A Desolate Report
Short Story
by John Louis and Kyle Fleming
Opening the flaps of the weathered brown refrigerator box,
Williford Tod, a jumble of tattered sleeping bags and rusty, dirt covered
rags, slid his festering carcass out onto the grimy cobblestones of the
alley. The thin, wiry fibers of Williford's disheveled sliver hair
glistened in the pale, iridescent moonlight and the icy tinges of frost sat
upon his lips. On his hands and knees, Williford retched up a foul,
putrid liquid that splattered against the pavement and coated the back of
his gnarled hands. Heaving still, Williford struggled to his feet
leaning against the sooty brick wall on his left to steady himself. Able to
stand again, Williford began his stumbling walk down the alley,
shuffling his shorter leg in time with the longer one. Korea hadn't been kind,
hiding like a coward, it had taken from him his foot and his spirit.
Williford finally made it to the street corner grasping his raggedy
coat with his hands in a desperate attempt to trap the little warmth it
provided. He limped down the street going in and out of the circles of light
the streetlamps provided. Only a block to the 24 hour liquor store with
its neon lights and false hopes. Marching past the dark windows and
locked doors, in his shuffling limp, Williford made his nightly sojourn
in search of solace. He stopped in front of the doors and glanced up at
the sign just above his head. It read "24 Hours", reminding him of the
length of each day in his horrid life.
Opening the door, Williford shuffled into the store through the theft
detectors and past the counter. He paused a second, gazing into the
face of the clerk, a young man with soft blue eyes, and the hint of a
smile on the corner of his mouth. Pretending to browse, Williford, slowly
hobbled to the back of the store. Hidden behind the shelves containing
bottles of instant happiness, he glanced every few seconds towards the
young man at front of the store, thinking of his own life. He remembered
his childhood and his forgotten, so-called parents who had left him to
fend for himself at the foster home. Williford remembered the war and
the death of the few friends he had, of the hatred he had received when
he had returned home broken and alone. He felt a new kind of anger well
in his soul, a jealous anger, fueled by the emptiness in his heart.
He reached in his tattered coat and felt the smooth grain of the
wooden butt of his .44 protruding from his inside pocket. Williford gripped
it and felt the power he held in his hand. He turned and walked slowly
up the aisle. The young man at the counter looked up, and meeting his
gaze with an empty stare, Williford Tod removed the .44 from his coat
pocket and pointed it directly at the clerk. Without a word, Williford
pulled the trigger. Williford watched the young clerk's head recoil as
the bullet penetrated his skull, ripping through his brain, splattering
chunks of flesh and droplets of blood onto the wine bottles on the
shelves behind the clerk's now deceased body. The clerk's body slowly
slumped over, falling limply to the ground.
Williford didn't go for the money; he didn't glace at the cash
register. He took one gallon of whiskey from the bottom shelf near the dead
clerk's feet, mouthing the word, "sorry," as he walked trancelike
through door. Once outside, Williford turned the brown glass bottle to his
lips, euphoric as the warm liquor poured down his throat.
To kill. What did it matter? What did he have to loose? He had killed
before, the war, the blood, the land mine and his leg, the memories
came rushing back. Quickly he shook the memories off, as they could only
be bad for his health. Somehow the kill had given him a cruel
satisfaction, a feeling of power. He was God, holding in his hands the power over
life and death. As the liquor started to infiltrate his senses,
Williford sat down on the bus stop bench at the end of the street.
The trigger, the pull, the report of the gun it had felt right,
welcome. Williford felt it then; he knew there was nothing left in his life,
no meaning and no purpose. He lifted the shiny black barrel of the .44
to his head, and feeling the cold comforting steel of the barrel
against his temple he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out a desolate
denunciation of the failure and despair of Williford Tod.
A Desolate Report© COPYRIGHT 2005 John Louis and Kyle Fleming. Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author. 02/24/05
