TAKE TWO

If we could get revenge, would we truly want to?

                                                                      

The only thing troubling about how I reached this point in my life was how often in the past I wondered how I reached this point in my life. I sat, slumped forward into the glow from the monitor, enveloped in silence. I was beyond waiting for a like, a message, anything. Nothing I tried to offer up ever seemed to be acknowledged. For years, for decades, one way or another, mailing off written perspectives, phone calls, appointments, leaving messages, and now while the process was easier with the internet, still I sat outside the lines. I suppose I had grown complacent with this prospect. What else could I possibly do? All the effort continued to fall short. I stared at the screen again. 

Nothing. 

All my comments on current events, quips on social outrage, I was the only voice speaking up against all others, a lone defiant figure against humanity. How many times was I reported? How many times was I put on ignore? Then an anonymous, little private message would come to me, stating very plainly, "I agreed with you," and never would I hear from them again. 

This was my sustenance. My contribution to an outside world. Then it was like I had to start all over again. Years would pass before I would get another opportunity. I was growing weary. The striking force I enacted in my younger years was growing tired. If I sat too long, waiting for a moment to outlandishly remark, I might nod off in front of the screen. I'd suddenly sit up and open my eyes to see what had been said. Then I couldn't find posts I wanted to respond to. Were they real, or had I just imagined them? I didn't know. 

Waiting. 

I yawned, then hurriedly rubbed my arms to help keep myself awake. I'm not entirely sure why, because there was nothing going on; nothing to read, to disagree with, to comment on, to challenge. 

Fine, I thought to msyelf. I give up. I reached to hit the button and start shutting everything down. Guess I'd call it an early night. I was tired anyway. How had my life gone this way? 

As my hand hit the off switch, I caught a glimpse of a new advert. All I really managed to see was 'we kee-' then the screen went blank. I thought to myself, must have been for "we keep" as in "we keep it, you don't," or something along those lines. 

I fixed a sandwich, went to lie down for a bit. Upon awakening once more, I fixed another sandwich, then it was back online. I had received no contact from anyone. Nothing different occurring. Just the usual monotony. 

Then I saw 'we kee-' again, and now realized it was all one word, not a familiar or recognizable word. 

Weekeeweegee. 

Not a clue what that was. I think it would have been better off with "we keep it for ourselves." I moved the cursor over the name and entered this domain. 

Nothing dramatic about the site, so this then led me to believe it was made for me. Two or three people had been messaging each other, but upon my appearance, it seemed they all ceased any dialogue. 

Instead, I typed. 

"Hello." 

No response.

"I'm new here." 

Still no acknowledgement. At this moment, I noticed my comments were being credited to #84. 

I was #84. 

"What are the numbers for?" I asked. 

Still no response. I could see previous comments from other persons were also labeled as numbers; #25, #26 and #71. But unlike my designated numeral, these numbers were all followed by a five-pointed star. I wondered why, but had a suspicion if I asked, no one would answer. 

I sat for a moment, looking at the blank screen save for my few remarks, then turned to the exterior window on the nearby wall. It was quiet outside. Maybe this was what I really wanted. This was what I needed. 

I logged out of the group and ventured online elsewhere. 

I made my way to other postings, other articles, as everyone else did. There's one for photographs of, oh, never mind. There was no point in photos that circulate time and time again under the pretense of trending. 

Someone stated about a rapper who had passed away. I looked at the name to see if perhaps I had heard of him before, or heard of something he performed, maybe? Maybe I had heard of him being arrested, I don't know. 

His title was Dried Phlegm. I'd never heard of him. Wouldn't know anything he performed if I was listening to it right now. I was old and out of the loop. The other conversationalists never did divulge if Dried Phlegm was shot or if it were an overdose. 

"You never heard of Dried Phlegm?" I was asked. 

"No, I've never heard of Dried Phlegm as a musical talent," I replied, "tho perhaps someone did feel there was some musicality in a nose being blown." 

"Who have you heard of?" another messenger inquired. 

"Obviously people from the grainy black and white era," I answered. I had no idea who I was speaking with. 

"Oh, yea," another commenter began, "you know about those like, westerns and, uh, who's that detective show?" 

I thought for a moment. 

"Which one?" I asked. 

"The one with the tall fellow with dark hair," came the description. "I think his name is Victor." 

I sat for a split-second, then declared, "oh, you mean Jerry Whitcomb." 

"He had bright eyes, so I guess his eyes were blue," the dialogue continued. 

"Yea," I said, finally feeling like part of a conversation with someone, but just disappointed it had to be over an old tv show, "that was him. He has blue eyes. The show was Vic Marcher, The Law." 

My fellow conversationalist caught the verb, "has? Is he still alive?" 

"Yep," I said, knowing if Jerry Whitcomb ever passed away, my mother would tell me about it, "he's in his eighties, I'm certain."

"What about that woman who was on his show?" 

I realized this was another person making an inquiry. 

"Gina Vance," I said. "I know that's who you are talking about. She passed away years ago." 

"She was called Amelia on the show." 

"Yep," I said again, feeling valued with this inane televisoin knowledge, "that was Gina Vance." 

So it was all good things must come to an end. The conversation strayed back to Dried Phlegm. Still no idea how he passed away. 

I wondered a bit more about weekeeweegee, but decided to not bother. No one was talking to me there, same as anywhere else. 

Gina Vance. Been a while since I thought about her. She was very beautiful. Stunningly beautiful woman. I decided to look up information about her, when she passed away. I knew she had. Didn't take long for her pictures and history to appear. She died quite young, I thought, or I've gotten older than she was when she died. Thirty years ago. 

Then I looked at her picture. The price of stardom. Who knew who she was even now? That show she was in might air late at night somewhere, that detective show. Vic Marcher, The Law, and his trusty secretary, Amelia. 

I gave a quick turn to her co-star, Jerry Whitcomb. Mr. Debonair Tough Guy. Younger pictures of him emerged first, then some later work he'd done, portraying grandpa here or there. Still alive. Amazing, I thought. Dried Phlegm was dead and Jerry Whitcomb was still alive at 79. 

I retired for the evening. 

Slumber was disrupted the next morning by the phone activation. I opened my eyes and peered at the device, knowing it was my mother by her distinctive chime. I wondered what she might want. I reached for the phone and answered it. 

"Huhlo?" 

"Are you awake?" 

"Uhf corse," I said with a raspy throat as I checked the time. 

"I just had to tell you." 

"What?" 

"You seen the news?" 

"No."

"Vic Marcher passed away." 

Name sounded familiar. 

"Who?" 

"The detective. Vic Marcher." 

Tall with bright blue eyes. The name was sounding familiar. 

"Not Vic Marcher, the one who played him on tv," she corrected herself. 

My eyes cleared as I stared up at the ceiling. 

"Jerry Whitcomb," I said quietly. 

"That's him," she spoke. "How old was he?"

"Almost 80," I said quietly, trying to bring everything together. Had just been talking about him. No, not talking. Typing. Messaging. Online. Just Yesterday. 

My mother and I discussed a bit about what we knew about the fellow, a couple of failed marriages, any kids, disillusionment later in life. I actually did tell her I had just been talking about him the previous day online, about his still being alive, and now he was gone. 

"I sat here last night watching him in Vic Marcher, because I couldn't sleep," she said. 

We talked about a few more events, minor family news, barely ten minutes, then bid each other good-bye. As I held the phone in my hand, obvously I was trying to think about what I wanted to look up. 

Jerry Whitcomb, whom I had just spoken about the day before with people I did not know, had passed away. 

I went back online and sought out the . . . . what? Pages? Groups? Chatrooms? Where had I talked about Jerry Whitcomb? In a group where the other talkers were discussing a rapper who had died. Didn't dawn on me to check history. 

Dried Phlegm. Well, you can't forget a name like that. 

I looked up Dried Phlegm to discover what I could not be told the day before; the method of his passing. 

Drug-related, the item said. Of course it was. Dried Phlegm, real name Ray Oswald Jr., age 26. Jerry Whitcomb outlived him by half a century. Where was that site? I guess a part of me wanted to discuss Whitcomb's passing again with my new acquaintances, but no one was wanting to hear about that old actor. I wasn't going to find them again. I couldn't remember where we spoke. Today's music site? I guess it was unlikely I'd find those same people still there as well. It was worth a shot, I decdided, then comprehended I didn't even remember anyone's onloine name from yesterday. 

My neck popped. I sat still once more. Seemed to be what I do all the time anyway. I caught an article about Whitcomb. Small article. Not worth bothering to look at, I decided. He was 79. 

Old Jerry Whitcomb. 

It was at that moment, the similarity struck me. Whitcomb. 

Weekeeweegee. 

I sought the page and checked in. Astonishingly it had no new commentary. Nothing, but I could see there were individuals present by a listing of numbers. 

"What's this page for?" I typed, coming up again as #84, but now there was something else. 

My name had a star after it. 

"So," #26 messaged, "the star on your name signifies you acted very quickly." 

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"I think I was here for about five weeks before I unknowingly followed suit," #56 commented. 

"Some have taken longer than that," yet another number replied, "and others have never returned at all to learn what they have perpetrated.": 

I looked at the responses with absolute confusion. It was #26 who typed again. 

"Of course you have no idea what you have done," he stated. "Incredibly, you came in the group very quickly and obviously you have enacted the deed just as fast." 

"What do you mean?" 

"When a new person comes to this group," #26 explained, "the rest of us must not say a word to him. We can offer you no direction whatsoever. You can come and go as you please. As noted, some people have left after one time and never returned. Most do, however, out of curiosity. but once you have entered here, you now have the opportunity; the opportunity you will never know about." 

"What opportunity?" I asked somewhat intimidated but also intrigued. 

"We cannot tell you, however long it takes, the next name you type anywhere online, the complete identifiable name of one individual, their life will end in the same time frame it took you to leave this group and then type their name." 

Obviously they were giving me a moment to comprehend what I had done. I typed the old actor's name, favorite of my mother. Other's had watched him as well, as the person I spoke to referred to him. Jerry Whitcomb. He must have passed away in that brief amount of time it took me to leave Weekeeweegee and then offer his name up in the preceding conversation. 

"Are you telling me I caused thec death of Jerry Whitcomb?" 

"Oh, you didn't," #17 wailed. "I used to love watching Vic Marcher The Law." 

"So that was whose name you typed online?" asked #26. "I was really wondering if you had typed Dried Phlegm when you left here yesterday." 

"If what you are trying to tell me is true," I stated. 

"If Jerry Whitcomb was the first name you posted anywhere online after you entered this group yesterday, then that person died in the amount of time between when you left here and typed his name," #18 joined in. 

I sat quietly, looking at the screen. For the past many days, I sat bored, looking at the screen, and now I sat quietly, looking at the screen and the words I was reading. 

"What if I don't believe you?" I asked. "I think you guys are just trying to mess with me, make me think I killed that man, or had something to do with it." 

"LOL." 

Somebody actually laughed. What sort of sick, twisted individuals was I dealing with here? 

"You think it's funny?" I typed. "Let me tell you what you can do with . . . . !"

"There, there, #84," #26 stated, "You need to know the rest of the situation. You know, you really got off lucky in that you wrote an old Hollywood actor's name. Some of us here made the very grievous mistake of writing a famliy member's name, or a simple inquiry about how someone was doing, and that was all it took." 

If what #26 was saying, then I suppose I was lucky. Typing the name of an old actor, a person, who had lived his life and was probably ready to go, someone I didn't even know. I guess I was fortunate I didn't type a family member's name, or a friend's name. That was the moment I thought about the name I would have typed had I but known it would bring about that demise. 

"And now, #84," #26 continued, "you see how fortunate you have been, as you clearly ponder the name you would have wanted to actually type, correct?" 

Was I bored in front of this very same computer monitor the day before? #26 obviously knew what I was thinking, no doubt as they had all done the same thing. If only they had known this was what resided before them; the chance to do someone in as they pleased. 

"Yes, wiseguy," I posted, "but I wasted my chance on taking someone out on that poor old actor. I guess you fellas know about wanting to have really taken out someone else, huh?  Each of you wished you had written someone else's name, right?" 

LOL was typed yet again. 

"Yes, #84, we would have liked to when we learned the details," #26 offered, "but now here is the next part of being here. You now get to type a name of someone you do know and observe their similar fate." 

Undeniably, this had turned into one weird online experience. 

"So you want to tell me I can do it again?" 

"Correct. The rules are, you type one name without knowing what it will do, then you get to type a name, . . . . knowing what it will do." 

"That . . . has possibilities," I said. 

"The option is yours," #26 replied. 

I was just about to sign off and ponder this possibility, when #26 added another comment. 

"You'll be wanting to log off now," he said, "and contemplate how you will want to do this. The only stipulation is the name must also be typed in open conversation, as you did the previous one, the actor, . . " 

"Jerry Whitcomb," I typed. I don't know why I felt it was necessary to identify him. 

"Yes," #26 said. "It must be in an open forum for others to see and be seen." 

"So I can't type it in here?" 

"If you do that, you'll cancel out the capability. Do you wish to do that? If you do, just type anyone's name here and nothing will happen to them, and you won't bring any harm to anyone else when you type their name elsewhere. You will be finished with Weekeeweegee. The choice is yours." 

"Do I need to come back and tell you guys what I might have done?"

"That won't be necessary," #26 replied, "but of course, it would help. We'll just know a new person has entered the group when we see #85 listed." 

"How did I get summoned to this group?" I asked. "Why was I made aware of it?" 

"Totally at random," said #26. "Now I suspect you will be wanting to go off and ponder your next deed, won't you?" 

"So what if the person is already dead?" suddenly dawned on me. 

"Usually we have always been well aware of whether or not the name we want to type is still alive or not."

"How do I know you aren't lying to me? That this is all ust some big joke?" 

"Only one way to find out, #84," #26 typed. "Only one way." 

I left the group. I logged out. Now, I did ponder.  

My mind tossed around this riddle, this joke. TThis impracticality. Trying to make me believe I was responsible for the old actor's demise. Hardly likely. 

But what if it was true? What harm would typing someone's name do? Just type the name and be done with it. 

But who would I type? The boss' name who fired me from my last job? A teacher who gave me a bad grade? I didn't know where any of my old teachers were, or who was still alive. 

Now my mind cleared and I was able to focus on who brought my life to this state I was living in. I remembered everything succinctly. I remembered who she was and what she had meant to me. She was all I wanted in the world. She was my world and I wanted to be hers. All I needed was her. And she left me. She left me defeated, destroyed and alone. She left me in such a state that I have never recovered. 

But I could never blame her. It wasn't her fault. It was his fault.  And I well remembered that name. He took her from me. My life was never the same after he took her, and I struggled and fought to put her behind me, forget about both of them. 

But I was scarred. I was so damaged. My existence became a fight I should not have endured as year after year passed before me.  I wanted to hate myself for giving over to her so much, but then I had to realize it was okay to hurt that I had loved her so, but she clearly didn't feel the same about me. I thought she did, but such was obviously not the case. 

And just when it seemed I was resigned to my lot in life and what all I could do, I learned her fate. No one told me because they didn't want me to run after her. He had left her. They hadn't even been together for a year and he tossed her aside for another, a married woman with children. He saw no reason to hesitate destroying a marriage. 

Angrily, I asked others who knew, why didn't they tell me what had happened, so I could go to her, rescue her, be there for her, and I was told she didn't want me to know. She swore them to secrecy. She wanted me to move on, feeling it was better for me if I did. And a part of me always felt she was right. By the time I learned he had spurned her, she had already been dead for about four months. Rather than come back to me, she had tried to recover from being jilted herself, but she had not been successful. She truly thought he loved her more than I ever could feel about her. She just couldn't bring herself to see me again, knowing how she had wronged me and then the same thing happen to her. Rumors informed me there was a breakdown, an accident involving the death of another motorist, then hospitalization from suicide attempts. Of course, substance abuse was then the only way to go. I will always remember her for the brief time we had together, but even more, I remember him. 

How did I allow myself to become so shattered at handling everyday life; because of him. How had my heart been so betrayed and could never trust again; because of him. And I knew the name. I knew the name very well. If there was any chance of all this weekeeweejee nonsense being real, I wanted it to be his name that gained the attention. I struggled and fought to remove myself from him when I believed she was still with him, but I would have killed him in a heartbeat. If nothing happened, so be it, but any chance of me to see someone else dead, there was only one possibility. 

But now, how could I do it? Just type his name and be done with it? Just have everyone see his name typed by me, and then if something happens, persons would recall my simple identification of him. 

"Why did you text just his name like that?"  

Okay, so what if I entered a local community group, one of these memories growing up, nearby area pages, and made an inuiry like I just learned of her passing, perhaps. Or I was now dealing with the grief. Since so many people knew about it, no one should be surprised that I was now trying to deal with the hurt. 

"Hey, does anybody know whatever become of Bingo Flamingo?" I would ask. Simple as that. No matter who else knew him, I'd have typed his name. I would wait a month, to space the name and the deed further apart. Maybe five weeks. That should be sufficient, and then five or six weeks later, when he died, no one would remember the pitiful online inquiry about him. Such an insignificant question from someone groveling in my own pity, then over a month later, he would be gone. Amazing how it seemed once I got some control over my feelings, even in this unlikely manner, I could now follow the path of my hurt. 

I bided my time. I never ventured back to weekeeweegee. I looked over sites and pages and there it was; Memories From Our Hood. That should suffice. Just one more week, I'll look into the group, asking about old prom queens and teen hang-outs, then I'd ask about his glorious self, the womanizer, and how he broke my heart. Simple as that. Who remembers him flirting with the cheerleaders after the game? Who remembers him hitting on the concessionaire working at the local movie theatre? Now I would get him. 

"Hey, does anybody know what happened to old Bingo Flamingo? He stole my girlfriend away from me years ago, and I never really got over it." 

Wasn't that pathetic enough? Who on Earth would want to acknowledge that? Who would want to give that query any credibility? So now it would just sit there and fester and rot, getting looks of scorn until it scrolled on down with time, never to be seen again. 

And now all I had to do was wait five weeks? Six weeks? I counted the days and marked the calendar. Like waiting for Christmas. 

I loved her. I truly did. Would have done anything for her, but I wasn't allowed. I tried. I failed her. Maybe she failed me. Then we could have just failed each other together. But she and I at least would be together. We could have grown from this stumble in our lives, but if that wasn't to be, at least I would get my revenge. The hate I let go of so long ago and no longer had would now be recognized. 

Weekeeweegee. 

I guess I can go to the group and let them know I typed a name and about how long it would take before something happens, if it is going to. I logged on. 

I had 19 responses from Memories From Our Hood. 20 resonses. 

I clicked on the responses to see what was being said and stared in disbelief. 

"Who's asking about Bingo Flamingo? Is that one of the ex-husbands?" 

"Bingo's married now. Got two kids of his own." 

"Was that the married woman he's with now?" 

"No, they done broke up. She went about the same way near about as this dude's girlfriend did. I remember when Bingo broke up with her and she hit the skids." 

That was my love being tossed around like so much gossip, while Bingo seemed to still be a great guy. Who didn't like Bingo? 

"Let me tag Bingo and get him in on this conversation." 

"Yea, I see who's asking about him. Everybody said that guy never recovered when Bingo took his woman from him. Looks like they was right. He should have moved on by now. That girl's been gone." 

"Is that who that is?" 

"Yea, I clicked on his name. That's him. I didn't know he was in this group." 

Any other time I post about anything else, no one responds. No one says a thing. Not about taxes, congress, inflation, war overseas. Nothing would get a like, nothing would get a thumbs up. No one seemed to notice me. There was nothing I could ever say to get anyone to reply, and now this. 

"What's up, man?" 

Bingo Flamingo. 

"Don't tell me you're still crying over that little girl, man. She wasn't worth it. I actually tried to get her to stay with me, but she wouldn't hear of it. I never cheated on her while we were together, but she insisted I did. I got the impression she was feeling guilty about leaving you, man." 

When he spoke to her last, she was feeling guilty over leaving me. Why didn't she come to me? I would have taken her back. 

"She wasn't worth it, man," Bingo continued. "I told her if she was going to leave me, at least go back to you, that I figured you could help her, but she woudln't do it. I really tried to get her to stay with me, but she wouldn't do it. I really always knew you could do better than her. She was telling everybody I had dumped her and I decided, forget it. Can't believe you've pined away for her all these years." 

What had happened? My plan was to cause fatal injury to this person and everything I thought was not how any of it had been, or it was how it had been, but no one was thinking how I believed them to be thinking. 

"I would have come talk to you about her, man," Bingo still messaged, "but I decided it was best to just move on from you. Not interfere in your life anymore as I had done. Just move on." 

As I had done with him. 

"I hate that you have been upset about her all this time. Can't you just try to move on? You really were better than her." 

I was better than her. Why couldn't I focus on that? I walked away, I moved on, but still I clung to her, a part of me did and a part of me hated. Always hated. And now here I was. How could I have been so foolish? What was I going to do now? 

Immediately I went in search of Weekeeweegee, but it was nowhere to be found. In this hour of need, I had been abandoned. 

Maybe the death wish wasn't real. Maybe I had imagined the entire thing. The group, the numbers. None of it was going to happen. And how could I go about warning anyone about it? How could I warn Bingo about it? 

"Hey, man, you okay?" 

Bingo Flamingo was asking me how I was doing. 

"I didn't know it had bothered you all this time about her leaving you for me. I feel kind of bad about that." 

"Don't," I replied. I hurt for her, and really didn't have any resentment toward him. I was told I had an option to kill somebody and decided it would be him, but now he was showing concern. 

He messaged me more. Wished I wasn't still angry. Hated that he may have messed up my life. Can I forgive him?

"Hey, Bingo, that's not the way I heard it," another comment chimed. 

"Then that shows who you listen to," someone else responded. "Bingo tried to help her and tried to get her to go back to the other fellow." 

"Yea, but what about those married women?" a third person interjected. 

Now what? Now what? I stared at all the perspectives rolling in. Who was there to believe? And no matter who I did believe, Bingo had shown himself to be a decent, fairly ordinary individual. Or was he lying? 

Or was I mad? To think that I could kill someone typing their name online. But look at what all happened. If Bingo were to die five weekss after I made the seemingly random inquiry, would everyone then wonder if I was that jealous? 

"I'm okay. I'm okay," I told interested parties, over and over. "I was just wondering what become of him? No harm done." 

Totally unconvincing, but what else could I do? If he dies in any such manner, I will be a suspect, and what will I say? 

I had been a fool. I knew what I must do, must try to do, all I could do. 

I avoided a lot of web chatter, watched the ads, news, groups, conversations, seeing frustrated clickbait appear, wanting to appeal to the observer. I suspected if I just wandered about online, eventually the page would appear again. Eventually. 

And it did. 

Weekeeweegee. 

Immediately I entered the site. 

"#84! How goes it?" a comment sang out. 

"Everything going okay, #84?" #26 typed. I couldn't shake this feeling he knew exactly how it was going, that I was now full of regret, but I wasn't interested in talking to them. I seized what I was after, hilighted, copied and just as quickly left the group. 

"Hey, #84, wait," someone typed, but I had no time to bother with them. I had other things to do. 

I found Bingo Flamingo online, clicked on his name and sent him a comment.  

"What'sup?" he asked. 

"I just wanted to apologize," I began, "for bringing up all that old history we had. I really was over it, but I got into this group, kind of a weird gossip group and they told me all this stuff and got me worked up." 

He LOL'ed, then asked, "what did they tell you?" 

I egged it on, "they seemed to think they knew a lot about how you treated people, other women and all. Even hurt a couple of kids." 

"What group?" he shot back. 

"In this group," I said, feigning innocence. "They acted like they knew all about you." 

And I pasted him the web address. 

"Hang on," he said, "I'll just go there and see what they have to say." 

I immediately shot a message after him. 

"Be sure to tell them who I am. Make sure you get my name right." 

Commentary from Bingo diminished, but someone else now commented. 

"What group is that? What did they tell you about Bngo?" 

I hurriedly removed the comment with the web address so I wouldn't be sending anyone else there. 

In mere minutes, Bingo returned. 

"Hey, man," he started, "they said they never talked about me to you." 

"They what?" I said, flabbergasted. "Well, they lied. I never heard so much bad stuff about somebody like that before." 

"Sounds like they know you real good, Bingo," another commented. Someone always seemed to be looking, but I had to keep the conversation in an open forum. 

"You told them who it was that said they were badmouthing you, didn't you, Bingo?" 

"Yea, I told them," he replied. 

"Well," I asked, "what did you say?" 

I told them you made such an accusation," and he typed my name. 

My full, identifiable name. 

In mere seconds, I would learn if the punishment handed out by the silly site was true. And now, no matter what, if it were true, I would go before Bingo, if there was just no way I could spare his life. 

It was not for me to judge how he treated women. If this decree were true, then he would meet his fate, but so would I, and before him. 

I was caught in a couple of comments, wanting me to respond, but I closed the page down and turned off the computer. 

I no longer wondered what got me to this point in my life. I could see it very clearly.