Home!
Only this time something is very different. This time I simply pass through the door, uncertain as to how it is possible but very much aware of why I can do it. This time the struggle between sleep and death has been decided. This time, the cycle has been broken and time no longer has any meaning.
I was a good man...an honest fellow who studied hard at academics, enjoyed watching sports and tried hard to make the best of a job that was never meant to be my lifelong career. I had a dog, a wife, a few close friends and enjoyed hobbies like volunteering as a docent, blogging, photography and role playing games. In my spare time I gardened and read books. Although I became increasingly concerned about the political changes in my country I never wanted to be a politician, a leader, a rebel or a fighter. Philosophically I'd describe myself as an atheist with a profound love of nature who dabbled in ancient Stoicism, Buddhism and the Socratic Method. So I ask myself, how the hell did I end up like this? I mean, sheesh, I knew I wasn't REALLY going to be roasting on a spit over the flames of Hell, or playing a harp in some overly white version of Disneyland...I guess I just expected that when it was over, it was over.
I look over at my favorite chair. At first my eyes are fixed on the large brownish stain on my Turkish rug. Slowly my eyes move up and look at a figure whose leg was nearly blown off by a white phosphorus tracer round. A belt ties the wound off at the pressure point, just like my scout leader taught me to do, but no amount of duct tape could have saved that leg. It really is a wonder I made it back home at all. I stare in sick fascination at the dried up corpse sitting in my La Z Boy chair and wonder if I could have done anything different.
My wife looks over at me and in an uncertain tone asks, "Are you coming with me this time"?
I nod my head at her and say, "I finally understand". I half chuckle at her, you see my wife was always better at figuring out the plot before I did.
I gave most of my dad's good guns to my brother years ago as heirlooms. I felt my brother deserved something after all the years of abuse we suffered while living in my father's house. I've always been a pacifist, so all I had left was a WWII German pistol that my grandfather used to use as protection when he drove a taxi, and a rifle with my grandfather's name engraved on it that was older than he was. I pack a few jars of my grandfather's moonshine into a backpack to use as Molotov Cocktails and strap my dad's hunting knife on my belt. My wife is actually far more trained in the martial arts than me and straps a set of katanas on her back, loads an old crossbow and a Glock 9 that I didn't even know she had.
For the first time since we lost mortal form we step outside together. The one thought on my mind, the thought that broke my Sisyphian trial of endless repetitive suffering for the sins of the past...REVENGE!!!