I do not deny that in my efforts to save her, in a state of panic, I sent two bullets through the head of a government agent. But who is more the murderer? The one who kills with a swift single slice or the thousands behind the death of a thousand tiny cuts. You are also guilty of murderous crimes. I know; I saw them. I will endeavor to tell you how it started in hopes some may understand there's still time.
On a bitter wet Friday afternoon in late November 1954, my father, Harry Sol, finished work and left his office at 5:30pm.
My mother, Marge, lazed on the couch at home, warm under the covers, with a vodka martini and a bowl of popcorn.
The deep folksy voice of Ronald Reagan blared from the television, "Good evening, tonight it is my pleasure to appear with John Johnson on the General Electric Theater."
I was ten years old, playing catch with the neighbor in the front yard, unfazed by the icy drizzle and fading autumn light. I saw my father's car come down the street and started to wave. But my friend shouted, "George, look!" And pointed to the sky.
I saw a bright blazing reddish light streak at great speed through the dark dusk grey clouds. The fireball arched toward earth and seconds later crashed right through the roof of my single-story house. A pained scream from my mother followed.
I ran inside the living room, my father a close step behind. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling above the television. The television itself was shattered to bits. My mother clutched her left thigh, sobbing, "thing bounced right off the TV and hit me." My father rushed to her side and put his arms around her shoulders.
I noticed it first, on the floor by my mother's foot. The remnants of the fireball. A jagged obsidian brown rock about the size of a grapefruit. "Geroge," my father screamed, "don't touch that thing. We don't know what it is!" But it was too late; my fingers touched the smooth stone, which was surprisingly cool and heavy. I cradled it in my hands.
A tingling buzz ran through my fingers as they made contact with the jagged, smooth rock. And in a momentary flash, I saw images of lush green forests, a spreading metropolis, plumes of black smoke, then nothing but a red sandy wasteland. And then I heard her speak, help me.
"Did you hear that?" I looked up at my parents. Before they could respond came a cacophony of sirens and whirling helicopter blades. Then a loud pounding on the front door. Before my father can answer, a group of seven men in white hazmat suits with rifles march into the living room and flash official badges.
One of them speaks, "Folks, please remain calm. I am agent Smith..."
"Sir, the boy," another white suit interrupted and pointed at me.
"Is that it, son? Is that what fell from the sky?" Agent Smith walked toward me, "hand it over; we need to take it somewhere safe and figure out what happened here. People saw that blaze across the sky from three states."
I looked at Agent Smith, and down at the rock in my hands. And then I heard her speak again, help me. In my short life, I had never felt such conviction.
Shifting the rock to one hand, I used the other to open the top drawer of our silverware cabinet where my father kept his Colt from the war. I leveled the gun at Agent Smith and shouted, "stay back!"
"George!" My parents screamed in unison.
"Son, put the gun down, please," Agent Smith coaxed, pausing his approach, "we're not going to hurt you. We need to test that rock you got there and find out where it came from." He continued toward me, his hand outstretched.
"No." I squeezed the trigger twice. There was a silent moment after the shots as Agent Smith's body fell to the ground in a crimson pool.
I dropped the gun and ran through the kitchen and out the back door. I was fast, but still a boy, and they caught me quickly.
I don't know where they took me that day, but I have been here ever since. There are no windows here. They used to let me out of my room to see doctors, who did tests on me and asked me questions about the rock.
They told me the rock was a meteor, a small piece of a forgotten desert planet billions of lightyears away. I tried to tell them that they were wrong. I told them she spoke to me, and there was still time to save her. They forced more pills down my throat.
Thank you for reading. This story is my submission to the Scholar and Scribe Monthly Short Fiction Contest #2.
Peace, Thoth442
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