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The Blessing
I didn’t know what the song was at the time, but I know now. 2Pac’s “God Bless the Dead” and its accompanying bass soundtrack rumbled me awake in a ditch outside of the city. A young man had his windows open, and the offensive lyrics made my head hurt. I already had a horrible headache, so the “music” definitely didn’t help.
I couldn’t remember why I was in the ditch. I couldn’t even remember anything from yesterday. My mind was as blank as a chalkboard on the first day of school, and I didn’t exactly care for the feeling. I sat up slowly, feeling my muscles groan in protest at the sudden movement; it had been long since I had last used them. I examined myself and saw that my suit was rumpled and there was something red spilled on the shirt – wine, most likely. I remember thinking with a groan, “Margaret’s gonna kill me.”
I forced my weary legs to stand, swearing at the stiffness. It’d been many years since I’d passed out in a strange place, as college and my excessive drinking were now many years behind me. As I surveyed my surroundings, I saw I was just outside the suburb, and it wouldn’t be too far of a walk to my modest two-story home.
Where the hell had I parked my car? I felt in my pocket for the keys and couldn’t find them, and then I patted my rear pockets; empty as well. My wallet was missing. The ground around me was depressed from where I had been lying, and more of the wine stained the grass. My wallet and keys were no where to be found. I sighed and began trudging through the waist high grass back towards town. It’s beyond me why I chose to walk in the ditch instead of the shoulder, but I’m glad I chose to get closer to nature while I had the chance.
A man walking in the ditch wearing a dilapidated suit isn’t exactly a normal sight in my neck of the woods, so I really wasn’t surprised when only a few cars slowed only to continue on their way, as brutal carjackers were roaming the region. There was no way I would get a ride back to the house, so I continued walking, slower now, and drank in the surroundings with a unquenchable thirst. I had never noticed how beautiful nature was, and I really felt great - except for the headache, of course. The bright mid-afternoon sun beat down upon my face, warming it.
The sun wasn’t my friend, though. As it grew hotter, I began to sweat and I could begin to smell myself. It was at least another mile or so before I reached the suburb, and then another five blocks before I got home. I sighed, but it was a happy sigh. It wasn’t the end of the world, as a quick shower would rid me of the stench.
As I trampled the grass with my loafers, various animals scurried from hiding places within the brown tubules. Several rabbits danced about my feet, scurrying away as fast as they could, and I made a group of pheasants scatter into the air, their loose feathers raining down upon me. I plucked one out of the sky and ran it along my fingers. Strange…I couldn’t feel the feather. I shook my hand, as maybe it was asleep, but still, no feeling.
I soon forgot the lack of feeling in my hands. I licked my lips, and to my surprise I tasted something bittersweet, mildly warm, and vaguely gelatinous - coagulating blood. I touched my lips again and wiped at the blood that was trickling from the corner of my mouth. I stared at the red smear on my hand in surprise: what the hell had happened last night? The blood was beginning to clot, though, so I thought nothing of it. I had probably just split my lip. I stretched and moved on.
The road into my neighborhood passed by the usual wood sign and landscaped ground that every suburb in the world has, complete with the corny name: “Oak Hills.” Upon closer inspecting, the sign was made of pine. Interesting. I chuckled and moved on, thinking that I’d have to tell my wife about the silliness of the sign. I passed through the neighborhood, walking a bit faster now. I definitely didn’t want any of the neighbors seeing me in a state such as this, but I couldn’t help it. I could finally see my house through the dank light of dusk.
My house was one of many generic homes in the area, differing only in color from those that surrounded it. The brick façade held up a large bow window, and I could see into the living room, the Ikia furniture and expensive entertainment system spicing up the otherwise drab, white-painted room. I climbed the steps and walked through the front door, opening my mouth to yell the clichéd “Honey, I’m home!!”…but nothing came out. I tried again and realized my lips were barely moving. I think I frowned – I wasn’t sure what facial expression I was making – and walked through the living room, tracking bits of grass and dirt onto the white carpet. I’d clean it up later.
I peaked into the kitchen and saw nothing but the synthetic counters and stainless steel appliances quietly humming. I continued through my home, checking the family room and den before climbing the stairs to the second floor. I could hear the shower running - found her. I opened the door to the bathroom and walked in, poking my head into the space between the shower curtain and the wall. She screamed, like I expected, but her scream was one of fright and not just surprise
Margaret jumped back up against the wall of the shower, terrified. I tried to speak, but the gurgle that escaped my lips didn’t reassure her. She suddenly jumped out of the shower, exploding towards the bedroom. I managed to grab her arm, and she tried to pull away. I pulled her close to me, trying to talk, but I could do nothing except taste the blood in my mouth.
Her face was as pale as the living room, blue eyes wide with fright. I tried my damnedest to reassure her, but it didn’t work. I looked away in exasperation, catching my face in the bathroom mirror, and suddenly released my grip on her. She stumbled back into the corner, away from me, and I stared at my reflection in shock. I saw my face in the mirror, which definitely isn’t unusual. I saw not my face, but a bloody mass of hair and tissue, two eyes staring blankly from the dirty, red mush.
My hair was matted to my scalp in dried blood, a cut running from the middle of my forehead to my ear. There was a hole in my cheek, obviously from a bullet, and the skin was singed from the muzzle flash. I was missing most of my teeth and discovered the exit wound in the side of my neck, a mess of blood and flesh. My suit was covered in blood, my left eye swollen and bruised. I dropped to my knees in shock, my eyes closing, my body twitching – and then the movement ceased. I would never wake again.
I know now that the day of my death was a normal day. I grudgingly went to work, ate the same shitty food in the same shitty cafeteria, and commuted home just as usual in my BMW. This time, the drive home was far from usual. I had stopped at a traffic light, and the carjackers forced their way into my car and held a gun to my head, making me to drive. I didn’t cooperate fully, and they beat me and eventually shot me, throwing me in a ditch outside my suburb. They hadn’t killed me, though, and I managed to stumble home one last time.
I don’t know what “God Bless the Dead” is about, but its title seems to plead to God for a blessing. I don’t want a blessing from God, I want my life back.
That's what's fun about literature; each reader has their own interpretation of things.