FEATURE
BROKEN BEYOND REPAIR DAN SHPYRA
T
I.
he water was rushing down from the rough patches of the brinks; nonetheless, Jack’s inner waterfall was far greater than one in front of him. Thoughts were striking his mind and heart as though they were an anvil. His heart was pounding; tremor took over his whole body. “God, even now, I cannot be free of it.” Jack’s desperate mind did not even give him a chance a regain control. His hands were holding cables tighter than he ever held his rifle; his pale limbs went numb. “Fear not, buddy, just do it and be done with it!”, this time Jack cried out loud, but his bravery had left him a long time ago; thus, no actions had followed after. It was a full moon when Jack`s shoe slipped from his foot, and just like that, it despaired into roaring water beyond the bridge. “It is simple, one step, and you will be like your shoe: freed from this wretched body,” he whispered to himself. It had been four months since Jack got back from Afghanistan; it had been hundred and twenty-one times he went upon the Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. He was to soar down himself this time, but nothing more than a shoe slipped into the waters. Soaked under the rain, he was limping back home. Suddenly, as it started, the rain stopped; the dawn was breaking and showing the first lights of spring`s sun. Just a small figure among the wooden giants, Jack never even glimpsed above his head; his head was his forest, his fortress, and his prison. Even though he thought he knew how to escape it, he failed it a hundred and twenty-one times. Men do not cry, it is only drops of the rain that covered his face, or so he wanted to believe. It is hard to shoot the rifle, but it is even harder to live after you did so. However, it is not a battlefield where he made his first shot, it was when Jack had signed the contract. That shot had killed his past, his present, and nearly killed his future. The same memories were hunting him for all these cursed hundred and twenty-one days; the same demons were enslaving his soul. Jack saw every dream through the aim of his rifle. One after another: his parents, his friends, and his beautiful Ashley fell under the fire of his weapon. Time after time, his cries stormed the air, “I am sorry. I am so sorry! Please…” The agony was taking over Jack’s every cell; the abyss of some dark kingdom was watching him, ready to take him in one night at the time. After all the “targets” were cleared, he felt it on the back of his head. The cold circle against his hazelnut hair: the muzzle of liberation. “Do it, come on! Please, I beg you!”, his thoughts were all over that muzzle; one shot and this would stop, one shot and he would be free. But he heard nothing but clicking of a
trigger; the bullet had never left the magazine. Jack’s heart was pumping faster than a speeding bullet; his heavy breathing was something that he got accustomed to over the course of the last four months. Every night the same nightmare, every morning the anxiety and cold sweat. The sunbeams were hurting his eyes, “It is noon already”, he whispered and moved his hand to the wet forehead. Glowing stars on the ceiling, even though they unleashed his tears every morning, he never tried to take them off. After the second feeble attempt, Jack was able to sit down on the bed. He still was wearing wet clothes from the last night; a cough burst out of his mouth. The last drops of his Scottish remedy helped him calm the dryness in his throat; however, it scarred his mood even deeper. “Damn it! That was a good one.”, he thought right before the warm shower. The hurricane of thoughts encircled his mind again. Like a broken radio, his brain wired him to a new chain of notions only the latter could not be unplugged. “Hello, Mr. Martin! Nice weather, eh?”. He tried to keep it together in front of the neighbour. “Oh, it is my boy! How are you settling down?” Mr. Martin asked. He was always a nice fella, and he did enjoy a short talk from his porch. A neat man in his fifties, Mr. Martin, was a friend of his parents when they still lived in this house. Nonetheless, Jack did not feel like he could go with him beyond façade, nor he wanted. “It`s ok. I’m getting used to it.” Jack gave his neighbour a half-smile. “We are proud of you!” Mr. Martin raised his fist in the air and shook it full of dignity. The young veteran pulled on his hood and headed to the nearest liquor store. He did not have to think about the path; his feet learned it a long time ago. Jack felt like a third party; his eyes were gazing at the world around him while the body was moving like a midnight train. “Liquor Express” or “Drunken Land Special” the choice is yours; the veteran was too tired to pick one. “What’s up, Jack?!” a familiar voice greeted him at the front door. “What… Who… Hi,” Jack felt startled after his ten minutes of solitude. It took some time for him to adjust and focus on the person in front of him. “It`s me, Jess!” her voice felt far too loud for Jack. “We are so proud of you, man! Welcome back!” she added calmer. “Jess? Jess Willington? Aren’t you fifteen or something? What are you doing in the liquor store?” he chuckled, which was quite unusual and surprised even Jack himself. He finally had a chance to step back and see her: a redheaded young girl was staring at him with green eyes. Even her gray baggy cloth could not hide that she is not a teenager anymore but rather a young woman. “Hello? I was fifteen when we went to high school together. Did you somehow forget about the last, well, I don`t know, four years?” her words were spilled out by the force of habit. Both felt like the time remained still after that; Jack`s smile had turned into the grimace.
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