By K. A. Cummins
“For every choice, there exists a multitude of outcomes, as there is a multitude of choices for every outcome.”
At first, the words do not make sense to me. It’s my voice, but the thought is not mine. The thought belongs to a disembodied interloper whispering in the darkened shadows of my mind.
What fractured bit, buried in my subconscious, has escaped its detached cage—disassociated and distanced from the consciousness I presume is me? Has my soul split?
Perhaps the voice is not the interloper—I am.
“Is she dead?”
I hear the question not within my mind as before, but beyond the limits of my thoughts, with my ears. The man’s voice echoes along the walls of the concrete tunnel.
“Help.” The word scrapes like sandpaper over the tender flesh of my throat, dissipating and nearly vanishing before reaching my cracked lips. And as my plea escapes into the airwaves, it melts in the inferno of a woman’s reply.
“How should I know? Go in there and give it a kick. If it’s not dead, kill it.”
The firm, resounding thunder of combat boots fills the tunnel, a drumroll announcing my impending doom. A moment later, boot tips stop a breath away from me. I listen as the beats between sound waves stretch, the peaks falling into stillness.
A boot probes my side. I order my body not to move, but a trickle of fluid in my lungs incites a rebellion. My chest convulses, forcing me to cough.
“Still alive,” the man says.
“Murdering scum. Death is too good for you.”
No. They’re the murdering scum. Not me. And, yet, the woman’s accusation lodges in my ears. Repeating. Pounding. Crumbling my conviction.
“Orders are to secure the area. Quickly.”
“Fine.” The woman spits in my face. “There’s a parting gift to go with your gentle goodnight.”
Her saliva leaves a mark that I can’t wipe away. The brand dissolves the last of my certainty.
My entire life has unfolded on the stage of war. Assessing. Strategizing. Executing justice as I see it.
As. I. See. It.
But who’s to say that I haven’t been perverting justice?
“Put your blade away. I’ll handle this,” the man says.
I am equally grateful and surprised by this small measure of compassion.
I have clung to the notion that motives are simple constructs, each composed of polarized linear equations of cause and effect. But what if nothing is as simple as it seems?
Through the fringes of my lashes, I watch the man retrieve a combat knife and aim it at my heart.
Only the Creator truly understands anything. It’s time to pay my debt.
One last plea fills the inner contours of my consciousness. “Creator, I am yours. Please forgive me. And them.”
A multitude of choices has preceded this outcome. Right or wrong, I am no longer sure. But I do not fear death. There is only love in my heart as I welcome the release of my soul to be reborn into the new Eden.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Such an interesting story, but I really love the philosophy displayed in the first paragraph 💚
Thank you for your kind words, Keturah!
It’s really cool how so short a story can pack such a punch.
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it. :)
Whoa, good job keeping things tense from opening to close. I enjoyed how you tied the beginning and end together!
Thank you so much!
I was grabbed in by the opening lines… such profound and reflective words. Enjoyed your short story… had that intense thrill! And the end brings the reader back to a moment of reflection… that’s what it did for me
Thank you, Kimelene! Very kind of you to say. I’m encouraged by your words, to know you found the story profound and reflective.
The writing is beautiful, as is the theology. :)
Thank you, Lisa! :)