This is a short story that I wrote. Please pardon the question marks that come up in the middle of sentences. For some reason the copy and paste on the computer makes apostrophes look like question marks.
The Visitor
"Revenge is never a straight line... it is a forest."
- Japanese Proverb
August 5th, 1965, 4:33 PM
Vincent lay on his bed, the cool breeze mixed with the warm summer air
pouring in through the window. He basked himself in the sunlight. His bed, with
blue and white comforters, was positioned in the center of the room, directly
in front of the window. The room was small. There was a bookcase and a doorway
leading to the kitchen on the left side and a door to the patio on the other.
Directly to his left was his nightstand. Since it was so bright out, the
small white lamp was not on.
Okinawa was far away from Warsaw. Vincent, or Wladyslaw, as his family
and friends knew him, had told himself that he traveled far away to escape the
horrors of his hometown. Post-war Poland was stricken with poverty, hunger, and
death. However, that was not the real reason.
The true reason for Vincent?s leave hung on to his back like a leech. You
didn?t need to know him to realize that he had a burden upon his soul. Anyone
could see that he tortured himself and those around him did as well.
Vincent?s complexion had turned pale after leaving Warsaw. Traveling from
country to country turned his hair white and left wrinkles of time upon his
face. The stress had gone so far in to his system that it affected his
appearance.
The wind blew at Vincent?s body, blowing his hair to one side and sending
a slight chill over his body. Fifty years of age and he had not slept a full
night for the last twenty of them. He reached in to his pocket and pulled out
a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He clenched one between his lips and lit it
with a lighter. He inhaled slowly, letting the fumes enter his lungs. On
exhalation he let out the smoke in to the room, the wind blowing it about. The room?s
normally pleasant pine smell turned to that of tobacco and smoke.
He knew pretty soon that he was going to get it. Anyone with his story
was sure to get it. But from whom was he going to receive his death? Would it be
a survivor? Would it be a family member of a victim? Would it be one from his
family? No, he thought to himself. He ruled out the last possibility.
On that day in August, Vincent expected no visitors. He had not made many
friends in Okinawa and rarely went out. He was a true hermit. Even the landlord
of the apartment barely knew his face. Even in his travels across the Americas,
through Hawaii, down the long island of Japan, and finally finding his way to
the beautiful island of Okinawa, he remained in the shadows, with fake names
and fake I.D.?s. Anyone who had heard of him and his dreadful acts would not
notice him.
Vincent exhaled again, letting his thoughts out with his smoke-ridden
breath. The fumes blew around the room, again shrouding the pine scent. He turned
his head to the right. On his nightstand lay a copy of Joseph Conrad?s
?Heart of Darkness.? He had read the book frequently in the last few years, feeling
somehow close to it.
He looked out his fifth story apartment to the ocean before him. Okinawa
was not a large island. He could see the sea in the south. If he were closer
to the center, he would be able to glimpse the water on both sides of him. The
waves moved towards the beach, eating at the feet of those running across the
sand. He decided that maybe he would go for a walk along the sand.
As his ideas and thoughts swirled around in his head, he heard footsteps
approaching the door. He realized that indeed no one lived next door to him.
As the footsteps coming closer, he could tell that they were heading towards
him. Who could it be?
Though he expected the knock, it jarred him slightly. He heard three
knocks. Tok, tok, tok. The knocking was spaced out with at least one second
between each knock. It sounded very deliberate in speed. Vincent mustered together
his best Japanese and asked, "Who is it?"
"Room service," the voice replied in an awkward Japanese accent. Vincent
noticed the odd air about the man?s voice. After putting out his cigarette, he
opened the drawer of his nightstand and drew the magnum from within it. He
clenched it tautly and used the handle of the gun to close the drawer shut. Tension
built all around his hand. "Enter." The man tried the door. Vincent hadn?t
realized that he had locked the door. He got up to open the door for his visitor.
He placed the gun in the back of his jeans. "Hold on a minute," he said in
his broken Japanese.
He unlocked and pulled open the door. He planned to try to look cool by
leaning on the side of the doorway, but the face he saw startled him, causing him
to stumble slightly. Vincent looked at the man with bewildered eyes. The man
was not smiling. He indeed had a straight, blank face. The voice that responded
to him was not in Japanese, but to Vincent?s horror, in Polish.
"Good afternoon, Vladik," the man said. Vincent swallowed hard. He struggled
to find the right greeting for the man before him. Slipping, he blurted,
"Wh-what are you doing here?" The man gave a slight smirk and looked down, then up,
also trying to find the right word. Finally he spoke. "I?ve come out from a
long forest, so to speak."
Vincent realized it was foolish to try to understand what he was saying, so
he invited him inside, asking no questions. He turned around and rubbed the
sweat off his mouth. He went in to the kitchen and began to pour himself a glass
of water. The visitor eyed the magnum in the back of Vincent?s jeans as he sat
down.
"Nice gun," he said. "Going to shoot some of the wildlife here in Okinawa?"
Vincent shut the water off with his palm. He set the glass down on the left
side of the sink and leaned back, both hands on the edge of the counter. He did
not turn his head as he spoke. "What are you here for, Errol?" He looked at the
visitor. "To kill me?"
Errol laughed quietly. He looked up at Vincent. "What were you expecting? Do
you think I was here for a brotherly chat? To see how you were doing, a
fugitive from the law?"
"I figured you might as well," Vincent said. "I suppose I deserve it."
"Every drop of blood you shed is a drop that you deserve, brother of mine.
You are a traitor and nothing but it."
Vincent looked back at his glass of water with a look of melancholy. He
lifted it up and drank from it. As he was drinking, Errol spoke again.
"You think that running away would solve all your problems? Did you really
think that would save you?"
Vincent put the glass down beside the sink. "No," he replied, not turning
his head again. "I thought that maybe it would postpone death." Errol looked
at him with a tone of vengeance in his eyes. Vincent looked straight at Errol
with his big, sad eyes. "Maybe I thought that I could hang on to this
miserable life of mine by a thread, even if it were just by a thread."
Errol locked his hands together, letting his fingers slide between each
other. "Well," he said. "Perhaps you can confess to your crimes before I end your
?miserable life,? as you so eloquently put it." Vincent could feel Errol?s
look of disdain burning upon his flesh.
"I am guilty," he began, walking towards his bed, "of crimes that are
unspeakable to the human race. A Jew, I saved myself while my family suffered." Errol
waited for Vincent to continue. After about twenty seconds of silence, he
said, "Is that all?" Vincent sat down on the foot of his bed, looking out the
window.
"No. No, that is not all. That is only a half-truth. I am not only guilty of
selfishness, I am guilty of murder. I helped cremate fellow?" Vincent tried to
continue, but he felt a lump in his throat as he tried to speak. He looked at
Errol who gave him a hand motion that said to take his time. He swallowed
hard before continuing. "I cremated fellow Jewish people so I could survive. I
killed innocent women and children so that I could live. I am a murderer, and no
better than a NÅ’zi."
Errol started chuckling. "You always leave out just a little bit, eh?"
Vincent looked at him, surprised.
"That?s all I am guilty of," he said. "Or have you found another sin of mine?"
"Perhaps you don?t know who the people you burned and killed were. Bodies
were misshapen, diseased, and unrecognizable for the most part. People?s insides,
or what was left of them, were literally showing. I do not blame you for not
being able to distinguish among these walking dead."
Vincent knew what he was going to say.
"You are not only a murderer of several of your own people, but you are a
murderer of our mother, grandfather, and sister. You killed three members of your
own family so you could survive." Errol stopped for five seconds to build up
intensity. "That?s three people, Vladik, who used to mean the whole world to
you. You may not have known it at the time, but now you are a killer of your
family."
Vincent again wiped sweat off his face. One of the many fears that plagued
him had become another unspeakable truth in his tormented life. He turned his
head to look out the window, trying to recover his thoughts. There was a long
silence, a silence louder than words. Finally, he spoke, trembling in both his
voice and body.
"I-I?" he began. Errol encouraged him to go on. Vincent swallowed again and
started over. "I have been plagued by my choices in life for twenty years. As
hard as I?ve tried to forget what I?ve done, these aching memories keep
crawling up upon me, ripping away at me. I-I? I can?t sleep at night. Even when I
do sleep, I have nightmares, horribly vivid ones where I am a butcher,
slaughtering endless numbers of lambs? Blood splattering everywhere. Even though I
feel horror inside myself, I am smiling maniacally, laughing with every chop I
bring down."
Errol could see the tears streaming down from Vincent?s eyes. He looked at
him, still with a straight face. He waited for his next words. After a brief
silence muffled with sobbing, Vincent spoke again.
"I?ve caused so much pain and suffered because of it. I?ve tried to run
away, but with no reason. I just wish that this would all end? that in some way
this wouldn?t be real? that I am innocent. That my crimes were all the products
of overactive imaginations?"
Errol waited for a long time to respond, thinking what he was going to say,
what he was going to do. Vincent had his face buried in his hands. At long last
Errol pulled out a gun of his own. He cocked the trigger. Vincent looked up
with his tear-strained eyes.
"I came here with two things, Vladik," he said. "I came here with one bullet
and the intention of killing you." He aimed the gun at Vincent. Vincent
covered his eyes with his arms as the shot rang out throughout the building. He was
trembling, but not dead. He was not even chaffed. He looked over to the side
and saw feathers flying out from his pillow behind him. Errol continued. "But
now I leave with both of these things gone."
As he turned for the door, Vincent struggled with his words. Finally he
managed to say one last thing.
"Is this your way of getting revenge?"
Errol just smiled as he left, closing the door on Vincent, and his past.
