Short Stories

Wat een bocht, dacht ik, toen ik het vreemde mengsel m’n keelgat in goot. De weg die het spul aflegde, vanaf het moment dat het m’n glas verliet tot aan het moment dat het m’n maag binnenkwam, was wel fascinerend. Ik kan het het best omschrijven als vuurwerk, of een clusterbom in de mond. Smaaksensatie is zo’n kutwoord, maar als ik het zou gebruiken, dan was het nu. Het volgde een bepaald patroon waarbij alle smaakpapillen leken te worstelen om de overhand. Alsof ze in oorlog met elkaar waren en er telkens een zijn kop opstak, boven een loopgraaf uit, om gauw weer te bukken bij inslaande, afketsende kogels. Dergelijke vergelijkingen had ik altijd na het kijken van ouderwetse films van vroegere oorlogen. Dat was het resultaat van nostalgie, naar iets wat ik eigenlijk nooit had meegemaakt, in die zin, maar wat restanten waren van de mensheid van vroeger. Van mijn ras. Toen we nog een primitieve cultuur waren; afgeschermd van de rest van het heelal. De drank kon hetgeen me te wachten stond echter niet vertroebelen. Het brandde daarentegen wel mijn keel, opkomend vanuit m’n maag naar boven en een boer verliet m’n lichaam via mijn neus. M’n ogen traanden. De droid achter de bar flikkerde een oranje gloed van goedkeuring. Ik keek om me heen. Ze hadden wel hun best gedaan. De bar waaraan ik zat leek erg op de drinkschuren die je op iedere plek op Aarde tegenkwam. Een plek waar mensen altijd tezamen kwamen om te drinken, ter viering van het leven of het wegdrinken van het eeuwige lijden. De droid achter de bar was zelfs een glas aan het drogen met een doek. Dat hadden ze uit filmmateriaal gehaald, dat moest wel! Altijd stond een barman met een glas en een vaatdoek in zijn handen nors uit zijn ogen te staren. Ik keek de droid aan, zijn gezicht was neutraal. De krukken aan de bar zaten zo goed dat ik hier voorlopig niet weg wilde. Deze bar deed me tevens denken aan mijn favoriete: die op het maanstation. De mens was er altijd gevoelig voor geweest; als ze ver van huis gingen, naar een onbekende plek, dan werden er altijd dingen opgezet die hen deed denken aan thuis. Nu was dit veelal digitaal, waarbij mijn instellingen me altijd het gevoel gaven dat ik thuis was; in een dik begroeid bos dat weerspiegelde van de muren van mijn vertrek, met bewegende bladeren, een zeil op het plafond waar de regendruppels digitaal op vielen, de klank van krekels tussen de bladeren op de grond. Vroeger had je zelfs hele omgevingen die werden nagebootst. Ging je naar een ander land? Dan had je daar lekkernijen uit jouw eigen regio, schermen die uitzendingen in jouw taal toonden, barren, zoals deze, in de stijl die jij gewend was. Zolang je maar niet te erg in een andere cultuur moest verdwalen. There’s no place like home! Even vroeg ik me af of we de juiste beslissing hadden genomen. Ik zeg ‘we,’ want hoewel ik het uiteindelijke besluit moest nemen is dit vrij democratisch gebeurd. Ik draaide met mijn vinger over de rand van het glas voor me en grinnikte in mezelf. Nee, natuurlijk niet. Dat is absoluut niet democratisch gebeurd. Heel eerlijk? Democratie is een utopie. Dat is niet hoe je verder komt in het leven. Een cultuur, een ras: het moet geleid worden. Net als een grote hoop mieren bij elkaar, of een zwerm bijen, het moet geleid worden door een koning. Als je naar de wetten van de natuur zou kijken, weet ik best dat dit eigenlijk een koningin zou moeten zijn, maar ik was nou eenmaal een man, en zeer geschikt om ons te leiden, al zeg ik het zelf. Wie zou dat anders doen? Het was duidelijk waarom we nu hier waren. Om ons oorlogszuchtige karakter. Ik weet het, jij weet het, en jij vindt het prima dat ik hier zit en niet jij. Toch? Het gaat hier om progressie en we gaan nu eindelijk meedoen. Mee met de hogere machten. En er zou veel gevraagd gaan worden. De ultieme prijs. Een deur achter me schoof opzij en ik hoefde niet om te kijken om te weten wie het was. De zompige, trage stappen verraadden zijn aankomst. Ik had een gruwelijke hekel aan dat beest, maar ja, soms moest je iemands hielen likken totdat je hogerop kwam en je diens schedel onder je voet kon verpletteren als opstapje naar degene daarboven. Het ding keek me aan en ik bleef het lastig vinden waar ik mijn blik nou op moest focussen: op een van de sprieten die zijn ogen bevatten of een globale staar waarbij ze alle drie in mijn zichtsveld kwamen? Ik tarde hem door te staren naar die lelijke haargroei in het midden van zijn ‘hoofd’, waar in onze optiek hun gezicht zou moeten zitten. Binnen in mijn schedel klonk een stem in mijn eigen mooie moedertaal die werd uitgezonden door het gedrocht voor mij: We zijn klaar voor het toelatingsevenement. Ik keek hem aan, zag die vieze bundel gezichtsharen los van elkaar bewegen, en ik meende dat een deel van het bocht dat ik zojuist naar binnen had gewerkt, weer naar boven kwam. Whatever, dacht ik, jullie doen wat je moet doen. De bar verdween, alles schoof aan de kant als een vluchtende droom, alsof ik wakker werd in een andere realiteit: in dit geval een raam van wel honderd meter lang en vijftien meter hoog dat uitzicht gaf op een pikzwart heelal. De sterren in mijn blikveld waren gedoofd zodat ze geen afleiding konden vormen op het evenement waar die dikke drol het over had. Het enige wat opviel in de zwarte duisternis aan de andere kant van het raam was een piepklein blauw balletje dat kalm zweefde in het oneindige niets. Ons thuis. Althans, nu was het meer een museumstuk. Stervende resten van een ras dat veel weg heeft van de sprinkhaan; alles opeten en gebruiken tot het weg is en dan zoeken naar meer, enzovoort, enzovoort. Was het niet dat we ook nuttig konden zijn in onze destructie, anders hadden ze nooit contact met ons gelegd voor toelating tot hun raad. De kamer waarin ik mij bevond begon langzaam vol te lopen met een verscheidenheid aan gedaanten die ik je op dit moment onmogelijk zou kunnen omschrijven. Het was gewoonweg te vreemd, te onorthodox, niet te bevatten voor jouw tedere brein op dit moment. Laat ik het zo zeggen: een circus is er niets bij, of wat dat woord ook nog voor betekenis mag hebben. Het was in elk geval een deftige bedoeling. En zo voelde het ook. Ik bevond me onder een buitenaards gezelschap in de letterlijke zin. De dikke drol nam plaats bij het raam en keerde zich naar de aanwezigen. Zijn ogen verzamelden zich in een soort boeket, wat het vele malen vergemakkelijkte om naar te kijken. Een bosje ogen. Welkom allemaal, wij zijn hier bijeengekomen voor het traditionele toelatingsevenement van de nieuw ontwikkelde soort: De Mens. Wij hebben de groei van deze soort met veel interesse mogen aanschouwen tot aan het moment dat zij door de barrière heen keken met hun gouden bloem. Dit was het moment voor ons om contact te leggen. Het moment dat ze klaar waren voor de waarheid. Wat uiteindelijk leidde naar deze toelating tot de hogere machten van de Melkweg…. De soort die zij met veel interesse hebben aanschouwd, dacht ik, met veel angst zul je bedoelen. Hoe noemden ze ons ook alweer? Het meest moordlustige volk sinds de Krianten. Geen idee wat zij hebben misdaan, maar het moet vreselijk zijn geweest. …Om toe te mogen treden tot de hogere machten dient afscheid te worden genomen van de bal des oorsprong. De bal waar de soort op is ontstaan. Het afscheid nemen van de moeder. Het scheiden van deze link is als het knippen van de navelstreng tussen moeder en kind… Ik vroeg me af hoe de andere aanwezigen deze tekst vertaald kregen. Bal? Is dat hoe ze het noemen? Bal des oorsprongs? De fucking Aarde heb je het over! En navelstreng? Ik wil niet weten hoe dat er bij die blauwe aap heeft uitgezien met zijn bosje ogen. De oorsprong is inferieur aan het lot. “The origin is inferior to destiny” misschien had ik de vertalingsinstellingen van mijn chip in het Engels moeten zetten. Zij die afstand kunnen nemen van de bal des oorsprong, zij die weg kunnen wandelen uit hun nest, de kribbe van haar bestaan, is klaar voor het volgende verhaal en het aansluiten bij de gemeenschap van de Melkweg. Welkom Mens, welkom in ons midden we hebben op jullie vaardigheid gewacht. Onze vaardigheid? Dat hebben ze al eens eerder gezegd. Waar is de mens nog meer goed in dan destructie. Op uw teken zal de streng worden geknipt Alle ‘ogen’ waren nu op mij gericht en juist op dit moment gebeurde er iets vreemds binnen in me. Dit was een moment die ik had beschouwd als een formaliteit, maar nu het moment daar was schrok ik van het vreemde gevoel binnenin me. Ik keek door het duister naar die lichtgevende blauwe bal in de verte die wij ‘de Aarde’ noemen. Ik deed er luchtig over, maar nu de woorden van vernietiging mijn mond moesten verlaten, voelde ik mijn lippen verstijven. Mijn gedachten vlogen achteruit in plaats van vooruit. Dat gebeurde niet vaak. Ze vlogen terug. Ik dacht aan de film over die oorlog. ‘De Eerste Wereldoorlog’ noemden we het. Althans, zo noemden we het na de Tweede, anders was het wel heel pessimistisch geweest. Maar mijn gedachten gingen door: de eerste man op de maan. Het samenwerkingsproject van het ISS. De lancering van de James Webb Space Telescope AKA: De Gouden Bloem, die de deur opende naar het eerste contact, zo vele jaren geleden. De eerste mens op Mars. De verontrustende ontdekkingen onder de ijslagen van Europa… En nu stond ik hier, als hoofd van de Mensheid, met mijn grote bek, en ik kon het woord niet uitbrengen. Mijn lippen bleven strak op elkaar. Spiertjes in mijn neus vertrokken zich en ik voelde mijn handpalmen nat worden. En wat gebeurde er met mijn zicht? Het vertroebelde. Waar kwam dit vocht vandaan? Kom op, zwakkeling, dit is niet het moment. Vooruitgang. Daar moest ik me aan vasthouden. Vooruit kijken en niet meer terug. Wij hoorden hierbij, dit was ons lot. Ik slikte en wilde mijn mond openen totdat ik besefte dat dit niet nodig was. We zijn klaar. Ik hoorde het mezelf verzenden, en het hoofd van de machten van de Melkweg (die met dat bosje ogen) leek te knikken. Men keerde zich tot het raam en mijn hart stopte een moment. Had ik dat gezegd? Had ik het teken gegeven? Was dit het? Een soort van satelliet naast het raam draaide zich en schoot een straal in de richting van de blauwe bal verderop. Naar onze thuisplaneet, de Aarde. De straal werd geabsorbeerd en precies op dat moment leek de zwaartekracht weg te vallen, de kracht die alles bij elkaar hield. De bal viel uiteen in een soort gruis. Het weerspiegelde in de vochtige laag van mijn ogen. Het werd een wolk. Het verdween. Ik voelde mijn benen slap worden, een connectie in mijn hoofd knappen. Ik voelde mezelf letterlijk loskoppelen van de moeder, tot een opzichzelfstaand schepsel. Voelde ieder mens dit op dit moment? Het heelal was mijn wereld. De Melkweg was mijn thuis. De schepsels om mij heen, mijn familie. Mijn gehele identiteit leek te vervallen, mijn gebrek aan empathie, mijn eigen hebberigheid, mijn kwaliteit van zelfdestructie en de destructie van anderen. Kon ik het eindelijk loslaten? Kon ik toch liefhebben? De gegadigden vormden een cirkel om mij heen. Het hoofd stapte uit de massa en ging tegenover me staan. Ik voelde een immense vorm van liefde die me deed denken aan mijn laatste psilocybin feest. Mijn benen kregen weer kracht, net als mijn ruggengraat. Een hernieuwde stroom aan potentie, progressie en een vreemd gevoel wat ik…

Jamie’s oma was overleden. Ze was al heel erg oud geweest en stierf een natuurlijke dood. Het viel Jamie op dat mensen een dood makkelijker konden accepteren wanneer deze natuurlijk en op latere leeftijd was. Het was de moeder van zijn vader geweest. Hij had zijn vader niet zien huilen, maar de laatste tijd ook niet meer zien lachen. Iets wat hij normaal continue deed. De begrafenis was eenzaam en met weinig mensen. Zijn oma zei wel eens dat zij iedere vriendin of kennis uit haar generatie had zien vertrekken. Wat dat ook mocht betekenen. Soms vulde ze het met trillende stem aan met: “ze zijn verdwenen.” Ze was geestelijk al verder weg dan lichamelijk, had Jamie’s vader gezegd. Een dag na de begrafenis stonden Jamie en zijn vader haar spullen uit te zoeken, in het verzorgingstehuis waar ze tot haar dood gewoond had. Jamie’s vader had gevraagd of Jamie mee wilde helpen. Hij was nu veertien jaar oud en zijn ouders lieten hem almaar meer onderdeel zijn van het volwassen leven. Voorheen waren ze altijd erg beschermend geweest, wat ertoe leidde dat Jamie een erg teruggetrokken en verlegen jongen was geworden. Waarschijnlijk dachten zijn ouders dat, door hem meer deel te laten nemen aan volwassen zaken, hij zich meer zou ontplooien. Dat hij gemakkelijker in de omgang werd en minder achter zijn Playstation zou zitten. Jamie liep door zijn oma’s kamer en opende een lade van haar nachtkastje. Het voelde een beetje als wroeten in andermans spullen, in zekere zin was dit ook het geval, enkel werd het nu geoorloofd, gezien materiële zaken voor de doden geen waarde meer hadden. Het maakte hem tevens ontzettend nieuwsgierig wat hij zou vinden. Jamie’s vader liep heen en weer door de kamer en maakte een inventaris van de grotere objecten voordat hij zich met de kleinere spullen zou bezighouden. Zijn voetstappen verspreidden zich door de ruimte alsof hij naarstig aan het ijsberen was. Totdat Jamie opmerkte dat hij hem al enige tijd niet meer gehoord had. Hij keek op om te zien waar zijn vader zich bevond en hij zag hem, in de hoek van de kamer, gebiologeerd naar een schilderij staan kijken. Jamie sloop naar hem toe en vroeg hem waar hij naar staarde. ‘Naar een schilderij,’ zei zijn vader. ‘Ja, dat begrijp ik pa,’ zei Jamie, ‘maar wat betekent het schilderij? Je kijkt er zo lang naar.’ ‘Nou ja, daar zijn schilderijen voor, toch?’ zei zijn vader en hij glimlachte naar Jamie. ‘Een schilderij is een venster naar een andere wereld, met daarin een verhaal verborgen. Men staart naar schilderijen om het verhaal te onthullen, te zien wat het voor hen betekent.’ Jamie keek naar het schilderij dat een onheilspellende uitstraling had. Hij wist niet precies waardoor het kwam, maar het was er en hoe langer hij ernaar keek hoe ongemakkelijker hij ervan werd. Het schilderij toonde een man dat achter een raam stond van wat vermoedelijk een huis leek. Het raam was in feite het frame van het canvas en de man was het middelpunt van het stuk. Hij was een man van middelbare leeftijd met bruin haar dat lui naar de linkerkant van zijn hoofd was geveegd. Hij had een snor die zijn bovenlip volledig bedekte en een van die brillen op zijn neus die je nauwelijks opmerkte, tenzij je ernaar zocht. Achter hem stond een groep mensen, althans, silhouetten van mensen, waarbij hun vormen en gezichten niet goed te zien waren. Een soort van figuranten. De man staarde uit het schilderij in de ogen van de bewonderaar. Zijn gezichtsuitdrukking verwelkomend. Jamie voelde zich zowel veilig als angstig. ‘Wie heeft dit geschilderd?’ vroeg Jamie. ‘Ik heb geen idee, oma heeft het gekocht op een rommelmarkt in Frankrijk,’ zei Jamie’s vader terwijl hij zijn ogen van het schilderij losmaakte. ‘Ga je hem meenemen?’ ‘Nee.’ ‘Waarom niet?’ ‘Het geeft me de kriebels,’ zei Jamie’s vader, ‘het gaf me als kind al nachtmerries.’ Jamie keek wederom naar het schilderij en voelde zich erdoor aangetrokken. Hoe langer hij er naar keek hoe meer details er ontstonden, alsof het tot leven kwam. ‘Mag ik het hebben?’ vroeg hij. Jamie’s vader keerde zich vol ongeloof naar hem toe. ‘Vind je dit mooi?’ Jamie haalde zijn schouders op, ‘Ik weet het niet. Het heeft wel wat. Ik heb niet zoveel ervaring met schilderijen, maar jij zei nog dat ik me meer moest openstellen op cultureel gebied.’ Dat was waar, dat had Jamie’s vader gezegd toen Jamie voor de zoveelste keer op zijn Playstation zat. “Hoeveel meer cultuur wil je?” had Jamie gezegd terwijl hij enkele Spartanen afslachtte in het oude Griekenland. De gedachte bracht een glimlach op zijn gezicht. ‘Dat heb ik inderdaad gezegd,’ zei zijn vader, nu in tweestrijd gebracht en Jamie wist dat hij hem dit schilderij nu niet meer kon ontzeggen. ‘Je moet me aanmoedigen pa!’ zei Jamie. Zijn vader lachte voor het eerst sinds oma was overleden en hij gaf Jamie een zachte duw. ‘Oké, oké, je mag het hebben, op een voorwaarde dat hij op jouw kamer komt te hangen. Ik wil er niet mee geconfronteerd worden,’ zei hij terwijl hij huiverde en wegliep om de andere spullen te controleren die oma had nagelaten.  Die avond speelde Jamie op zijn Playstation, zichzelf in een andere wereld verliezend, waarin hij een demon moest doden die uit de hel was ontsnapt. Hij faalde voor de twintigste keer en hij legde de controller naast zich. Hij bekeek het schilderij dat nu stevig aan zijn muur hing. Hij had hem zelf opgehangen en daar was hij best trots op. Nu had hij zijn eigen kunstwerk. Hij keek naar de man achter het raam, die getuige leek te zijn geweest van zijn mislukte pogingen het spel te verslaan. ‘Zou jij het beter kunnen?’ Vroeg Jamie verdedigend. De uitdrukking van de man leek hem te vertellen dat hij dat inderdaad zou kunnen, was hij ertoe in staat geweest. De dagen verstreken en het leven begon terug te keren naar hoe het was voordat Jamie’s oma overleed. Telkens wanneer Jamie zijn kamer binnenkwam keek hij naar het schilderij en het begon hem op te vallen dat hij tegen de man achter het raam sprak. Niet perse hardop, althans het meeste van de tijd, maar meer als een innerlijke conversatie. De gezichtsuitdrukking van de man was zo goed gedaan dat het vaak leek alsof deze Jamie’s gevoelens weerspiegelde. Wanneer hij zich verdrietig voelde keek de man achter het raam hem troostend aan, maar wanneer hij vrolijk was dan dacht hij een vleugje van een glimlach op het gezicht van de man te spotten. De schilder van dit werk moest een ongelofelijk talent gehad hebben. Jamie voelde zich almaar meer op zijn gemak in de buurt van het schilderij, alsof het langzaamaan een vriend aan het worden was. Een vertrouweling. Iets wat Jamie nooit echt had gehad en hij deelde veelvuldig zijn ervaringen uit zijn dagelijks leven. Totdat op een avond zijn moeder de kamer binnen wandelde. ‘Tegen wie praat je lieverd?’ vroeg ze. Jamie was verbijsterd bij de gedachte dat hij hardop had gesproken. Deed hij dat werkelijk? ‘Ik oefen voor theaterles op school,’ mompelde hij en hij was opgelucht dat zijn moeder de improvisatie leek te accepteren. Jamie wist op dat moment nog niet dat dit het laatste gesprek was dat hij ooit met zijn moeder zou voeren. Die zaterdagochtend zat Jamie aan de keukentafel zijn ontbijt te eten terwijl zijn moeder de bovenverdieping aan het stofzuigen was. Dit was haar standaard bezigheid in het weekend terwijl Jamie’s vader, met zijn kameraden van werk, de tennisbaan platwalste. De stofzuiger staakte haar geluid en het was voor het eerst die ochtend dat het doodstil was in huis. Jamie hoorde zijn eigen geslurp terwijl hij het restje melk uit zijn kom dronk. Toen hij de overblijfselen van het ontbijt in de gootsteen zette, werd hij opgeschrikt door een kreet die van boven leek te komen. In eerste instantie wist hij niet wie het was totdat hij besefte dat hij zijn moeder nog nooit op die manier had horen schreeuwen. De echo van de schreeuw had het huis verlaten en wat overbleef was een stilte zo diep dat Jamie zijn eigen hartslag kon horen. Met gespitste oren schuifelde hij naar de trap. Hij probeerde zijn moeder te roepen maar door zijn zenuwen produceerde zijn keel enkel een lichte zucht. ‘Mama?’probeerde hij nogmaals zachtjes. Enkel stilte en valse hoop kwamen terug. Zijn benen voelden zo slap dat hij twijfelde of hij de trap kon trotseren. Hij steeg trede na trede, vechtend tegen zijn paniek. Toen hij bijna boven was zag hij dat de deur van zijn kamer wagenwijd open stond en de stofzuiger daarbinnen roerloos op de grond lag. ‘Mama?’ riep hij en zijn stem knapte aan het einde van het woord. Voorzichtig stapte hij zijn kamer binnen en kwam tot de ontdekking dat deze leeg was. ‘Mama?’ riep hij wat luider, vermoedend dat ze in een andere kamer was. ‘Is alles wel goed?’ Zijn blik glipte langs het schilderij aan de muur. Winston – zoals Jamie de man achter het raam was gaan noemen – keek hem aan met een warme, zorgzame gloed. ‘Het is oké Jamie,’ zei Winston, ‘je hoeft je geen zorgen te maken.’ Jamie’s adem kwam langzaam terug. ‘Maar ik kan mama niet vinden,’ zei hij. ‘Je moeder maakt het goed, ze is trots dat je zo veel om haar geeft.’ ‘Natuurlijk doe ik dat, ik hou van haar. Ik dacht dat er iets ernstigs was. Ik was bang. Ik ben bang’ ‘Rustig maar Jamie,’ zei de man achter het raam. ‘Wil je een knuffel?’ ‘Ja graag, maar daarna wil ik mijn moeder zoeken.’ ‘Dat doen we, belooft, kom hier.’ Jamie liep naar het schilderij toe en stond er met gebogen rug voor. Winston staarde hem aan en Jamie zag voor het eerst dat de irissen van de man vuurrood waren. Daarna gebeurde er iets dat zo snel ging dat het met het blote oog amper te zien was. Winstons armen schoten het schilderij uit, grepen Jamie onder zijn armen en trokken hem de andere wereld in. Toen Jamie bijkwam zag hij zijn eigen slaapkamer door een raampje in de muur voor hem. Hij kon niet bewegen en stond met zijn voeten aan de grond genageld. Hij kon niet ademen, maar er was hier geen reden om te ademen. Hij kon niet knipperen, maar er was hier geen reden zijn ogen van vocht te voorzien. Hij kon niet schreeuwen, hoewel er iedere reden voor was om dit te doen. Het enige wat hij kon bewegen waren zijn ogen en hij zag links en rechts van hem mensen staan. Hoewel hij ze amper kon zien, zag hij dat het geen silhouetten meer waren, maar mensen van vlees en bloed. Iedere persoon uit de groep straalde extreme angst, afschuw en wanhoop uit en Jamie verdronk langzaam in het collectieve gevoel. Het voelde alsof ze als groep op het punt stonden te schreeuwen van wanhoop, om ieder persoon, die aan de andere kant van het raam verscheen, te waarschuwen, maar er was geen zuurstof om de schreeuw te uitten. Het was toen dat Jamie zag dat zijn moeder naast hem stond. Hij voelde zich een moment veilig en angstig, net als toen hij het schilderij voor het eerst aanschouwde. Hij kon zijn hoofd niet draaien maar hij voelde de paniek die zijn moeder uitstraalde. Hij wilde haar zo graag omhelzen en haar horen zeggen dat alles goed zou komen, maar hij wist dat hoe dicht hij ook bij haar stond, dat hij niet verder van haar verwijderd kon zijn. Op dat moment kwam er een man langsgelopen die de kreukels uit zijn kleding streek en zijn plek voor het raam innam met de groep mensen in zijn schaduw. De silhouetten die daar voor altijd zouden staan, gevangen in afschuw en wanhoop tot het einde der tijden. Winston keek naar Jamie om en gaf hem een knipoog, om vervolgens weer om te draaien met zijn gezicht naar het raam en alles…

Donna Gambio was waiting for her husband to get home. The day had been scorching hot and due to her husband’s outdoor excavating work, he would probably be exhausted. She was cooking dinner for the two of them, a surprise dinner to bring him the most blessed news that she had received earlier that day when she visited Prophet Arlan. She rubbed her belly and smiled. Their dream would become reality. Although, the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when she thought of the other news that Prophet Arlan had shared with her. It was a news so horrid that it couldn’t have been more in contrast with the news of their coming child. She wasn’t going to think about that now though, she told herself. He couldn’t be right about every prophecy that he foretold, could he? The door slammed open and an enthusiastic man with the name of Alonso Gambio stepped through the door. Sweat was pouring down his face that carried an expression as if, she thought, he’d found the biggest treasure in the world. She was not far off. ‘My dear Donna, my lady, come into my arms. I have incredible news to share with you,’ Alonso said. You are not the only one, Donna thought and smiled. The thought of him being exhausted had never been a plausible one for he was too passionate about his work. ‘Tell me darling what is it?’ she asked. He sat her down at the table, ignoring the candles and the tablecloth that she had made for special occasions. He looked her deep into her eyes and she felt a child again, going on a new adventure. ‘I found it,’ he said. Donna stared at him and an unsure smile started to form on her face. ‘You found it?’ ‘I found it!’ He screamed elated. ‘We found it,’ he corrected himself. ‘We finally did it. We have found the entrance.’ Donna couldn’t believe her ears. ‘The Prophet was right,’ he told her, thrilled with excitement. ‘The entrance to the buried city!’ Prophet Arlan had indeed foretold a prophecy of “The Buried City”, somewhere below Vilardo, the city where they lived, and that Alonso would be the one to discover it. This all happened nine years ago and Alonso dug deeper and deeper all around the city with no success until Prophet Arlan pointed them towards the south entrance of Vilardo. It was there that they started digging last year and he had been right. Alonso never had a single doubt during this time that he would be the one to find it. Not a single day of doubt. Donna loved that about him. ‘But how do you know it is the buried city?’ Alonso laughed out loud, ‘Because it is literally inscribed on the entrance door! Well, not “The Buried City” of course but the big gate, as was foretold, stands there with the carving of “Falerii Novi” on it.’ ‘You’ve seen this?’ Alonso grabbed his wife by the shoulders trying not to shake her in his excitement. ‘With my own eyes!’ He walked back and plunged himself into the chair at the table and exhaled the biggest exhale of accomplishment. Then, for the first time since he had come home, he looked at the table and noticed the special setting. ‘Did someone already tell you this news? No! Was it Alfredo? No, he wouldn’t.’ Donna watched Alonso talking to himself and shook her head smiling. He finally found it. Donna wasn’t sure if the timing of her news would be fitting to tell at this time, not to steal any attention away from Alonso’s achievement, but she thought maybe it would add to it. What were the odds to have two marvelous new adventures start at the same time? ‘I am pregnant,’ she said out of nowhere. Alonso who was balancing his chair on two legs was blasted backward by the shockwave of those words and Donna could only see his legs fly over his head. She put her hand in front of her mouth. He tried pulling himself up but felt a little dizzy and crawled towards her with eyes as big as when he discovered the gate. ‘Wh-What?’ was all he could muster. ‘I’m pregnant,’ Donna said again, starting to like the sound of those words. ‘We are having a baby.’ Alonso’s face took multiple forms, different emotions were fighting for attention and at one point she thought an alien was going to burst through his nostrils to show her that her husband had been possessed all along until his expression settled on a most peculiar one. She couldn’t really read what the emotion was and started to doubt the timing of the reveal. Alonso was making a sobbing sound while looking at the floor, but when he raised his head Donna saw that he was laughing, crying and that he looked up towards the ceiling thanking God. Donna relaxed and started to laugh as well. Alonso jumped up as if he got propelled by the power of new life, he swung his arms behind him and rushed forward as he hugged Donna in an embrace so tight that it squished the air from her lungs. ‘My darling, darling wife. Congratulations! What incredible news!’ Alonso couldn’t believe his luck. He felt like the wealthiest man in the world although their house was one of the tiniest in the city. ‘How did you know?’ ‘I went to Prophet Arlan this morning,’ she told him. ‘You had an appointment? Why didn’t you tell me! You must have been so nervous.’ ‘Linda made the appointment for me, Arlan always does whatever she asks of him.’ ‘It is true,’ Alonso grinned, ‘she could even make him lose that robe of his and dive naked from the waterfall screaming: I’m a little girl!’ ‘That is so unkind, Alsonso, he did that once and that was 25 years ago.’ ‘I didn’t mean it in a bad way,’ he said. Alonso heard those words of a small Prophet Arlan back then whilst jumping off the waterfall and he beamed at the thought. At that time Arlan was considered a strange boy, that would dress up as a girl every now and then. On some days when they played as kids, Arlan wanted to be called “she” instead of “he”. Alonso thought it was strange at first but he kind of got used to it. Later on, Arlan didn’t even have to tell him because he could sense if he felt more like a male or female that day. It was kind of natural. But it wasn’t the only peculiar thing about Arlan. The strangest thing was when he foretold the death of Fausto, their friend, a premonition that would label Arlan as “The Prophet” from then on. Alonso remembered it very vividly. They were sitting in the school hut when Arlan had leaned in and told Alonso about his dream. He told him that Fausto was to fall off the steep mountain cliff overlooking the city and that he would plunge to his death. The city of Vilardo was built next to this enormous mountain and every person Alonso knew had at least once ascended it. The boys all hiked there regularly. He told the dream to everyone but Fausto. It was a strange thing to do to be honest. But that Saturday, four days after the dream, Arlan and Fausto, and a classmate Miguel, went up that mountain and only two came down. Well, came down the same way they had gone up. And who do you think was lying at the bottom of the steep hill? Everybody knew that Fausto was a daredevil and climbed certain parts without rope where no one would tread even with one attached to them. It was after Fausto’s death that people looked at Arlan as one that could see into the future. It was then people started calling him Prophet. ‘Alonso, my love? Is something worrying you?’ Donna asked. Alonso shook off his thoughts and smiled. ‘No, my dear, let us eat dinner and celebrate this night to never forget. Tomorrow, I am going to show you the gate to Falerii Novi.’ But at those words, Donna’s stomach twisted and she felt nauseous. Alonso jumped up and held her. ‘Are you feeling alright my dear?’ ‘Yes it’s just, I cannot go.’ ‘What do you mean?’ he asked aghast. Donna wasn’t sure what to say. It was about the other news that Prophet Arlan had shared. ‘I…’ she tried to speak. ‘What could be so bad my love?’ ‘I’m afraid of that place.’ Alonso didn’t understand. ‘Prophet Arlan, he, he…’ ‘Yes?’ ‘He foretold my death.’ Alonso gaped at her and was at a loss for words. ‘Your death?’ Donna nodded and started weeping. ‘He is not supposed to share any such visions with the person whom it concerns? He must be wrong! What did he say?’ Donna was holding her belly in comfort. ‘He told me about the darkness, enclosing me. Preventing me from breathing. Claustrophobia.’ Alonso had a hard time thinking. ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘I said the same thing.’ ‘So how did he explain all this nonsense?’ ‘He said,’ Donna tried to speak as she shivered. ‘Tell me, dear, what is it that he told you?’ She looked at Alonso with cheeks wet from her tears. ‘He told me that I would be buried alive.’ Alonso was pacing towards the foot of the mountain approaching Prophet Arlan’s hut to demand an explanation for the terrible vision he had foretold to his wife. It was pitch dark outside since the mountain stood tall in front of the moon. A small flickering light came out of Arlan’s hut. Alonso stepped through the door as he noticed the Prophet cleaning his dishes. ‘Miss?’ Alonso said. ‘Yes my dear, welcome, what is it you are looking for at this late hour?’ the Prophet said. ‘I demand an explanation to the vision you shared with Donna.’ ‘The explanation should be found within you Alonso, congratulations by the way.’ ‘I’m not talking about that, although thank you, I’m talking about the vision that she would be buried alive.’ ‘Those are not my words,’ the Prophet explained. ‘It is only the interpretation that Donna has.’ ‘Then what did you tell her?’ Alonso demanded. The Prophet took a seat and pointed to another chair for Alonso to sit in. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. She then looked at Alonso and told him: ‘I see her darkness, her body covered in dirt, trying to breathe, dying. I am sorry, it is a vision not necessarily of her death but moments before it. It shocked me as well.’ ‘This is no excuse, how could you tell her that? And right after giving her news of the baby.’ ‘I do have to admit that it is not my intention to share any such information with anyone, not after what happened years ago. But Donna pressured me into telling.’ ‘I don’t believe you, about any of this.’ ‘You did when I foretold about Falerii Novi,’ the Prophet said. ‘You became a Prophet after Fausto’s death,’ Alonso said, ‘Some think you pushed him off.’ ‘People believe what they want to believe. Not everyone trusts in prophecies.’ ‘Did you do it?’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Push that boy.’ ‘Ever since I was little I had visions in my head of a buried city. Did I lie to you when I told you about this?’ ‘No you didn’t’ ‘Then why would you start doubting me now? When it is a prophecy you do not want to hear?’ Alonso contemplated that for a second. ‘Have you ever been wrong?’ ‘I tell what I see, how you interpret it is something else, but no, never.’ Alonso stood up and started walking towards the door. ‘Tomorrow I will return, with my team. I want you to tell us our future. If they are as troubling as you…

‘How did I get myself into this?’, Jake mumbled to himself when he looked past the curtain to see the crowd. The school’s Theater Hall was slowly becoming packed. Everyone would come out to watch the play tonight, including his parents. The thought of what was ahead of him brought back the same nausea that had prevented him from eating most of the day. If his plan would work out then it would all be worth it, he kept telling himself. It had all sounded so easy when he first started planning to get what he had wanted all through High School. To kiss Emily. His careful planning and hard work should pay off tonight so that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life. But Jake’s best friend Morgan wasn’t fully on board in helping him out. ‘I don’t know, it seems an awful lot of trouble just for a girl.’ ‘Not just a girl Morgan, it’s Emily I’m talking about.’ ‘Yeah she’s cute and all, but…’ Morgan’s voice faded in Jake’s mind when he thought about the first time he saw Emily. Cute was barely scratching the surface of her true beauty. It all started four years earlier when he first laid eyes on Emily at the start of the semester. They were doing a reading exercise in class until the door swept open and soft careful steps entered the class. Someone was late. She walked in and Jake felt his stomach drift and his heart stutter. She walked in and took her place at her desk on the far side of the room. The teacher didn’t even blink as if she knew exactly where she had been. Now that was an entrance. She had long curly hair that glowed the color of autumn woods. Her face looked soft and her eyes were as green as spring leaves. Her lips were as red as Jake’s face at that moment because, as their eyes met, he noticed he was staring at her. When she noticed Jake’s glance she stood up, walked over to his desk and kissed him on the mouth, and swore to him that she would be his forever. Well, of course, it didn’t exactly go that way, or maybe not even close. Actually, it was far from what happened in real life. Ever since he saw her up until the theater play years later he spoke only a handful of sentences to her. The first time was a couple of weeks after they started school. He ran into her while changing classes and said “Hi” while passing her. It was his first attempt at making contact and it went unnoticed as if he was invisible. She gave not a single reaction to his existence. Not to blame her since the “Hi” that Jake heard in his head was in reality a soft exhaling without any form of sound to it. But it didn’t matter to him, it looked like her eyes flickered towards him for a microsecond, and the lingering scent she left in her tracks kept him in a euphoric state for weeks. ‘She looked at you?’ Morgan said. ‘That’s why you are grinning this whole time?’ But Jake didn’t care. He was floating. ‘Could I be with her?’ Jake asked. Morgan stared at him in disbelief. ‘You?’ ‘Come on Morgan.’ ‘No, I mean like in a relationship?’ ‘Of course that’s what I mean.’ ‘I guess so, I mean you are not an ugly dude,’ Morgan said uncomfortably. ‘Why thank you Morgan, I appreciate that.’ But just the thought wasn’t enough for Jake. Whenever he saw Emily he felt like the whole world greyed out and she took the center stage. Sometimes he would be hypnotized by her bright red lips. Wanting to touch them, to kiss them. What would it be like to have her as his girlfriend? It looked impossible to him. She was just so vibrant and he was so dull, so average. ‘Don’t you dare call yourself average,’ Morgan had told him, ‘If you start there what will become of you huh?’ So Jake promised himself at that point, sworn actually in front of Morgan, that he would not finish school before he’d kissed Emily’s bright red lips. Time passed on and Jake was feeling less and less sure he could actually pull it off. She felt so distant to him as if she was moving in another dimension, one where he did not exist. ‘Can’t you ask her for me?’ he asked Morgan one afternoon. ‘What, are we in kindergarten? You sent me to her and it’s over, for good. The hell are you thinking? Plus she might notice me and will fall in love with me and forever see you as MY best friend. It would haunt you until infinity.’ ‘Jeez, it was just a joke, I wasn’t serious,’ Jake said unconvincingly. But in the last year of school, when time was running out, he found the perfect answer. He walked through the school halls when his eyes fell on a poster that said: “Apply now to take part in the biggest school play of the year! We’ll be performing ‘Robin Hood’ on the 25th of October. Auditions open right now!” Emily was doing theater class, and Jake himself had done some plays when he was younger. In the center of the poster Robin Hood and Lady Marion – a picture from another theater – were kissing. Emily had performed the lead role twice the last couple of years and it was always Jake’s favorite moment of the year, to watch her perform. To stare at her for a full hour without having to be ashamed. This time though, he would apply himself and go for the role of the brave and cunning Robin Hood. Jake hadn’t heard anyone laugh as hard as Morgan did when he told the plan. Morgan stopped laughing immediately once Jake’s expression turned sour. ‘You are serious?’ ‘Why not, this is basically my last chance. It won’t be possible just by being me, I would have to trap her for a kiss. It’s the only way. You said so yourself: what would become of me if I didn’t try.’ It wasn’t exactly what Morgan had said back then but there was not a doubt Jake would pull back from this. ‘Then let’s do it,’ Morgan said. And now here he was pacing backstage in his Robin Hood outfit afraid that he would chicken out at the last minute. He looked in the crowd and saw Morgan who noticed him peeking and put up two thumbs mouthing “You got this.” The play went great, they had been practicing a lot and Jake felt more and more at ease. He heard Morgan say “Just pretend to be Robin Hood and that you kiss Lady Marion. Robin ain’t scared of nothing.” The moment drew nearer as Jake defeated the sheriff in an arrow shooting contest and Lady Marion came running towards him. It all felt unreal. The lights above were very bright and Jake noticed how hot it was on stage. He was sweating profusely but Emily was already there dressed as a Lady with her natural curls hanging over her shoulders. She smiled as if Jake was the only man in the world that she wanted to be with. The thought that she was acting came to the surface for a microsecond but he shook it off. Emily was now closer to him than ever before. The kiss had not been rehearsed. The director had asked if they wanted to but as Jake was nodding yes, Emily politely shook no at the same time. So they didn’t. It all came down to this moment. For a second the class door opened again and soft steps entered the room. Jake was pursing his lips when he noticed that Emily’s face was pulsing red and a loud screech was heard throughout the building on and off. Emily looked terrified and Jake didn’t know what was happening until the school director yelled: ‘Tornado alarm! Everybody to the storm shelter!’ All order vanished into chaos as people stood up from their chairs and started running. Jake stood frozen on the stage until some other actors grabbed him along with them. He noticed his parents when they all streamed into the shelter but he couldn’t face them. It was after everybody was down in the shelter and the scene went quiet that Jake understood that he had missed his chance. That all was for nothing. Tears welled up in his eyes as he sat there, a defeated Robin Hood. He put his face into his hands and wanted to sink through the floor. That was when he felt an arm around him. He looked up and it was Morgan. She had been looking everywhere for him in the midst of chaos. ‘I’m super proud of you, you know that,’ she said. ‘Thanks,’ Jake said as he brushed away his tears. ‘But look at me. Instead of kissing the girl Robin Hood got thrown in jail. Trapped. I blew it.’ ‘Well maybe you didn’t,’ she said. Jake looked up and Morgan kissed him right on the lips. The kiss lasted around ten seconds, or maybe longer, and when they disentangled Jake looked her straight in the eyes. All their time together flashed in front of his eyes. All her love and care for him. The laughs, the tears. Her selfless encouragement of his stupid plan. She was his best friend but because of it, he hadn’t noticed her in any other way. Jake grew up in that very moment. Morgan smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing that needed to be said. Jake smiled and he held her hand. Morgan put her head on his shoulder and they sat there for five minutes until the school director came in and yelled ‘False alarm! Everybody come out now!’ People were pouring out of the shelter and went straight towards the theater. ‘So what do you want to do?’ Morgan asked. ‘Go back or run?’ They both looked at each other and grinned as they set out into the dark hearing the director behind them call ‘Where’s Robin?’ As they started walking off the school premises two boys passed them in the other direction. ‘Someone had set the alarm off, for a moment I thought we were goners.’ Morgan giggled. ‘What?’ Jake asked ‘Nothing’ she said as she squeezed his hand and they ran into the night.

Jamie’s grandmother had passed away. She had been old and had died of natural causes. It seemed to Jamie that it was easier for people to accept a passing that way. She had been living in a nursing home and Jamie and his Dad were there to sort out her things the day after the funeral. His Dad had asked if he wanted to come. He was 14 now and his parents were letting him be more and more involved in the events of adulthood. Jamie was a shy boy and they probably thought it would mold him more into a man. He wandered through his Grandma’s apartment and opened a drawer of the bedroom closet. It was weird to go through someone’s stuff when they had passed, but it also made him curious what he would find. Jamie’s Dad was walking around, mapping out the big objects before delving into the smaller things. His footsteps were going back and forth until they stopped and Jamie noticed that it had been quiet for some time. He looked up to see where his Dad was and found him staring at a painting on the wall. Jamie sneaked up to him and asked him what it was. ‘It’s a painting’ he said. ‘Yeah I know, Dad, I have eyes,’ Jamie returned. ‘But what does it mean? You are staring at it for some time now.’ ‘Well that’s what they are for aren’t they?’ he said and briefly smiled at Jamie. ‘A painting is a window to another world, with a story enclosed. People stare at it to uncover the story, unfold it into what it means to them.’ Jamie looked at the painting which had an ominous feeling to it. He didn’t know what caused it but it was there and he felt uncomfortable the longer he looked at it. It was a drawing of a man standing behind a window of what looked like a house. The window was basically the frame of the canvas and the man was the center of the piece. He was a middle-aged man with brown hair that was lazily swiped to the left side of his head. He had a mustache that covered his upper lip fully and one of those glasses that you hardly notice unless you look for them. Behind him you could see people grouped together, they were silhouettes, you couldn’t see their faces. They were like extras on the set. The man gazed straight out of the painting towards the observer. His facial expression was inviting. Jamie felt safe and frightened at the same time. ‘Who made this?’ he asked. ‘I have no idea, mother bought it at a flea market in France,’ said Dad as he drew his eyes from the canvas. ‘Are you going to take it?’ Jamie asked. ‘No.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I don’t like it,’ said Dad, ‘used to give me nightmares when I was a kid.’ Jamie looked again at the painting and felt drawn into it. The longer you observed the more details you noticed. As if it came to life. ‘Can I have it?’ he asked. Jamie’s Dad turned towards him in disbelief, ‘You like this?’ ‘Well, I don’t know, I haven’t really looked at paintings before but, you told me I had to be more culturally open.’ It was true, his Dad had said this to him whilst he was playing video games again. Like parents always do. “How much more culture do you want” had Jamie said while butchering some Spartans in ancient Greece. “Musea and art galleries is where you should be” the old people would say waving their fists in the air. ‘I did say that,’ his Dad admitted. ‘So you should encourage me.’ Jamie’s Dad laughed for the first time since Grandma had passed and gently pushed his son aside. ‘Alright, alright you can have it but you hang it up in your room. I don’t want to be confronted with it,’ he said as he shuddered and walked away to observe the other stuff his mother had left behind. That night Jamie was playing his Playstation lost in another world where he was slaying a demon sent from Hell. He failed for the twentieth time and put the controller down. He looked at the painting that was firmly hung up on his wall. He had done it himself which he was pretty proud of. He now had his own artwork. He looked at the man in the window which seemed to have been witnessing his failed attempts at trying to beat the game. ‘Could you do any better?’ Jamie asked. The man’s expression seemed to tell him he would if he could. Days passed and life started to turn back to what it was before. Every time Jamie walked into his room he looked at the painting and he noticed that sometimes he was talking to it. Not out loud, most of the time, but more like an inner conversation. The man’s expression on the canvas was so well done that it seemed to resemble Jamie’s feelings. When he was sad the man in the window looked caring and when he was happy the man seemed to have a hint of a smile. That is some real artistry Jamie thought, the painter must have had tremendous skill. Jamie grew more and more comfortable with the painting as if it was slowly becoming a friend, a confidant, something Jamie had never had. He told him more and more about his everyday life until one evening his mother came in. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she asked. Jamie was aghast at the thought that he had been speaking out loud. Did he really? ‘I’m practicing for theater class in school,’ he muttered and was glad that mother seemed to accept this improvisation. Jamie wouldn’t know then that it would be the last conversation he would have with his mother. That Saturday morning Jamie was eating his cereal at the kitchen table while his mother was cleaning the rooms upstairs. She would always go through the house, cleaning up, when Dad was away to play tennis with his buddies from work. It was what the weekends seem to be for, tidying up the house. The vacuum cleaner stopped making noise and it was the first time that morning that it was completely silent in their home. Jamie heard his own slurping when he finished the last bit of milk that was in his bowl. As he put the remnants of breakfast away in the sink he got startled by a loud scream that came from upstairs. At first, he wasn’t sure who it was until he realized that he had never heard his mother scream like that before in his life. His heart was pounding instantly and the silence after the shriek was deafening. He slowly walked towards the stairs while his senses were on high alert. He called for his mother but on the first try he was too scared to produce any sound and all he heard was a low hiss from his throat. ‘Mom?’ he tried again softly since there was not a sound in the house so she would be able to hear it. Nothing returned. His legs were so weak of fear that he didn’t know if he could climb the stairs. He started to ascend one step at a time, fighting his own fright. The door to his bedroom was open and he saw the vacuum cleaner lying on the ground. ‘Mom?’ he called and his voice cracked. Slowly he stepped through the door to find that his mother…, was not there. ‘Mom?’ he called a little louder. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked while he peeked at the painting. Winston – what he had been naming him lately – was right there and glanced at Jamie with a warm caring glow. ‘It’s alright Jamie,’ Winston said, ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ Jamie’s breath came back to him slowly. ‘But I can’t find my mother,’ he said. ‘Your mother is perfectly fine, she is proud that you care so much.’ ‘Of course I do, I love her. I thought she was in danger. She scared me.’ ‘There, there, Jamie,’ the man in the window said. ‘Do you need a hug?’ ‘Yes please, and then I want to find my mother.’ ‘We will Jamie, come here.’ Jamie walked towards the painting and stood right in front of it. Winston gazed into his eyes and Jamie saw for the first time that Winston’s pupils were a fiery red. Winston’s arms shot through the canvas, caught Jamie by the shoulders and he dragged him into the other world. When Jamie came to he saw his own bedroom through the window at the far wall. He couldn’t move, he was standing in one place. He couldn’t breathe but there was no need for breathing here. He couldn’t blink but there was no need to moist his eyes. He couldn’t scream though there was every need for him to do so. The only thing that he could move was his eyes and to his left and right there stood other people. No more silhouettes but people of flesh and blood. Every person in the room radiated extreme anxiety, horror, and desperation and it slowly took hold of Jamie. It felt like they were, as a group, on the verge of screaming, to warn a person on the other end of the window, but there was no breath to create any sound. It was then that Jamie noticed that the person next to him was his mother. He felt safe and frightened at the same time, just as when he had first laid eyes on the painting. He couldn’t turn his head but he felt the fear vibrating out of his mother. He wanted a hug from her so bad, to hear her say that everything would be alright. But he knew then that as close as he was standing to his mother he couldn’t be farther. At that moment a man walked past them, brushing the wrinkles from his clothes, and took his place at the window with his back towards the people in the room. The silhouettes that would stand there forever, caught in horror and desperation until the end of time. Winston glanced back at Jamie and winked. Then he turned around facing the window and everything turned silent. A silence so pressing and so quiet that Jamie had never heard before.

When I woke up I was lying face down in the dirt. I tried to sit upright but my body ached all over. My lips were cracked and I had the taste of mud in my mouth. I badly needed a sip of water. It slowly came back to me. Joanna, my wife. She was dead. Murdered by a group of savages with no motive other than to still their boredom, or their lust, or whatever. They fuckin’ killed her. I remember sittin’ at the dinner table at home, after a long day’s work. She callin’ me sheriff and my full name and all that. ‘Sheriff Jacquin Black,’ I knew what that meant and what we would be doin’ later that night. We were happy you know, the two of us, although livin’ in this godforsaken town. As a sheriff I did the best I could but justice and peace were difficult to maintain. Especially with the few people I had to work with. It made me grow bitter and made me reach for my gun sooner again and again. They said that in this place good men died and bad men thrived. People talk a lot you know, they talk away. I worked hard every day to keep evil at bay. And my Joanna was always there, sweet as honey. Always there to keep me goin’, keep me sane. I mean the beef she cooked was horrible but still it was somethin’. And now she’s fuckin’ dead. But how did I go from sittin’ at the table to bleedin’ to death in the gutter? It must have happened yesterday. They came into the house, shot me on sight. It was a bad aim, hit me right in the arm. I saw one of their faces, and I knew him. Saw him at his son’s funeral. His son dead because I shot him when he exited the drugstore, cradlin’ his loot. Leavin’ the premises and a gurglin’ dyin’ man behind the counter. Was this his revenge or was it coincidence? Maybe they did have a motive after all. They grabbed Joanna by the hair, dragged her to the bedroom. Two of ‘em pushed me outside with my face in the dirt. Not so different from my current situation. They put me on my knees and I heard a shot. But it weren’t me who got shot or I wouldn’t be tellin’ you this story. I do not remember anything after that, until I woke up here in the dirt. I tried pulling myself together. The morning dew was thick, like a blanket of mist covering the land all around me. The sun was slowly risin’, not that I could see it but I noticed the mist turning a bright yellow. I needed water badly. I picked myself up and started walkin’. T’was the only thing I could do, one step at a time. But the more steps I took the more used I got to my situation and I recognised the place where I was. Just outside of Jimmy’s ranch. I started walkin’ towards my house to see with my own eyes what had happened and to make sense of things. But mostly to find Joanna and see what they had done to her. I could barely see twenty feet in front of me. The mist was clearin’ a little. It smelled like gunpowder. My home took shape in front of me. The fuckin’ guts of those motherfuckers. There were three of them last night and one was now sittin’ here on my fuckin’ porch. I came up to him and he didn’t flinch, I saw empty eyes like he had lost everythin’. Well, not everythin’ cause I was ‘bout to take the last thing he owned. That be his soul. He looked up at me and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, without a sound. I grabbed my gun out of the holster and shot him in his balls. The sound clapped around in the hills and woke up probably every man and woman in town. I didn’t care. This was personal and this would be quick. The man fell sideways screamin’ in pain. I walked up to him and shot him two times in the head to silence him. I stepped over the body and kicked the door in and there was a second one already comin’ towards me with his gun drawn. The morning mist was blowin’ in from behind me and started to fill up the room. My silhouette was painted on the far wall. The man was frozen in time and as if in slow motion I aimed my gun at his gut and pulled the trigger twice. Five bullets gone, one left. The man was blown backwards and smashed into the cupboard. His eyes showed nothing but horror as he looked at his hands holdin’ his intestines. They say it’s the most painful place to get shot, takin’ in account the long time it takes for you to die from it. I watched him for a few seconds and drank in his fear. The last man would be in the bedroom I figured. It was a bad strategy to kick in that door when the person on the other side by now knows what’s comin’ but at this point I wasn’t really thinkin’ straight. Or maybe I didn’t care. I kicked it in. Heard a blast and felt the buckshot go right past me. How do you miss with a shotgun? You don’t have to aim. The room was empty except for this old man. I looked into his eyes and saw hurt. I saw grieve. My wife wasn’t there. The man’s eyes widened. The shotgun fell to the ground ‘She vanished,’ was all he could say. I had one bullet and wasn’t goin’ to miss. I also wasn’t goin’ to let him suffer cause he already had. A father shouldn’t have had to bury his own son. I aimed the gun and shot him in the head. He folded backwards and lay there in a cushion of his own brains. Part of his head was missin’ and the bedroom that needed a paint job finally got what it needed. The smoke from my gun filled the room and the rest of the house. I couldn’t see shit and my eyes pricked from the gunpowder. My ears were ringin’. My heart was calm though. Where was Joanna? I stepped outside, figurin’ there would be a crowd by now but there was no one. Then a strange feelin’ came crawlin’ up my legs and throughout my whole body. It started aching. I looked down and noticed I was shot. And not once. I counted twelve bullet holes. At first I thought it was the shotgun but the blood was already dry. How was I still functioning? Did they get me yesterday? The sun burned down upon my head and I looked around. I would have to find Joanna. I wanted to take her in my arms. To kiss her on the lips. To hug her and lie to her that dinner was great. And that we would leave this fuckin’ town and all the scum behind and know that she would be smilin’ the broadest smile she’d ever shined. I started walkin’. I walked and walked, with my gun still clamped in my hand. Where would she be? I wondered as I set out into the mist that encumbered me and took me in. *** At the graveyard, not far from their house, Joanna was standin’ upright, but barely holdin’ on as she picked her kerchief from her coat. Her sister was trying to sooth her by gently stroking her back. Joanna rubbed away the tears from her eyes as Jeremy spoke. ‘We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of sheriff Jacquin Black who lost his life yesterday. He fought for this town until his last breath. He leaves behind his wife Joanna Black and his brothers in arms.’ Jeremy tried not to show any tears but it was hard for him since the sheriff was his mentor and he just wasn’t in time that night. The only comfort he had was that he was able to save Joanna by the hands of those outlaws. When he had heard the first shot he’d ran outside out of the sheriff’s office where he was guarding the cells. It was two streets away from the sheriff’s home where the shots came from. He ran as fast as he could and heard shot after shot as if his feet made the sound when they hit the ground running. He came up to the cabin and noticed two men standing over a body on the ground. He shot both men who had been emptying their guns in the corpse lying in front of them. The corpse wore Joaquin’s jacket, they killed him. He heard Joanna scream from the house and ran in. In the house he found Bill Hicks with his pants on his ankles, not having a clou that Jeremy had shot the men outside. Jeremy fired a round in the man’s head. Joanna was crying in the corner of the room. How would he tell her? An hour later when Joanna was with her sister, Jeremy was in front of the porch and looked down on sheriff Black’s dead body. He stood there staring for quite some time and wondered how he would end up himself. He knew that he would have to take over his role. To be the new sheriff, trying to save this fucking town from itself. But this town was far from saving. No man alone could fight this evil for this evil was men. It was in their nature. It would always be. Jeremy looked at Joanna and his heart wept. ‘And so we say goodbye to Sheriff Jacquin Black, may he forever rest in peace, but more likely, taking in account the person that he was, may he forever wield his gun to protect the innocent in the mists of the afterlife.