A War Within

One must make many decisions in life. Some difficult, some easy, but all important. No one could really know the impact of one's decisions straight away, but decisions are what shape your life to be what it is, what it was, and what it will be.

As my feet sunk into the deep snow just beyond the little town I called home, I couldn't help the tears trailing down my frozen cheeks. I stood there helpless as my mind drifted away from the present moment, to a time I would much rather forget. It's a tricky thing, your mind. At once, you can be in a field looking into the starry night sky, and in an apartment overlooking a dark alley, witnessing an act that's so despicable, the moon forgot to shine its light.

I could feel the hard floor beneath my thighs, the wispy nightgown flowing around me, the quiet stammering of the man from the street, begging for his life. I knew what was happening that night. The pistol lay heavy on the floor beside me. Yet, I did nothing. The crisp autumn wind flowing in from the window. The soft glow of the candle beside me. I did nothing. As the stammering turned to desperate pleas. As the desperate pleas soon turned to muffled screams. I did nothing.

My tears trailing down my face in the field. The tears running down my face in that dark apartment. I could feel them both. Both real, both present. My fingers tingle with the want to grab hold of my weapon, to save that innocent man's life, and yet the fear of danger stopped me. It stopped me when he was simply pleading for his life. It stopped me when his pleading turned to screams of pain. Finally, it stopped me when the screams ceased entirely. I knew then what had happened. That I could have saved that man.

The clock ticked quietly behind me as I stared at the polished wood floor in front of me. The horror seeped slowly into my bones, as the reality of what had been done hit me. Not only was I appalled at the man who had done this act of pure malice and evil. But also at myself. The hours flowed by as I reflected, the gun placed in front of me, as if on a pedestal. Over and over, it ran through my mind. The pleas. The screams. Worse was the silence. The eerie, absolute silence. I had never felt anything like it before. As dawn approached, the sun seeped through the frozen glass to lay gently on the cool skin on my back. Day had come.

I stood then, knowing I couldn't sit by the window any longer. Moving around, completing the tasks of my day, would ease the guilt on my mind. "What's done is done", my dad would always say. My dad usually said that about broken plates, not murder. I suppose it didn't quite work under these circumstances.

The nightgown switched to a proper day gown, my wool socks soon switched to a pair of lacy cotton ones. My slippers turned to leather shoes. I creeped down the stairs quietly, unsure of whether my father was awake. I hadn't heard him come in last night. But as some may say, my mind was elsewhere.

As I reached the main floor of our two story apartment, I could feel the horror of that night's events leave me, as my mind latched onto the fact that the familiar candle light that greeted me every morning was noticeably absent. Stumbling through the apartment with only the dim light streaming in through the shutters, I clumsily lit a candle.

Looking around, I searched for my father. He was always up at this hour, preparing breakfast before his long day at work at the mail department. As I rushed up the stairs, I could feel the dread pooling in my stomach, a suspicion that couldn't be possible on the tip of my tongue.

I burst into my fathers bedchamber, the door slamming into the wall. As I stared emptily at the made bed, I could feel my eyes start to sting. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't. I could feel my heartbeat in my chest, the consistent thump, thump, thump echoing in my ears. My feet slammed into the floorboards as I rushed through the apartment. My gown streaming behind me, I ripped the main door open, the outside world now before me.

The door remained open behind me as I rushed for the alleyway. I could barely breathe, my breath punching out of me in short bursts. Rounding the corner, the first beams of light were hitting the alleyway, just enough for me to see a body laying in the shadows. As I took in the familiar red of his coat, the muddy brown of his hair, I stopped breathing entirely. I don't really remember what happened next. There were piercing screams, likely coming from my own mouth. I desperately grasped my father, even when others came to help. My ears were ringing, my body shivering. I had never felt so cold. So empty. The memories ended after that. It seemed my consciousness had failed me that day.

Now, as I stood in that empty field, staring at the twinkling stars, I imagined my father looking down on me. In both senses of the word, I suppose. That empty feeling inside me, whether that be unbearable guilt, or simply the lingering horror of that night's events, hadn't left me despite the passing weeks.

I looked down at my muddy boots, unable to muster the strength to look at the gravestone in front of me. One that had a familiar name written across its surface. The sobs that had remained logged in my chest these few weeks, begged for freedom. I could feel it in the tightening of my chest, the lump in my throat. I could bear it no longer. My tears flowed freely, and along with them my feelings. I let myself feel the guilt, the horror, and finally the regret. I suppose that is the empty feeling inside me. For certainly, regret is an uncomfortable feeling. It comes from those important decisions that, perhaps, were made incorrectly. From consequences that can't be reversed.

As I stared at the name etched into the rocky surface of the gravestone, I recalled a lesson my father had taught me long ago. One I didn't want to hear then, and one I didn't really want to hear now.

I had been practicing on the piano, playing simple tunes I had learned years prior. The sheets I had been given by my instructor were left up in my bedchamber, ignored. I told myself I would play them tomorrow. That today, I would play my lullabies. That's when my father found me.

A valuable lesson was taught that day. The difference between short term and long term satisfaction. He explained that by choosing to skip practice, I was focusing on my short term satisfaction, and that long term, I would suffer. He asked if I wanted to be a successful piano player. When I answered that I did, he smiled. Tapping my nose gently, he stood before leaving the room. No more was said that day. My father knew I had listened to what he had said. He knew that sheet music hidden in my room was going to be played that very evening.

As I looked at the snowflakes drifting by my face, I knew now what I had chosen that night. I had chosen my short term satisfaction. My safety over anothers. Whether I had known he was my father, or another child's father, the answer should have been the same. I should have used that pistol my father had given me. Now my long term satisfaction will suffer. I will always remember that night. This guilt and regret will never leave me. This is a burden I will have to bear.

I looked down on my fathers gravestone for one more moment, placing the rose I had brought him down before the symbolic stone. Taking a deep breath, I turned, my steps steady and sure as I walked back to the little lights of my home.

There is no choice but to move forward. So move forward I will. I will share my stories, my trials, my regrets. But always will I remember. Always.