One-Way Alley

He could not see the City from the motel where he was now laying awake on the bed, eyes searching for patterns in the ceiling. But he could hear it, cars rushing by, people shouting and lights flashing, full of life. That night, however, that night there had been nothing. How could so much nothing fill his mind night and day? Alone in the world, nothing to tie him down, he wondered what he would do tomorrow, but he never got past the night. As he fell into a fitful sleep memories washed over him, memories that started with his childhood yet always ended with that night.

The sun was just setting as John began walking home, he remembered staring into the sky, amazed at its endless beauty. He had left early, not being much of a partier. There had been too many people there, no room to breath and no one to talk to. It had been nice of Adam to invite him, but he really should have stayed home with his books. Talking about Cervantes, the topic of his thesis, did not lead to much conversation. When he left no one noticed, he moved through the crowd silently like a shadow.

The streets were full at this hour; John wondered where everyone could be going. Turning right at the convenience store, now closed with a heavy metal shutter, he felt a cool refreshing wind blow into his face. There were fewer people on this street, only those that had lost their way and taken a wrong turn. It was quieter; he liked that. The echoes of the people laughing in the street seemed to die just before they reached him. Those echoes followed him as he stepped forward into the shadows on his way home.

John could not tell you at which alley it happened, where he deviated from his set-path. In truth all he could remember were the words, "cough up the wallet" coming out of a thick darkness as he lay on his stomach. Slowly he rolled over to face the sky; instead he was met with a sharp kick. Get up! came the sharp command, Now! continued the voice fading into a nervous silence. Spitting out the taste of gravel John slowly pulled himself up. Cough up the wallet, barked the razor like voice, almost as if searching for something to hold on to. Still dizzy from the fall John took a step forward to steady himself. The lone voice shouted, Don't pull anything fancy now. filling the alley with its voice. Looking up John became acutely aware of something dark and shiny pointing at him in the darkness. With slow jerky movements John reached into his pocket for his wallet. He obeyed this nameless voice without question. Not out of fear, but out of complete despair. Millions of questions surged through his mind as he struggled to dig up his wallet out of his pocket. Why him? How could people do this? What would happen? Who's voice was that? Lost in his own mist of swirling thoughts he stood there, wallet in hand. Come on don't just stand there, hand it over, the voiced screamed with more than a touch of impatience. Slowly, as if pushing through thick water, John struggled to extend his open hand towards the voice.

Suddenly it all broke, the tension snapped like a rubber band. Just when a hand reached out of the murky darkness to snatch John's fake leather wallet containing a few quarters and a credit card with more debt than the federal government, Fate swooped down to meddle in affairs like the busybody that she was. John felt his arms flailing wildly before he heard the soft thud of his wallet hit the ground, followed quickly by the scraping of metal on pavement. He was sure that this was the scene that would be filmed in slow motion and without any sound. Extracting himself from the chaos, John found a gun in his hands. Opposite him, slumped on the ground, was the voice, now transformed into the mute body of a young man.

There was power in that cold dead metal in John's hand; he could feel it. Unconsciously he gripped it even closer, as if it was a rope that could pull him to safety. For once John D-- was in control he was the cause not just another effect. If it so pleased him, 'and it just might' he grinned to himself, he could permanently remove the pile of sweat and tears that lay sniveling before him. Not that John had any reason to go down that road. But the mere possession of Power enticed him. He felt as if it would be - a waste - yes, a waste if he let this opportunity slip through his fingers. 'And why should I not' he thought 'I have the gun? Do I not?' his body surged with expectation as he gripped the metal even tighter. Squinting, John peered at way lay groveling before him. He thought of all the wrongs committed against him, pulled from the road against his will, forced to go down an insignificant side alley and give up what little he had. How dare this, this monster drag him off so? Then, from deep bellow came a voice, a human voice, "Sir, please sir, don't hurt me…" Taking a step back John was stopped by a stark brick wall. He had not noticed till then how closed the Alley was, a small sphere containing just him, with the only escape straight up to the sky. Looking around him, almost in panic, John saw a boy, crying. How could he? How could he now walk out of the alley leaving it to just lay there, forever? If anything he, he with all his books should know better. Revenge, Power, such words had never troubled him before. There was too much at stake here to be sucked into that void now. Franticly his mind scrambled for something to stand on. Anything, an explanation, justification as long as it got him out of this boiling cauldron of emotions. John forced himself to look at the boy sitting before him, but all he saw was the murderer he was looking for. In a moment of anger at himself he cried out, Who else will die for my weakness? Yes! That was it, would not this poor boy go on to hurt others? What right did John have to let him go? There lay his answer, for the public good must he sacrifice himself to the dark powers within him. But he wanted more; he wanted to know his power. "Who are you?" he spat out, amazed at his own aggressiveness. Timidly the boy responded, Jonathan, sir - Jonathan.

The memory washed over him again and again, yet still he did not know if he had made the right choice that night.