Good Morning
By. Bento Box
07/06/04
--
The park was empty save for a figure slumped at one end of bench.
Connor sat on the metal framework, smoking his third Marlboro of the day. His eyes felt raw and itchy, and while his sensible side chided him for smoking when it obviously did nothing for his eyes, he didn't stop the wisps of silvery gray from escaping his lips. The end of the sick burned a fiery gold but he ignored the dying glow of the ashes as they floated towards the ground.
Dried pigeon excrement dotted the worn, metal edges in a decaying mix of browns, grays and greens but he ignored those too.
Instead, his tired eyes were glued to the muggy surface of the park's lake. Algae, trash and pollution had eroded away at what should have been a flawless expanse of deep, clear blue. They left behind in their destructive wake clumps of cans and old hamburger wrappers, the bits of weeks old food nipped at by the tiny fish that somehow persevered and evolved to adapt to the harsh surroundings. Tough little fuckers, survivors, but they were dirtied and tarnished beyond recognition for what they should have been--bits of fleeting, opal colors in a sea of clear water that didn't stink of piss or vomit.
Connor inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the soothing balm of nicotine, curls of smoke wafting upwards as he exhaled. His chest ached from where he had collided into the railing from last night's hit, but the nearly numbing effect of the drug helped to dull the throbbing pain.
His hands were encased in worn leather gloves, but he could still feel the cold nipping at his fingertips and wherever else the biting wind touched his exposed skin. His nose probably resembled a cherry or some such by now.
He could feel the weariness seeping slowly into his bones and every single bruised and aching, or yet to be bruised and aching, muscle in his body. Joints that had been pulled or torn in previous years ached with each breath of cold air, and the smooth, shiny scars that dotted his arms and legs stung.
Connor felt tired. Old. Much more than he should be feeling at 28, a period where he should be at his prime in life.
But no. If anything, he felt as if he should be approaching the end of his life. Old, tired, and waiting to be embraced in the warmth and comfort of the afterlife. Promises of eternal peace and serenity, of brilliantly colored days not tainted by blood or death.
Connor tapped the cigarette end once more, a small breeze carrying the ashes over the pond lake, flickers of red and gold that quickly faded to spots of black. They soon disappeared, blending in with the rest of the dismal scenery.
The weight of his duty, his calling as it were, was beginning to leave deeper scars than just those adorning his flesh. They sunk into him, latching on to what was most vital to his strength and will--his soul.
Some nights, whatever odd hours he would stumble into bed after his twin's body, he would be unable to slip seamlessly into sleep. Instead he would be caught between the dark call of sleep and wakefulness. He'd lie on his back, counting the cracks in the ceiling, listening to Murphy's rasping breath, and he'd wonder how could they ever vanquish the world of all her evils? They were only two men. Two men with extraordinary gifts in both touch and speech, bur still just men. How could they seek to heal the deep wounds caused by the darkness that so prevailed in others? So much more evil than they could hunt, so many innocent who would go unknown, un avenged.
Where would their line of duty extend to? The levels of evil were few and far between. A drunk could one day have his licensed revoked. Then the next time he could kill a child playing in the street at the wrong place at the wrong time. To the following step where he would beat his own child. And so it would continue to build, raping his own flesh, and purposefully killing his wife.
It was a hypothetical situation, the evil that grew and grew until it consumed the person's soul, damning them forever. One could not say whom this may happen to, or whom it may not. But that was the question--the risk--who would follow?
Who would deserve to be punished by their hands? Justice so given to them from Above.
Blessed they were, but men were they only. Men. Who could make mistakes. And how many more would he kill before he would accidentally hurt someone completely free of blame?
The thoughts would drive at him incessantly, nagging in his ears like a horde of bees, humming and resounding in the confines of his mind.
He would lay there, beads of sweat running down the nape of his neck, with only his brother's calming breaths keeping him from bolting from the bed and to his knees.
During those heavy nights, where the weight of his destiny held him down like shackles that bound his wrists and knees, he would lose sight of his purpose.
"Hey Kelly! Try not to kick the ball into the pond this time!" Childish laughter followed the teasing remark, making Connor's gaze waver from the dark depths of the stained water to the small, thickly bundled figures that raced before him, a large red ball being chased back and forth between them.
A familiar body slid in next to his own, huddling close to his until he could feel the warmth from Murphy's side seeping through his cold bones.
"Hey. What are you doin' out here by yerself? Took me awhile to find you since you didn't leave a note this mornin'..."
Connor blinked slowly, the harsh lines crinkling his eyes slowly smoothing out. There was a long silence between them both, as they watched the children play for several more minutes, before Connor leaned his head closer to the warm strength that resonated from Murphy's shoulder. Connor finally answered his twin in a voice gone husky from the long silence he had found himself in since that morning and the three cigarettes that he had smoked.
"Just thinkin' about a few things." He abruptly stood, crushing the blunt end of his cigarette underneath one thickly soled boot. He held out a hand to Murphy, a small smile erasing the last lines of weariness from his face, chasing away the darkness that had nearly threatened to consume the bright light of his eyes.
"C'mon. I haven't eatin' yet and I'm guessin' you haven't either. Let's make some use of the breakfast menu before lunch sets in and we'll be stuck with fuckin' burgers and fries for the third time this week."
Murphy chuckled and grasped the gloved hand in his own firm grip. It was broken by a yawn lingering from an abrupt end to his sleep, which caused a trigger reaction in Connor for him to yawn as well.
In between pushing and shoving at one another, trying to halt the flow of yawns by muffled laughter, the gray skies broke to reveal the sun returning after a long night's absence. The rays warming and touching the cold figures that bustled about the busy streets.