The Blue

3. The Redeemer

I'm in my hospital bed, under a scratchy foam comforter, and I sense movement. Can hear someone sitting down on the chair next to me.

Don't want to open my eyes, don't want to talk to anyone. Still back-floating on top of the abyss; still heavy. Not really sleeping; halfway comatose. Don't know anyone who might come looking for me. My parents are out of the state; my ex-wife would be much louder. It's not a doctor or a nurse, either, or they'd have done something.

Finally, I crack my right eyelid. Gather some data.

It's a young man, angular face and broad shoulders. Curly blond hair, square jaw. Muscles. Looks like the kind of guy I hated, growing up. The kind of guy who never needed to have any talent.

He's sitting too close. About a foot away, in the space between the bed and the window on one of those shitty hospital chairs that's upholstered to match the shitty carpet. Brown boots on, and camo slacks. Camo shirt; army uniform. With the sun shining though the window behind him, he's a big dark eclipse in front of the light.

He's holding my chart in one hand, and a folded piece of paper in the other.

"Derek Weaver," he says, voice drawn tight like the threads of a used noose. "I wrote this down last night, while I was looking at my brother's dead body in the morgue. I wanted to make sure I got it right. Here goes:

"You took two lives from me that were very precious. Maybe three, if my little niece Keri dies. I don't know if you can understand the level of pain and loss that I'm feeling. I know you didn't do this on purpose. I also know you were drunk when you hit them."

Was I? I can't remember.

The Brother continues: "There was alcohol all over you, when they brought you in. I could smell it on you. So, you probably didn't mean to kill my brother, my boss, my best friend. That's even worse, though. You're guilty of being so caught up in your own life, so selfish, that you'd risk the lives of the people I love by driving around drunk. Now you’ve taken more life than you’re worth, and that puts you in debt. The only way you can pay that debt, is to die. When I was overseas, one of my friends called it redemption—to kill an enemy who killed your fellow soldier. You have these deaths weighing you down, and I can set you free."

Speech complete, he folds up the note, puts the paper in his shirt pocket. Then he leans back and tries to sniff back tears, but they run down his cheeks anyway.

I just stare, not sure what's going on. He doesn't sound like he wants to kill me. I mean, I killed this guy's brother, sort of. Sure, he's upset. Probably just needed to get that off his chest; he doesn't seem violent.

We stare at each other for a minute, sitting in silence. 

He can't really be serious about killing me.

The man stands up. He leans over the bed; I shrink further into the covers, left hand reaching for the nurse button.

"Hey, wait..." I protest even as the Brother grabs my arm through the sheets, at the elbow. I try to pull away; he's stronger than me. His other hand hovers over mine, which is full of IV's. Then he's pressing down on them, mashing the needles deeper into my skin.

I gasp; the pain is unreal, like the needles are melting hot and jammed up against my bones. I swing at his head with my free hand; hit his shoulder once, twice, doing nothing. No strength; my own muscles ache at the effort.

Then there are fingers around my neck, a thumb smashing my jugular. Constricting; can feel the itchy sensation of the walls of my throat rubbing against each other. Eyes bulging. Pain in my hand forgotten. Five seconds, ten seconds. Vision tunneling.

Kick my feet, punch at him, try to pry his fingers away. Getting weaker. This is it, Derek.

The end is opening its eye to me. That's all I've got; the abyss rises up again, threatening to take me. There's a moment of clarity as I begin to die:

Maybe this is fair. It makes sense.

And that makes things not so bad. Just so tired. Don't really want to die, but living is so fucking tiring sometimes -

- "Stop it!" a woman screams from the doorway. Can barely see through the red filling my vision. "You have a niece who is going to need you! She's going to wake up. And you're better than this; you said you were better than this. This isn't who you are. Let the police do this. You're in America now."

The Brother just turns and glares at her, breath coming in grunts from his mouth, hand still squeezing my throat shut.

"You're not this person. You just aren't. I know you're not. Your brother knew you weren't, that's why he took you in," the Wife says, voice low.

The hand on my throat pulls back a millimeter; I start coughing, wet hacking coughs into his face as I struggle to breathe. The blood drains from my face, from my eyes. Pounding headache. I look from my attacker to the woman in the doorway. Can see she's pregnant.

The Wife speaks quickly: "My brother-in-law has got some problems. He was discharged. Don't press charges, please, after everything you've done to me. Forget you saw us." Her voice is shaking, tremolo.

I'm rubbing my neck with a free hand. "I'm sorry."

The Brother interrupts: "You killed my brother! Her husband!" He's reaching for my neck again.

"No!" she shouts. "Andrew, let the police handle this."

He doesn’t stop reaching for my neck; my hands are on his wrists, trying to keep him away.

A nurse pushes into the room, followed by a doctor. The Brother pulls his hands back, stares at the hospital staff.

"What's going on here?" the doctor asks. "This patient needs rest. Please, all of you, leave."

I want to yell that I've just been attacked. The Wife is watching me, though, and there are tears in her eyes. Guilt rises in me like oil under the earth. I took everything from her.

"Go on," the doctor says. "Go, both of you. Everyone out. Doctor's orders." He's small but insistent, motioning the Brother away from my bed with both hands.

The Brother begins walking away. Slowly, each foot placed deliberately. When he's in the doorway, he stops and turns to me. The doctor continues to push at him, but nothing happens.

The Brother speaks: "This ain't over." Then he leaves—slowly, deliberately. 

The doctor closes the door, turns and faces me. "The hell was that all about?" he asks. "You need me to call the police? You okay?"

I have no idea. "Maybe. I killed his brother. And his brother's kid. I'm tired, doc. Just let me sleep on it."