Vivian: Reflection

A Chapter by Ecrid

A very sad event occurs.

Vivian

My ‘husband’ was filling the tank with gasoline, so I was left to myself, alone in the car. I took the time, as I often will, to reflect on how I had gotten to where I am today: a killer of boars amongst people, transforming, denaturing, into a murderer of real, decent human people - into a killer of children.

It reminded me of the kill that began everything, brought my choices crashing down to fall upon my head.

The weapon I held first was a rock. It was gray, unintelligent looking and now tucked away in my home. It is still covered in the dried blood of Wilhelm, my brother’s cat. I had liked that cat, but not my brother. One of these emotions ended up being stronger than the other.

I could not identify when I stopped thinking of that rock as a rock, when I started thinking of it as a weapon, but I can come very close. I would say that it happened between the first second, where I picked the rock up, and about the third, the moment when my arm courageously brought it down. Though nominal, this shift is important to me; it did not happen during the second repetition, even the seventh. It occurred when I chose to make my brother suffer - to smash his cat. It occurred as I made death a weapon by which I could lash out, a death itself a weapon to make an even greater, blood to bring tears, my brother’s tears. The target of the suffering I created was not some stupid cat. It was my brother.

His name was also Wilhelm. ‘Was’ since he is dead now - it was not me.

That blood did draw out my brother’s tears. This is without a doubt. But after father finished telling him that these things happen in life, that sometimes cats like Wilhelm walk into streets, that my father had run over my brother’s cat by accident, Wilhelm fell asleep and dreamed a child’s dreams.

Then, once all was calm and dark, father looked over at me and simply asked “why,” ever so quietly. It was strange; he is not a quiet man, but he was then, with his only son sleeping in his lap, the tears I summoned up staining his paints. Then just as I had used the weapon of death, Wilhelm’s death, against my brother, I became aware that father had turned it on me, and exactly what I had done, came to me. Then I cried too, but there were no words of comfort for me, no lap. There was only guilt.

When I heard a click, I opened my eyes and looked over at the driver’s side door. I had not realized I had closed them. B. looked at me strangely and held out his hand. He spoke. “Brought you a water bottle, will this be all right, dearest fraulein?” I nodded my head.

“That was very thoughtful of you, dearest englishman,” I replied, but I was very thirsty. I forced the memories out of my mind, and decided to concentrate on the path ahead of me. I had walked the path for a long time now, and it was paved with blood.

Boris entered our car and said “On to London then!” He handed me the bottle and the engine roared.

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