This Wonderous, Immutable Life of Ours!

Beleaguered by a litany of unpleasant thoughts, I trudge through the ugly nightscape of the city – too tired to sleep, too awake to ignore just how bad things are. All around, the concrete high-rise apartments loom over me, crammed together like a can of sardines. Even when they’re filled to max capacity, those buildings always feel so empty, so quiet.

Following the dim streetlights, I continue, unsure of my exact destination. By far, this city’s greatest sin is its lack of a beating heart. There’s not a drop of style or substance, and what little identity it does express is sickeningly base. It’s the antithesis of those cyberpunk books I can’t get enough of. My bro was essentially my dealer, dishing out William Gibson and Philip K. Dick to sate my desperate need for escapism.

That’s why I feel most at home on the outskirts. Little action occurs here. Unlike the center of the city, there aren’t as many businesses set up, so the aura is much more subdued. Here, I can wander for hours without encountering a soul.

I take a deep breath. In a lot of ways, I’m glad I’m alone. I’d be embarrassed if anyone caught me indulging in some of my “oh-woe-is-me” bullshit, but then again, those emotions are all too fitting for tonight. Twenty years, and not many of them happy. Oz almost convinced me that there was a chance that things could be okay, that we would get out of here together, but in the end, even he failed me.

Everything changes. Everything ends. In my dreams, no matter how badly I wish otherwise, I don’t see myself leaving the city.

Before exiting the alley shortcut, I can hear an animal’s cries off to the side.

It’s astounding. In all my years of meandering, I’d never noticed the playground. I thought the city subsumed all things lighthearted, but somehow, it must’ve missed this innocuous thirty by thirty-foot plot. It isn’t much, just a swing, a slide, a basketball hoop, and a few hopscotch chalk lines, but at the same time, I feel the urge to just lie down on the slide and spend the night there. As pathetic as it sounds, seeing that rundown piece of shit instills a sense of calm, similar to when you find an episode of your favorite show that you’ve never seen before. It’s a warm, cozy feeling.

Then I hear the animal once again, and I remember why I’m here. The mewls are noticeably louder, as if it can tell that I’m closer. I find it in the back corner of the plot, where the shadows are darkest. The puny calico kitten in a garbage can looks up to me with weak, expectant eyes.

It sucks. It sucks so bad, because I know it’s too late. It doesn’t take a precog to see that the pitiful creature won’t make it through the night. Even if there was a chance, there are no vets open. Lifting it by the skin on its back, I can tell it weighs significantly less than a pound.

I take it with me anyway. Having someone else around helps take the edge off. I quicken my pace as I leave the playground.

There’s a general layering of wet mud and scattered detritus dirtying my shoes. It’s been raining a lot lately, and with the air growing colder and the distant thunderclaps becoming louder, I wonder how long it’ll take for the rain to resume. Damn rain, exacerbating my migraines. Probably wouldn’t be good for this little fighter either. Should I name him? It wouldn’t matter, but dying without a name seems too tragic a fate for any beast to suffer.

“Deckard,” I whisper, “don’t you worry. You’re okay, now. I’ll get you fixed up.”

A lie, not to him, but to myself. It’s something that comes naturally at this point. I’ve been doing it for years. I lied when I said bro could beat cancer. I lied when I told Mom that Dad would come back some day, when really he’d just offed himself a few counties over. I lied most of all when I first met Oz.

Growing up, all the punk-ass kids on the block believed that if anyone could make it out of this damn city, it would be our brave, ambitious Oz, our ghetto-ass knight in shining armor. For some reason, I believed it, and get this: Oz actually liked me.

It started with me avoiding him, then I said I wouldn’t date him, then I said we’d keep things strictly platonic, then we were living together. What can I say? Oz had this magnetism about him, something that unfortunately diluted over the years. It came to a head when I asked him to stay home one night. I begged him close to tears to stop hanging out with his friends. I said that if he really cared about me, he’d stay. I told him I was scared.

Oz struck me across my face when I stood my ground.

He apologized. I told him to leave, which he did. And just like that, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again. Everything is my fault.

Oz would then hang out with his friends, either getting drunk as a skunk or high as a kite, I’m not sure which, then they’d crash the car and burn to death. No survivors, and the death sure as hell wasn’t quick.

Deckard isn’t moving. I swear as I kneel to the street, removing my jacket. I use it as blanket, shielding Deckard from the concrete. It’s only been two blocks since I left the playground. Tracing my fingers down his chest, I get nothing. I want to cry, but laughter comes more easily.

“Goodbye, Deckard.”

I should probably feel exposed – alone, defenseless in the dead of night, but these days, it’s rare for me to feel genuine fear or anxiety within the city. Like all emotions, they’ve been tempered. It’s like a drug you’ve taken too many times, where you need to bump the dosage if you want to feel the same high.

In a few moments, I would get that increased dosage.

Oz’s car speeds through the vacant street right in front of me. His time is almost up. I wager it won’t be long before he’s killed. Oz said that fatalism wasn’t a good look on me, and if that’s true, I must be utterly repulsive tonight.

There are three things I know about my power: One, I can see how people die through painfully visceral, intimate visions. Two, these deaths cannot be prevented. Three, I can’t turn it off. Ever. Lucky me.

I considered going into show business when I was younger, but that plan was quickly nixed. I’ve never had much of a stage presence. The whole thing would be too morbid to put on television, anyway, and I’d feel embarrassed entering an industry suffused with amoral charlatans.

I consider what kind of god would curse me with this power, because I can’t imagine him as anything other than one malicious son of a bitch. Maybe that’s what this city is – not something devoid of feeling, but an organic, writhing being whose grand design is to sap the hope and joy from the lost souls within it. That thought terrifies me more than anything else, because if the city truly is this malevolent entity, why can’t I see how it dies?

After Oz’s car has passed, I hear a voice from across the street.

“Hey, old man!” Male voice – mid-to-late-teens – god damn junkie. I know you.

I hear the sound of someone getting kicked as I slowly look up, already possessing knowledge of what is to come. Two silhouettes are in front of me in the alley that I’ve seen in my dreams thousands of times, like a nightmare set on repeat. The homeless man reels from the kick he received from the much younger kid who is lording over him in a fit of laughter.

“C’mon, bitch! You can’t be crying yet! We aren’t even close to the fun part…”

Even cloaked in shadows, it’s obvious he has a gun. The kid brandishes the barrel inches away from the old man’s face, making him back up against the wall.

I tune out their one-sided repartee. Deep down, I know it doesn’t matter. Playing the hero to save a stranger won’t erase my sin. I’ve done my best to avoid people out of fear that I might in some way cause their death. That guilt, that knowledge that I could’ve done something, is too much to bear.

And I just let Oz walk out to his own death.

Like in my dreams, the rain begins. The scene is set.

“Listen, mate… I’ve been having a bad day, a really bad day. I need to blow off some steam, all right? I’m going to need your help with that, but if you make any noise, I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Do you understand?”

I’m not going to compromise my values for the second time tonight. I refuse.

We might all be bathed in sin, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try to do things differently. I stand, and knowing how pointless this will be, I release a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle. My fate is set in stone. I run to them, tears streaming down my face, fueled by my self-righteous determination. My laughs evolve into cackles as they look in my direction – all as predicted. I’ve lived this fate in my head so many times, but doing it for real? I won’t lie. It feels good.

The homeless man yells at me to leave, but I don’t absorb his words. My attention is locked onto the kid. My initial estimation was a little generous. He probably isn’t over sixteen. Given his apparel and generally kempt appearance, I figure he’s a student from the wealthy district of the inner city. Even if provoked, I doubt this little chickenshit bitch would’ve fired. This isn’t some violent rebel with a sadistic streak. It’s a weak, pathetic loser who probably swiped his daddy’s piece to screw with this poor bastard. No brain, no balls, and not a lick of goddam sense.

Yes, I think I despise this kid.

He fires at me right in the gut, more out of surprise than self-defense, and this is the part where I’m supposed to collapse. In one last act of defiance, I decide to change the script. Why the hell not? I figure. With bloody hands, I grasp the kid’s shoulders. I’m still laughing, and up close, I can practically smell his fear. I put my mouth to his ear and whisper:

You… belong… here.

Then the world goes dark.

***

When I wake, I’m attached to wires. I wheeze a long, drawn out, “Shit.”

The doctors say that it’s nothing short of a miracle that I pulled through. Apparently, that bum managed to find some cops who carted me to a hospital. I was legally dead for five minutes. I had to hold back my laughter at that part.

They also mention how they found the little snot that did this. Like I guessed, he was getting off virtually scot-free because his family bleeds money, but then again, I couldn’t care less.

They don’t tell me about Oz. The psychiatrist is probably waiting for me to recover a little more before dropping that bombshell. I’ll feign surprise if that’ll make him feel good about my mental state. Despite everything, I’ll still miss you. I’m sorry.

The healing process goes slowly. Rehab really is a bitch and a half. Though, there is one silver lining.

I don’t get the visions anymore.

According to the doc, I slept for three days after being admitted, and during most of that time, I had this near-constant smile plastered on my face. Imagine that.

I wonder what my dreams were like.