A Walk Down Ivy Laine

Sweet Parting Words

"In truth, there is no tomorrow. There is no human, animal or book that can prove that there is going to be a tomorrow after today ends. Somehow there's this preconceived idea that tomorrow comes because today ended and the clock just keeps going, an endless cycle. We as humans tell ourselves this, share this, idea throughout our lives. Why? Because mommy whispered this promise in your ear after a bad day at school? Read it in a book passed down for centuries read among masses? Saw it in the stars maybe? Heard it by tongue for thousands of years...but there is no guarantee. If there was, why can't we predict earthquakes? Hurricanes? Tsunamis? When little Johnny is going to fall off his bike and break his arm?

But tomorrow is a lie. Tomorrow would be the truth, but in being so, then the truth is a lie. We lie to ourselves because not knowing is the only guarantee you can give yourself that tomorrow is a better day than today.

So when I left Willy for you, I truly believed you would take care of him, nourish him and let him live today. I believed that there was a tomorrow.

I believed a lie."

"P-Please," Verne sobbed, straining against the vice grip of paper cocooning feet and hands to a simple metal fold out chair. The 

"Please?" I repeat, testing the familiar, cruel word on my tongue. How many times had I said that simple, sweet word over the years and bad things still persisted. No, no. 'Please' just doesn't work. Please is what a poor man says begging for simple change under the overpass. Please is what a toddler forgets to mutter after given a cookie. Please is what you're told to say you're whole life. Please is what mercy is made of. 

I look back at Verne from my stance at the shattered window in this run down warehouse in god knows where. It's cold outside, but not as cold as my heart.

He's shaking, quivering with fear and most likely regret. No, maybe not regret, maybe just fear of the unknowing. Of course, that's it. He's scared of me. Scared of Paper. 

Well, from one killer to the next, he should be.

Smiling a big bittersweet smile, I unfold my arms. The air stirs at my feet. There's plenty of forgotten scraps of paper, pages and folded trash in this abandoned place. Lots of...friends...to help me accomplish what's vital and necessary.

"I realize now," I say, stepping a little closer, "how inconsiderate it was of me to ask a complete stranger to just adopt my little dog and take over that responsibility. How silly of me, leaving a note so I can run into the woods and die. Well, I didn't die, did I Verne? No, but someone important did. Someone very special to me did. If you could say one thing to little Willy right now, what would it be Verne?"

He chokes out the obvious response, the one I don't care for. "I'm s-s-sorry!"

I shrug, sighing in frustration, "me too."

There is no time for him to scream. No time to blink. The slice is fast and fluid, perfect and completely controlled. As Verne's head lobs forward and thuds to the ground, I feel no remorse, no shock, no sympathy. 

"...me too," I whisper, taking a deep breath.