vengeance. His body shook and blood boiled as the rage began exploding inside.

NO!

He tried to stop it but the assault on both mind and body were too much. His clothes ripped, his body contorted, and his fingernails expanded like hungry, living daggers. With a giant howl and an explosive crack, he became the Barbarian.

The green light vanished and the Butcher and King gaped in shock. Through the Barbarian’s rage-filled eyes, the world was red and ripe for the shredding. His eyes rested on the Butcher and an angry, low growl escaped his chest. He heard the Butchers heartbeat quicken and the smell of the thick blood it pushed made his mouth wet with hunger. His mind was filled with an image of his own razor-sharp teeth, the Butchers throat, and blood; lots of sweet smelling blood. The thought alone, rather than a conscious choice to attack, propelled the Barbarian forward in a blinding charge, launching him like an arrow across the room. The two massive bodies collided in a sickening crack and the surprised Butcher fell to the floor.

In a fluid motion, the Barbarian straddled the Butcher, grabbed his shoulder and squeezed until his fingers sank far beneath flesh and spilled crimson. Both the Butcher and Barbarian howled, one in delight, the other in anguish. The Butcher kicked and the Barbarian, falling backwards, swiped for the heart with the shears, an attack that should have been the final blow. But the shears merely scraped uncontrolled across the Butchers bulky chest. The Barbarian flew backwards across the room and smashed into the wall.

The Barbarian did not have the nimble dexterity of a shepherd and the shears were useless. He shook his hand vigorously until the straps broke free and the shears flew across the room and clanged against the wall. The King’s paralyzing green light appeared and the Barbarian felt pain, but it only fueled his rage. He pushed against the force and his body moved slightly. He pushed again, fighting the flashing lights and burning flesh and was able to step forward against the King’s magic.

The King was frantic and slowly moved towards the door. The Barbarian stepped forward again, pushing against the King, the pain, and the confusion. The one thing that now consumed him, violence, drove him forward. With all his strength, he forced his trembling body forward in another laborious step. His vision became hazy and the room began to spin, he pushed again but exhaustion prevented it. The blurred images of the King and Butcher vanished through the doorway and the green light vanished. The Barbarian fell to the floor.

*

He opened his eyes to darkness. The urge for destruction had vanished but the memory of his rampage filled his eyes with tears. What had he become? How could that have happened when he’d spent his life controlling himself so the monster would never surface? The beast would never relinquish its hold on his soul once it tasted blood. He touched his arms, fingers, and caressed his face. He was man again, apparently safe from the edge of destruction. This must never happen again, even if it meant abandoning his quest for revenge. The evil was too great. The Barbarian would destroy the entire town.

The regret and loss settled hard on his mind. In addition to the complete loss of his family, now there was a failed attempt at revenge. And his beloved shears, his last connection to his past life, now destroyed. It all weighed on his soul but none more than the recollection of the hatred and evil that had coursed through his veins.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled through the darkness for the stairway. No more of this. Revenge was too bitter. He would go far south and start a new life with the gypsies. Yes, she would want that.

He found the door and climbed the stairs into the room with the tables, chains, and hooks. At least he could see now and stumbled through the butchery. He had even climbed over the counter before he noticed the yelling. Lots of yelling.

He pulled open the door enough to peer out and his hope fizzled like a doused candle. Hundreds of men with torches surrounded the building, taunting and threatening. He pushed it shut. How long had he been down there in the dark? It had only seemed like moments—

“Barbarian!” It was the King. “Come out in man form and confess your crimes before the Archbishop of God! Free yourself of this evil or burn in hell.”

The King’s words stirred the crowd and they echoed the demand with a roar of jeering. Broan cracked the door again and scanned the mob. To the right of the King was the Butcher, with his giant cleaver and a shoulder wrapped in fresh red-stained bandages. To the left was the Archbishop Lazarus, a strange reclusive man that Broan had never quite figured out. The crowd appeared to extend all the way around the building.

He opened the door enough to yell out, “I don’t know anything about the Prince, and I have never harmed a single soul. The Butcher killed my family; I came for revenge, nothing more.”

“You are a barbarian, shepherd. You yourself don’t even know what evils you have committed. Will you spread your destruction further, beyond your family and my son? No! It ends tonight, no more will perish! Your life is over, that much is certain. But we can cleanse your evil and save you from Diablo’s eternal damnation.”

Broan slammed the door, walked back to the counter and rested against it, laying his head on his arms in fatigue and frustration. It wasn’t true, he had never transformed before tonight. Had he? No, the mere thought was foolish, he didn’t remember the fire because he had been out hunting. He’d come home to the destruction. Was it possible that he could have…no. It wasn’t. His curse was certainly damnation, but he had tamed it. Or rather, she had tamed it. But where was she now? Why had she forsaken him? Surely if she still loved him, believed in him, and wanted him she would touch him….direct him. Wouldn’t she?

He looked to the heavens, pleading.

“Barbarian!” The King sounded impatient.

What did it matter now? Life held nothing for him. Death was welcome. Maybe they could cleanse him and he would find her waiting.

He opened the door, the crowd fell silent and he stepped out into the night. The Butcher raised his cleaver and took several steps forward before the King’s green light froze the weapon in the air.

“He will be cleansed first,” said the King.

The Butcher relaxed and the light vanished. The weapon fell to his side and he eyed Broan as a wicked grin crept across his face. In a low voice as he backed away he said, “It’s too bad you are the last one, I’d love to do your mother again.”

The anger was instant, although the transformation wasn’t. Broan lunged for the throat of his enemy but the King had been ready with the magic. He struggled against the pain but did not let the Barbarian take him this time, what if he killed all the townsfolk too?  Besides, he just wanted death, to be free. The Butcher’s pathetic life was punishment enough for his evil.

The King released the hold and Broan dropped to his knees. “Finish me,” he said.

“Archbishop Lazarus will now cleanse the monster,” yelled the King to the cheering crowd.

The Archbishop stepped forward and knelt beside him. “Barbarian,” he whispered. “Don’t give up so easily.”

Broan looked up into the thin, war-scarred face of the Archbishop. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

The Archbishop’s eyes furrowed. “Such a strange request for a Barbarian. I’ve known Barbarians and you are unlike any I have ever encountered. How is it you have learned to control your passion?”

Broan didn’t answer, but turned instead to the angry men demanding his execution. He filled his lungs and exhaled slowly while his eyes focused in the distance, beyond the torches and shouting.

“I know your desires, I know of the burning, the thirst that drives you.” Broan didn’t respond. The robe clad vicar leaned in closer, and in an even softer voice said, “I know how your soul burns for revenge against the Butcher for his sins against your wife.”

Broan’s eyes shot a quick glance at the Archbishop, and then back to a faraway land.

“Oh, yes Barbarian, he bragged about the horrible things he’d done to her before he slit her throat. How he made your son watch.”

Broan’s breathing intensified and the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly, but his eyes remained focused.

“Just like he did your mother so many years ago.”

A faint glow ignited deep in Broans eyes and he spun his head to face the Archbishop. “Why are you doing this. Aren’t you supposed to cleanse me so I can face God?”

“God?” The Archbishop laughed and shook his head. “Even if it was possible, God has abandoned you,” he paused and looked back at the villagers, “he abandoned all of us long ago. Look around, what do you see? An entire town that conspired to have a good family tortured and murdered for helping the gypsies.” He shook his head in shame and disappointment. “Now you tell me Barbarian, what kind of God would allow that happen to good people? And what kind of God would allow such evil to go unpunished?”

“It wasn’t them, it was the Butcher,” Broan said. “I already know that.”

“But who do you think ordered the Butcher to do it? Who do you think helped hide the evil deed? And who do you think pleaded with the King to rid Tristram of the rogue family living in the farmlands supplying the gypsies with food?” The Archbishop pointed around to the angry mob, “And who now stands ready to execute a man they know is innocent of any crime?”

Broan scanned the glowing eyes that surrounding him. It appeared every man in Tristram was present and armed with torches, axes, and daggers. And not a single understanding or half-sympathetic eye. Their solemn faces were bitter and ready for blood. Although none were close enough to have ever called him a friend, he’d always felt that a mutual respect and kindness existed. An appreciation for his services, often given freely for those in need. But now he could see it. The anger and hatred that burned in them was evil. Truly, God had forsaken Tristram.

Sweat began to form on his forehead, and suddenly he felt the energy to stand, but he stayed on the ground with the Archbishop.

“To hell with them all. Cleanse me, I want to face God and see my wife.”

“Do you feel your wife? You tell me Barbarian, does she abide in your heart? And what of this God you speak of? Does he protect you? Did he protect your family? What God has rewarded you for your sacrifice and kindness and punished the evil around you? This God you speak of that doesn’t seem to care, why do you think he will now receive you?”

Broan locked his fiery red eyes on the Bishop. “If what you say is true, why shouldn’t I just start my massacre with you, right now.”

The man smiled back at him. “Because I am the only one here able and willing to help you get your revenge. If by chance this God of yours exists, did you ever consider the fact that maybe you, yourself are God’s avenging angel? Sent here to make them pay for their sins? But if no God is watching, well, who then will punish the wicked? Either way, Barbarian, I am the one who can help.”

Broan scanned the crowd: men he once trusted, a King he once cherished, and the Butcher whom he always hated. All had betrayed him. And who is to say that she wouldn’t want this? Maybe God would even reward him for punishing them, after all, doesn’t God want evil destroyed? They had taken her life, a truly good woman, and yes, they must be punished. Any God that would let them go unpunished was not worthy of his service. Maybe the Bishop was right, maybe he was God’s angel of vengeance. But like the Bishop had said, even if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Somebody had to make things right.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Butcher raise his cleaver in arrogance and mocking degradation. Comfort seethed through Broan’s chest; tonight the Butcher would die. The thought churned the brewing hunger for carnage deep inside. It was time to free the Barbarian.

“How do I get past the Kings magic?” Broan said.

The priest smiled and carefully removed a small charm from inside his coat. “This can protect you for a moment, not long, but long enough. Run to the Cathedral, you won’t have a problem getting inside. The lower levels are an abandoned labyrinth that only I have explored, you’ll be safe there. What better place to take refuge than the King’s own quarters? When they search for you, you’ll fight them in smaller numbers instead of all at once.”

Broan took the small charm and the Archbishop continued.

“I’ll tell them the cleansing will begin and then stun them to buy you more time; just keep your eyes closed. Then you can run right through them, but don’t stop until you are deep inside in the Monastery. There is enough food and weapons to survive for years. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Broan nodded, and let his anger surge. Not a full transformation, but enough to give him the power and speed needed. The Bishop stood and helped Broan to his feet.

“Remember, eyes down and closed,” he whispered to Broan, who obliged.

“The Barbarian has confessed and wishes to be cleansed of evil before his execution,” yelled the Archbishop. “All kneel!”

Everyone dropped to one knee, including Broan. Although he maintained an image of exhaustion and submission, he not only felt alive and ready for battle, he was excited for it. It was all he could do to keep a smug grin from creeping across his face.

The Archbishop began chanting loud, strange words and Broan closed his eyes and bowed his head. Through his closed eyelids he saw the bright flash of light. In the same instant a loud bang filled the sky. He opened his now glowing eyes and jumped to his feet. In two large leaps he reached the wall of kneeling men and cleared them in a single bound. Two more steps and a man behind him yelled. On the third step, a green light surrounded him and the charm in his hand burned hot. On the fourth step, he heard the frantic, fading voice of the Archbishop ordering everyone to pursue the escaped criminal. But it was too late. He would easily reach the monastery before they could stop him.

*

The once derelict monastery – the building King Leoric had commandeered for his own royal cathedral – was starting to come to life with the early morning hour. Broan passed through the tall spired corridors as if he himself wore the crown. Tristram’s unchallenged peace and prosperity had fostered a trusting staff. Guards, cooks, butlers; none took a second glance as Broan raced to the less traveled stairway into the dark lower levels.

He grabbed a burning torch from a wall mount and descended. The fire burned thick cobwebs that shrouded the lower labyrinth with an eerie warning to all explorers. But he pushed through, deeper into the blackness. He passed an archway into a large opening. Rats and other small beasts scuttled into shadows to escape the flickering light.

Broken tables and chairs littered the room and ornate half-decayed curtains draped the walls. It offered enough space to fight, yet not so much than an entire mob could attack at once. It was perfect. Small corridors fed the room from various directions offering an escape if needed and he quickly scouted them for the advantage.

Scarcely had he finished his complete scan of the room when the sound of footsteps and hushed voices began to echo off the stone walls. He doused his torch and found, surprisingly, that instead of blackness he saw the world in a faint red hue. Mice, previously unseen in the darkened cracks, pulsed like fireflys from within their hiding places. Perhaps a full transformation would not be required. In this heightened state he certainly felt stronger, had new abilities, and yet retained his mind. The cravings were present, of course, yet not overwhelming.

He positioned himself in the shadows, or what would soon be shadow once the torches dancing in the distance arrived. The hallway feeding the room was narrow. At most, three maybe four could reach him. He massaged his knuckles in anxious anticipation, smiling like a fiendish demon.

The Butcher led the posse, a torch in one hand and giant cleaver in the other. The sight of the somber somewhat fearful townsfolk behind the giant made him laugh. His inhumane voice, low and deep, echoed off the walls and filled the catacombs with a warning to the mob. And when all but the Butcher stopped, looking anxiously at one another for support and reassurance, he laughed even harder. Several of them left.

“Coward!” Yelled the Butcher. “Come out and fight like a man.”

This both disgusted and infuriated Broan. Not the coward part but the irony that the Butcher, of all people, accused him of lacking humanity.

“If we are agreed I am a man, why do you hunt me like a monster?”

The Butcher bellowed and destroyed an old chair with his oversized blade. “You and me, Barbarian, right now. Let’s end this once and for all.”

The townspeople apparently liked the idea, as they quickly shuffled backwards in support of a Butcher Barbarian brawl. Broan stepped forward and into the glow of their torches but it didn’t have the reaction he expected. They straightened and fear seemingly drained from their faces.  It gave him pause.

He looked at his hands and saw the nimble fingers of a shepherd and a sudden chill shot through his body. Anger! Barbarian! Get mad…kill the Butcher. His mind raced in a sudden rush of fear trying to invoke his rage as the Butcher advanced. He killed your wife, your family! But the confidence was gone, panic and mounting fear were his new battle companions.

Now it was the Butcher who laughed. “You are nothing but a coward!”

Broan stepped backwards, the cleaver rose into the air, and Broan dove. A shattering crash shook the ground under the weight of the mighty cleaver as Broan rolled over the dusty floor. He scampered back to his feet. The Butcher wasted no time and was immediately upon him again, this time the cleaver came from the side and Broan dropped to the floor while a rush of air sounded above him. The effort caused the Butcher to stumble forward, slightly off balance from the heavy attack into nothing.

Broan saw his chance and rushed the back of the Butcher to knock him to the ground. He may as well have run head-on into a stone column. The failed charge instantly sent a wave of pain through his shoulder and neck and didn’t even budge his target. The Butcher spun and caught Broan with the backside of his arm, throwing him against the wall. Pain attacked his back and head.

He watched a blurry Butcher advance.

“Such a disappointment, young Shepherd. Your wife even put up more of a fight—“ he picked up Broan by the neck and hoisted him into the air. “—even after I had ripped off her right arm.”

Broan kicked and grabbed the meaty hand choking him. A loud clang, the Butcher dropped his cleaver and wrapped his other hand around Broan’s throat.

“Not a bad idea. I think I’ll just squeeze the life out of you.”

Still swinging his feet, Broan twisted, bit, and punched. His chest screamed for air, desperate for breath. His childhood flashed before him; working with his father and hearing his mother’s singing while she prepared a stew. He heard his son’s  first laugh. Then she appeared, smiling. She opened her mouth to call him or perhaps to beckon him? But something was wrong, her eyes opened wide, her mouth drew back in terror, and she ran awkwardly from him, falling to her side. He saw her stained dress and to his horror, the meaty bloodstained stump where her right arm had been. She grabbed a goblet from the table and threw it at him, and she screamed. He screamed. He shook. And the Barbarian exploded into the world.

The power of the transformation threw the Butcher to the ground. The Barbarian stood to full height and roared with such intensity that cutlery rattled in the upstairs chambers.  The Butcher’s face contorted into an expression of terror and he kicked his feet and flailed his arms in an attempt to escape.

The Barbarian picked up the giant cleaver. His hand surged with heat upon contact with the hilt, a heat that climbed his arms and filled his body with crazed passion. He opened his mouth and the sound of hell rattled up out of the cathedral and every woman and child still sleeping in the town of Tristram awoke to the terror.

The cleaver sliced effortlessly through the air and fell onto shoulder of the Butcher and amid a burst of flesh and crimson, his right arm fell lifeless.

For a moment, the Barbarian stood watching his quivering mortal enemy, lying in a growing pool while a dying pulse pumped a weakening stream of dark liquid from his bare shoulder. The Barbarian’s eyes burned red, his mouth frowned, and he swung the cleaver again.

The Barbarian, covered in gore, turned to face the mob but the chamber was empty. Torches, farm tools, and swords littered the floor behind them. It would be the last time any man ever walked away free from the holy cathedral. He knew they would return. It was their nature. And when they did, he would be there, waiting with his giant cleaver.

The old priest hesitated. Optimism? He drew back his hood and adjusted his round, thin wired spectacles. The small boy’s eyes were white against his dirty face, looking up and waiting like a starving buzzard for nourishment. The priest leaned against his staff and bent down, his knees cracked and popped. The child, face void of emotion, just watched, and the crowd murmured. Surely the Sage was offended.

Wisdom and innocence locked eyes, and the Priest spoke. “What did you say was your desire?”

“Optimism,” the boy said, the word fell from his lips like a heavy yoke, burdening all whose ears it touched. It caused the priest to wobble and he gripped his staff.

Now he understood. Despite his protests, they had continually begged him to see the child. He is possessed by demons, they cried. You must bless him. He’d refused many times because no child needed his blessing. Now, unfortunately, he understood. He sighed but did not avert his gaze, even as the eyes of the child drained happiness from him like smoke drifting from the alter. So this was the one that would destroy their world. This was the one that would expose the lies.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the child. “But I cannot help you.”

The child blinked, but showed no emotion. No disappointment, no sadness, no longing. “Then I will leave our village forever.”

The Priest slumped against his staff. He old eyes sagged and his warm smile vanished into lethargy. “No, it won’t help. The prophecy is upon us,” he said.

The child turned his head, his eyes begged for tears but instead remained dry and hollow. He looked back to the Priest. “I am sorry,” he said.

The weary priest reached out and embraced him and the boy’s head rested on his shoulder.

“We created you boy, do not be sorry. Your burden is greater than they can ever know,” he whispered.

The boy straightened, knowing the old man was near his limit. Several others nearby had already fallen to their knees. He pointed to them. “That is my burden.”

The boy departed and the Priest fell to the ground breathing heavily, pained in his heart yet thankful for respite. The crowd pointed in condemnation at the departing child, certain now of their erroneous conclusions. “It is our burden,” he tried to tell the boy. But it was too late.

His hands shot to his face just in time to conceal the wide grin that parted his cheeks. Everything had worked out perfect. Since her fall, two weeks ago, he’d prayed every day that she would hold on long enough. When the phone would ring, his heart would stop. Mom would talk low and quiet and the thought of grandma dying too soon made tears trickle down his cheek. But she hadn’t. His eighth birthday was yesterday and since then, he’d been ready to explode with excitement. Masking it with sadness had been like trying to hide a bucket of exploding firecrackers.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see his mother and his blood ran cold. He breathed heavy and sweat beads appeared on his forehead as he stared back at her in wide-eyed fear. Could she see the happiness? Would she be angry?

She picked him up and buried his head in her shoulder.

“Poor Blake,” she told somebody. “He has been dreading this day.”

He pressed his grin into her fluffy dress and almost laughed. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. He held her tight and didn’t let her put him down until she asked if he wanted to take a nap. He nodded and she carried him off into one of grandma’s cold, dark bedrooms and plopped him onto the bed.

She stayed with him for a few minutes, stroking his hair, but he kept his face buried in the pillow and pretended he was asleep until she left. Then he spun over and let his mouth go free. It stretched from ear to ear as his eyes danced with excitement. It was now only two days away.

Last year they had all gone without him. Mother, Grandma, and everyone had rode off leaving him alone with an older girl he didn’t even know. It wasn’t fair to leave him like that, to exclude him from father’s mourning just because he wasn’t eight. He’d cried all afternoon…so hard even the girl started crying, saying she was so sorry but not to worry because his father was watching from heaven. Of course father was in heaven. He never told her why he had really been crying…or told anyone why he’d cried every day since. At least every day until yesterday. Now he could go and partake like everyone else.

Waiting the next two days was torture, worse than Christmas. Mother was gone most of the time, helping with all the work. Grandma had to be prepared for the ceremony and everything had to be blessed by the elders. The church had to be set up, talks had to be prepared, friends and family notified. It was a lot of work and he was glad they were all busy. It was too hard to look sad all the time when they were around.

On the big day, he woke up before Mother, put on his church clothes, and clipped his tie into place. He climbed onto the sink and drizzled water onto his comb and ran it through his hair until it was straight like mother liked it. Then he sat on the big chair in the front room and waited.

He heard the water running when she started the shower. A short time later, the hum of the blow dryer made him think of her hair bouncing around as she fixed it up. When she came walking down the hall she stopped when she saw him.

“You look very handsome…how long have you been awake?”

“Not very,” he said.

“Did you already eat something?” she asked.

“We aren’t supposed to, remember?”

“Well, adults aren’t, but kids can if they want to. You don’t have to fast like me,” she said.

“I want to,” he answered.

She nodded, walked into the room, and sat on the couch. “Do you have any questions about what happens today?”

He shook his head, no.

“Today we honor Grandma by accepting her into our own hearts and lives forever. We take all the good in her and make it part of us.”

“I know,” he nodded. “Just like you did last year with father. And Grandma was there, so part of father is in her. And now, he will be in me, too.”

Her eyes flooded and several drops escaped down her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but no words escaped. She nodded and wiped her tears.

She pulled him onto her lap and squeezed. For some reason, now he knew she wouldn’t mind that he was happy. She understood.

The chapel was dark and empty when he pushed through the large double doors. He was the first to sit and he took the front row on the edge so he would be the first to partake. The lights flickered and the shadows vanished. Hushed whispers chased the silence as others entered and sat on the long wooden benches. Old lady Jergins walked up onto the stand and sat at the organ. Moments later, the pipes hummed and soft music drowned the whispers.

He didn’t have to hide his smile anymore, it was gone. This was important and even though his body shivered with excitement, he sat still with his arms folded. This was serious; he was with the adults and was expected to act like one. And it was almost time.

Mother sat next to him and put an arm around him. He felt a soft kiss on his forehead. Then the preacher walked up to the pulpit and motioned for all to stand.

Blake heard the back doors open and watched the isle anxiously as they brought her forward. The elders appeared, carrying the large, covered silver platter. It wouldn’t be long now; Father would be a part of him forever.

He sat still, arms folded, and looking ahead as if he was listening to the stories and talks. But his eyes were glazed and his mind filled with images of his father as he waited. When it was time and the preacher again asked the front row to stand, his eyes filled with tears. Mother squeezed his hand and he looked up at her. She smiled at him, through streaks of tears on her cheeks. She was the prettiest woman alive and he hugged her. His chest was tingling and more tears fell down his face. This was the happiest day of his life.

He walked up the steps, first in line, and the row followed. The elders lifted the cover and he stepped up to them. He opened his mouth and one of the elders leaned forward and put a small piece of meat in his mouth. Now, father would always be a part of him. Forever.

* * *

Although the tape around his chest restricted a full breath of air, Charlie inhaled deeper than he had for years. It felt good; he felt good…finally.

But last night hadn’t been good. Although it wasn’t one of his worst nights, it was miserable for him and frustrating for his wife, Judy. His struggle was a two edge sword. Not only did he suffer from his own affliction but he exposed her to the aura of despair created by his agony. That guilt doubled the suffering.

Year after year, she stood by his side. She comforted during his low points. She encouraged during his despair. And, amazingly, she stayed with him. Much to his surprise, and sometimes to his disappointment, she tolerated his constant complaining. Maybe if she yelled at him for being such an idiot he wouldn’t have felt guilty. Maybe if she stormed out the door cussing and cursing the day she agreed to spend her life with an extreme pessimist he would actually feel better. But she never did. He continually complained about work and politics and she continually to console.

“Your time will come. It will. You have worked hard for Marty and he likes you…I know it. Just don’t give up…don’t walk away from thirteen years.”

He smiled. Last night when she’d spoke those words, he’d let them echo through the hollow tunnels of his head. Years ago, before discouragement first poisoned his soul, her words lifted his spirits. But each use slowly robbed the words of their magic. Each pick-me-up fell slightly shorter than the previous. In time, the words did nothing more than keep him from opening his own mouth and letting his darkness escape and poison her soul too.

“You can’t give up on your dream. What would be left? What would you have if you let go now?”

For years he felt he was actually doing her a favor by listening to the words of encouragement. So many times he wanted to tell her to stop…it was a burden to hear encouragement while in such deep despair. It was a constant reminder of his failure. But even though it sometimes angered him that she still believed his time would come, he didn’t attack. No, he always listened…or at least pretended. But now, here he was. His time had come. Just as she had always believed it would. Somehow she had managed to get him here.

He secured the belt around his long coat and stepped onto the transport, smiling for the first time (ever) at the operator.

“Good morning, sir,” the stranger said and winked his mechanical eye.

“Yes is it,” he said and grinned back.

Ironic, he thought, to smile at a Manbot. Every morning for thirteen years he’d scowled bitterly at the Manbots…every one of them. The meal preparer on his floor, the lift operator, the shuttle director, the corner patrol…every damn Manbot on every damn corner of every damn city. But today was special…and so he smiled.

The signal, hours ago, had shocked him. It had come shortly after the morning alert. After he’d opened his eyes and felt, like any other morning, the darkness surround him. After he had searched for a reason to avoid another day of processing. After he had rolled his lethargic body from the sleep pod and grumbled his way to the preparation room. It had looked like any other day…until he saw the signal.

In that moment, his day changed. The darkness vanished and he felt…life. He had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be alive. Judy was initially shocked at his pleasant nature over their morning rations but then understood. Without an explanation, she realized the signal had come.

As tears of joy streamed down her face, she silently mouthed an, ‘I knew you would make it honey!”

With a hug and kiss, he said goodbye to her for the last time.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “Thanks for putting up with me for all these years. I owe everything to you.”

Her eyes sparkled in the hazy morning light and she shook her head. “You made this happen…now go and receive your reward.”

The transport began to vibrate and hum as it began its quick journey across the wasteland. On any other day, he’d curl up on the floor and sleep. But not today. He looked around. The transport was full of Manbots. There were, as best he could tell, three other humans…and he was thankful for this. He didn’t hate his fellow men. Three was not too many.

He regretted not being able to thank Marty in person. But then, he had earned his opportunity. He had endured day after day of meaningless, mindless, brain-sapping processing all with the assumption that one day he would be signaled. He just hadn’t expected it to be thirteen years. So many times he wanted to quit. So many others had given up on him, including his own parents who, ashamed of his foolish dreams, stopped calling after four years. He inhaled proudly, feeling again the pressure from the tape wrapped around his chest. Now they would be proud. Everyone who had laughed, scorned, and called him a fool would say…. ‘Wow, Charlie did it. He was right all along.’

Judy was his only faithful friend. She had stuck it out…just has she promised she would fifteen years ago when they vowed their lives to each other. And it hadn’t been easy for her; she saw him at his lowest. She held on day after day through his unceasing complaining about his mundane life. She deserved the rewards and honors that would soon befall her because of his success.

The transport slowed and Charlie breathed faster…excited and anxious. He walked to the transport exit panel and stuck his hand deep into his coat pocket. He wrapped his hand around the small, soft round ball and waited.

The doors opened and Charlie stepped out. He looked up one last time at the processing plant that rose high into the sky before him. This time he didn’t feel bitter anger at the sight. He felt hope.

“This is for you, Judy,” he said. And he squeezed the ball.

In retrospect, the software which activated the web camera sitting on the computer monitor whenever movement was detected may have been over the edge. But she was used to the webcam. It had sat innocently on top of the monitor in the bedroom for months. I didn’t even have to hide it. It was a cool idea but turned out to be useless. Even the audio capture which allowed me to hear her end of all telephone calls paled in comparison to the real pay dirt; access to her email account. This is where I learned everything…and the beginning of my downfall.

She’d recently changed her password; something I hadn’t checked for months. I set up the account for her (she’s not computer savvy) but now I was locked out. Getting her password required key logging software on her laptop…a program that sat quietly in the background and recorded every keystroke. Several days passed before I had a chance to copy the text file and remove the program. It was tough to be patient but I knew I had to play it cool. She couldn’t suspect anything.

All her friends knew I was being dumped, but she hadn’t told me. Her secret lover also knew. But, because my key logging software had divulged her password, now I also knew what was around the corner. It gave me a chance time to get some of the tears and anger out beforehand.

Weeks later, pouting in my new apartment, I continued to monitor her life from amid my unorganized clutter. I’d set up the computer…it’s all that really mattered. I’d hadn’t been to work (and assumed I was fired by now anyways). I didn’t care about anything. I rationalized that things would work out and, therefore, I had a right to be reading her email. You can’t just cut off a five year relationship in one afternoon! At the time, my logic seemed sound. But if you knew the extent of the confusion and pain I felt…you might sympathize. But this isn’t a romance novel; it’s more of a horror story…so I’ll leave that part out.

Reading the secret emails between my former girlfriend and her married lover didn’t help to improve my weak mental state. What was left of my sanity crumbled away; along with my meager collection of dishes which I shattered against the wall in increasing spats of rage and anger.

And this is where the story begins. Because he was married, they only communicated via email. And because they were completely infatuated with each other, they communicated a lot…and I read every word (hence, the broken dishes). I’m not sure the moment I crossed the line and went from ‘pathetic invasive fool’ to psychotic. I certainly never planned it that way, but at some point between now and the end of the story I crossed it.

He was an older, wealthy, and respected businessman who traveled frequently throughout the world. She was a young, naive, and attractive woman who ogled and awed his every move. So when he emailed and suggested they take a secret trip together, she was ecstatic (YYYYEEEESSSS!!!!!! OHHH MMYYY GODDD YESS!!!) She probably came just reading his email. And it happened fast. In two days he’d pick her up at 4am and they would leave for Fiji, away from his wife and in a safe place where they could let loose with the sexual fantasies that oozed from nearly every email.

This drove me over the edge. The night before the trip arrived I tossed, turned, and watched the clock. At 2:30 am I gave up sleeping and went into the garage… not knowing exactly what I was doing. I climbed onto my bike, the real woman of my life; a 900cc two wheeled hussy who never let me down. I rolled out of the garage, fired the engine, and sped into the night.

I drove to his house; did I mention this bastard used to be a friend of mine? I hid my bike in the thick brush several blocks away and walked up the road. His house was dark and I crept through the trees toward his garage where I sat and watched. Why was I here? What was I doing? I didn’t really know. I didn’t have a plan…things were just happening.

I heard noises inside and the garage door opened. I saw the asshole load a suitcase into his trunk, get in his car, and start it. It was my intention to just watch him drive away…and it would have happened. But he backed out of the garage, stopped, got out of his car, and jogged back through the garage door and vanished into the house. His open car door was just yards from where I was hiding. For reasons I’ll never understand, I crawled from the shrubs, slid into his car, and slipped into the back seat. Before I really knew what was happening, I was laying in the darkness while my heart raced, apparently trying to beat its way out of my chest. It wanted no part of this.

He came back, climbed in, and we backed out of the driveway. He turned on the radio and began to sing (quite horribly, I might add) and totally ruined a perfectly good song for the rest of my life. Damn him…he stole my girl and “Roxanne.”

I had to do something…I didn’t know what…so I sat up. We were zipping faster than was safe along the back road and I envisioned me scaring him so bad he totaled his fancy BMW.

“You asshole.” I said.

I scared the hell out of him and he swerved sharply.

He screamed like a pansy, “Don’t hurt me! You can have the car! Take my wallet!”

The idiot hadn’t recognized me.

“Keep driving,” I said.

I expected him to stop the car and run for it. Hell, I would have…but he didn’t. He kept driving and followed my instructions back to my apartment. The garage was still open and I had him drive right inside. I took off my shirt and tied it around his eyes and told him to shut off the car. I told him if he yelled or made any noise I’d kill him. I wouldn’t have, of course, but it felt like the right thing to say. It kept him quiet too. I got out, closed the garage, and turned on the lights.

See how fast it all happened? I figure getting into his car was crossing one line. Putting the shirt over his eyes was another. But now, it was too easy to cross lines. I was running for the end zone like a madman.

I lead him upstairs and duct taped him to a chair in messy bedroom. I told him I knew he was having an affair and asked if his wife knew. He recognized my voice and became angry. He denied the affair and threatened me. He started getting loud so I shoved a dirty sock into his mouth and duct taped it into place. I pulled the shirt off his eyes.

I didn’t even try to hide the smug grin on my face as this former friend and current asshole sat tied and helpless in my bedroom. I moved the monitor so he could see and turned on my computer. I logged into her email account and read some of his corny letters back to him…laughing and mocking his lovesick prose. Nothing is quite as having your own love letters read back to you by a rival. He scowled, made muffled grunts, and pulled at the duct tape stuck to his arms, legs, and hips.

I picked up the phone.

“I can call your wife. I think she’d find these emails as interesting as I did.”

This calmed him down. He obviously cared about his thirty year marriage.

I still didn’t know what to do. I was in it now. In what, I didn’t know, but I was in it.

“What’s your password? To your email account?” I asked.

He shook his head. No way he’d give me that…or so he thought. I threatened to call his wife…that almost worked. But he must have sensed my bluff because he didn’t cave. I really didn’t want to call her. What would I say? I’ve kidnapped your cheating scum sucking husband? That would get us both in trouble. No, I’d need to get the information another way.

I ran into the garage, poured some gas into a plastic bag, and went back upstairs. He was lying on his back….he’d been kicking and wiggling. I shook my finger and head at him before lifting his chair back upright. He struggled against the plastic bag to his face, but it was pointless. He was stuck to the chair. He tried not to breath but I had plenty of time and it wasn’t long until he’d inhaled enough of the gas fumes that he passed out. Later, when he woke up, his crotch was exposed. His pants were around his ankles and fresh duct tape locked his hairy legs to the chair. But what made his eyes bulge were the small alligator clamps attached to each side of his scrotum. The clamps were connected to wires that ran across the floor and were lying next to a 12 volt car battery.

It took some time for him to regain his senses, but I waited.

“What is your password?”

I didn’t even wait for him to answer. I wanted to test my little device. I’d already connected the negative wire and I brushed the other line quickly across the positive terminal. It sparked and he instantly tensed, jumped, and let loose with a muffled cry. I laughed. It was funny. This was the fake friend who’d gotten a thrill out of lying and deceiving me, his supposed pal.

It didn’t take long. Several more jolts of increasing length and he was dripping with sweat. With his eyes drooping and he finally shook his head; no, he didn’t want another zap. He’d give me the password.

I didn’t trust him, so I ran my fingers across the keyboard one by one until the password had been entered. Then I pressed “sign in.”

The last ten emails were from my stupid ex. “Where are you? What happened? I almost called…” She was freaking out.

I had lost track of the time. It was nearly 1:00 in the afternoon. I searched his email until I found his itinerary for the trip. He should be in Hawaii right now. I answered her email for him.

“I’m sorry, no time to explain but wanted to send quick email. Had to go alone. Will email an explanation on my arrival. XOXOXOX.”

I read him the email and pressed send. He looked afraid and sullen. He’d been defeated.

I then sent myself copies of all his emails…everything in his saved folders, deleted folder, outbox…all of it. And I started to read. I realized that for the most part, he was a decent guy. He said kind things in emails to his wife. He talked about birds, hiking, and camping with his friends. He complained about politics on his church mailing list. He obviously loved his wife and kids. His only flaw, a major one, was the thing with my girlfriend.

I looked at him and shook my head. “Why did you do it? It sounds like you love your wife.”

He looked at the floor. He looked pathetic, pants down around his ankles, bags under his eyes, white shirt stained with sweat, and wires clamped to his sack.

“Well, do you?”

He nodded; yes, he loved his wife.

I felt bad for him.

“So why did you do it? Why did you lie to me and deceive your wife? Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders as his eyes welled up with tears. He shook his head and shrugged again.

I turned back to the computer and spent an hour plucking keys. He sat sobbing behind me. When I finished I spun back around.

“Okay, here is the deal. I’ve set up a macro that will automatically email a copy of all your cheesy emails to everyone on your church membership list in two hours unless I stop it. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. If you try anything, those emails will be sent.” I paused. “Do you understand?”

I’m going to let you go. As long as you never speak to my ex again, I promise those emails will never be sent. You stole the only good thing from my life so I really don’t care if you try and get back at me. Send me to prison…I really don’t’ care. Just remember, if you do, those emails will go out. If I don’t stop them every week, they will automatically be sent. I’ll go to every smiling face of the Sunday morning congregation that looks up to and admires you. Walk away from here; never speak to her again and never say a word about this…and it’s over.”

He nodded.

I turned back to the computer and typed one more email that would cause some pain…but not anger pain like I felt. I didn’t want my ex retaliating and telling his wife about their affair…that would free him to get revenge on me. I knew my ex well enough to know she’d be hurt but not seek revenge if it was handled kindly (unlike how she had handled me). So in a nice way, I told her, in his voice, that he couldn’t hurt his wife. That he valued his marriage and family and couldn’t do this…and had returned home. He couldn’t ever leave his wife and he could no longer see or communicate with her. He also forwarded the unused electronic ticket numbers to Fiji and suggested she use it for a vacation. And he apologized profusely.

I read it to him and in my final sardonic act, ripped off the duct tape and he spat out the sock. And I let him go. He even gave me a ride back to get my motorcycle. I never saw nor heard from him again.

Later that night, she called…crying. She wanted me back and I went. She didn’t tell me about him; she just said she’d realized what a fool she’d been. I moved back. I sold my bike and computer for our vacation to Fiji. I tried to convince myself I was happy but several weeks later, in Fiji, I broke it off. Not out of spite; I just couldn’t do it. I hadn’t been able to sleep or eat. I’d lost twenty pounds (and I was already too thin). The guilt was too much and I knew I could never tell her. I couldn’t come clean. This was my burden to bear. I was glad I felt guilt…at least I had a conscience. But it ripped me apart. I’d thought I wanted her back and never intended on getting back together and then dump her out of revenge, but I’m sure it appears that way. Even without the guilt I knew I had to break it off. I couldn’t understand how she so easily hid her own betrayal. All the times she smiled, told me she loved me, and told me not to worry. It made me sick. She hadn’t lost weight. She hadn’t tossed at night. My remorse and confusion at her actions were eating me alive…I couldn’t trust her, I couldn’t deceive her, and yet I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t resolve my inner conflict. Had she mentioned him, maybe we could have worked through it. But she never did and it didn’t seem to bother her.

I sent her home, crying, and I stayed in Fiji. I can’t justify what I did. I tell myself the bastard deserved what he got. I tell myself that since she deceived me it was okay. I tell myself I did a good thing and saved a thirty year marriage. But in reality, I’m the pathetic one. Burdened by guilt (which thankfully still has the faith to speak to me), I am bound for a time to my own shameful chair by my own horrible actions. Perhaps in time I will heal and can do enough good to offset my guilt. I can only hope.

I don’t know how much time passed. I woke to my body in a mangled contorted heap on hard ground. I didn’t move or open my eyes. I simply acknowledged the strange sensation of my arms and legs twisted into a mess. Cold mud cooled the right side of my face and I wondered if I was dead. I couldn’t imagine surviving such a horrible ordeal. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The light was dim and with my face pressed to the ground, all I saw were blades of grass and mud. I moved my fingers but it hurt. I closed my eyes again, deciding it was better to stay still. Perhaps it was also better not to see the damage to my body. I went back to sleep.

Time passed, although I don’t know how much, and I woke again and opened my eyes. The same blades of grass greeted me. This time I didn’t try to move my fingers. I didn’t move my eyes either. Instead, I stared blankly as I took long and deep breaths. The air was like a drug. With each breath my head felt lighter. My body floated as I continued to inhale deeply…and soon, I fell asleep.

The third time I opened my eyes, I looked around. I was in the middle of a strange field. I carefully unhooked my arm from around my left leg. With extreme effort, I pushed myself onto my elbows and rolled onto my back and extended my legs. I was exhausted. Flat on my back in the mud, I closed my eyes and again focused on breathing.

My body ached for months. While awake, I replayed the scene in my mind over and over. I tried to change the outcome. I tried to figure out why the conductor ran me over. I failed at both. When I slept, I forgot about the field and was once again walking down my old path. But then I awoke and the pain was there to remind me that my life had become a horrible nightmare.

I cursed myself for walking that damned path. I cursed the conductor and her complete disregard for anything but her unknown destination. I wondered about the train; how far had it had traveled and where it had gone? I tried to discern and understand…but it was impossible. I didn’t have enough pieces of the puzzle and I cried in frustration, agony, and anger. I cried for help. I cried until I was exhausted…and then I slept.

I hoped somebody would see me lying in the field, come to my aid, and carry me to safety. But nobody came. I swore, thought, ached, cried, and slept…but I didn’t move for a very long time.

Much time has passed and I now sit taller in this strange field. I am growing slowly and cautiously. My body still aches and sometimes my soul still curses. At night I still feel cold and lonely but there are also times when a sweet melody from birds singing in my branches make me smile. And there are even times I see the beauty around me and I am happy to be in this new land.

*** 

As the morning light chased away the darkness, a young Gardner sat on a quiet hillside gazing down into a valley.

Her visit today was special. In a pouch she carried two small seeds. They came from an apple tree that had given fruit and cool shade to her family for many years.

The Gardner searched the hillside and found a safe place for two little trees. She made two shallow holes in the soil. From her canteen, she poured some water into each hole to help the seeds start growing.

She imagined tiny seeds as large apple trees. “My dear little seeds, now is your chance to grow and experience the world,” she told them.

She took one from the pouch. “Grow strong my first little seed,” she said. She placed him into the earth and covered him with a warm blanket of soil. “I’ll be so proud of the juicy red apples you make.”

The second one tumbled out of the pouch into the Gardner’s hand. She chuckled, “you are an eager young seed. You might really enjoy being a tree!” She placed him into his bed of earth.

“I must leave the village,” she said. “Someday, I return to visit.” She turned and walked down the hillside.

Underground, the seeds began to grow.

The first seed pushed his roots deep into the ground. “I will be the best tree ever and make the Gardner proud,” he told himself.

The second seed also began to push his roots into the ground. He loved the feeling of the cool moist soil as he stretched down into the earth.

At last, the day came when the two little seeds became two little trees. They pushed their heads out of the ground to see the world for the first time.

“Wow!” exclaimed the first little tree. “Look at all the people in the valley. They will admire my apples and the Gardner will be proud.”

The second tree looked across the valley.

He noticed the hillside sloped slightly in front of him and then dropped steeply down to the village. The farms and fields looked like a blanket of colored patches. Across the patchwork landscape, a snow-capped mountain loomed.

“Wow” admired the second tree. “What an inspiring hillside! This is a perfect place for me!”

The years went by. One spring they each grew several pink blossoms on their small branches. They were excited! They both knew that blossoms grow into apples!

A light breeze blew across the valley and over the hillside.

“Oh no no no” criticized the first tree. “That pesky wind will blow away all my blossoms!” He gripped the tiny flowers. He was afraid he would not have apples on his branches.

The second tree swayed his branches in the breeze. He heard the soothing sound of the wind rustling through his leaves. “It’s like a lullaby,” he thought.

Sometimes, little worker bees would come and visit the trees.

“Leave me alone!” scolded the first tree. “I’m busy growing apples so the Gardner will be proud. I don’t have time to play with you!”

The second tree enjoyed the buzzing of the busy little bees. “You sure work hard,” he told them.

One hot, hot summer, the trees were thirsty. They longed for the rain to come.

“My Apples will be small and bitter if I don’t get water,” complained the first tree. “Where is the Gardner? She should bring me a drink.”

“It is hot and I am very thirsty,” the second tree thought, “I will push my roots deeper into the ground and find water.”

Over the years, the hillside became a favorite place for the villagers to relax, play, and admire the valley. The children loved to climb and play in the two apple trees.

“Those children are not being careful,” complained the first tree. “They might damage my blossoms. How can I grow perfect apples with damaged blossoms?” He rustled his leaves and tried to keep the children away.

The second tree watched a little girl make a flowery necklace out of his blossoms. “What a neat idea! I think that will be a pretty, sweet smelling necklace.”

Although the two trees couldn’t talk to each other, a friendship developed between them as they stood day after day together on the peaceful hill.

The first tree looked over at the second tree. “My friend is sure a handsome tree. I wonder if I am that attractive,” he worried. “Well, at least I have more apples on my branches,” he said.

The second tree looked over at the first tree. “My friend is amazing,” he admired. “He has so many apples!”

When the apples ripened, the villagers climbed the hill to gather the tasty fruit.

“Don’t pick so many,” scolded the first tree. “The Gardner must see them.” He lifted his branches high keeping them from the villagers.

The second tree watched a hungry little boy trying to pick an apple that was just out of his reach. He lowered his branch so the boy could reach it. “I’m sure glad my apples are enjoyed by everyone,” he said to himself.

One summer night, a fierce storm raged through the sleeping valley. Flashes of bright lightning lit up the dark sky while thunderous booms rattled the ground.

The first tree was scared. He became angry and shouted at the storm.

The second tree thought, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this! This is awesome!”

Suddenly, a blinding bolt of lighting streaked across the sky. With a deafening crack, it struck the second tree. Sparks flew and giant fireball shot into the sky. The second tree burst into flames.

In the morning, the valley was calm. The fire had taken all the leaves, apples, and small branches from the second tree.

The first tree looked over at the second tree. “Oh no, my friend!” he mourned. “Now, everyone will pick my apples. I won’t have enough to make the Gardner proud,” he worried.

“I have a headache,” groaned the second tree.

Later that day, the villagers came to see the two trees.

“It’s good that at least I have apples,” declared the first tree, “or else they would not want to visit us.”

The second tree had no apples or leaves, but the children were still his friends. They hung a rope swing from one of his big branches. The second tree held tightly while they took turns swinging out over the valley.

He played with the kids all afternoon. “That was on of the best days I ever had!” he said at sundown.

After many years, the Gardner returned. As she reached the top of the hillside, she smiled at the two apple trees.

The first tree panicked. “The children have eaten most of my apples and now she won’t be proud of me.” His leaves twitched nervously. “Why didn’t she visit last week, instead, when I had hundreds of apples on my branches?”

The second tree shook with excitement. Although her hair was nearly white, he recognized the same tenderhearted Gardner he knew from so long ago.

The Gardner approached the first tree and rested her hand softly on one of his lower branches. “You are such a beautiful tree.” She picked a bright red apple and took a bite. “What a juicy apple! I’m so proud of you. The villagers are sure lucky to enjoy your wonderful gifts.”

The first tree, relieved, smiled and stood tall.

The Gardner approached the second tree. Her eyes sparkled. With her finger, she traced a large heart somebody had carved into his trunk. “You are certainly loved and admired by all of us,” she told him.

The second tree saw peace and happiness in the Gardner’s eyes. He smiled.

Both trees, fulfilled by the Gardner’s visit, lived many happy years on the grassy hillside.

The first tree continued working hard making apples. The second tree continued to smile, laugh, and play with all the visitors to the beautiful hillside.

END

ANALYSIS:

On the surface, “The Esteemed Trees” tells the struggles of an ornery tree and a happy tree growing together on a hillside. Beneath the touching story, however, we see how self-esteem dictates happiness. In addition, we see how common parenting techniques affect the self-esteem of our children.

“The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem” by Nathaniel Branden explains the development and effects of self-esteem. The first tree requires praise from the Gardner for his sense of purpose. The second tree, however, finds happiness from within, and demonstrates Dr. Branden’s requirements for true self-esteem. In the lives of the two trees, we see how these two contrasting approaches affect the search for happiness.

According to “The Parent’s Handbook: Systematic Training for Effective Parenting” by Don Dinkmeyer, encouragement is the most effective tool to foster self-esteem in our children. Praise often misleads children into thinking they must perform for acceptance. The Gardner tells the first tree she will be proud of his apples. The entire life of the first tree is focused on making apples to win the praise of the Gardner. The second tree is not burdened with conditions but is encouraged to “enjoy being a tree,” which fertilizes the self-esteem of the second tree.

The first pillar, the art of living consciously, is manifest in the second tree’s ability to feel the cool moist sand his toes and his admiration for the beautiful hillside. The first tree is not living with open senses to the world around, but instead is more concerned with his need to search for external acceptance.

The second pillar, the art of self-acceptance is illustrated as willingness to experience. When the wind blows, the first tree is still concerned with his primary objectives in life of producing fruit. The second tree, however, is able to experience the wind in a comforting and soothing way. The second tree accepts himself, which allows him the freedom to experience the world.

The third pillar, the art of being self-responsible, is exemplified when the trees need water. The first tree is expecting the Gardner to come and take care of its needs, while the second tree takes personal responsibility to provide for himself.

The fourth pillar, the art of being self assertive, suggests that we must think and live life for ourselves. The first tree is not living his own life. He is living a live trying to please others to gain external praise and admiration, which he mistakenly thinks will bring him happiness. Because of the expectations he feels to bear fruit, the first tree is unable to enjoy the company of the children and world around him. The second tree realizes that it has much more to offer than just fruit. In addition, he is not locked into producing and giving out of a need for external gratification.

The fifth pillar, the art of living purposefully, is evident in the fact that the second tree was able to find happiness by sharing his fruit. He felt a sense of peace and comfort in the fact that he could actually help and give of himself to the world. The second tree is so concerned with finding external praise that he cannot begin to even comprehend the true benefits of the fruit he has to offer.

The sixth pillar, the art of personal integrity, is evident throughout the story but particularly when the second tree is struck by lightning. Even though the second tree is unable to bear fruit, it finds meaning and purpose in life. It has a calm sense of self that is evident with true self-esteem. Sadly, the first tree never is able to find the sense of peace that self-esteem provides. The mistaken belief that peace will come externally forces him to try harder and harder for more acceptance.

I have included many metaphors and symbolism throughout the story to support the theme of self-esteem and personal happiness.

The 514 belches past, splashing him, and stops a few yards away. For a moment he has a clear path to the rear door. He wants to hurry but doesn’t want to look foolish. His awkward hustled step accomplishes neither. The crowd surges forward and he is lost in a sea of commuters. With his face inches away from the back of a dark blue raincoat, he begins a tiny-two-step shuffle towards the bus door. He’ll make the bus, but will he be sitting or standing for the next eighty-minutes? He dreads standing. A seat on the bus can erase an entire day of telling the mouthpiece of a telephone that it does not have enough insurance. He reaches the doorway, steps up, and looks right; to the front of the bus. No empty seats. Even the aisle is crowded with standing passengers. His eyes widen and his chest pounds. In the back of his head, an image of his boss is laughing. He needed and expected a seat today. He begins walking left while jerking around his head which creates a smeared, blurry image of the bus interior. As the distorted image clears and his focus returns, an empty seat in the back emerges. In a rush of giant stumbling steps, he claims it. Thank God, he’ll be sitting.

He awkwardly arranges his legs and positions his briefcase and wet newspaper on his lap. The back row sits higher than the rest. He is in the middle seat looking straight up the aisle. It’s hard to get comfortable. He sucks in a chest-full of stale and humid air, but he doesn’t notice. He exhales slowly and basks in the sweet sensation of sitting. His legs and feet pound as blood is pushed through the aching muscles. He enjoys this pain. It means he’s sitting.

The bus surges forward, causing the crowded aisle to pulse in unison toward him; some stumbling and grasping to regain balance. When he is forced to stand, he prepares for it.
People never learn, he thinks to himself.

The bus is quiet. The commuters, dressed in dark blue, gray, and black raincoats, ride in silence. Most stare blankly forward. A few sleep and a few read, but nobody speaks. The windows are fogged on the inside and drops of water spot the outside. The bus belches to another stop. Not much room left; even the aisle is almost full. Several more commuters push their way through the crowd and climb aboard. Then, a ‘not-commuter’ steps on. She stands several rows in front of him.

Terry stares at the ‘not-commuter.’ She is standing sideways in the aisle as he gazes at her profile. She wears a bright red tank-top which is wet and tight against her skin. Her stomach is flat and glides upwards to her breast. He follows its firm curve out, around, and up. Her nipple pushes hard against the inside of her top. He focuses and notices the dark patch of skin around it. He stares for a moment and moves his head down but his eyes linger on the breast which bounces gently as her body shuffles. His eyes snap away and he focuses on her black skirt, which hugs her waist and ends almost where it began. The lower curvature of her buttocks is exposed. He stares at the perfect round arc which rounds off her lower cheek and connects to her leg. His gaze moves down her long, slender, and fully exposed leg to her black high heels. Bright red toenails stop his downward motion and send it back up. His chest burns with a fervor that yearns to explode; a passion Terry lost many years ago. With an awakened breath, he climbs back up her leg; pausing the point where the skirt beings to hide her skin.

A man stands from the seat next to her, blocking his view. The man speaks to the women, who smiles and sits in the newly vacated seat. Terry frowns and throws a disgusted look at the short man who isn’t looking at him. He shakes his head just enough to feel it moving back and forth but not enough that anyone would notice.

The bus jumps and once again, those standing stumble. Terry snickers. Several minutes later, the bus grinds to its final stop. A few more commuters squeeze on as the final spaces in the aisle vanish. A tall man stands in front of Terry. He looks up and the man looks down. For a moment, they stare at each other.

“I’ll give you five bucks for your seat.”

Terry notices his teeth are white and clean. He continues to stare. His mustache and beard are trimmed short. He is wearing dark glasses and Terry can’t see his eyes.

“How about ten?” the man asks.

Terry blinks and shakes his head slightly. “Twenty,” he replies.

The man smiles, laughs, and turns away. His smile is gone when he looks back at Terry.

“Ok, what the hell.”

The man opens his raincoat. Several large golden rings hug fingers which disappear into his pocket. They appear again wrapped around a money clip that secures a green wad of bills. The fingers fumble with the clip and appear in front of his face holding a twenty dollar bill. Terry snatches it.

He stands, steps forward, and the man sits behind him. He holds the newspaper and briefcase in one hand, the twenty dollar bill in the other. As he shoves the money into his pocket the bus lurches forward. Terry stumbles backward towards the now sitting man, who catches him as he falls.

“Sorry,” Terry mutters while standing back up.

He grabs the pole next to him, which rises from the floor to the ceiling. He sets his briefcase down at his side, tucks the paper under his arm, and sticks his hand in his pocket. His fingers toy with the twenty dollar bill tucked inside his pants as he glances at the window.

He sees his reflection; standing in the aisle, one hand holding the pole and the other in his pocket. Something moves next to his image on the glass. It’s the red blouse of the “not-commuter.” He follows it up through cleavage, over red lips, and stops at dark eyes. They are staring straight back at him.