Contentment


I was in the cab categorizing this stranger, but that couldn't be. I had died. He had killed me. Looking over at him I smiled wearily presuming that I had dreamed that he had killed me. How many times had I dreamt of death? How many times, in how many ways, had I woken up with the image of my life having ended in brutal ways too awful to recount? Too many for me to number.

My death dreams had started when I was sixteen. I had hated school, hated my parents, and most of all hated the man who came into my bed without my permission telling me that only by me keeping quiet could I be a good girl and be loved. At the time, I had wanted a way out of my life and then the dreams had started. Even though I left for college choosing a place far way, anytime I felt overwhelmed or stressed or even simply sad the dreams would return.

Over the years I dreamt of more than death; it was like they spoke my destiny. Sometimes my dreams would become reality and I would have a sense of déjà vu. Sometimes I wouldn't remember the dream, but in my waking life I had the sensation of having already done what I was doing. And so I came to believe that if I just held on a little bit longer that soon events would relieve me of the burdens of this life.

It wasn't so much that I wanted to die as that I was tired. I was bone tired; tired of getting up in the morning and slaving at work; tired of working hard and for what?; tired of coming home to an empty apartment. I had held onto the knowledge my dreams had provided for over twenty years. They were trustworthy. There had been dreams where my death was drawn out or accompanied by untold horrors. With those upon awakening I had made different choices, and those dreams had never been realised.

Looking at this man more closely I was certain that he was the man from my dream. Yes, this was a man quite easily capable of killing me. Looking back to the bald spot on the cabbie's head I smiled contently. The only thing I was really afraid of was pain. The death he offered wasn't too horrid, as deaths go. And I was ready to stop fighting the inevitable, but then I had been for years.

When we reached my destination I paid the cabbie and the stranger exited, as I expected he would. The cabbie eyed him wearily, but said nothing driving off.

"Want to take a walk?" he asked his voice warming everything within me my body nearly demanding that I give in to him.

Eying him speculatively and considering my options with great care I replied, "Yes, I think that might be just the right ending."

He looked at me strangely for a moment and then his face once more composed into a gentle ambivalence. He moved his body towards the direction of Lincoln Park.

"One moment, please," I told him.

Since it was my last walk I didn't want to do it with my feet hurting. Placing one hand on the lamppost along with my purse I used the other to unstrappen my left shoe, then I changed hands and position and removed my right shoe.

He watched me as someone might watch a play–detached but curious and enlivened.

"I'm ready now," I informed him putting my shoes in my left hand and my bag in my right.

Without a word he turned and moved once more towards the park. He allowed me to set the pace and although he strolled next to me, his movements were entirely too graceful.

"What brings you to the city?" I asked once we had entered the park.

"A little of this and a little of that," he replied with ease, but with a tone that suggested that his life held little interest for him.

"Have you lost your passion for what you do?" I asked softly unsure of the kind of questions appropriate to ask my killer.

There was a full second silence before he spoke. "After a while everything looks the same, every place is the same, and the monotony of existence bit by bit takes with it the exuberance that youth held."

Considering his reply I appreciated his philosophical stance. At least my killer was intelligent and reflective. Why his sophistication should please me was illogical. But it did, as did the feeling of the cold concrete under my feet, and how the little rocks making up the material massaged my sore pads without being too sharp. With each step I rolled my feet into the ground enjoying the sensation.

"Before innocence is taken the young have the privilege of hoping, of believing, of dreaming," I told him in agreement.

"Aye," he stated simply.

After a few hundred feet had passed under my feet I asked, "Do you hold any expectation that one day you will regain the feeling of possibility that youth held?"

This time the silence was even longer. "No, mon shéri, I cannot say that I do. I do what I must to survive and although I have seen a great many things, they have begun to all seem the same. Perhaps in fifty years cars will fly or something else like that. And, although I might pause and marvel, it wouldn't change the reality of my existence."

I nodded knowingly using the light the lampposts provided to carefully examine the trees around us, the emptiness they held with their leaves shed, and how they moved in the wind.

A wonderful silence came upon us as if we were old friends enjoying a stroll little needing to be said.

We were in a particularly dark part of the park when he stopped.

Turning I looked at him a knowing smile touching my lips.

"You are not afraid," he stated as if needing no confirmation of this.

"No," I confirmed nonetheless.

"You are very strange," he commented while tipping his head to the side.

"Yes, many have said as much," I agreed.

"Not even a hint of fear," he stated confused.

"No," I confirmed.

He moved towards me.

The edges of my mouth moved upward a bit pleased that I had been correct.

He would kill me.

I was glad.

He paused mid step as if frozen. "You are pleased?" he enquired.

"Yes," I agreed.

"How very strange," he mused.

I smiled knowingly. I had been strange since the dreams had started.

He stepped closer and slowly took his hand around to the back of my head. He looked at me carefully once more. "I will make it quick," he assured me.

"Thank you," I told him appreciative that I got to say the words.

His lips found my neck, the pain was as excruciating as in my dream but the relief was just as palatable.

I surrendered to the sensation, to the feeling of him pulling my life from me, the light-headedness it gave me, and found myself wrapped in contentment and gratitude. It could not have been a better death.