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Found

A Short Story

By Joshua CalebPublished 6 years ago 11 min read
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Deep clouds swirled over the city of Boston, not particularly threatening a storm, though just present enough to give the city a gloomy atmosphere. The city was usually bustling, yet today its streets were uncharacteristically empty and the few people outside had somber faces. Tom’s anxious eyes looked out the taxi cab at the glum scene and his lips pulled into a small grin—the first trace of a smile in weeks. He laughed pitifully at the irony of it all. How fitting it was that the weather, clouding over since morning, should be so poor on this, of all days.

Riding through the streets of Boston in this ordinary taxi, wearing an ordinary suit, Tom could have been headed home from work. His ordinary briefcase could have been filled with miscellaneous business documents and budget reports. However, this was no ordinary day—and he carried no ordinary briefcase.

Inside of his briefcase were not business reports and documents. It was a handgun, with a nine-millimeter round. The gun was his father’s, given to Tom at his passing. A hunting man, Tom’s father had an assortment of firearms, but Tom had never taken to hunting and therefore had never been inclined to dust off the old wooden gun cabinet and remove any piece of his father’s arsenal. Only this morning had Tom rummaged for the key and opened the cabinet, the strong smell of dust and old wood wafting out from its confined space and into Tom’s face. The smell suggested dark coffee and strong whiskey, the smell of a no-nonsense man who worked hard to provide for his family. At the scent of the old cabinet, Tom was reminded of his father…

“Headed home from a long day at work, yeah?” Tom was pulled out of his nostalgia by the gruff voice coated with a thick accent that belonged to his driver. “Ya look very tired, mate.”

It was true; Tom was in fact exhausted, but not from a long day at work. It was nerves that exhausted him and though the handgun in his case was not a large or very cumbersome weapon, the weight of what he intended to do this afternoon bore down on his lap as the briefcase lay there, feeling like concrete.

“No…no I’m not headed home,” Tom finally said in a soft, shaky voice.

“The address you gave me is out of the city, in the suburbs, unless I’m mistaken, o’course. Do I have the right address?” asked the driver.

“Y-yes, that’s right,” stammered Tom. “It’s not my home, it—um—I’m visiting a friend.” What a nosey cab driver, thought Tom. It was none of his business where he was headed, he thought impatiently. Of course, it was just nervousness that was making him paranoid. Everyone was suspicious of him; everyone was an enemy. He couldn’t trust them, lest they should ruin his plan. It was true that he was not going to his own home, but he wasn’t on his way to a friend’s home to visit either.

A couple of weeks’ prior, Tom had learned of something that shattered his ordinary life. His wife had been meeting up with a man she met at work and for a month and a half, she had been having an affair. Tom was on his way to this man’s house now, where his gun would soon become a murder weapon. To pull the trigger and watch the life drain out of this man’s eyes was the only thing that could rest Tom’s quiet rage. What concerned him was not what would follow his shot. He knew what he would do after he took the man’s life. He had no intention of trying to escape the police, or dodging the inevitable prison sentence. Those efforts would be futile, and they disinterested him. He didn’t intend to be sent to prison either though. Tom knew that there was no escape from this. He had loaded two bullets.

No, he was not concerned with what he would do after he gunned down his wife’s lover. What concerned him was nerve, the idea that he may not go through with it. Shaking, sweating, light-headedness; all of these factors would assault him as he attempted his crime. He could not let them overtake his resolve.

Tom was yanked out of his thought as the car came to a stop. Rolling up to the front curb of an expensive looking house, he felt bitter jealousy add to his resentment for the man living there. His jealousy was, in his mind, justified, and it fueled his anger. To think of his wife, leaving their old, shabby apartment to come to a luxurious home and have an affair burned white hot in his mind. Tom paid the driver and opened the car door. As he placed his foot on the ground, he felt his legs like jelly and his stomach was instantly nauseous. His knees gave way and his legs collapsed, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap. He grabbed hold of the opened car door and managed to stand, his legs shaking.

“You alright, sir?” asked the concerned and confused cab driver.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Tom managed, breathing shallow, quick breaths. It was a barefaced lie, of course. His stomach was doing somersaults and he could almost taste the inevitable vomit he was sure would follow. Shaking violently, he stumbled up the driveway to the porch as the cab drove away.

He rang the doorbell. As he stood on the porch waiting, he thought more about the man he would meet behind the door he faced. He knew what his expectation was: a young, fit, cocky, and arrogant man who would soon understand the gravity of his mistake in taking Tom’s wife as he stared down the barrel of Tom’s loaded gun. His thoughts led to more anger, then to hate. Soon after he rang the bell, his nerves had settled and he was no longer shaking. His resolve was cool and collected. Nothing would stop him. Nothing could derail him now. Then the door opened.

A young girl, no older than five or six years old, holding a stuffed bear stood in the doorway. Tom looked down at her in shock, completely still. After a moment of silence, the girl called out in uncertainty, “…daddy?”

“Coming, sweetie,” called a pleasant voice from somewhere in the house. Tom’s heart sank. No…no, please, no… he thought, over and over again. This changed everything. Tom had imagined, in his hateful mind, coming to a nameless man, a faceless man whom he could kill easily, without remorse. He had not anticipated that this man would have a life, a family, loved ones. Truly, his mind had been warped by anger, blinded by his hatred. A young man with a smile on his face came to the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked. The little girl looked up at Tom, half-hiding behind her father’s leg. Tom stood in place, completely in a daze, not saying a word. The man, puzzled, asked again, “Can I help you?” Tom’s mind struggled to understand. He was married? With a child? This was his daughter?

“Well…I’m sorry, but if you are a salesperson, I’m afraid I don’t have time to hear your pitch. I’m on my way to a date, just waiting for the babysitter to arrive. If you have a card or something, you could leave it with me though, I’d be happy to look it over. Sir?”

“…D-date?” stammered Tom, in a voice barely audible. Suddenly, a soft, innocent voice spoke up.

“Daddy has to go on a date tonight. Mommy went to live with Jesus when I was a baby, but daddy promised he would find a mommy for me.”

The face of the girl’s father flushed bright red. “Oh! Claire, why don’t you go play with your toys?” he said in a gentle tone, scooting her off to her room. She skipped into the house and down the hall as the man apologized, embarrassed.

Tom’s mind was racing. Then, he saw it: the slight trace of a ring on the man’s left hand finger. The skin was slightly lighter where a wedding band had once been. He had been married. His wife had passed away…he was on his way to a date? Tom began to piece it together. His wife had never told this man she was married. They had a date tonight…

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Tom slowly whispered in a low voice; his words were monotone, his eyes were lifeless. He turned on his heel and walked quickly away from the porch.

**********

Tom sat on the side of the road on a bridge. He hadn’t called a cab, he had walked. He didn’t walk home, he just walked straight for hours. It was nearly dusk now, and the salmon sky was painted by a sun that would soon set. His feet ached and he sat, curled up with his knees pushed into his chest, clutching his legs. His eyes were red and sore. An hour earlier he had been sobbing, but now, sitting alone on this bridge, he had dried up and ran out of tears. There were few cars and as he sat in silence, he thought; just thought.

After having sat motionless for what seemed to be hours, he stood and walked to the edge of the bridge holding his briefcase. He emptied its contents, producing a sleek, silver handgun. He tossed the briefcase off the bridge and watched it splash as it hit the water so far below. He then took the pistol and put the barrel in his mouth. He could feel the cold metal on his teeth, and he tasted the copper-tang on his tongue. For a moment, he did nothing. He just stood atop an empty bridge with a loaded gun in his mouth. He was anxious, but in this instance, “chomping the bit” took on another meaning entirely as he chewed the tip of the gun with his teeth.

He was nervous—more than that, he was terrified. A cold shiver rolled up his spine and he began to shake, softly at first, and then progressively more violently. The gun rattled in his mouth, hitting his teeth as his arm shook. His legs quivered and he clenched his fists until the balls of his knuckles showed white. His vision blurred as tears brimmed in his eyes. A single tear slid down his cheek, touching the corner of his mouth. Another tear followed, then another tear, and another. He could feel his throat tighten and he gulped, feeling a gentle sob swelling in his chest. Tears flowed freely down his face and he broke, sobbing quietly into the barrel of the gun. He cried for only a moment and then readied himself to pull the trigger. His body tensed as he curled his finger and squeezed the trigger slightly.

Just as he had almost ended his sorrow, he panicked, pulling the gun away and quickly throwing it off the bridge and into the cold water. He dropped to his knees and put his face to the ground in absolute defeat. He felt so weak. His perception of life had been shattered and now he desperately wanted nothing more than to end his suffering; but he couldn’t even do that. He had no control over his life—he couldn’t even kill himself how he wanted.

He stood slowly and looked down over the edge of the bridge. “Fine,” he thought, “I will follow after the gun.” He took a shaky step towards the edge and in the next step, his left foot hovered over the edge. He closed his eyes, and his weight shifted forward.

“Have you seen the clouds tonight?” asked a calm voice. “What a lovely sunset. The sky is simply on fire.”

Tom was startled. He nearly lost his balance and stumbled back away from the edge, catching himself on the railing and panting heavily. Tom looked to see who had spoken. Before him stood an old man; he was graying and wrinkled, but not hunched over, and he stood about ten or fifteen feet behind Tom, looking calmly at the sky. His uniform was familiar to Tom; a black suit, with a white collar and a golden chain bearing a small cross around his neck. The man was a minister. Tom was immediately annoyed. He knew he couldn’t step off a bridge with a man of God standing beside him. He wanted to get rid of him.

“Are you lost?” asked Tom, savagely. He wanted him to leave. Then the man looked him straight in the eyes, his own eyes bright and piercing.

“Son, I know what it means to be, as you say, ‘lost,’ and I can see when others are lost as well. My young friend, I am not lost,” he spoke very softly with a smile, and his hand touched the small golden cross that gleamed at his chest with the tips of his withered, old fingers. “I am found.”

Tom stayed on that bridge and spoke to the man until the sun went down and it was late. They parted ways. The mysterious minister didn’t vanish like an apparition, or depart into the heavens in a ball of light. He simply wandered down the road until he came to a bus stop. He waited, and then climbed aboard the bus as any ordinary man would. Tom walked until he saw a taxi and then he went home. He waited for his wife to come home that night, and when she did, they talked. They talked all through the night. In the coming months, Tom would leave her, and after the divorce, he found himself standing on the same bridge that he had stood at months before. He stood and looked out over the bridge, then calmly tossed his wedding ring over the side.

In the following years, he investigated numerous religions and faiths. He met hundreds of pastors, ministers, and rabbi, but he never found the man whom he spoke with on the bridge years before. Tom spent the rest of his life searching, on a journey to be found.

End.

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