A Goddamn Moskal

Still reeling from his wife’s murder, Kid sat silent behind the wheel. His hands were in constant tremble since her passing, his mind couldn’t decide whether to be mad or simply break down in hopeless anguish. He hadn’t cried since it happened, and somewhere deep down he felt like he never would again. No greater tragedy could ever befall him and no terror more terrible than what he had experienced. Time and time again he had warned her of the danger in her profession; what other outcome could they have expected? Her company embezzled charity funds and indebted people until they had no real control over their own lives. She wasn’t innocent, but she was good. She had to be, he kept telling himself. It wasn’t her own choice, it was the company that employed her, they were responsible for all that repression. Why didn’t she listen? Perhaps she became numb with the passing of time, with every new suicide on her hands. Maybe it was her husband’s constant nagging that annoyed her to the point where she could no longer listen, or heed to any warning. In any case she had become blind to all hazards and no longer thought twice, and maybe this was to become her downfall. Whenever he tried to recall any time he’d spent with her just before she died, he only saw an apathetic husk of a human being, no longer recognizable. He himself had gone blind with the idea that they lived a perfect life. Their apartment was four times the size of any other couple, their car ten times expensive and their clothes more modern than anything readily available in their local shops. In the eyes of all else they were perfect; She was perfection personified and by her side she had a man strong enough he might as well have been part ox. He was to blame for all this, he kept on thinking to himself. If he had just gotten around to simply grab his beloved and pull her out of that godforsaken swamp she was stuck in she might have been here, now, by his side reading Dostoevsky and constantly commenting on whatever drama she happened to skim through. And there he was again, gritting his teeth into absurdity and punching the dashboard in helpless rage. He knew none would come of it, and nothing would ever undo what was already done. The only thing he hoped for now was to find the culprit and utterly and ultimately ruin him. Tear him limb from limb and and look him straight into the eyes and slowly, ever so slowly take his life away. That, he thought, was the only thing he could see reasonable.

Approaching the large square, he parked by the side of the road and turned off the engine. During their last time together, his wife had spoken of two conspicuous men engaged in conversation and eyeing her as she passed by, one of them she had known since a while back; a sad caricature of an elder with a shabby cane in a tight grip. He got out and immediately started scanning the populated square for any signs of this elderly who supposedly sat here every weekday judging by what his wife had told him. Once he vanished into the blind roaring mass of people hurrying from one place to the next, he suddenly realized the tormenting stress his overworked wife must’ve felt. He himself working as handyman for an apartment complex, he knew little of stress. He felt himself getting ever more worked up in this disorganized mess and felt he wanted to lash out at the next person to bump his shoulder. He grew even more impatient whenever he was knocked off course.
'You fucking cunts', he murmured lowly, careful not to provoke anyone enough for some hand to hand confrontation. That, he thought, might ruin his plans even further. He was already a suspect in his wife’s murder and under inspection by the police who surely enough would charge him with the murder and more if they could. Carefully trying to navigate the dynamic maze that seemed to mold around him, he finally got out and took a deep breath. And there, to his side sat a quiet old man perfectly still in absolute solitude. He looked somewhat disconnected and moved his lips as if mumbling to some higher spirit, gazing off into the distance. His hands tremoured nervously atop the shaft of his oak cane. Once the husband moved in closer, he saw a shimmering line along the old man's face, suggesting he'd been in tears over something. He sat down next to the wrinkly old figure and never got as much as a glance despite staring at the old man intensely and without so much as a doubt that this old jerryatric had something to do with the killing of his wife. He blurted out;
“What's your na…”

“I never meant it that way. At first it seemed fair, I mean she did terrible things, the lord knows it! But my god, how could I have enjoyed such a travesty? The world is better than this, we have all we need for kindness and understanding, but we just squabble over it all like rats turning to cannibalism. I used to be so kind and loving, I brought up two children and never expected anything but a smile in return!”

The old man turned to face the husband who sat in silence. Listening, judging. So angry he couldn't compose himself.

“I have met the devil, or someone so similar I can’t tell the difference. He's the one who did this, I thought he was gonna scare her, throw her off track. No, this is too much.”

Gritting his teeth in rage, the husband could only vocalize the one word he had in mind; “Who?”

“I don’t know his name, he means to kill more. Something about the government, he told me he wants an audience. I have done a terrible thing. A thing so devastating I can't bear to think of myself, let alone her. I met her once, she was young and had just started out, and back then I could’ve sworn she cared. We had a meeting discussing me and my wife's mortgage on the house and she, what was her damn name? Lovisa, I seem to recall. She knew what we needed and never beat around the bush. She never did us two any harm, but some time later it was as if she lost herself. And I’m starting to think it might have been through no fault of her own. Poor girl.”

Shivering, the husband sat with weak knees and he felt as though he couldn't muster the energy to actually beat the old man. He felt a terrible sadness settle in his chest and he fell back in the bench silently remorsing. The old man in turn brought his right hand to his face and wiped away some of the tears streaking down his cheeks. If this old has-been was complicit in the crime, was he worth striking down? It seemed the crime had taken more than its toll on him and frankly, at point he might rather be dead. As much as it might have pleased him to simply abuse the old crook, he would be to better use in safe custody, he thought.

“I'm gonna have you arrested.”

“That seems fair, thank you.”

“First I need you to describe this devil of yours.”

“Slightly taller than yourself, equal in brawn and bald scalp with a thick beard with silver patches. Only seen him two times, but I'd say he's in his early sixties. Leather jacket, a brown leather jacket, that's what he wore when he met me. What are you gonna do?”

“Destroy him.”

“Please, let the police handle this, I don't want any more deaths on my hands, I beg you.”

“The police can gather up what's left of him.”

The husband arose hastily, jerking the old man along. He strode firmly towards his car dragging his culprit along behind him who grunted constantly. He threw him into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Once he sat down behind the wheel and the worried look of the old man met his own; he felt a slight gust of sympathy for the old haggard. His wrinkly old features seemed only enhance his innocent, puppy-like face. His eyes swoll up, as if he had a sudden change of heart and just realized his remaining life would be best spent on his current side of the bars.
He whimpered and turned away. They both sat in perfect silence, listening to the engine rev up and down between the crossings. The old man caught quick glimpses of his chauffeur and could tell the sadness inside him. Each gear shift was quicker, more aggressive than the previous. His feet stomped the throttle in such apparent rage it might as well had been his face, the old man thought.

“She was your wife, wasn't she?”

Then suddenly, the husband calmed himself, reminded of what had actually happened rather than what was going to happen would he get his way. He suddenly realized that the damage done could not be undone and that his whole vengeful approach to grief was nothing more than a silly and hopeless coping mechanism. He couldn't stray from the fact that he would ultimately end up a lesser being, alone and unhappy. No killing would change that. He wanted to believe while at the same time oppose all of it.

The old man's shimmering eyes slowly approached. The husband looked almost kind in that sudden, stunted instance. Once the husband noticed the old man, he reminded him that their destination might as well be a shallow grave out in the woods should he not respect him. The old man abided, nodding his head and turning away like a house slave who just bothered his master. Again, he drifted off into thoughts of his wife, and minutes later they arrived at the station.
The old man stepped out and without so much as doubt walked up the stairs and through the glass doors of the station. Kid sat still behind the wheel, too busy caught up in a web of memory. He recalled how they'd met; caught in traffic on highway 34, her car had started overheating, a crack at the bottom of the cooler they'd come to realise a week later. He offered her what little water he had stockpiled in his trunk and minutes led to hours and small talk turned into conversation. They met again the day after for some coffee and from there on out for twenty-three years they slept side by side. Enjoyed conversation after conversation and suffered adversity and tragedy. He’d never reflected on it before, how strong he'd felt in her company, and how utterly pathetic he was in her absence. Never so weak had he been as of right now. At times he felt walking too much of an effort, and working had become an impossibility. Why wasn't he more persistent, he thought. This thought in particular kept boiling to the surface. Just one more week and then we'll go, she'd told him, just this week and then I'll have a break. He should’ve said 'to hell with it', and taken her away from that god-awful place she worked. In the end it wasn't his fault, he had to keep that in mind, no matter how false that statement might have been. But truthfully he would never escape that personal purgatory he was forced to endure.

“It wasn't me, it wasn't me.”