Chapter 25
It was just a typewriter.
An object without life. It was just a thing. It couldn't speak. It couldn't move. It had no personality.
Just a thing.
And it sat in its place, untouched.
It was just a thing. It couldn't want or wish or desire.
...and yet, for all that, it cried out to be used. It begged to be put to the work for which it had been designed.
A lot of care had gone into its restoration. From the time of its purchase from a flea market (along with an old record player) to the present, it had been taken care of. Broken keys had been replaced by genuine parts scavenged from various shops. Ribbons sought out and purchased. The casing had been carefully polished.
Time. Money. Care. All had been expended in large quantities to bring it back to a working state...and once that had been achieved, further time and effort had been taken to keep it that way. A labor of love.
...but it was just a typewriter.
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It was just a desk.
Lovingly-made, yes, but still, at its heart, it was just a desk, just a thing.
It was beautiful. Unique. Nothing could ever possibly be just like it in the world.
Just a thing, sitting in a basement, unused.
Its construction had taken months. There had been false starts, screw-ups. Sometimes, things hadn't worked out just right, requiring steps back. Very few tasks worth completing are done without flaws. The desk had been no exception. The wood was expensive. The metal, costly.
Time. Money. Hard work. ...and care. It was a work of penance, requiring large expenditures of all in order to achieve success. There had been times when its construction had almost been abandoned, when it had been walked away from, derided as a waste of time.
...but always, it had called for completion, and in the end, it could not be abandoned.
Finally, it was finished. Finished...and unused...and yet, appreciated all the same.
...but it was just a desk.
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He was just a man. One of billions in the world. One of millions in the nation. One of thousands working in a position that had challenged him daily. One man among so many that he would make barely a blip on anyone's radar.
Years had gone into his training, and not just in school, not just in law enforcement. A lifetime of experiences had created the man he had been.
...and it had taken only a few months to destroy him. A moment of triumph turned to one of confusion. Reliance turned to bitterness. Bitterness to anger. Life to death. Work to horror.
...but he was just a man.
It had taken time and work...both love and hatred...to create the man he had been. All of that was gone. Lost. Destroyed. Perhaps.
First, the destruction had been accidental. Painful, yes, but not intentional. Then, later, as time and effort and love began to build him again, he was forced down. Locked into dark spaces.
Time and effort were no longer enough. Love was not enough. More was needed. ...but fear was not enough to keep him hidden from view.
...but he was just a man.
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It was just a moment. Just one small second amidst countless seconds in the eons of time.
And yet that one second was the result of hours of preparation, hours of planning, hours of searching. ...and months of anger and fury and a thirst for revenge.
The moment relied on the nature of feeling human beings. The moment required fallibility. ...and was not disappointed. All that it needed, it got.
Just a moment in time.
A moment. A second. One sight.
A smile.
Just a moment.
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Why the typewriter? Why the desk? Why the time and money and care? Why the work?
Because it wasn't just a typewriter. It wasn't just a desk.
What was it? A chance. A brief glimpse of sunlight in a dark cavern of misery.
Why? Why the moment? Why the anger? Why the planning?
It wasn't just a moment. It was a culmination of moments. Leading to a moment, a point of no return.
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A typewriter. A desk. A moment.
Why were all these things so very important?
...because he wasn't just a man.
That's why.