Ritual Interrupted

First person narrative, magic realism

Hey, wake up. You okay? Relax, just sit back. I want to start from the beginning.

I have a feeling that you haven't forgotten me. But just in case, I want to refresh your memory.

So it all started years back, I was about seven. My Parents died before I could remember them, and I ended up living with my aunt and uncle. They were good people, but they weren't my parents, and there was always a rain cloud over my head. Figuratively speaking.

Back then we used to have this neighbor, old guy; bald, thick glasses. His name was Gorski. All the kids were afraid of him and told stories, 'old Gorski killed his wife forty years ago,' 'made his kids into a meat pie and ate them.' I never believed the stories though. I mean, kids used to say the same things about me, 'what are you gonna do, kill me, like you killed your parents?'

So I never bought into what people said.

The weird part started, like I said, when I was about seven; maybe eight. I was walking home from school one day, and you were waiting for me down the street from my house. There were four of you, but Jeremy Bellows was the alpha, the rest of you... you were just his lackeys.

It started the same way as usual, I'd walk, you'd start calling me names and pushing me, or try to take my bag. My uncle always told me to ignore you, and I tried. But sometimes I couldn't runaway before you knocked me down and threw my stuff into a tree. That day was different though. That was the day Jeremy told you to hit me, and you did. Remember? Jeremy never did anything himself, he just stood there, with a hungry smile shouting orders at the rest of you.

You okay? Wake up.

Smack.

There you go. Sorry about the crack to the head... and the duct tape. I think it's safer this way. Anyway.

I don't think it lasted very long, just a few seconds curled up on the ground getting kicked before you all ran away.

I lay there, curled up, my head protected in my arms. Then something poked me.

"Hey, up, get up," old Gorski was poking me with his cane. I peeked out from my arms.

The old man reached down and picked me up with one hand. He stood me straight, "What wrong with you," he had a heavy Polish accent, "why you let those boys beat you, eh? You girl, or something?"

I wasn't scared, I just looked into his eyes and let go. All the tears I wanted to cry in front of my aunt and uncle, all the pain I wouldn't show in front of you. Sorry if I'm being overly dramatic, but things bottle up, you know. Like I said I let go, and threw my arms around my savior, crying; my nose bleeding on his shoulder.

Gorski picked me up, "Come, we get you cleaned up."

As he carried me to his house I could see Jeremy looking around a corner, he wasn't happy.

Gorski cleaned me up, put ice on my broken nose, "There, no more crying," he said, "Next time those punks put boots to you, you punch them in face, eh?"

I put my head down.

Groski laughed.

He became like a father to me, after that. I would stop by his place after school. My aunt and uncle thought I had made friends. You know he taught me to read Latin? Taught me how to fight, too. His wife and son were dead and I think he blamed himself, though I don't believe he killed them.

Around the time I was ten some kids came forward saying that old Gorski had touched them. I think you might remember this part, you were one of them. The accusations were bullshit, we both know that, don't we? But after you came out, Gorski told me that is wasn't wise for us to spend time together. I was crushed, I felt like I was losing another parent. But that's not what this is about.

The last time I saw him, he gave me a stuffed bear that was supposed to go to his son. He'd been holding on to it for years. I know, I was a too old for a stuffed bear, but it was the only thing I had to remember him by, and I kept it in my room under my bed.

I kept that bear for years.

I was alone in my room, holding it, during his sentencing. I remember my aunt and uncle talking about it; saying that the sentence wasn't enough.

I hadn't thought about any of this for years because after we moved, I lost the bear. I remember that, when I couldn't find it, I was anxious. I felt like not having the bear was making it harder for me to remember Gorski. Honestly, until last year, I had completely forgotten the old man, like a dream that's harder to remember the longer you're awake and gone by the time you're brushing your teeth.

I became quiet again, for a long time. Until last year, when everything became clear.

I was working for a shipping company, the processing plant. Dead end job; I was miserable. There was one night, where I had to stop at the store after work. I hating having to do stuff like that, cuz I was always covered in dirt and sweat, and I would have rather just gone home to shower. But as I'm in the parking lot, I hear laughing.

When I turned around I saw a group of high school aged kids and heard a bottle break. The kids were laughing at something on the ground, one of the boys kept pulling cash out of a wad in his hand and dropping it on the curled up mess on the ground.

"Here you go old man, no hard feelings," every time one of the boys would kick the dirty lump on the ground the ring leader would through more money. He had a wolfish smile. I snapped.

They had no clue what happened. They were all so focused on their game that they didn't see me walk up.

The feeling of my fist impacting the lead boys face was the most satisfying experience of my life. I could feel something crack, and my knuckles stung, I had never hit anyone before, not even when I was still getting picked on. I didn't stop there. I hit the boy again. This time I felt teeth shatter and the boy's face sprayed blood as he hit the floor. Something inside of me felt as if every law in the universe just broke, like what was happening wasn't supposed to have happened. I turned and hit another. The boys ran, leaving their leader alone with the madman who would probably have killed him.

But I didn't kill him.

I picked up the lump, now a dirty old drifter, "Are you okay, old timer?" I asked.

He mumbled and nodded his head.

I helped him stand, his head was bleeding, but it wasn't bad, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up," I said. I left the punk on the ground, and drove the drifter to the emergency room.

He was groggy in the car. I thought he might have a concussion. He kept talking about Germy Tuck. He wasn't making sense.

The guy smelled like smoke, not cigarettes, but like a trash fire; burning cardboard and plastic. The smell stings the nose and eyes. His clothes were dirty and ashy, and his skin was dark tanned, and leathery. He looked like he had been through hell.

The stone-faced, professional continuances of hospital staff could barely contain their disapproval at the late arrival of the uninsured drifter, but they had to admit him.

I didn't have to wait around, I could have left but I felt bad for the guy. At the very least I could have left him a couple bucks when he woke up.

After about half an hour, one of the nurses came up to me, "Are you Michael?"

"Um... yeah, I brought the homeless guy, is he okay?"

"Yes he's fine, it was just a bump on the head," She hesitated, "He asked me to bring this out to you," The nurse handed me a bear; an old, tattered, stuffed bear. A bear that used to wait for me under my bed when I was nine.

"Where is he," I asked. I got up, not waiting for an answer, and walked into the hallway, the nurse followed me. The moment that bear touched my hands I remembered everything. I remembered Gorski's face, the way he looked when I mispronounced my Latin, and him teaching me how to fight. How could I have forgotten him for so long I asked myself.

"Sir, is everything okay?" The nurse was working her thick ankles to catch up with me.

"Where's Gorski?"

She looked at me as if I were a crazy person, "Who?"

"The homeless guy I brought in."

"I'm sorry sir, but I don't know what you're talking about."

Hard to believe, I know. The second I remembered the old man from my childhood, he was gone. Disappeared from the hospital; no trace. And no memory of him, except for the bear, of course, and my own memory.

The next day I checked with the department of corrections. Janek Gorski died five years before, and then I remembered something else, do you know what that was?

Gorski died about the same time Jeremy did. Your friend Jeremy. And like a fog lifting, his ramblings made sense. Gorski wasn't talking out of his a*s, about germs, he was telling me that Jeremy took the bear. And now I can't shake the thought that, for one night, Gorski did something, maybe put himself through absolute hell to bring back a memory.

Since that night I've been following every trail I can, to find out what was really happening that night. How does an old man, dead five years, come back to life and run into me by pure chance? Why? Why does he finger my old, school bully to be at the center of this? Why can't...

You know what? F**k it. I find you in a candle lit room, drawings on the floor, all surrounding a half dead ten year old. I don't doubt you have, at least some answers for me. If you told me it was magic, I'd probably believe you, seriously if a dead guy can can bring me a bear, I'll believe anything. But I think I'll get more answers from those books and journals you have over there.

So we're done here, this might hurt, hopefully I'll snap your neck on the first hit, though I don't know how a lead pipe will work out. So it may take a few tries.